Yorkshire —May 1071
‘Tell me, madam, where is my bride?’
Gilbert du Rospez flung his arms wide in a gesture that encapsulated frustration, surprise and disbelief. He turned a circle around the brightly lit hall, then once again faced the impassive woman sitting on the dais.
‘I have travelled from York to Haxby in appalling weather, and at risk to my safety, with the sole intention of meeting your daughter and now I discover she is not here!’
From his place at the left side of the hall Guilherm FitzLannion hid a frown as he watched his liege lord and childhood friend grow increasingly irate. The journey from the city to this manor house was manageable within half a day on foot, and on horseback had been even faster. The Galtres Forest had provided shelter from the sudden May rainfall and there had been no sightings of any trouble. Gilbert was merely attempting to impose his status on his audience and, as usual, he showed no sense of how to do it with poise or effectiveness.
With his even features, chestnut hair cut in the fashionable style and a slim frame, Gilbert seldom failed to charm anyone he raised his soft brown eyes to, but if the glowing youth was hoping to make a good impression on his future mother-in-law he was failing. From her seat above them, Emma, Countess of Haxby, continued to look down her nose with an expression of disdain.
‘Perhaps you should have checked before setting out on such an—’ Emma smirked openly ‘—arduous journey whether it was one worth making. My daughter has not lived with me for almost two years.’
Her blue eyes became flint. ‘I sent her away in the winter of sixty-nine when your King marched to retake York from Edgar and his allies. I did not want her in the city when he was wintering there.’
Your King, Gui noted. He had not expected her to call William ‘the Great’, but this open disdain was a clear signal. If Gui had wondered which claimant to the throne of England Herik of Haxby’s widow might have supported in the tumultuous events five years previously, this was the evidence to confirm it. She either believed the oath-breaker Harold’s claim had been valid, or perhaps she had supported the Aetheling in his failed attempts the previous year to take York back from Norman control.
Gui flexed and bunched the fingers of his right hand and ignored the creeping itch in his left wrist. He looked at Gilbert to see if the nobleman had also picked up the inflection. Doubtful. Lady Emma would have to openly call William ‘the bastard’ for Gilbert to notice her hostility.
‘I know you have sent her away. You are telling me nothing I don’t know and I believe you are being intentionally unhelpful!’ Gilbert gazed on her with eyes full of injured dignity. ‘The question is, to where did you send her?’
Gilbert’s voice was rising and a blush was creeping up his throat. Any moment now he would stamp his foot. Gui noticed a shift in the stance of the attendants standing at either side of Emma’s chair. The two men were middle-aged and wore short swords buckled at their waists. Emma must have considerable influence to be allowed to keep armed guards after William’s determination to bring Yorkshire’s defiant inhabitants firmly under his yoke.
Gui and Gilbert carried swords so Gui doubted they were in any real danger. Part of Gui relished the idea of drawing English blood and teaching these northern curs that they were under the rule of William of Normandy. Another part grew clammy with cold sweat at the thought of taking arms in battle. The sword had never been his preferred weapon, but he no longer wielded the bow that he had loved since his youth.
In any case, William had decreed that was not the way things were to be done. England had been taken by force and subjugated by brutality, but would be held and secured through marriage and creating alliances.
Gui was growing tired of listening to the demands and refusals going back and forth. It was time to intervene and smooth the path for his lord as he had done so many times before. That was why Gilbert had brought him today after all, not to fight. He was no use in that respect any longer.
Gui swallowed the bitter bile that caused his stomach to twist in self-loathing. He cleared his throat and stepped forward to stand beside Gilbert.
‘Lady Emma, it’s time to put an end to this nonsense. Be gracious enough to tell us where the maid is. Now.’
Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. Her watery blue eyes raked over Gui. She blinked, but did not outwardly show aversion at the sight of him as most women did. Gui felt a grudging touch of admiration for the woman who faced down these unwelcome visitors in her house and lands with such assurance.
‘Who are you to speak so boldly on a matter which does not concern you?’
What must she think of him in comparison to the noble knight he now stood beside? He was a head taller than Gilbert and with a broader frame. He bore a nose that was slightly crooked after a break during his childhood, and his time in William’s army had left him with a scar that split his lower lip into two uneven parts and eyes that were charcoal smuts from frequent sleepless nights. He felt like a rough tree trunk beside a tower of polished oak.
He thanked his stars that his greatest disfigurement was not immediately apparent to an onlooker and folded his right arm over his left, masking the padded leather glove he always wore. He turned his eyes to meet the widow’s gaze, boldly as she had called it.
He gave Lady Emma a smile, knowing that even when he meant it—which was rare these days—his scarred grin was more likely to provoke repulsion than kindness.
‘My name is Guilherm FitzLannion, my lady. I am no one of import.’
No one. Not a man of rank, simply an archer who had followed his friend and lord to England to seek his fortune and failed to find it.
Gilbert clapped a hand tightly on Gui’s shoulder and gave him a wide smile. The sorrow in his eyes was replaced with a warmer expression.
‘Gui is my closest confidant and my advisor, Lady Emma. He reminds me that I need to temper my speech at times and perhaps now is such a time.’
Emma flashed Gui a look of understanding that took him by surprise. Perhaps she had spent the years before widowhood smoothing the path of a rash nobleman.
Gui bowed his head. ‘Sir Gilbert does me too much kindness. I would add my petition to his, however. Delaying this affair simply to provoke us will solve nothing. Whether or not you accept William as King, he has spoken on this matter.’
He gave another crooked smile, took a step back and waited.
‘She is with her companion—a foundling left with us as a child—at the priory at Byland near Elmeslac,’ Emma said after a long pause.
Her voice caught. Her eyes were blank, viewing something other than the room before her. Were her nights plagued by bad dreams as Gui’s were? Did she hear the same cries?
‘Sigrun was already of fragile temperament and is not strong in body or spirit,’ Emma continued. ‘She narrowly escaped defilement, first at the hands of the rebels, then by men such as yourself who came to take back the city. Despite his determination to break our shire, I believe William of Normandy respects the sanctity of holy orders enough to allow a maiden to be safe in a priory from abuse and slaughter.’
Her voice dripped with contempt. Having travelled from the south through the ruins of what had once been prosperous villages, Gui found it hard to blame her. He studied his boots, ashamed of his countrymen, though he had not taken part in such dishonourable exploits.
‘My heart aches for the maid’s distress, but if you have sent her away you must fetch her back,’ Gilbert blustered.
A gleeful smile flitted across Emma’s lips.
‘That is out of the question.’
Gilbert growled deep in his throat