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‘Don’t be ridiculous! Your reputation…’
‘What reputation? I am nithing, Hélène, I have fallen from grace, and this child, this bas—’
Gasping, Hélène clapped her hands over Henri’s ears. ‘Emma, have a care!’
Rising abruptly, Emma began pacing up and down in front of the wine barrel. ‘Let him hear, Hélène, let him hear, he will hear soon enough, so why not from me? Like most of the girls here, I am a—’ conscious of listening ears, Emma lowered her voice ‘—a fallen woman. Exactly as you are.’
‘But your birth! Your father was—’
‘I am like you, my friend.’
Hélène’s lips curved, but she shook her head. ‘You are not like us, indeed, Emma, you are not.’
‘How so?’
Hélène leaned forwards. ‘You are not truly fallen, not in the way me and my girls are.’ Emma made an impatient movement, but Hélène rushed on. ‘Oh, to be sure you have an illegitimate child, you committed the sin of fornication, but you did it for love.’
‘I don’t love Ju…him. I don’t!’
‘You don’t today, but you did at the time. Whereas we—apart from the occasional aberration like Frida with her Raymond—we do it purely for coin. There’s a difference. You, my dear, are not truly fallen. Neither are you nithing.’
Emma’s eyes prickled. ‘Only you, my friend, would see it that way.’
One of Hélène’s brows arched upwards. ‘Don’t forget Gytha, she is your friend, too. There’sAediva too, and Frida, and Marie…’
Emma had to laugh. ‘Point conceded, I have many good friends. But most of the townsfolk see me as fallen.’
‘Leofwine doesn’t. Nor does your sister, for that matter.’
‘No. But seriously, Hélène, I need your help.’
‘There must be other ways. I won’t send you to Sir Richard. You, a thane’s daughter, putting yourself forward as a maîtresse? Never!’
Emma fiddled with her purse. ‘He said his steward would find work for me, but the steward said there was none to be had. Clearly, despite the friendship Richard of Asculf has with Sir Adam, he had no real intention of helping me. So I shall put myself forward for another kind of work.’
‘As his bedmate?’
‘Yes! Frida let him refuse her, but Frida is grieving and she needs time.’
‘I know.’
‘Besides, I can converse with him, my French is as fluent as his.’
‘Your mother,’ Hélène murmured.
‘Exactly—which of your girls can speak his language as well as I?’
‘None, but that doesn’t mean—’
Emma took Hélène’s hand. ‘Send me. He won’t turn me down. I won’t let him.’
A knowing light entered Hélène’s eyes. ‘You like him.’
Emma dropped Hélène’s hand as though it scalded. ‘Sir Richard?’ His image flashed before her, a vivid image of him as he had been in the stable. That thick brown hair, those grey eyes that surely were more clever than cool, that broad chest, so pleasingly—yes, privately Emma would admit to this—his chest was most pleasingly muscled…‘No. That is, I…I agree with Frida, Sir Richard can be distant, as if his mind is elsewhere.’
‘Do not lie, Emma, you are not good at it. You like Sir Richard.’
‘I scarcely know him.’
Hélène made a dismissive movement. ‘What has that to do with anything? You are attracted to him, that much is plain. When you stormed in, I knew something had happened, and by that I mean something significant, not merely that the castle steward had no employment for you. You find Sir Richard attractive.’
‘I do not!’
Hélène lifted an expressive brow and smiled an infuriating smile. ‘You are attracted to him and, what is more, I believe you like him also. I know you, Emma of Fulford, and you would not be asking me to send you to him if you did not. You may have a bast…this child here, but you are not like us. And if you are considering, even for one moment, becoming that man’s concubine, it is because in some quiet corner of your soul you feel more than a passing liking for him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Have it your own way.’ Rising, Hélène shook out her skirts. ‘You must excuse me, I need to ask Inga if she has enough in the way of provisions for the evening meal. We are busier now the garrison’s full up again.’
‘Hélène, will you help me?’
‘You really believe you have it in you to play the part of his whore—because that is what you would be—his whore?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
Shaking her head, Hélène rested a hand lightly on Emma’s son’s head. ‘Take Mama back to the mill, Henri, and help her pack up your belongings.’
‘Why?’
‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’
Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’
Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’
Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’
‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’
Chapter Four
Later that same night, Emma waited until Hélène was alone sitting at her usual table under the loft overhang. From there Hélène could keep close watch on the wine butts and the measures the girls were handing out. Smoke was swirling up into the blackened roof space along with the drone of many voices. Platters banged on to trestles; knives scraped on pewter plates; torches flared. A serving girl passed with a platter, and the smell of beef braised in rich red wine lingered in the air.
Emma and Henri had already moved into the Staple. They had been allocated space in one of the screened sleeping areas in the loft. Henri was worn out with excitement and had been put to bed, which left Emma free to raise the matter of payment with Hélène.
‘About my rent,’ Emma said. ‘I have worked out how I may be able to pay you.’
‘There is no hurry, I really can wait. Wine?’
‘Please.’ Emma took her place on the bench. ‘But I don’t want you to wait. And with Judhael so eager to speak out against me, Heaven knows when I will find work. Would you like to look at the gown? I would be prepared to sell it, if you like it.’
‘The one your sister sent you?’
‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘I am sure that it is, although—’ Hélène’s lips curved ‘—knowing your sister, it will be the gown of a lady rather than a…shall we say, a tavern girl.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I know your sister. Still, my girls might be able to use it when their wealthier admirers want to play at being great lords. Go and put it on, so I can really see how it looks.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
Emma nodded agreement and, taking up a candle from the table, headed for the stairs.
The loft chamber was airy and ran fully half the length of the building. It was divided in two by thick wool curtains. One half was used as a sleeping chamber for travellers while the other, divided into sleeping areas by yet more curtains, belonged to Hélène and the girls. Emma and Henri had been given one of these.
Despite the size of the loft, the private spaces were cramped and simply furnished. Like nuns’ cells, Emma thought wryly, except that some of these cells were put to uses that would scandalise any nun. What would Mother Aethelflaeda, the Prioress of St Anne’s, say if she found her here? No doubt a penitential fast would be the least of it.
Indeed, a few years ago, Emma herself would have been scandalised by what went on at this inn. Yet today…She sighed. So much had changed.
Henri was deeply asleep. Setting the candle safely on a stool, Emma reached under their bed and quietly pulled out the bundle that contained the gown. She began to undress.
Sounds of merriment came muffled through the floorboards. You wouldn’t believe it was Lent. Yet more to scandalise Mother Aethelflaeda. Laughter rolled up the stairs; it squeezed through the cracks in the floorboards. One man brayed like a donkey, another responded with a shout that nearly raised the roof.
Smiling, Emma shook her head. To think that the Staple was only a stone’s throw from the Cathedral and Nunnaminster…
Setting aside her workday gown, Emma reached into the bundle and drew out Cecily’s gift. The sumptuous fabric was heavily encrusted with silver-and-gold threadwork. There was also a filmy silk veil in a paler hue to wear with the gown. Emma’s throat ached. These lovely things were fit for Queen Mathilda, and Cecily had remembered that pink was her favourite colour. Emma was touched beyond words. She hated to sell them, but sell them she must. And while they were indeed more suited to a noblewoman than a tavern wench, if Hélène liked them, she would give her a good price, better than she might get elsewhere.
The candle-light flickered as Emma drew the gown over her head. Tugging at the lacings, she tied them off, staring down at herself critically. The gown was cut fairly low at the front and it gaped a little. Frowning, she readjusted the lacings and tugged the bodice into place. She must have lost weight since her measure had been taken at Fulford. As Emma shook out the veil, a small stoppered bottle—glass, it was such a rarity—rolled on to the bed. This was yet another of her sister’s gifts; it had been tucked into the fabric the day the carter had brought it.
Removing the stopper, Emma sniffed. Rosewater. It was her favourite scent; Cecily had remembered that, too. It must have been imported. Blinking hard, Emma dabbed some at the wrists and neck, and carefully replaced the stopper. She might have to sell the dress and the veil, but it would not hurt to keep the rosewater. Slipping the bottle into her bundle of everyday clothes, she set about arranging the silk veil.
Curtains brushed her shoulders as she made her way back to the head of the stairs. A piercing whistle cut through the din. By the fire at the middle of the inn, Ben Thatcher, a man with more looks than sense, was giving her the eye.
