The Deed

  Emma's smile faded as soon as her new husband had left the castle, a regretful sadness taking its place at once, if only briefly. She was not used to being ordered about, and had been taken aback by her husband's attitude on returning to the castle. She had also been mightily angered by his possessive behavior. Neither growing up under her father's gentle hand nor marriage to the absent Lord Fulk had prepared her for a husband who barked orders and demanded obeisance. Her temper at his attempt to order her about had led her to deliberately ignore him and fawn over his man, but the expression on Amaury's face as he had left the castle had been so forlorn. . . .

  "He is a good man."

  Emma turned her eyes sharply to Blake's face as he spoke those words. His expression was serious now as well. "Why did he act as he did?"

  Blake was silent for a moment, his gaze thoughtful and considering as he peered at the tankard in his hand. Emma knew instinctively that he was considering what he should tell her, or what he could tell her without betraying his friend.

  "What do you know of your husband?" he asked at last.

  Emma's eyes widened slightly as she tried to recall what her cousin had told her the day before. It was very little really. "He is a hero. He saved our lord king from assassins while at war in Ireland."

  Blake's eyebrows rose at that. "Is that all?"

  "Aye."

  Blake sighed and shook his head. "I know not if I should tell you, but you will hear soon enough," he muttered to himself. Then he took a gulp of ale and announced, "Your husband, my lady, is a bastard."

  Emma gasped at his words; then anger entered her eyes again and she stood abruptly. "You should not speak of my husband so, sir! His behavior may have been surly this morn, but that does not give you leave to call him--"

  "Nay, my lady," Blake's eyes filled with laughter as he realized that his friend's little wife thought he was slandering her husband. Taking her hand, he urged her back to her seat. "Nay, my lady, I do not mean in temperament. Though truthfully, when angered, he can be so," he added with amusement.

  Emma frowned at him grimly, and he sighed. "His father was the Duke of Stamford and his mother the village blacksmith's daughter," he explained dryly.

  Emma's eyes widened at that, her mouth making a perfect O.

  Blake nodded slightly as he saw that she understood. "His father's wife was a noblewoman who never bore fruit and resented the fact that someone else had with her husband. She made Amaury's mother miserable until she bore the child and died, then made it her task in life to make Amaury even more miserable. When he was about six, she tired of her torture and demanded he be sent away. His father sent him to foster."

  Emma was silent, her gaze fixed on her hands as they twisted in her lap. She knew about bastardy, of course. She might have been foolishly naive when it came to what a husband and wife did in the marriage bed, but she knew the ways of the world. Many men had bastards. In her opinion, it was not the fault of the child, and the child should not be punished for it.

  "As a child he never quite fit in anywhere," Blake continued now. "He was half nobleman, half serf, but belonged to neither, if you see what I mean."

  Emma nodded silently, still avoiding meeting his gaze, and Blake sighed.

  "At any rate, he has never really had a home, and I fear he simply cannot believe his good fortune in gaining this one. I suspect it was fear that made him behave so this morning. Fear that he would lose you and all of this before he could even really enjoy it."

  Emma stood abruptly and crossed the Great Hall. Blake hurried to follow, grabbing her arm to stop her as she reached the door. "He is a good man. His parentage is not his fault," he said urgently, and Emma turned to him in surprise.

  "Nay, of course not."

  Blake blinked, then released her arm and took a step back. "You are not offended to know of your husband's parentage?" he asked uncertainly.

  "Fie, sir, you wound me by your thoughts."

  "Oh." He looked discomfited. "My apologies, my lady." He cleared his throat. "I thought . . . your silence . . . Then you started to leave. . . ."

  Emma smiled slightly and patted his shoulder as if reassuring a child. "I thought only to find my husband and see if he will not break fast."

  "Ah." He straightened a bit and nodded with a slight smile. "Of course. Well, then, I shall return to mine own."

  Chapter 4

  THE bailey was a beehive of activity when Emma passed through it. It was hardly recognizable as the same place she had walked through with her cousin and the bishop only moments before. Still, with all these people around, she had to ask four of them before she found out where her husband was, and then it was only to learn that he had left the bailey on horse back.

  Thanking the stable master, the source of this information, Emma turned away and walked slowly back toward the castle as she debated what she should do, then picked up speed as she came to a decision.

  Blake was the only one to notice her return as she crossed the Great Hall. Emma gave him a small smile, but did not pause to answer the question in his eyes. Continuing on in to the kitchen, she quickly packed a second basket full of food and a flask of ale for her husband. It was a peace offering of sorts, she supposed, and a small gift of welcome. Perhaps even a symbol of her gratitude for his gentleness the night before, for she was aware that he had been as kind and thoughtful as the circumstances had allowed. He had had no need to be. Husbands were not required to treat their wives with kindness. Her life had not been so sheltered that she had not heard the stories of the women who had been given in marriage to extraordinarily cruel men who beat them, or treated them poorly.

  Emma was more than aware of her good fortune in the two husbands she had had to date. Her father had chosen her first husband very carefully. She had originally been betrothed at the age of nine. Unfortunately, her betrothed and his family had all been in London the year before the wedding was to take place, and had been struck down by the plague, much as her aunt and uncle, Rolfe's own parents, had been several years before.

