He shifted himself into yet another position, trying to get comfortable. Emma stirred at his side and he lay still, not wanting to wake her. The years in exile had been hard on Emma. She lived for the gossip, friendships, and factions of High Society, and there was little of that in Redhart outside Castle Midnight. She’d been just the same at the Forest Castle … Gawaine frowned in the darkness, and for a moment an old bitterness threatened to surface, but he pushed it back. He was Sir Gawaine of Redhart now, for better or worse, and the past should stay in the past. Gawaine lay very still beside his wife, not touching her at all, for no matter where they were there was always something between them.
“What’s the matter, Gawaine?” said Emma quietly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. You’re not the only one who’s had trouble sleeping lately.”
Gawaine smiled indulgently into the darkness. “According to you, you never sleep.”
“Well, I don’t. I never have. Any night I get more than a few hours sleep is a good night for me. But I’m used to that; you’re not. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing in particular. Just … things. Go to sleep, love. Busy day tomorrow.”
They lay in silence for a while. Far away, they could hear the Night Watch being changed. Gawaine smiled and relaxed slightly. There was something very comforting, even cozy, about lying in a warm soft bed and listening to the sound of marching men whose job it was to see you slept safe and undisturbed. Gawaine in particular appreciated it. He’d done his fair share of marching back and forth in the cold on Watch duty in his time.
“Remember the bed we had back at Forest Castle?” said Emma dreamily. “I used to love that bed.”
Gawaine grunted. “Damned ugly monstrosity. Far too big, and it creaked every time you moved.”
“But it was comfortable … you could just sink into that mattress. And the furniture we had then: this stuff is all very well, but it’s not a patch on what we used to have. But then, that’s true of everything here.”
“Well you’ll just have to make the most of it,” said Gawaine irritatedly. “We won’t ever be going back to the Forest.”
“We might,” said Emma. “Someday.”
“No we won’t! We can’t go back!” Gawaine started to sit up in bed, and then made himself lie down again. They’d had this argument before, and shouting only made things worse. “Emma, after what happened we can never return to Forest Castle. They’d hang both of us.”
“I only wanted to help,” said Emma. “It just got out of hand.”
All the long years of bottled up anger suddenly came together in Gawaine, and he finally asked the question he’d promised himself he’d never ask again. “Why did you kill him, Emma? Why did you have to kill him?”
“He was your rival, Gawaine. He stood in your way. If you were ever to get on at Court, he had to die.”
“But suspicion was bound to fall on … us. And I never gave a damn for his position, or getting on. I was happy as I was.”
“You never were ambitious enough, Gawaine. So I had to be ambitious enough for both of us. Looking back, yes, it was a mistake to kill him. But it was such a clever plan, and it would have worked if we hadn’t been betrayed.” Her hand drifted across under the bedclothes and fastened onto his. Their fingers intertwined. “And you took the blame for me, Gawaine. I’ve never forgotten that. You gave up your position and your honor to save me. What other woman was ever loved more than I?”
“What else could I do,” said Gawaine, and if there was the faintest tinge of weariness in his voice, Emma didn’t hear it. Gawaine gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Go to sleep, love.”
She snuggled up against him, her hand resting on his shoulder, and her slow breathing gradually deepened as sleep took her. Gawaine lay still, staring into the darkness. King John had trusted him, knighted him, loved him as a son. He had been honored and content as a knight of the Forest Kingdom. And then everything had gone wrong, and in the space of a few months, he’d had to give up everything he’d ever cared for, to save his wife. Perhaps the saddest truth of all was that deep down where it mattered, he was no longer sure he loved his wife. He kept it from her, as best he could. If only because he felt guilty for not loving her as much as she loved him.
I did it for you, Gawaine.
I know, Emma. I know.
Jordan woke slowly and reluctantly from his slumber, but the persistent voice and the tugging at his arm wouldn’t let him rest. He sat up on the bed and looked blearily about him. The candles were still burning in their holders, but were little more than stubs. He’d had almost three or four hours sleep, and it felt like a hell of a lot less. His head was muzzy, and his mouth tasted as though something had died in it. He yawned, stretched, and scratched at his ribs. He hated sleeping in his clothes.
“All right,” he said roughly, “I’m awake. What’s the emergency?”
He glared around to see who’d disturbed his rest, and then snapped wide-awake as he found himself face-to-face with the ghost child, Wee Geordie. The young boy’s face was screwed up with fear and worry, and he was tugging urgently at Jordan’s right arm with both hands. Jordan’s first thought was that he ought to be frightened at being woken in the early hours of the morning by a ghost, but the open dismay on the boy’s face wouldn’t let him be scared. Geordie was already frightened enough for both of them.
“What is it, Geordie?” he said more gently. “What are you doing back here?”
“You’ve got to help her! She’s going to die if someone doesn’t help her!”
“Who is? Who’s going to die? Slow down, lad—I’ll help you