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‘I can’t understand this illness, Robert,’ she addressed her thin, gaunt half-brother who stood looking out of the narrow slit window. ‘He seemed so fit and healthy this morning, out in the forest.’
Robert turned from his lengthy perusal of the forest below, the bare bones of the treetops frilling out in the direction of Barfleur. A couple of winters older than Maud, he shared the same chestnut hair as his sibling, wearing it very short as was the Norman fashion. As the Earl of Gloucester, his clothes befitted his high rank. Woven from the finest merino wool, his light green braies hugged his long legs, cross-gartered with leather strips from knee to ankle until they met his thick leather boots. The heat of the room had made him throw off his dark brown overtunic, and now he stood in just his fine linen shirt, glowing white against the gleaming damp grey of the stone walls. He had left his cloak and sword downstairs in the great hall, as he helped half carry, half drag his sick father up the three flights of circular stairs to the King’s chamber in the east tower.
‘’Tis an uncommon fever, I agree.’ Robert agreed. ‘But there’s nothing we can do, Maud. The physician said as much.’
Their father had taken ill while they had been out hunting earlier that morning. Robert had been about to give chase to a stag and had turned toward Henry to wave him on. He had been shocked by his father’s pallour; the King appeared dizzy and unable to focus. In the time it had taken Robert to throw himself from his horse and go to his father’s aid, Henry had begun to topple from his saddle, falling into a deep unconsciousness.
‘So we wait for him to die.’ Maud’s words echoed starkly around the circular walls of the tower chamber. Despite her concern for her father, she had managed to change from her hunting clothes into a softer gown, one of light red that complimented her ample curves. Her small frame, a petiteness she had inherited from her mother, the Anglo-Saxon queen Edith, had not quite recovered from giving birth to her second son. The side-lacings of her dress were pulled a little too tightly over her bulging tummy to compensate.
Against the dark pelt of the bedspread, Maud’s heavy rings glinted in the firelight. On his earlier visit the physician had insisted that the fire be piled up high, building up a heat to try and drive the fever out. Within the ornate stone fireplace that dominated the curving chamber wall, the logs crackled and spat, casting out a warm orange glow. Raising herself from the stool, Maud leaned over her father to kiss him.
‘Remember your promise, Father, remember your promise to me,’ she whispered. A snort from the window drew her attention. Her dark brows drew together into a frown.
‘As if you’d let him forget it!’ Robert smirked, one side of his mouth curling up scornfully. ‘Haven’t you had enough oaths sworn in your honour already?’
‘I just need to hear him say it!’ replied Maud, irritated.
‘All the bishops, abbots and earls have said it already, Maud,’ Robert reminded her. ‘First at the Christmas court and then again at the Easter court. What more could you want? They have all agreed that on our father’s death you will succeed him as Queen of both England and Normandy.’
‘Don’t get cross with me, Robert, I couldn’t bear it.’ Maud looked over Robert. ‘It should really be you who succeeds.’
Robert threw her a wry smile. ‘My illegitimacy prevents me ever becoming King, Sister. The nobility would never allow it.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I’m happy enough. I have Gloucester and a rich wife.’ A wife who I prefer to leave at home, he thought, thinking of all the comely wenches he had encountered at Torigny.
‘Aye, a wife who you never see because you are always acting as my escort.’
‘The King trusts me with your life. You know that.’
‘And I thank you for it, Robert. You are more of a husband to me than Geoffrey. Why my father ever arranged such a marriage for me, with such a lackwit, I shall always wonder.’
‘It was your father’s greatest wish that you should marry Geoffrey of Anjou.’
‘A man eleven years younger than me. What a joke!’ Maud fiddled with the knot on the braid that held back the embroidered curtain around the bed. ‘First he marries me to the German Emperor, a man old enough to be my father…’
‘You were too young at twelve….’
‘I was old enough for marriage, Robert, but not to someone I could scarce understand, someone so old. Why, it was like lying with—’
Robert held up his hand, silencing her. ‘Spare me the details, Maud. I know how difficult it was for you.’
