Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol Townend

returned…?’

      ‘Emma, what are you talking about?’

      ‘Judhael! He must have threatened Bertha, which is why she has stopped giving me work—’

      ‘Bertha had no work for you?’

      ‘Apparently not. There were several baskets of linen lined up to be washed, but I wasn’t allowed near them. Judhael must have paid her a visit, don’t you see?’

      ‘I am beginning to. He certainly wants you back.’

      ‘The man is mad! After what he did up at SevenWells Hill, the way he beat Lufu when he learned it was she who told Cecily the location of the rebel camp. Lufu was only trying to help get my baby brother to safety.’ Cold sweat was trickling down Emma’s back. She looked at her son, at Judhael’s son. If Judhael got hold of Henri—It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘I’ll never go back to him, never!’

      ‘Of course not. Never fear, we shall pay him no mind. We managed to put out the fire and—’

      Emma’s blood turned to ice. ‘Judhael set the fire?’

      ‘We are not sure, but it seems likely. It happened shortly after his visit. I think it is meant as a warning. He suggested we throw you out.’ Gytha grimaced. ‘Lord, I hadn’t meant to tell you that. Emma, we shall pay him no mind.’

      ‘Pay him no mind? Gytha, the man tries to burn down the mill and you say pay him no mind! What if he had set the fire at night and no one noticed until it was too late? We might have been fried in our beds!’

      ‘Hush, Emma, you are alarming Henri. And anyway, no one was hurt.’

      ‘Henri and I shall have to leave.’

      ‘Nonsense, that is exactly what he wants!’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Judhael wants you back.’

      ‘If he thinks threatening my friends is going to make me go back to him, then the war with the Normans had damaged him more than I realised.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Do you think he knows about Henri?’

      Gytha shook her head. ‘I doubt it, he didn’t mention him.’

      ‘That at least is one mercy. But I won’t have him threatening you. God help us. I like being here with you and Henri does, too. Don’t you, Henri?’

      ‘Yes, Mama.’

      ‘Emma, it isn’t right that Judhael should be threatening you. You are a lady—’

      ‘Not any more I’m not.’

      ‘Yes, you are. Your father was Thane of Fulford. Judhael was only a housecarl.’

      Emma sighed. ‘Be that as it may, I won’t bring trouble to your door. Henri and I must leave.’ ‘Judhael said he would return tomorrow.’

      ‘I shall be gone by then.’

      ‘You can’t go to Fulford.’

      ‘No, I can’t, Judhael is doubtless waiting for me to do just that.’

      ‘Where then? Where will you go?’

       Chapter Two

      Sir Richard of Asculf was in the castle stables when the messengers arrived.

      Richard was stripped to the waist and his broad shoulders gleamed with sweat, for he himself was personally grooming his destrier, the grey he had in a whimsical moment named Roland. Outside he could clearly hear the chink, chink, chink of a mason’s chisel. Work was being done on the gatehouse.

      Since he had taken up the reins of command again in Winchester, Richard did not expect to get as much exercise as a man in his prime needed, and he enjoyed grooming Roland. He was fond of the great beast; they had been through much together. Outside, his two wolfhounds lounged in some loose straw that had escaped into the bailey, eyes closed as they drowsed in the sun. He had no idea where the white mongrel was—scrounging a bone from the kitchens, perhaps? That dog was always hungry.

      The rattle of hoofs on the cobbles alerted Richard to new arrivals. Glancing up, he shoved back his glossy brown hair and almost immediately four riders trotted into view, framed by the doorway. Their horses were flecked with foam, almost blown.

      A crease formed in Richard’s brow. ‘Geoffrey!’

      His squire’s head popped up from the next stall, where he was at work on his own horse. ‘Sir?’

      ‘See what those men want, will you?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Make sure they are offered refreshments and if they have dispatches, tell them I will meet them in the solar in half an hour when I’ve finished here. Oh, and pick out good grooms for those horses, they have been ridden too hard.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Geoffrey went out into the bailey and Richard resumed brushing Roland’s coat. Roland snorted and snuffled and pushed against his hand. ‘Easy, boy. You like that, do you?’

      A shadow fell over him. ‘Sir?’

      ‘Geoffrey?’

      ‘It…it is not dispatches, sir. They have a personal message for you, and they say it is important.’

      ‘From the King?’

      ‘No, sir, but I think you need to hear it.’

      ‘Not this minute, surely?’

      Geoffrey’s eyes were alight with excitement. ‘I am afraid so, sir.’

      Sighing, Richard straightened and emerged from Roland’s stall. ‘If they are envoys,’ he said, grimacing at his half-naked state, ‘I’m not dressed to receive them.’

      ‘You’ll want to receive me, my lord.’ A man pushed past Geoffrey and extended a hand in greeting. ‘You are Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander?’

      My lord? ‘Indeed, but who the devil are you?’ Snatching his chainse, his undershirt, from the partition, Richard wiped his face. The man, a knight to judge by his costly armour, wore a grim expression. Judging from the growth on his chin, he had not shaved for some days.

      ‘Sir Jean Sibley, my lord, and at your service.’ The man’s gaze flickered briefly to the wound on Richard’s shoulder.

      Richard gestured that they should move outside. My lord? Out in the bailey, the other knights who had accompanied Sir Jean had already dismounted. Richard felt their eyes rest curiously on him.

      ‘My lord.’ Sir Jean pressed a bundle of crimson fabric into his hands.

      A knight’s pennon? No…

      A betraying gleam of gold had ice skittering down Richard’s spine. ‘My cousin,’ he managed, ‘something has happened to my cousin.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      Bemused, scarcely able to credit what was happening, Richard watched as Sir Jean and the other knights bent their heads in respect. ‘My lord, I regret to inform you that your cousin, Count Martin of Beaumont, died a week since and—’

      ‘Martin? What the hell happened?’ Richard unfolded the crimson fabric. Martin’s pennon. It was almost the twin of his, the only difference being that the pale, the line through the centre of the Beaumont pennon, was gold rather than silver. A count ranked higher than a knight. Face set, Richard opened it out, and swallowed. This would be hard to accept. He had not seen his cousin in over a year, but as boys they had been fostered together. They had been as close as brothers. Martin is—was—too young to die, Richard thought, though he knew full well that many younger than Martin had died since King William had come to England. That poor mite he had seen cut down in the North was but one of many—even now that child haunted