Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ blankly into his wine-cup. He didn’t need to hear any more. Truth be told, he needed time to think. Martin was dead, dead. And if King William agreed, hewould indeed be Comte de Beaumont. It was hard to credit. ‘I have long wished to return home,’ he murmured, ‘but not this way, not at the cost of my cousin’s life.’ And he would be damned before he married Aude de Crèvecoeur.

      ‘No, sir, of course not.’

      Gathering his wits about him, for it would not do to appear indecisive before these men, knights of Beaumont who had been loyal to his cousin and would soon, he hoped, swear fealty to him, Richard gestured Geoffrey over. First, the King must be informed of events in Normandy. ‘Geoffrey, be so good as to fetch a quill and ink to the solar.’

      ‘Yes, sir!’ The boy was beaming from ear to ear. There was a world of difference in being squire to a knight and being squire to a count, and this unlooked-for promotion clearly delighted him.

      Richard shook his head, but he could not find it in his heart to blame him. Geoffrey had scarcely known his cousin—how could he be expected to mourn him?

      Halfway to the door, Geoffrey turned. ‘Shall I fetch a scribe, too, my lord?’

      ‘No, this is one letter I shall write myself.’ Sir Jean was in the right; until they reached Normandy, the fewer people who knew about his cousin’s death, the better.

      ‘Very well, sir.’

      Richard fixed a smile on his face and turned back to Sir Jean and the knights who had travelled from Beaumont to bring him this news. ‘It is time, I think, for some introductions,’ he said, indicating a fellow with a crest of fiery hair who stood at Sir Jean’s elbow.

      The following day, Richard was back in the castle stables rubbing Roland down after an early gallop through the water meadows and around the city defences.

      Richard was uncomfortably aware that tending to a destrier clad only in one’s chausses and boots was perhaps not an undertaking for a count. However, at the moment the company of animals was preferable to the company of people. Neither Roland nor the hounds minded how much exercise he took, nor did they think any the less of him if he took time to think and plan. Besides, Richard was damned if he was going to break the habit of a lifetime, caring for his animals himself, simply because poor Martin had died. And in any case, only a handful of trusted men knew of his elevated status.

      His letter to King William had been despatched, but no reply had been forthcoming. Yet. He was impatient to be back in Normandy.

      The regular tock, tock, tock of chisel on stone told Richard that the masons’work on the gatehouse was not yet completed. He heard the occasional shout from the overseer and the creak of their hoist.

      In the orchard just outside the city, a cuckoo was calling, its voice floating clearly over the castle walls. Spring, thank God. It had been a hard winter. Perhaps this year he would be celebrating Easter in Beaumont…

      A shadow fell across the stable floor. ‘There are two women to see you, sir.’

      Richard glanced up with a grin. He was expecting one woman, Frida from the Staple. ‘Two? Geoffrey, you flatter me.’

      Despite the exercise Richard had been taking, sleep remained elusive. Which was why he had decided to add another, more pleasant, form of exercise to his regime. It had been too long since he had had a woman, perhaps that was what he needed; it certainly could do no harm. And the entire garrison knew that the best women available locally were to be found at the Staple, the inn past Market Street. With the news from Normandy added to Richard’s daily responsibilities, Richard had not had time to visit the Staple himself to pick one. He had sent Geoffrey along in his stead, with orders to look out for a suitable girl.

      But two women? Lord. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

      Of late, Richard’s dreams had been filled with disturbing images, bloody images that centred on a Saxon child whose death he had been unable to prevent. Richard hoped the girls were pleasing—another wakeful night would drive him insane.

      Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘No, sir, you misunderstand. These women are not from the Staple.’

      ‘Oh?’

      Richard heard footsteps. More shadows darkened the doorway as a young woman and a small boy stepped forwards, both with that fair Saxon colouring. An older woman stood close behind. Richard’s eyes narrowed; they were familiar, but he could not at first place them. The woman who had come forwards was comely, with large blue eyes and honey-blonde hair that she had twisted back beneath a threadbare veil. Her clothes were unremarkable, a faded green gown, a thin leather belt with a worn purse hanging from it.

      The boy clung to her skirts and eyed the great wolfhounds warily. Richard’s other dog, the mongrel, was not around. Slowly, the boy stuck his thumb in his mouth. And then Richard had it—this was the barelegged laundry maid he had seen by the river. With her veil on and her clothes set to rights, he had not known her. Her face was shadowed with tiredness, but she had lost that scowl she had been wearing by the river. And, yes, she was all the prettier for it.

      His chainse over his shoulder, Richard came towards them. He was irritated not to see Frida, and no question but the laundry maid was about to disturb his morning with a petition.

      The fear in the boy’s eyes as he stared at Richard’s wolfhounds made him set his irritation aside. ‘They will not hurt you,’ he said softly, in English. Richard’s command of the tongue was weak, but when pushed he could generally make himself understood. ‘They like children, just do not startle them. They have been asleep, you see.’

      The laundry maid’s companion stepped closer and held out her hand to the child. Of course, this was the child’s mother, the woman who had been in the river when they had ridden in. ‘Henri, come here.’ The boy went to her slowly, eyes on the hounds, and the two of them backed out into the bailey.

      The pretty laundry maid remained. Her smile was nervous; yes, she was definitely about to ask a favour of him. Best get this over with, and then he could see if Frida might suit. From Geoffrey’s description Frida had much to offer. It would have to be a temporary liaison, of course, since he hoped to be leaving for Normandy soon. ‘Your name?’

      ‘Emma…Emma of Fulford.’

      Merde, this was Cecily’s sister? Lady Cecily of Fulford had married his comrade SirAdamWymark, and Richard counted her among his dearest friends. He took a closer look. Yes, the resemblance was there if you searched for it. So this was Lady Emma of Fulford—a lady washerwoman! Her father had been a Saxon thane, her mother a Norman noblewoman. Richard had met Lady Emma before, albeit briefly, but he knew her by repute.

      It was not lost on him that she had not used her title, nor that she had chosen to ignore him yesterday by the river. As he recalled, despite her Norman mother, Emma of Fulford had been singularly unhelpful in the days immediately following the Conquest. For that reason alone Richard was disinclined to like her, never mind that she had obviously divined that he had an assignation in the stables, and was currently trying to look down her little nose at him. He bit back a laugh. Since the woman only reached his shoulder, looking down her nose at him was, of course, impossible.

      But, by St Denis, the years had changed her. Emma of Fulford’s clothes were little better than a beggar’s. Gone was the finery she had once worn to flounce around her father’s mead-hall. Gone were the thane’s arm-rings she had called her own. Briefly, Richard СКАЧАТЬ