Maud chose not to answer, her fingers still fidgeting with the curtain braid. ‘God in Heaven, when will the servants learn to tie these things properly? I’ve told them enough times!’ She threw back the material impatiently and rose from the stool, throwing out her skirts around her, shaking out the creases. ‘Oh, Robert, I hate this infernal waiting!’ She stretched her arms into the air, trying to relieve the anxious tension in her shoulders. ‘Should we not go out hunting again, rather than staring at him, waiting for him to…to leave us?’
Robert crossed the wide elm boards to reach her, to take her shoulders. Under his fingers he felt her anxiety as she crossed her arms defensively over her chest. He knew the ambition she harboured, the ambition, above all else, to be Queen of her own country. She had an infinite sense of what she felt to be right and would not tolerate easily those who contradicted her.
Maud stared at the still figure in the bed, tracing the familiar lines of her father’s face. Despite his ruthless ambition, he had been a good father to her, teaching all he could about the affairs of the land. His instruction had increased significantly on the accidental death of her brother, William, his only legitimate male heir. From that day on, he vowed his daughter Maud would inherit his realm on his death.
She gazed at the taut panels of white skin that pulled over the bones of his face. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t see their colour from where she stood, but knew them to be a deep hazel, flecked with green. Eyes that had laughed with her, eyes that had cried with her. His lips were narrow, a bluish colour. She listened for the faint whistle of breath, a rasp of air. Nothing. She raised her hands to cover her face. If she didn’t see her father dead, then it might not be real.
‘He’s gone, Robert. He’s gone. Look, he breathes not.’ Almost as if she couldn’t bear the reality, she drifted toward the arrow slit window, wrapping her arms even more tightly around her torso. Robert moved over to bed, crossed himself, before closing his father’s eyes with gentle tapered fingers.
The iron latch clicked softly on the oak door, and Hugh, Archbishop of Rouen and the King’s confidant, entered.
‘Good timing,’ Robert muttered wryly. ‘You should have been here.’
Hugh walked over to the bed and looked down at the waxy mask of his sovereign. ‘May he rest in peace.’
‘You’re a bit late to take his last confession, my lord,’ Robert said, careful to keep any criticism from his voice.
‘I have already heard his confession, Earl Robert,’ Hugh announced, a hint of pomposity edging into his tone. His eyes were bright in a pillow of flesh. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I have already granted him absolution and extreme unction. He was ready to go, God rest his soul.’
Maud turned from the window, brown eyes questioning. ‘My lord, did my father say anything about…?’
‘About?’ Hugh looked puzzled.
‘About my becoming Queen, my lord Archbishop. Surely he said something about it to you?’
Hugh was already shaking his head. ‘Nay, my lady. He did not say anything to that effect, only that he wanted to be buried in Reading Cathedral alongside your mother. But then it was difficult for him to speak.’
‘Are you sure?’ Maud’s voice heightened to a squeak. She moved toward the portly Archbishop, eyes alight with suspicion. Hugh held his ground.
‘Aye, my lady. I am quite sure. I have sat with your father this morn, while you changed, and heard everything he had to say. He said nothing about his successor. I assumed it would be Stephen.’
Maud hissed, a sharp intake of breath. ‘Nay, you could not be more wrong, my Lord. My cousin Stephen, Count of Blois? He couldn’t possibly be King.’
‘He is, was, your father’s favourite nephew. You and he were like brother and sister when you were growing up.’
Maud shook her head, bearing down on Hugh like a terrier. The Archbishop took a step back. ‘But I am the rightful heir, my lord Archbishop. Everyone in England knows that. God in Heaven, everyone in England has sworn to that!’
‘It would be unusual for the English nobility to accept a woman as Queen…’ the Archbishop rubbed his chin thoughtfully ‘…especially considering your marriage to the Count of Anjou.’
‘What has my marriage got to do with it?’ snapped Maud.
‘Anjou has always been an enemy of England and Normandy. Let’s face it, your father and your husband have not been on speaking terms recently.’
‘A minor issue, my lord. My father arranged my marriage to Geoffrey in the first place, seeking to achieve peace between Normandy and Anjou.’
‘And to some extent he has succeeded,’ Hugh agreed. ‘But I can’t see the English barons accepting an Angevin count on the throne of England.’
