‘Do not lie, Emma, you are not good at it. You like Sir Richard.’
‘I scarcely know him.’
Hélène made a dismissive movement. ‘What has that to do with anything? You are attracted to him, that much is plain. When you stormed in, I knew something had happened, and by that I mean something significant, not merely that the castle steward had no employment for you. You find Sir Richard attractive.’
‘I do not!’
Hélène lifted an expressive brow and smiled an infuriating smile. ‘You are attracted to him and, what is more, I believe you like him also. I know you, Emma of Fulford, and you would not be asking me to send you to him if you did not. You may have a bast…this child here, but you are not like us. And if you are considering, even for one moment, becoming that man’s concubine, it is because in some quiet corner of your soul you feel more than a passing liking for him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Have it your own way.’ Rising, Hélène shook out her skirts. ‘You must excuse me, I need to ask Inga if she has enough in the way of provisions for the evening meal. We are busier now the garrison’s full up again.’
‘Hélène, will you help me?’
‘You really believe you have it in you to play the part of his whore—because that is what you would be—his whore?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
Shaking her head, Hélène rested a hand lightly on Emma’s son’s head. ‘Take Mama back to the mill, Henri, and help her pack up your belongings.’
‘Why?’
‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’
Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’
Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’
Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’
‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’
Chapter Four
Later that same night, Emma waited until Hélène was alone sitting at her usual table under the loft overhang. From there Hélène could keep close watch on the wine butts and the measures the girls were handing out. Smoke was swirling up into the blackened roof space along with the drone of many voices. Platters banged on to trestles; knives scraped on pewter plates; torches flared. A serving girl passed with a platter, and the smell of beef braised in rich red wine lingered in the air.
Emma and Henri had already moved into the Staple. They had been allocated space in one of the screened sleeping areas in the loft. Henri was worn out with excitement and had been put to bed, which left Emma free to raise the matter of payment with Hélène.
‘About my rent,’ Emma said. ‘I have worked out how I may be able to pay you.’
‘There is no hurry, I really can wait. Wine?’
‘Please.’ Emma took her place on the bench. ‘But I don’t want you to wait. And with Judhael so eager to speak out against me, Heaven knows when I will find work. Would you like to look at the gown? I would be prepared to sell it, if you like it.’
‘The one your sister sent you?’
‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘I am sure that it is, although—’ Hélène’s lips curved ‘—knowing your sister, it will be the gown of a lady rather than a…shall we say, a tavern girl.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I know your sister. Still, my girls might be able to use it when their wealthier admirers want to play at being great lords. Go and put it on, so I can really see how it looks.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
Emma nodded agreement and, taking up a candle from the table, headed for the stairs.
The loft chamber was airy and ran fully half the length of the building. It was divided in two by thick wool curtains. One half was used as a sleeping chamber for travellers while the other, divided into sleeping areas by yet more curtains, belonged to Hélène and the girls. Emma and Henri had been given one of these.
Despite the size of the loft, the private spaces were cramped and simply furnished. Like nuns’ cells, Emma thought wryly, except that some of these cells were put to uses that would scandalise any nun. What would Mother Aethelflaeda, the Prioress of St Anne’s, say if she found her here? No doubt a penitential fast would be the least of it.
Indeed, a few years ago, Emma herself would have been scandalised by what went on at this inn. Yet today…She sighed. So much had changed.
Henri was deeply asleep. Setting the candle safely on a stool, Emma reached under their bed and quietly pulled out the bundle that contained the gown. She began to undress.
Sounds of merriment came muffled through the floorboards. You wouldn’t believe it was Lent. Yet more to scandalise Mother Aethelflaeda. Laughter rolled up the stairs; it squeezed through the cracks in the floorboards. One man brayed like a donkey, another responded with a shout that nearly raised the roof.
Smiling, Emma shook her head. To think that the Staple was only a stone’s throw from the Cathedral and Nunnaminster…
Setting aside her workday gown, Emma reached into the bundle and drew out Cecily’s gift. The sumptuous fabric was heavily encrusted with silver-and-gold threadwork. There was also a filmy silk veil in a paler hue to wear with the gown. Emma’s throat ached. These lovely things were fit for Queen Mathilda, and Cecily had remembered that pink was her favourite colour. Emma was touched beyond words. She hated to sell them, but sell them she must. And while they were indeed more suited to a noblewoman than a tavern wench, if Hélène liked them, she would give her a good price, better than she might get elsewhere.
The candle-light flickered as Emma drew the gown over her head. Tugging at the lacings, she tied them off, staring down at herself critically. The gown was cut fairly low at the front and it gaped a little. Frowning, she readjusted the lacings and tugged the bodice into place. She must have lost weight since her measure had been taken at Fulford. As Emma shook out the veil, a small stoppered bottle—glass, it was such a rarity—rolled on to the bed. This was yet another of her sister’s gifts; it had been tucked into the fabric the day the carter had brought it.
Removing the stopper, Emma sniffed. Rosewater. It was her favourite scent; Cecily had remembered that, too. It must have been imported. Blinking hard, Emma dabbed some at the wrists and neck, and carefully replaced the stopper. She might have to sell the dress and the veil, but it would not hurt to keep the rosewater. Slipping the bottle into her bundle of everyday clothes, she set about arranging the silk veil.
Curtains brushed her shoulders as she made her way back to the head of the stairs. A piercing whistle cut through the din. By the fire at the middle of the inn, Ben Thatcher, a man with more looks than sense, was giving her the eye.
Cheeks brighter than the flames in the hearth, Emma hurried downstairs and dived into the relative safety of the shadows at the cookhouse end of the room. Another appreciative shout came flying towards the wine-butts. At her table, Hélène scowled at Ben Thatcher and waved Emma over.
‘That the new girl, Hélène?’ Unrepentant, Ben shouted over the general clamour. ‘How much?’