‘If times were better, I would not sell it. I love it, but…’ Emma shrugged ‘…you know how things are.’
‘I wonder that you can bear to part with it.’ Hélène took the fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This cloth, shipped in from the east, would you say?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you certain about this? What will your sister say?’
Emma grimaced. ‘I hope she never finds out. I shall certainly not be telling her.’ She spread the skirts to demonstrate their fullness and gave a mocking curtsy. ‘See? Every detail is perfect. The lacing ribbons are silk, and this veil is light as a cobweb.’
‘It hangs well. I do like the way the skirts swing. Yes, it is perfect. A little large at the bosom, perhaps.’
Flushing, Emma put a hand to the neckline.
Hélène batted it away with a smile. ‘No, let it be. It is quite…alluring like that.’
Emma fussed with the neckline. ‘Gudrun made it. She and Rozenn—the Breton seamstress—have been working together and…’
A movement by the door caught Emma’s attention. She frowned.
‘Emma, what’s amiss?’
‘I…I…no matter. Except—was that Sir Richard’s squire I saw leaving just then?’
‘Possibly, he does occasionally favour us with his custom when Sir Richard is in residence. He likes it here, even if his knight does not.’
‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice cut in behind them. ‘Lady Emma?’
Emma whirled and her stomach lurched. ‘Azor!’
The hood of Azor’s head was up and he was standing in the deepest shadows, but Emma knew him at once. Judhael’s comrade, Azor, was a former housecarl of her father’s. He, too, had allied himself with the Saxon resistance. So it had been Azor she had seen on Mill Bridge…
Azor looked pointedly at Hélène and jerked his head in the direction of the screen. Hélène backed away. Catching Emma by the arm, Azor drew her into the darkness between two large wine caskets.
‘Lady Emma…’ Azor’s eyes raked her from head to foot; his beard—threaded with grey nowadays—quivered. ‘No wonder it took so long for me to find you. When I heard you were…in difficulties…I imagined the worst.’
Emma swallowed. Azor had her fenced in with his body. Her hands began to shake. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose. ‘He is not here?’
Azor flung a glance over his shoulder. ‘Hush, no names, eh?’
‘I am not stupid.’
Azor’s lip curled as he looked at her. ‘I thought he might have caused you trouble when he visited your friends, but in my worst nightmares I would not have imagined this.’ His gaze took in the tavern, while the sneer on his lips spoke of a high disdain for tavern girls. He twitched clumsily at Emma’s skirts. ‘Bedding with men for coin, are we?’
Emma’s heart was fluttering like a netted bird. Was Judhael in the inn? She had hoped to have at least a couple of days’ grace…
Henri! Emma did not care what Judhael or Azor thought of her, the important thing, the most important thing, was that they should not find out that she had a son. Thank God Henri was safe upstairs.
‘Well?’ Azor gave her a little shake, such as he would never have done when her father had been alive, he would not have dared.
Emma lifted her chin. ‘It is none of your business what I am or what I do.’ Azor still had her boxed in. Laying a hand on his chest, she gave him a shove. ‘Please let me pass. I was having a private conversation with Hélène, and you interrupted us.’
Azor snorted, but in the flare of the torches it seemed his expression had softened. ‘The Lady Emma I used to know would have died rather than consort with the likes of Hélène.’
Conscious of Hélène hovering like a guardian angel behind Azor, Emma bit her lip. ‘Hélène is a friend, a true and loyal friend when many have deserted me.’
‘The woman’s a whore! Hell, my lady, Ju—he will kill you when he finds you.’ Again, the harsh features appeared to soften; his voice became gentle. ‘He wants you back, my lady. It has become an obsession with him.’
‘Let me pass.’ Emma’s mouth was dry, for she feared Azor spoke the truth. Judhael might well kill her. It was a struggle to keep her expression calm, when every nerve was shrieking at her to pick up her skirts and dash upstairs to check on Henri. She must know that that he was safe. Azor might have found me, but please, God, let him not learn about Henri.
‘My lady, there is no need to look at me like that. You must not fear me, I came to warn you—’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Hélène broke in. She had found a wooden cup and was filling it with wine from one of the barrels. As she approached, trying—bless her—to draw Azor’s attention, Emma willed her friend not to mention Henri. ‘You are new to the Staple, are you not? Please accept a cup of our best red. It is come in a recent shipment from Aquitaine in the land of the Franks.’ She lowered her voice. ‘King Harold himself never drank better.’
Azor looked doubtfully at the wine and more narrowly at Hélène. ‘He drank Frankish wine?’
Hélène smiled. ‘Indeed he did.’
‘But I didn’t order it.’
‘Take it, sir, with my compliments, as a welcome to the Staple.’
‘Waes hael.’ Mouthing the traditional Saxon toast, Azor grudgingly nodded his thanks, but his eyes never left Emma’s and she knew he had not finished with her.
Nevertheless, she made to push past him, not trusting him an inch. ‘Excuse me, if you please.’
Someone threw a log on to the fire and sent up a shower of sparks as the door opened to admit two men. The fire flared.
Silence gripped the room. Squinting past Azor’s shoulder, Emma tried to see what everyone was looking at, but Marie was moving between the tables, blocking her vision.
Emma was not the only person to notice the silence; Azor turned to look, too. ‘Swithun save us!’ Thrusting the cup at her, he ducked deeper into his hood.
Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander, paused in the doorway as a trio of troopers jumped to their feet and saluted sheepishly.
Richard had heard of this place—what man in the garrison had not? The prettiest girls in Wessex worked here. Richard was not averse to the idea of using their services—he would hardly have sent for Frida if that had been the case, but this was the first time he had stepped inside the Staple himself. His subordinates needed somewhere where they could be at ease, somewhere where they were not under the eye of their commander. By unwritten law, this was their territory, not his.
If the women here nursed a hatred for Norman soldiers they hid it well, or so he had been told. Saxon tavern wenches who had learned to smile at Norman soldiers.
A swift glance around found Richard surprised. Many of his men were there, of course, sprawled across benches, leaning on tables, sitting with girls on their laps. But overall, the Staple was more orderly than he had expected. The tables, though busy with cups and plates and half-eaten suppers, had a clean, scrubbed look to them; the fire was well built and spare logs and kindling were stacked safely to one side. A mouthwatering smell of beef stew reminded Richard that not only was he hungry, but that the Staple’s reputation did not rest entirely on