‘He won’t be on the throne. I will!’ Maud’s colour heightened in anger. ‘Praise Mary, am I to spend my day surrounded by fools?’
Robert stepped forward. ‘Hugh, I really think that—’
‘Don’t interfere, Robert, I am dealing with this!’ Maud shoved her rounded body in front of her half-brother. ‘Listen, my lord Archbishop—’ she jabbed him in the chest with a pointed finger ‘—contrary to what you know, or what you think you know, I am to be Queen of England and Normandy. My father wanted it, and he made sure all his barons and bishops knew it. And I don’t want anyone to hear of his death until I arrive in England with my father’s body. Do you understand?’
Hugh nodded, the folds of his double chin quivering. ‘I understand completely, my lady.’ He threw a sideways look at Robert, before addressing Maud once more. ‘Er, may I sit with your father until your ladies come?’
‘Granted. Robert will make sure you have everything you need.’ A thin wail reached her ears; Maud grimaced in irritation. ‘I suppose I’d better see how the children are faring.’ She sighed, turning to Robert. ‘And you’d better secure us a passage to England. As soon as possible.’
Beyond the granite town walls of Barfleur, beyond the marshlands, the forest spread out for miles and miles, a thick green cloak of vegetation, rising high over jagged granite outcrops only to plunge low into the deep valleys cut by fast-flowing rivers. Through the towering beeches and spreading oaks, their bare branches starkly delineated against the grey, lowering sky, Emmeline’s horse picked its way along a narrow, muddy trail alongside the River Argon.
She rode steadily, relaxing her body into the calm, rocking gait of her roan mare, her strong, delicate fingers controlling the reins with confidence. Despite her obvious unhappiness at Emmeline’s journey, Felice had known better than to try and dissuade her from approaching the Empress; she had encountered her daughter’s stubborn nature on too many occasions to know that she would persuade her otherwise. But her father, Anselm, God rest his soul, would have approved, of that Emmeline was certain. He had always been a man of action, never sitting around passively, waiting for things to happen. Ducking her head to avoid a low-hanging branch, she smiled softly to herself, knowing full well that he would not have endorsed her travelling alone. A shuddering breath took her by surprise; after all these years she still missed his steadying presence, his gentle teaching: a calming contrast to her more nervous, excitable mother.
As she rode, lulled by the persistent rushing of the river to her left, dark, rain-filled clouds began to fill the sky, dimming the forest beneath. Glancing up apprehensively, she kicked her heels into the warm flanks of the mare; she had no intention of being soaked to the skin. And then, as the wind grew stronger, against the frantic creaking of the bare branches above her head, she heard another sound. Jerking on the reins, she tipped her head to one side, trying to locate the noise. A chink of metal carried on the sharp breeze, the distinctive click of a bridle, then the murmur of voices approaching.
Heart crashing against her ribs, she threw one leg frontways across the horse’s neck, jumping to the ground in a swirl of grey skirts, favouring her good leg as she landed. Casting about frantically for a place to hide, she plunged upwards, scrambling up the steep slope that edged the track, trying to drag the roan into the trees as fast as she was able. Brambles ripped at her bliaut, her cloak, clawing at the cloth, preventing forward movement, scratching her face and snagging in her linen veil as her hood fell back. She stretched her hands out blindly and her fingers chafed against a jutting outcrop of granite: a huge piece of rock, at least the height and width of two men. Almost crying with relief, she pulled herself and the horse behind it. Twisting back to lean against the cool, hard rock, she tried to control her rapid breathing, a rising sense of panic in her chest. Only now did she begin to question the foolishness of travelling without an escort.
The voices, low and masculine, drew closer. Turning stealthily in her hiding place, her horse tucked out of sight behind her, Emmeline couldn’t resist a peek around the craggy edge. She had only just been in time. Around the corner came a pair of gleaming chestnuts…
Nay…it couldn’t be!
