Blake pursed his lips grimly. Bertrand.
Aye. Twas his words on greeting Emma that made me think it.
I came soon as I heard? Little George murmured the words now, then raised his eyebrows.
What did he mean?
Most likely he meant that he had heard of my death. But how? You are not dead.
Aye, but all he would know is that his agent applied the poison and Amaury drank his
drink. That being the case, this morn he should have been dead, Blake explained as he
caught the drift of Amaurys thoughts. Amaury was careful to ensure no one saw him dump his
drink in the dogs bowl, he did not wish to hurt his wifes feelings.
Mayhap ye should send word to the king. He will take care of Bertrand.
Amaury shook his head at his firsts suggestion. There is no proof. He could do nothing
without proof.
Blake nodded at that, then glanced up with surprise when Amaury got to his feet. Where go
you?
I must speak to my wife.
But we must decide what to do.
Double the guards, watch all coming and going, and see if anyone saw a stranger around, or
someone besides my wife near my tankard, then check to see if anyone is missing.
Missing? Little George raised his eyebrows at that.
Someone placed the poison in my tankard. Twould not be an easy feat for just anyone. It
was most likely someone from the castle. If twas, they had to have gotten a message to
Bertrand that the deed was done for him to have arrived this morn. Hopefully they took the
message personally. Else we have a
Traitor in our midst?! Blake cut in, cursing at the realization.
Little George frowned over that. But if they were from here, they would have known that
Lady Emma was dosing you and should have realized that she would have been accused as the
culprit.
Aye, Amaury agreed dryly. Its enough to make you think that someone doesnt want her around
either, isnt it?
Both men seemed surprised at that. Then Little George muttered, It cannot be Bertrand
then. Tis more than obvious that he wants her to wife.
Aye, but mayhap Lady Ascot does not, Amaury pointed out.
Mayhap you are right, Blake murmured thoughtfully. Lady Ascot is a bully, and I do not
think Emma would take to that very well. She has too much pride and temper to allow
herself to be mistreated. Look how she handled Fulks neglect. She put up with it for only
so long, then took her complaint to the king. Nay, Lady Ascot most likely would not wish
to have her about.
Amaury nodded his agreement to that, but his concentration was on the one sentence. She
has too much pride and temper to allow herself to be mistreated. Aye, she did, and he very
much feared he had roused both of those traits with his foolish accusation.
Cook and his helpers swear that the only people in the kitchen yesterday afternoon besides
Lady
Emma were two of the tailors women.
Blake glanced at Little George sharply at that news. Two of de Lasceys women?
Amaurys first nodded grimly.
Damn! Lifting his sword over his head, Blake slammed it into the post he had been
practicing at when Amaurys first had approached him. Which two?
The young one with yellow hair and the one Sebert is sweet on.
Tugging his sword free, Blake considered that as he swung his blade into the post again.
Were either of them near Amaurys tankard or Emmas potion?
He cannot recall if the yellow-haired one was, but Seberts sweetheart was talking to Lady
Emma while she was making her potion.
Blakes expression thinned at that. Have you told Amaury this?
Nay, he was still above stairs when I... Sweet Saint Simeon, Little George breathed the
words in dismay.
Leaving his sword in the post, Blake turned to peer about at those muttered words. A laugh
immediately launched itself upward from his gullet when he followed the other mans gaze to
see Amaury approaching. It seemed the tailor had finished some of his new outfits. Amaurys
ragged hose and braies had been traded in for a fine new pair. His worn old tunic had been
replaced by a spanking new doublet of forest green with sleeves so long they trailed on
the ground. And on his head was a turban-style hat with an overlarge plume that stuck out
and waved in the wind as he approached. But that wasnt what made Blake want to laugh. It
was the way his friend was walking. Amaury was stomping toward them, lifting each leg high
in the air and slamming it down in an exaggerated march. Disgust was clear on his face as
he cursed, muttered, and snorted his way across the bailey.
Good morrow, friend, Blake murmured as Amaury reached them.
Little George went to the heart of the matter. I see you have decided to don some of your
new finery.
Aye, Amaury snarled in disgust. Have you ever seen such frippery?
Little George chose diplomatic silence, leaving it up to Blake to tell the lie. Tis fine.
Finer than fine. You look most lordly in the new doublet.
Lordly? My sleeves drag on the ground like a ladys gown. And just look you at this hat, he
complained. Rolling his eyes upward, he grabbed at the foolish looking feather, giving it
a disgusted flick with his hand. Then he glared down at his feet. And see you these
crakows?
I have been trying not to, Blake admitted wryly, glancing down at his friends feet once
more. He was unable to hold back his laughter any longer, and a small burst of it exploded
from his chest before he caught his friends dejected look and controlled himself enough to
force the lie. Tis not so bad.
Tis not so bad?! Amaury glared at him. The toes are so long they near reach my thighs!