Cheeks brighter than the flames in the hearth, Emma hurried downstairs and dived into the relative safety of the shadows at the cookhouse end of the room. Another appreciative shout came flying towards the wine-butts. At her table, Hélène scowled at Ben Thatcher and waved Emma over.
‘That the new girl, Hélène?’ Unrepentant, Ben shouted over the general clamour. ‘How much?’ His companion made a coarse gesture and muttered an aside. Ben spluttered into his ale.
‘It is the dress that is for sale here, Ben Thatcher, so mind your tongue,’ Hélène said, tugging Emma to her. ‘Never mind them, dear. They are good lads, but—strong ale and weak minds…’ She looked Emma up and down. ‘Ooh, yes. I see what you mean, that gown is fit for a queen. You look well in it, Emma, very well. Indeed, I am not sure that you should sell it. I am sure you will find another way of repaying me.’
‘If times were better, I would not sell it. I love it, but…’ Emma shrugged ‘…you know how things are.’
‘I wonder that you can bear to part with it.’ Hélène took the fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This cloth, shipped in from the east, would you say?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you certain about this? What will your sister say?’
Emma grimaced. ‘I hope she never finds out. I shall certainly not be telling her.’ She spread the skirts to demonstrate their fullness and gave a mocking curtsy. ‘See? Every detail is perfect. The lacing ribbons are silk, and this veil is light as a cobweb.’
‘It hangs well. I do like the way the skirts swing. Yes, it is perfect. A little large at the bosom, perhaps.’
Flushing, Emma put a hand to the neckline.
Hélène batted it away with a smile. ‘No, let it be. It is quite…alluring like that.’
Emma fussed with the neckline. ‘Gudrun made it. She and Rozenn—the Breton seamstress—have been working together and…’
A movement by the door caught Emma’s attention. She frowned.
‘Emma, what’s amiss?’
‘I…I…no matter. Except—was that Sir Richard’s squire I saw leaving just then?’
‘Possibly, he does occasionally favour us with his custom when Sir Richard is in residence. He likes it here, even if his knight does not.’
‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice cut in behind them. ‘Lady Emma?’
Emma whirled and her stomach lurched. ‘Azor!’
The hood of Azor’s head was up and he was standing in the deepest shadows, but Emma knew him at once. Judhael’s comrade, Azor, was a former housecarl of her father’s. He, too, had allied himself with the Saxon resistance. So it had been Azor she had seen on Mill Bridge…
Azor looked pointedly at Hélène and jerked his head in the direction of the screen. Hélène backed away. Catching Emma by the arm, Azor drew her into the darkness between two large wine caskets.
‘Lady Emma…’ Azor’s eyes raked her from head to foot; his beard—threaded with grey nowadays—quivered. ‘No wonder it took so long for me to find you. When I heard you were…in difficulties…I imagined the worst.’
Emma swallowed. Azor had her fenced in with his body. Her hands began to shake. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose. ‘He is not here?’
Azor flung a glance over his shoulder. ‘Hush, no names, eh?’
‘I am not stupid.’
Azor’s lip curled as he looked at her. ‘I thought he might have caused you trouble when he visited your friends, but in my worst nightmares I would not have imagined this.’ His gaze took in the tavern, while the sneer on his lips spoke of a high disdain for tavern girls. He twitched clumsily at Emma’s skirts. ‘Bedding with men for coin, are we?’
Emma’s heart was fluttering like a netted bird. Was Judhael in the inn? She had hoped to have at least a couple of days’ grace…
Henri! Emma did not care what Judhael or Azor thought of her, the important thing, the most important thing, was that they should not find out that she had a son. Thank God Henri was safe upstairs.
‘Well?’ Azor gave her a little shake, such as he would never have done when her father had been alive, he would not have dared.
Emma lifted her chin. ‘It is none of your business what I am or what I do.’ Azor still had her boxed in. Laying a hand on his chest, she gave him a shove. ‘Please let me pass. I was having a private conversation with Hélène, and you interrupted us.’
Azor snorted, but in the flare of the torches it seemed his expression had softened. ‘The Lady Emma I used to know would have died rather than consort with the likes of Hélène.’
Conscious of Hélène hovering like a guardian angel behind Azor, Emma bit her lip. ‘Hélène is a friend, a true and loyal friend when many have deserted me.’