She recognised the insufferable Lord Talvas immediately. He rode up front, his bearing arrogant and imperious, a searching, questioning look upon his face. Had he heard her? His squire, Guillame, rode behind, his flaxen hair forming a stark contrast to the raven locks of his master. Emmeline shuddered, blood coursing through her veins. The black haze of beard that had obscured his features on the quayside had been shaved and now…She stared in amazement at the beautiful man below her. High cheekbones cast a faint shadow at the sides of his face, giving him a hungry, predatory look, offset by a square jaw. The narrow line of his top lip was complemented by a full bottom lip that curved seductively upwards at the corners.
A thrill of sensation flamed her skin, and she flung herself back into the shadowed security of the rock, pressing her forehead into the damp grittiness of the stone, inhaling the earthy, musty smell. She scrabbled for sanity. A strange fluidity had invaded her limbs, a flooding weakness that left her stunned. Talvas had changed his clothes—now there was no question that he was highly born. His tunic, the densely woven cloth slit from knee to waist at each side for ease of riding, was of sage green wool, intricately embroidered in gold at the cuffs and around the slashed neck. The sleeves of his darker green surcoat reached only to his elbows, showing off the longer, more richly decorated sleeves of his tunic. His short, blue cloak billowed out from his strong, wide shoulders, lined with fox fur and fastened at the neck with a jewelled brooch.
As the riders passed below, one of the horses whinnied softly, and her own horse nickered in reply, dropping its head down and pawing at the rustling leaves on the ground. Every muscle in Emmeline’s body clenched tight with awareness, with fear. She dared not move; maybe the men would not hear.
But Talvas was already pulling on the reins, lifting himself easily in the saddle, twisting sinuously around with his hand on his sword hilt, trying to locate the sound. Guillame drew his sword with a silken hiss.
‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted roughly. The low timbre of his clear voice echoed in the valley. ‘Show yourselves or we’ll root you out!’
Perspiration gathered in her palms: she had no wish to be pursued like hunting quarry. She knew they would outrun her within moments. ‘’Tis I, Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak, and she cursed herself for it. She began to climb down, slipping and sliding through the dense vegetation. Talvas flipped an irritated glance back at his squire, who raised his shaggy blond eyebrows.
‘The woman on the quayside,’ Guillame murmured, sheathing his sword and dismounting.
‘Don’t remind me,’ Talvas grimaced as he followed the maid’s descent with a resigned air. Trust his luck to tangle with this harridan once again! But as she burst out on to the track, her horse pushing up behind her, threatening to topple her over, he had to work hard not to laugh out loud. Brambles clung to the delicate cloth of her veil, the thin wool of her cloak; brambles, no doubt, that had caused the nasty-looking scratch on the bloom of her rounded cheek. Her forehead appeared to have some sort of dark-grey grit embedded in it.
‘And where are the others?’ Talvas demanded, crossing his arms across the pommel and leaning forward.
‘The others?’ She frowned, her huge green eyes perplexed. Against the richness of the men’s garb, her grey worsted bliaut appeared shabby, yet it had been the best of her meagre collection of garments when she had dressed that morning. Her underdress, of dark brown, was of slighter better quality, but only the tight sleeves were visible, emerging from the long, drooping sleeves of the bliaut.
Talvas’s eyes lit with blue fire. ‘Don’t tangle with me, mistress!’ he chastised her. ‘Where is your escort?’
‘I don’t have one.’ Emmeline shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The cold mud of the track began to seep through her thin leather soles.
Talvas raised his eyes heavenward. ‘She doesn’t have one,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now why don’t I find that hard to believe?’
Emmeline caught the high level of condemnation in his tone. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she replied, defensively.
‘Then why were you hiding up there?’ His booted foot in the shining metal stirrup was on a level with her shoulder as he bent down suddenly, tugging at a bramble caught in her linen veil. She bit her lip slightly, trying to resist the urge to back away, to run. His fingers brushed against her cheek, cool and determined. Flushing under his touch, she refused to meet his eyes, letting out a tiny sigh of relief when he suddenly threw the bramble into the river. ‘Answer me, mistress,’ he demanded softly.
‘You could have been friend or foe.’ She concentrated on the scuffed toe of his leather boot.