  Emma's father had dallied about arranging another betrothal after that until she was almost nineteen. Then he had set about it very carefully. Lord Kenwick had hired two rather rough-looking fellows to investigate all the possible candidates. Lord Fulk had appeared to be the best of the bunch. Castle Eberhart had been near enough for her to be able to visit her father as often as she wished, and there was absolutely no hint of Lord Fulk ever having shown signs of being abusive to women. Instead, he had appeared to be a studious man who spent a great deal of time in intellectual pursuits, which kept him away from home for great lengths of time.

  That had most likely been the clincher for her father, Emma thought with a bit of insight now. He had probably thought that fact most advantageous to his daughter, who was not used to being under another's rule, for while she had ever obeyed her father-- well, most of the time-- his rule had not been overly firm.

  In truth, he had chosen well, for except for the fact that her husband had never been able to bring himself to the marriage bed, Emma had been relatively happy during the two years of her marriage. In fact, her life had continued much as it had run in her childhood home. Now, she had a second husband, and no doubt she had her cousin to thank for the choice in this one. For Emma was sure that Rolfe would have seen it as his duty to counsel the king on a choice now that her father was dead.

  Aye, she was very lucky to have had two such men in her life as her father and her cousin, she thought as she detoured upstairs to collect her bow and arrow from her room. And now she was lucky enough to have a third one. For surely her husband had already proven that he was a kind and gentle lamb of a man by his tenderness the night before. In truth, the picture she was beginning to get of him was of a strong and fierce-looking man who was really just a small injured boy inside. A homeless waif, looking for somewhere to call home and the arms of a good woman to support him. Emma was just the woman for the job.

  "Damn and blast ye!" Amaury roared,
gutting the villain who had been brave enough to come closer with his slashing sword and take a slice out of his arm.

  The man's eyes widened in shock as the fire of the sword pressed through him. Then he stared down in horror briefly at the lifeblood squirting from his stomach before he collapsed to the ground. His comrades immediately backed off a step or two from the warrior they had circled, watching for an opportunity to have at him.

  Aware of their intentions, Amaury was grateful for the tree at his back, as well as his forethought in putting it there when the bandits had jumped out of the woods and trees around him, startling his horse into dumping him at their mercy.

  Once again he cursed the sour mood that had made him so distracted that these knaves had been able to take him so by surprise. Had he been paying attention, mayhap he would have been forewarned of the attack. Or at least have managed to keep his seat rather than having to scrabble through the weeds to the nearest tree to protect his back as he squared off against half a dozen men . . . alone . . . with only his sword and a dagger in hand. He could only be grateful that only three of them had swords, while two of the others held clubs, and one waved a dagger menacingly. Well, there were only two with swords now, he thought with satisfaction, cursing then as one of the five remaining men grabbed up their dead comrade's sword and dropped his club.

  A muscle ticking in his temple, Amaury glared at his adversaries, watching for the first sign that one of them was going to charge him. So long as they were foolish enough to continue attacking him one at a time, he would walk away from this day. But should they all charge at once, he would most likely be done for, though he would take at least two, perhaps even three, with him. He should have known, of course, that his good fortune would be short-lived. He had learned quite young that fortune was a fickle thing. It was just his luck to gain a lovely wife and rich estate one day, then be killed the next.

  A flicker of movement recalled his attention to the men surrounding him, and Amaury did not even have the time to curse his inattention as he found himself set upon from all sides. It seemed none of his attackers wished to suffer the same fate as their friend had by attacking him alone. They were coming at him all at once.

  "Er . . . my lady, perhaps ye should not . . ." Eldrin's raspy old voice faded into uncertainty as Emma turned to him questioningly. Sighing, the stable master straightened his shoulders and reminded her, "His lordship said ye were not to leave the castle unguarded," he reminded her now.

  Emma frowned slightly, then smiled unconcerned. "Aye, Eldrin, but I go in search of him. Surely this time does not count?"

  Anxiety clear on his face, the elderly man hurried forward to catch her mare's reins as she mounted her. "But my lady . . ."

  "He can well guard me once I find him," she said reassuringly, taking the reins from his hands and into her own.

  "Aye, but ye will be unguarded until ye find him and . . ." He let his argument die without truly attempting it again. There was no use; Lady Emma had already sent her mount striding across the bailey away from him. Muttering to himself, Eldrin shook his head and walked back into the stables. The new lord did not look to be someone one disobeyed. No doubt her ladyship would learn as much soon enough.

  Emma rode out in the direction her husband had been said to take, fully expecting to run into him quite quickly. Unfortunately, it appeared her husband had ridden further than she had anticipated, and had gone deep into the woods where the danger of being beset by bandits was high. Emma stopped her horse and was debating returning to the castle when a horse suddenly flew out of the woods before her and charged past.

  Shifting in the saddle, she watched the frightened animal run toward the castle, then bit her lip and glanced back at the deep woods before her. There was no doubt in her mind that that had been her husband's stallion. Who else could it belong to? But now she was left to wonder what had happened to Amaury.

