LordoftheKeep by Ann Lawrence Page A

excess of emotion. He hoped the emotion was joy.
    “Forgive me. We are hungry and tired.” Emma dashed the tears
away with the back of her hand.
    Gilles snapped his fingers and his squire appeared as if by
magic. “Hubert, escort this woman and her child to the keep. See that Mistress
Sarah feeds them both.” He swept up the belt and strode away.
    * * * * *
    Roland looked about the hall to see what had turned his
wife’s mood sour as poorly made wine. She was stiff and abrupt. He supposed it
was the weather. Gloomy and dark, the hall had taken on the dank, wet scent of
the rain-swept outdoors.
    She shook off his soothing hand. “‘Twas only a matter of
time,” Sarah muttered to her husband and nodded in the direction of the lower
tables.
    He saw William Belfour teasing the new weaver. The weaver,
whose name he’d forgotten, was not smiling or enjoying whatever jest so amused
Belfour.
    “Be she blind or simple?” Roland asked, draining his tankard
and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “Humpf. More like the brightest of them all or the clearest
of eye—to give that one the cold shoulder.”
    “No other wench here would agree with you.”
    Sarah turned on the bench and contemplated her husband. He,
too, was gray now. He was a fine man, firm of limb, strong of wit and a
generous lover. He’d given her three fine sons, sons off fighting with King
Richard. She tempered her black mood with a smile and touched his thigh. “There
are many women here who see through that one. They wish to warm his bed
anyway.” With a sigh, she rose. “I will see to Emma. Lord Gilles would not want
her annoyed.”
    Roland d’Vare watched his wife cross the hall. She went
directly to the young people, intent on her task. She did not, therefore, note
that Gilles had entered the hall, come from the bailey. He noted Gilles’ scowl,
noted that the hem of his mantle was thick with mud and stained with wet.
Roland rose and headed in his wife’s direction. Should there be trouble, he
wanted to be there to smooth the rough edges.
    “Sir,” Sarah said to Belfour. “You take advantage of your
position.”
    “How so, Mistress?” William rested his forearm on his thigh
and looked Sarah up and down.
    “‘Tis obvious Mistress Emma wishes you to leave her alone.”
    “Emma?” William turned from Sarah to Emma.
    Emma felt the warmth drain from her body. Her hands were
icy, her throat dry. Over William’s shoulder she saw Lord Gilles approach.
William had been describing to her what she must do to get back into his good
graces—meet him behind the granary or the dovecote.
    She swallowed her fear of him. Lord Gilles had promised her
protection, but to need it so soon made her sick with apprehension. Courage ,
she bid herself, courage .
    William moved his leg an imperceptible inch toward her arm
and pressed against her. ‘Twas time to put Lord Gilles’ promise to the test,
when few could hear her words. If William persisted, the time might come when
she would need to speak before a larger company. “Aye, William, Mistress Sarah
has it aright. I wish that you would be gone.”
    Gilles wore a fierce scowl. As he passed through the crowded
hall, the men and women fell silent. Many had heard the rumors of Lord Gilles’
protection of the new weaver, though none were privy to any actual time they
spent together. But here was William Belfour with the weaver, a man notorious
for taking what he wished. Surely, sparks would fly.
    Emma’s hands were cold and her throat tight. She had angered
William, could see it was so in the tight line of his jaw and the hand he
fisted on his bent knee. What if William shamed her before Lord Gilles? What if
Lord Gilles did not come to her aid?
     
    “Problems, Mistress Sarah?” Gilles stripped off his
gauntlets. There was a pain residing in his belly. It had flamed there when
he’d seen William, one powerful thigh so near Emma’s face, his boot propped up
at her side on the bench. He trusted