‘Exactly.’ Talvas slapped the reins from side to side as his horse grew restless. ‘Have you any idea of the dangers in travelling alone? God in Heaven, woman, even I am sensible enough to take an escort!’ He nodded briefly at Guillame to demonstrate his point.
‘I can take care of myself.’
Talvas swept his azure gaze over the small, slight figure, deliberately allowing his eyes to travel disparagingly from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. ‘Given what I have seen of you already, mam’selle, I sincerely doubt it,’ he responded indifferently. Sweet Jesu, why should he even care? He should just leave her here alone, and to hell with the consequences! ‘Where are you headed?’
She hesitated, reluctant to divulge her destination. Behind Talvas’s head, profiled in stark detail against the steel-grey clouds, the green tops of a clump of fir trees swayed violently, shaken by the force of the gusting wind. From the top of a nearby beech tree, nude of leaves, a batch of crows rose loudly, screeching.
‘You keep us waiting, mam’selle.’ Talvas glowered at her mute, shuttered expression. Insolent chit! He’d witnessed better manners from his deckhands. He stared at her, a petite virago bristling with hostility, her stunning eyes flashing green-emerald. This reaction to him was unusual. Usually the fairer sex wished to know him better, but he always refused to let down his emotional guard. It suited him favourably, to have this little witch hate him so.
She stepped back without thinking, her heels hitting the solid rock that bordered the track. Talvas wore the expression of a man who would wait all day for the correct answer: the harsh line of his mouth, the rapier glint of his eye—all denoted a character who would not give up easily.
Emmeline sighed. ‘I travel to Torigny.’ She hunched into the meagre wool of her cloak, annoyed with herself.
‘Torigny, as we are.’ The wind ruffled the sleek darkness of his hair. ‘How strange that we should find ourselves upon the same route. You must allow us to escort you.’
But she was already shaking her head. ‘Nay, my lord. I would only hold you up. Let me go on my way and have nothing more to do with me.’ Mother of Mary! Would she never be free of him? Her right ankle was beginning to ache unbearably.
He waggled a finger at her. ‘Nay, mam’selle. Despite the fact that you are clearly one of the most insufferable, pigheaded women I have ever had the misfortune to meet, I have a duty toward you.’
She closed her eyes. Maybe this was all just a bad dream.
‘Aye, mam’selle.’ His words bore a thread of steel. ‘As knights we have a duty toward unaccompanied women. Especially young widows whose new-found independence has obviously gone to their heads.’
Reeling at his words, she clung to her horse’s neck to balance herself. ‘How do you know I’m a widow?’ Her voice sounded high and sharp in the damp air.
‘A lucky guess.’ He chuckled. ‘What did you do to the poor man? Cut him to shreds with your tongue?’ He and Guillame guffawed loudly.
Emmeline pursed her lips together, fury welling in her slender body. ‘Knights of the realm indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! And I don’t have to put up with this treatment…this boorish behaviour! Let me pass!’ She tried to shove Lord Talvas’s massive black stallion out of the way with her body weight. He grabbed hold of her upper arm, hauling against the flank of the horse.
‘If it’s pretty manners and fine ways you’re after, then you’ll not find them with me,’ he growled. ‘But, aye, I completed my training, and swore my allegiance to the chivalric code, for what it’s worth. And you, mistress, are wasting our time with idle chitchat.’ Without warning, he swung low and grabbed her round the waist, lifting her in one easy movement to dump her on her horse. ‘You’re coming with us, and that’s an order.’
Chapter Four
Still rankling from Lord Talvas’s boorish treatment of her, Emmeline urged her mare forward. Fixing her gaze on the gentle, undulating motion of the horse’s neck, she tried to steady her breathing. How dare he pick her up like a sack of grain and throw her into the saddle? How dare he? His arrogant demeanour brought memories of her husband, Giffard, to mind. She would do well to remember what happened in that marriage, living through two years of taunting, verbal abuse, slaps and pinches. She endured it for her mother’s sake, as Giffard had brought money to the family, money that cushioned them through the first lean months after her father’s death. But Giffard drank, and began to drink more heavily as she avoided his advances until, one day, he had pushed her down the stairs. Emmeline had broken her ankle in the fall, but he’d kept her prisoner in the house for several days while she lay at his mercy, in agony. The bone had set awkwardly, leaving her with a permanent limp.