  The skin was beginning to prickle on the back of her neck with premonition when the sound of clashing steel suddenly came from some distance in front of her.

  Muttering an unladylike curse for her husband's stupidity in riding so far alone, Emma pulled her bow from her back and urged her horse into a run.

  Amaury truly thought this to be the last day of his life. With three swords, a dagger, and a club coming at him, it seemed to him that his only choice was to be which of his attackers to take to Hell with him. It was possible he could take two . . . or three if he struck hard enough, he thought grimly. With that in mind, he threw his dagger into the neck of the man with the sword on his left, even as he swung his own sword at the man on the far right of him. His hope was to hit with enough force that he took down the one with the sword on his right, and that it then continued on into the neck of the man next to him who held the dagger. That, of course, left the man in front of him with the sword to kill him, or the one with the club to bludgeon him to death. But at least he would have the pleasure of knowing he had not gone down alone.

  His aim was true and his anger such that his hopes were realized. He managed to take out both men on his right with the one swing. Though the second man received the sword in his shoulder rather than the neck, the wound was enough to disarm him. But the killing blow he had expected from the bandit coming from straight ahead never struck. Turning to face that danger, Amaury found his opponent staring back at him with wide-open, shocked eyes, his sword raised to hack at him even as he sank to his knees and fell to his face, an arrow out of his back. Amaury was so taken aback by this turn of events, he forgot entirely the man with the club . . . until it struck.

  A step ahead of his friend and unaware of the attack from the unseen archer, the last bandit brought his club down on Lord Amaury's head with decided vigor, but his victory was short lived. Even as his victim fell before him, he felt the bite of an arrow in his own back.

  Emma didn't even wait to see her second victim fall before urging her horse forward. As soon as the arrow had left the bow, she grabbed up the reigns in her free hand and urged her horse to run the fifty or so feet to the spot where her husband and his attackers lay.

  The battle site was a gruesome mess. Emma did her best to ignore the gore all around her as she hooked her bow over the saddlehorn and slid from her horse's back to kneel at her husband's side. Amaury was lying flat on his face. Grabbing his far arm, she tugged him toward her, scooting backward out of the way so that he lay flat on the ground on his back, then looked him over. There was a wound on his arm, but it appeared to be only superficial. In fact it had almost stopped bleeding. The wound on his head was another matter, however. Raising his head gently in her hands, she turned him slightly to get a better look. He had taken quite a blow there before she had managed to fell his attacker, and the wound was bleeding quite freely.

  Biting her lip, Emma glanced back the way she had come, but there was no sign of help yet, though no doubt there would be soon. Once Amaury's horse reached the castle, the guard would immediately send men to search for him.

  She had just decided that it would be better to wait until they were back at the castle where she had the items she needed to tend her husband's wounds properly when a rustle of sound drew her attention.

  The first thing Emma had seen on arriving on the site had been the bloodied man beside Amaury. That had been enough to assure her that she truly did not wish to see more, so she had avoided looking at anything but her husband after that. Now she realized her mistake, for not all the bandits were dead, it seemed. One, a weasel-faced fellow with a serious but not deadly shoulder wound, even now was on his feet inching toward a sword that lay nearby.

  Cursing her stupidity, Emma dropped her husband's poor head to the forest floor and lunged for his sword. She was on her feet almost at once, sword at the ready to defend him. Still a few inches from the sword he had sought, the bandit stopped, licking his lips as he took measure of the situation. To cover the small distance needed for him to reach the nearest sword, he had to come in range of Emma and the sword she h
eld. For a moment she feared he would go for the sword anyway, but apparently thinking better of it, the bandit spun suddenly on his heels and disappeared into the woods.

  Emma stared at the spot where the man had disappeared for a few precious moments, aware that her heart was pounding so hard it seemed to be trying to break out of her chest, then dropped the sword and turned frantically to her husband.

  The only thing that kept going through her mind was that she was useless with a sword. That was the one thing her father had been firm on. No daughter of his was going to train with a sword. In his mind it was bad enough that he had allowed a Welsh retainer he'd had for a while to train her with the bow. Under no circumstances was he going to allow her to train with the sword. Emma had tried everything she could think of to get him to relent: begging, sulking, temper tantrums even, but he had stood firm on this one thing. There was no need for her to learn to deal with a sword; she was well guarded, and the sword was definitely too unladylike a weapon for her to be trained in, he had insisted. Even Rolfe had thought her mad for wanting to learn how to use one, and had refused to help her in that endeavor.

  Bending down, Emma grabbed both of her husband's hands and tugged at him ineffectually. There was no longer any question of tending his wounds here, nor of waiting for help to arrive. It was too dangerous. The woods were full of bandits, certainly more than the six who had attacked her husband here. If the fellow who had just fled into the woods came across his comrades, they could return at any moment. She could not defend them in this position.

  "Emma!" Rolfe crashed into the clearing on horse back, alarm on his face.

  "Thank goodness," Emma said with a sigh as he drew his mount to a halt.