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An excited babble broke out among those on the bridge, but no one was running to help. Picking up her skirts, clinging to Henri, Emma elbowed through and into the cobbled yard.
‘Here, Henri, wait by the wall.’ Eyes round, Henri stuck his thumb in his mouth and went to stand by a couple of grain sacks.
Emma raced to Gytha’s side, grasped a bucket handle and set to work. The fire was not large and a few bucketfuls later it was reduced to a hissing black mass.
‘Lucky it was small,’ Emma commented, as she, Gytha and Edwin frowned down at the smouldering remains. ‘But what fool would light a fire so close to the mill?’
Silence. Gytha was biting her lips. Edwin refused to meet her eyes. Indeed there was something in his stance that put Emma in mind of Bertha. Oh, no, what now?
‘Gytha?’
Gytha’s throat worked. She glanced at the onlookers blocking Mill Bridge and Emma followed her gaze. A great bear of a man stood in between two nuns from the nearby convent. The hood of his cloak was up, but Emma could see that he wore his brown hair and beard long, in the Saxon manner. Emma sucked in a breath; she must be dreaming, but she thought she knew him.
Azor? In Winchester?
It couldn’t be. But for a moment it was as though Emma was wrenched back four years in time to 1066. The man had a long brown beard, just like Azor’s. She must be mistaken—many Saxons wore such beards. Even as Emma looked, he ducked back into the crowd, leaving the nuns staring avidly over the handrail at the goings on at City Mill.
Gently, Gytha touched her arm. ‘Emma, you had best come inside.’
Edwin exchanged glances with his wife. ‘I’ll make sure the fire is right out,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll shift the grain sacks ready for the carter.’
Usually when in the mill, Emma found the familiar rattle and rumble of the mill wheel calming, but today it seemed too loud. Perhaps because her nerves were jangling even the rush of the river under their feet seemed deafening.
‘Was that Azor on the bridge, Gytha?’
Gytha made her way to the hopper and scooped in some grain. Henri followed, settled himself on the floor by Gytha’s skirts, and began drawing patterns in the flour dust.
‘Gytha?’
Briefly, Gytha closed her eyes. ‘Yes, that was Azor.’
Emma felt as though the mill had been tipped upside down. Azor was Judhael’s most staunch supporter; he was also another champion of the lost Saxon cause. ‘Sweet Mother.’ Mouth dry, she swallowed hard. ‘Does that mean that Judhael has returned?’
‘I am afraid so.’
Emma’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You have seen him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Emma drew a shaky breath. ‘You spoke to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And…?’
Gytha smiled sadly at Henri and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter what he said. I think you should forget it.’
‘He is still bitter? He knows that I live here?’
‘Yes to both questions,’ Gytha said.
Emma felt the blood drain from her face. ‘I thought I could escape him here, that I would be safe among all these people. If I had gone back to Fulford, Judhael would have found me in a moment. How did he find me?’
Gytha lifted her shoulders, her eyes were wide and concerned. ‘I have no idea, but it wouldn’t take much to discover your whereabouts. A question here, a question there.’
‘I have prayed and prayed that he would never come back.’
‘Well, Judhael and Azor have both returned and somehow Judhael has learned that you live here.’
‘Gytha, he said something else, didn’t he?’
Gytha dropped the grain scoop back into the sack and dusted down her hands.
‘Gytha?’
Gytha pursed her lips and something clicked in Emma’s mind. Crossing the floor in two strides, she took Gytha’s arms and looked at her wrists. Mercifully, they were unmarked. ‘He threatened you, didn’t he? And Bertha—Judhael must have been to see her, too.’ She scrubbed at her forehead. ‘What was it Bertha said—something about desperate friends having 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 his dreams…
Putting the child out of his mind, Richard focused on the man in front of him.
‘It was an accident, my lord,’ Sir Jean was saying. ‘The Count was drilling the men and his horse threw him. You know how he was.’
Richard nodded. ‘He would have to take part.’
‘Exactly so, my lord. The Count fell and dislocated his shoulder. At first we thought that was the sum of it. But sadly…’ Sir Jean spread his hands ‘…sadly it appears there were other, hidden injuries.’
‘Internal ones?’
‘There must have been. The Count died a week since. And in the absence of heirs, you, my lord Count, have inherited the title.’
Gesturing for Sir Jean and his men to follow, Richard strode across the bailey, the Beaumont pennon crushed tight in one fist, his tunic and chainse in the other. ‘No children? I would have thought it possible that he and Lady Aude—’
‘My lord, they were not yet married.’
Richard blinked. His cousin and Aude de Crèvecoeur had been betrothed since she was still a child and Martin had worshipped her. ‘He never married Lady Aude?’