Fortune had been on her side, for less than a sennight later, hunters had carried Giffard’s dead body into the kitchen and laid him out with a deference he did not deserve. From that day on, she had vowed never to be controlled again, not by anyone. This man, Lord Talvas, this hulking stranger who towered over her, who glared at her with eyes of cornflower-blue, behaved exactly as Giffard had done. She could scarce remember the last time a man had touched her, yet this oaf seemed to make a habit of manhandling her, almost as if to prove his physical strength. High-handed, domineering, he was a man used to being in charge. And yet…and yet there the resemblance ended. Physically, there was no comparison. Giffard had been short, much the same height as herself, his torso running easily to fat as he approached forty winters, his massive hands continually clenched into hamlike fists. For a long time after his death, her nights were haunted by his white fleshy jowls, the sickening smell of cider brandy. She winced at the memory, dragging herself back into the present, the muddy track, the hissing sibilance of the river beside them, the great forests looming up to her right. She wouldn’t go back to that horrible time, a time when she had cowed under Giffard’s beefy fists, spent countless evenings scarcely able to move for the bruises on her body, lived in fear for her own life. She would not let it happen.
Emmeline followed Lord Talvas, bound up in her silent thoughts, while Guillame brought up the rear, the narrow track compelling the group to ride in single file. Above them the grey clouds gathered heavily, every now and again a few spots of rain falling. Emmeline prayed fervently they would reach Torigny before the heavens opened, conscious of the thin material of her cloak. She reminded herself once more why she undertook such a journey: not just for herself and the coin, but for her sister. Sylvie, who she had laughed and played with as a child; her sister, who was now in terrible trouble.
As Talvas rode in front, he dipped his head to duck beneath a low-hanging branch, rainwater springing from the soaked leaves to spangle his shoulders with shining droplets. Emmeline idly studied the muscular cords of his strong neck, just visible under the brim of his hat, before wrenching her gaze away from the broad set of his shoulders to focus on the rolling rump of his horse. How could this man, a man she had met just yesterday, have insinuated himself so completely into her life?
Having ridden for an hour or so, the group rounded a bend in the track and came upon a shallow bank of pebbles that ran down into the river. Talvas threw up his arm to stop the horses, turning in his saddle to address them.
‘Let’s stop here. The horses need to drink.’
‘And I need something to eat,’ Guillame added, nudging his horse forwards over the open patch of grass to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he undid the heavy iron buckle on the flat leather bag that lay across his horse’s rump to draw out two cloth packages. ‘Looks like the innkeeper’s wife packed us a good lunch, my lord.’ He threw one of the packets over Talvas, who caught it deftly. Emmeline urged her mare to the river’s edge, feeling at odds with the easy camaraderie of these men. Although she did business with the merchants, she normally avoided all male company, and now a wave of self-consciousness consumed her. As she released the reins, Talvas appeared at her side, his broad shoulders on a level with her thigh.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked formally. Blue eyes held green.
She stared at him in surprise, unused to accepting help from men. ‘Well…I…’ she stumbled over the words, acutely aware of his nearness, his heart-stopping, saturnine face. ‘Nay, I can manage.’ She jumped down hurriedly, lest he should put his hands upon her again. Talvas tilted his head to one side, observing her with a mocking smile.
As her feet hit the ground at a strange angle, Emmeline knew instantly that she had rushed the dismount. Pain shot through her weak ankle, causing her to stumble onto one knee.
‘Steady,’ Talvas murmured. Swiftly, he grabbed her beneath her elbows to help her to her feet. ‘What ails thee, mistress? Are you hurt?’ He bent down and lifted the hem of her bliaut to reveal slim calves encased in brown knitted stockings.
Emmeline bit her lip, trying to shove his hand away. ‘Get your hands off me,’ she said angrily. ‘How dare you! I’m perfectly well, I just landed awkwardly, that’s all!’ She hated his concern, resented his nearness. He smelt of the sea; that fresh, briny tang that made her think of wide open spaces, of surf crashing onto pebbles.