Well, nay, not that long, Little George said honestly. In truth the turned-up toes of the
jester-like shoes reached only to his knees where they were held by gold chains.
Blake frowned over the sight and shook his head. Could you not have him make another pair?
Shorter mayhap?
Amaury sighed his misery. Tis the latest fashion at court.
Aye, but
Ill not embarrass Emma by looking odd at court.
Little George shrugged. If you ask me, youll look most odd indeed slapping around like
youve two fish tied to the bottoms of your feet.
I know, Amaury moaned. What am I to do?
Blake scratched his head. I would have the popinjay take the shoes in a bit. And the
sleeves. And mayhap try a different style of hat.
Biting his lip, Amaury frowned miserably down at his feet.
Deciding a change of subject might be helpful, Blake stuck his blade back in its scabbard
and asked, Did you set things to right with Emma?
What? Oh, nay. Propping his hands on his hips, he glared blindly at the activity in the
bailey. She would not speak with me. She is in the bedchamber with the door barred.
Blake and Little George both nodded. They, along with most of the castle occupants, had
stayed in the Great Hall for quite a while listening to him blustering above stairs to his
wife, demanding she listen to his apology and forgive him. Blake had considered going up
and giving him some advice on how to deal with the situation, but while he knew bellowing
at her through the door would not work, he was not sure what would, and had stayed out of
it.
What will you do? Little George asked now, gaining a scowl for his trouble.
I am doing it.
When both men merely stared at him blankly, he gestured impatiently to his attire. I am
wearing these. She wished me to wear fine fashionable clothes and I am wearing them. He
glanced down at himself with distaste, then sighed and asked, Think you she will be
pleased?
Blake shook his head. I fear twill take a bit more than donning your new finery to make
her forget you accused her of trying to kill you.
Amaury grimaced. Twas stupid of me. I must have misplaced my faculties in that moment to
even consider such a thing. My wee wife trying to kill me? Nay. Twas the height of
foolishness. Bertrand is behind all this. Or more likely his mother. Now there is a she
wolf if ever I saw one. Not like Emma. He sighed her name, his expression softening. She
is far too gentle for such base behavior. I have never met a more kindhearted woman. Why,
I doubt she could bring herself to swat a fly. She Amaurys dissertation on the softer
qualities of his wife came to an abrupt end when a hissing whoosh of air
sounded just above his ear. It was followed by a sensation of sudden coolness that made
him reach up to feel that his hat was missing.
All three men turned to stare at the post beside them, a comical look of horror on their
faces as they stared at the befeathered article, now dangling from an arrow embedded in
it. A mere inch above his head.
What the- Dazed, Amaury whirled to peer in the direction the arrow had come from, jaw
dropping as his gaze fell on his gentle wife standing at the top of the castle steps, a
bow and arrow in hand. A choked sound emitted from his throat, drawing his friends
attention away from the post as she released a second arrow.
The hiss of the coming missile focused his attention on the mini spear, and Amaury watched
as it sailed between his parted legs. Less than a heartbeat later, he heard it hit the
post behind him.
God damn, Blake breathed at the near miss, speaking the words Amaury could not seem to get
out between his parched lips. The entire bailey seemed rooted where they stood as Lady de
Aneford then calmly descended the keep steps and crossed the hundred feet that separated
her from her husband.
Emma had stayed locked up in their bedchamber for over an hour. She had spent most of that
time pacing the floor and muttering under her breath. She had done so throughout Amaurys
demands that she unbar the door and hear him out, then for another half hour after he had
finally realized she would not do so and had left her in peace to fulminate over it all.
It had not taken much soul searching to realize why she was so upset. It was not just
anger she was experiencing, but hurt. It hurt that the man she thought she might be in
love with believed her capable and cold enough to try to kill him.
Love?! Good God! Surely she was not falling in love with him? Twas a wifes duty to love
her husband, but not be in love. There was a distinct difference between the two. It was
not possible. How could she be in love with the great oaf? Nay. She could not. Not a man
whose face scowled as if in pain at the mere thought of talking to her. True, she enjoyed
his attentions in bed, but Emma was heartily sick of having to drug him to get him there
and last night was proof that it was only her drugging him that brought him to her bed.
She had put too much damiana into his drink, and he had tasted it and dumped out the
liquid, then proceeded to drink himself into a stupor rather than join her above stairs.
To her that seemed irrefutable proof that her husband had no desire to bed her without her
potion.
Her thoughts had run around in circles thusly, until she had realized that she had quite
forgotten the entire reason for her own anger. The man had accused her of trying to kill
him. Imagine! She had saved his life twice now in their short marriage and he thought her
a killer. She would see to that! she had thought, and had gathered her bow and arrow and
set out for the bailey.
Now, as she paused before him and took in his pallor, she smiled her satisfaction. I
merely thought to show you that had I wished you dead, it would be so. I need no trickery
to kill you. All I needed to do was leave you to the bandits. Or to the mercenaries, for
that matter.
