Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol Townend
his mouth to ask before it occurred to him that the less involvement he had with this woman, the better. He would be leaving soon. And while he did not know much about her, what he did know told him that she was—complicated. Richard already had more complexities than he could cope with. But there was something in her manner and person than held his admiration. Add to that the loyalty he felt for Adam and Cecily and he had to help her.
‘Geoffrey will make an appointment for you to meet our steward. Geoffrey?’
‘Sir?’
‘See to it.’
‘Is she to work in the laundry here?’
Richard shook his head. ‘I think not. Lady Emma needs something more suitable to her station, you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, take her to the steward, and if he has nothing for her, let her make enquiries in the ladies’ solar. In the meantime, pass me my tunic, would you?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Emma of Fulford said, bowing her head. Geoffrey handed Richard his tunic and he dragged it on. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, curtsying gracefully.
Richard was buckling on his belt when a movement across the yard caught his eye. A smiling woman waved and started making her way slowly towards them, hips swaying as she walked. This must be Frida from the Staple.
Frida was wearing a tight-laced yellow gown that emphasised her generous curves. The deep slash in the front revealed more than a hint of bosom, and the full skirts frothed about her ankles. Yellow suited her and that undulating walk was calculated to draw the gaze of every man in the bailey. Frida’s walk had the power to halt the tocking of the masons’ chisels. It even reached the cookhouse—through the open door came a clang as someone dropped a pot.
Richard grinned and wished that he had shaved. This was the sort of woman for him. His relationship with Frida would be uncomplicated, a brief business affair unencumbered by guilt or messy emotion.
Emma of Fulford had seen Frida and with a slight tinge to her cheeks was edging away. ‘Your…lady…is here, I see.’
Face flushing for no reason that Richard could point to, he cleared his throat. Frida was a whore as everyone knew, but she was said to be a faithful whore who kept to one lover at a time. If they suited, she would be his and his alone—for as long as he was in England, and for as long as he kept supplying her with the trinkets and coin that she would doubtless require.
Nevertheless, as Richard watched Frida slowly make her way towards him, he found that the graceful, slight figure of Lady Emma of Fulford had a tendency to linger at the back of his mind.
Chapter Three
‘More fitting?’ Emma stormed out of the bailey with Henri in her arms. Aediva was no longer with her, having gone back to the wash-house immediately after Emma’s interview with Count Richard. Earlier, when Aediva had heard where Emma had been going that morning, she had insisted in coming along—bless her—to give Emma moral support. Emma had good friends, and for that she was grateful, but this morning it seemed to Emma that what she needed were powerful friends.
Crossing the drawbridge, Emma stalked into what was left of Golde Street after King William—with typical Norman arrogance—had had half the street pulled down to build his castle.
‘More fitting?’ Her steps were brisk and jerky and Emma was unaware that she was still muttering to herself until Henri patted her cheek and tried to make her look into his eyes.
‘Mama? Mama angry?’
‘Yes, sweetheart. Mama is very angry.’
Henri’s face fell, his hand dropped.
‘Oh, not with you, sweet, not with you.’ Emma made her voice light. ‘It is that man I am angry with, that bone-headed, patronising man.’
‘Sir Rich?’
Emma gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are not daft, are you, my lad?’ Saints, she must guard her tongue with Henri; he might not have seen three summers, but he understood far too much of what went on about him. ‘Sir Rich about sums him up.’
‘Mama? Smile?’
Sir Rich, indeed. But as far as she was concerned he was singularly unhelpful. Forcing a smile, Emma marched down the street. What next? Where next? Panic was churning inside her.
‘We need work,’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Sir Richard must have known his steward would not have any work for her, he must have known she would be turned away. He had humiliated her. Clearly, Sir Richard disapproved of her working as a laundry maid. Not fitting for a lady, oh, he had never stated it quite so baldly, but he thought it. She had read it in those cold grey eyes. Not fitting, indeed. And here she was leaving the castle with nothing, because the count’s boy, Geoffrey, had left her with the steward, who couldn’t be bothered to find her ‘suitable’ work. What was suitable? she fumed, reaching Westgate and turning towards Market Street. What did the man expect her to do?
‘Henri, you are growing so fast, I swear, you are heavier than one of Gytha’s grain sacks.’ Setting her son on his feet, she took his hand and swept on.
‘Suitable work? Hah!’ What was suitable for someone of her station? Neither lady nor peasant due to her—she glanced at the top of her son’s head—supposed mistake. A mistake, Emma gritted her teeth, that she would never regret as long as she lived.
At the corner of Staple Street a woman with eggs in a basket caught her eye. Eggs. Emma’s mouth watered; she had not eaten an egg in an age. But, of course, the days were growing longer and with the longer days, the hens would be coming into lay. In her other life, when she had been a thane’s daughter at Fulford, Emma had loved hunting out the first eggs of the season. A wave of longing took her and she missed a step.
‘Fresh eggs, mistress?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Later, perhaps.’
The Staple lay in front of her, a wattle-and-daub building that was almost as large as her father’s meadhall. Its thatch was dark with age, and smoke gusted from louvres in the roof ridge. The Staple was the most popular tavern in the town, and this morning the door and shutters had been flung wide to admit the air, the spring sunlight and, of course, the customers. Emma had friends inside. Not powerful ones, but friends none the less. Perhaps they could help her.
Emma stepped over the threshold, holding fast to Henri.
A huddle of merchants were haggling over the finer points of a deal around the central fire, a band of off-duty troopers were drinking at one of the trestles. Other than the tavern girls, there were few women present. Hélène and Marie were in the shadows at the far end of the room, filling clay jugs with wine from a barrel. Behind the women stood the wooden screen that concealed the doorway to the adjacent cookhouse. To one side, against the further wall, a stairway led to the communal bedchamber that—following a design brought in by the Norman invaders—had been built under the eaves.
Several heads turned as Emma made her way towards Hélène and Marie. There certainly were plenty of pests from the garrison here today. Emma found herself swishing her skirts out of the way of more than one grasping hand. Reaching the trestle under the loftchamber, Emma took a place on a bench and let out a sigh of relief.
‘How goes it, Hélène?’
Hélène stuck a stopper in one of the jugs and smiled. ‘Fine.’
‘I have a couple of favours to ask,’ Emma said.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Henri tugged his hand free and skipped behind the wooden screen, lured by a mouthwatering smell of fresh bread.
‘Hello, Henri.’ Hearing the voice of Inga, the