Lord Darion! Blake breathed suddenly.
Emma remained silent, her cool gaze on her husband.
Swallowing, he glanced at the arrows sticking up from the carrier on her back. There was
no mistaking their flights as the same as those that had been recovered from the bandits.
They were very distinctive with their red feathers. There was no doubt in his mind they
were hers. Her comment regarding the
mercenaries, however, caught his attention more, for it seemed she was claiming it had
been no accident that she had come pounding back into the clearing, evening the odds
somewhat by trampling one man and crashing into another. Replaying the scene in his head,
he saw that it had only been his own blindness that had allowed him to convince himself
otherwise.
Emmas expression hardened at his continued silence. No doubt you shall now turn away from
me as Fulk did as soon as he learned of my unladylike capabilities. But then, tis not as
if I am losing much in the way of a husband, is it? You informed me yesterday of your
intent to refuse me my rights as wife.
On that note, she turned and strode back across the bailey.
You were saying? Blake commented dryly.
Amaurys amazed gaze turned to his friend then, and he finally recalled the necessity of
closing his mouth and swallowing.
I think, Little George suddenly murmured, Twill take a bit more than your new finery to
draw her out of her temper.
Emmas anger was still riding high as she returned to the Great Hall. She had intended to
return to her room and bar the door once more. She was more than sure that once Amaury got
over his shock, he would wish to express his opinion regarding her precipitous actions of
a moment ago. However, Sebert stopped her as she headed for the stairs, requesting her
keys so that he might inventory the spices. She had barely handed them over and turned to
continue on her way, when Maude stepped into her path.
I be thinking ye might like to have a little nibble now that yeve spent your anger. Ye did
not break fast this morning, me lady, and Cook made up some pastries special for ye. A
little sweet treat will help right your day.
The expression on the womans face was contrite as she spoke. Emma supposed this was her
way of apologizing for whatever traitorous thoughts she had had that morning during all
the furor. Cooks too. The man hated making pastries. Before she could accept or reject the
peace offering, the Great Hall doors crashed open, drawing her reluctantly around.
Bring me the tailor and his women!
Emma grimaced at the fury on her husbands face as Little George moved away to fulfill his
order. Amaury then turned in her direction.
Silently cursing the delay that had caused her to still be in the hall, Emma braced
herself for an earful of his wrath, then noticed the odd slapping, stuttering step he used
as he hurried toward her. Eyes focusing on his feet, she stared in horror at the odd
contraptions flopping on them.
Wife?
Emmas eyes raised at once at that, and she finally noticed that he had that ridiculous hat
back on his head. She had noticed the foolish thing when she had shot it off his head. Now
it was back there, perched precariously on his dark hair, looking more absurd than ever
with its bent plume and the hole through it. Her eyes dropped to his furious face beneath
it then, and despite her anger with him, she could not contain the bubble of laughter that
ballooned upward from her stomach and burst out.
Amaury reddened at her laughter, his disgruntled expression deepening. That only managed
to make him look more idiotic. A furious court jester. Emma began to shake as she tried to
restrain the giggles that wished to follow the ones that had escaped. Trying desperately
to contain herself, she dropped her eyes at once, only to find herself staring at his feet
again and the chains attached to his knees to hold the toes up. She immediately wondered
how much of the shoes were filled by his feet and how much by air. Surely it was mostly
air? Else she would have noticed his great feet. They would have made a tent of the bed
linens when they were abed, she was sure. On that thought, Emma lost the battle to contain
her amusement and it was wrung from her in dismayed peels of laughter.
Amaury felt his chest squeeze painfully. He had worn the outfit to please her, dammit. You
find my vestments amusing, wife?
The cold anger in his tone reminded her of her own anger with him and Emmas lips
tightened, all signs of amusement gone. Nay, husband. They are fine... if tis a court
jester you strive to be.
Amaury stiffened. Tis the latest fashion at court.
Emmas eyebrows rose. No doubt that amuses King Richard no end. No wonder minstrels are
becoming de rigeur. Who would have need of them?
Amaury looked ready to explode at that, and Blake grabbed his arm, dragging him a few
steps away. Apologize to her, he told him in a hiss.
Apologize!? he exploded. She has just called me a court jester.
Nay. She is simply angry. Rightfully angry, Amaury. Think you on how you would feel had
she accused you of trying to kill her.
Aye. Shifting uncomfortably, he started to turn back to his wife, then paused and tugged
his hat off. Shoving it into Blakes hands with a mutter, he turned once again, only to
find that his little wife had moved away. She now sat at the trestle table, a fare of
sweet treats before her, gentilely nibbling at them and sipping at a tankard of mead.
Sighing, he moved to the table, easing onto the bench beside her and collecting his
thoughts before turning to face her. Wife, tis sorry I am that I accused you of trying to
kill me.