Hélène patted Emma’s knee. ‘Not by anyone Iwould let through these doors, dear, rest assured. You are no more nithing than I am.’
‘My thanks.’ Emma gazed earnestly at Hélène. ‘I would have you know that your friendship means much to me.’
Dark colour washed into Hélène’s cheeks. ‘You value my friendship? You know what this tavern is…what the girls…’ she all but choked ‘…and yet you value my friendship?’
Henri emerged, smiling, from behind the screen with a slice of bread dripping with honey clutched tight in his fist. Emma laid her hand on Hélène’s. ‘You must know I do. This is the only place, apart from the mill, where Henri and I are accepted, fully accepted. You and Gytha are dear to me, you let me be…myself. You don’t judge me.’
Hélène snorted and her wave took in Marie, now sitting on the lap of the archer, whispering in his ear. ‘Judge you? Running this place does not give me the right to step into a preacher’s shoes. Not that I would want to…’
‘No, of course not. But you understand me.’ Emma reached out to wipe a trickle of honey from the corner of her son’s mouth. ‘You know how life does not turn out quite as one expects it to and unlike some—’ a brief image of cold grey eyes flashed into her mind ‘—you accept me for what I am.’
‘Of course I do. Tell me, what was it you wanted to ask?’
‘I need work,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Do you have any?’
Hélène lifted a brow. ‘I am sorry, Emma, the girls here take turns in seeing to the laundry.’
Emma’s shoulders slumped. ‘I was afraid you would say that. Dear Lord, what am I to do?’
‘Surely there is more than enough for you at the wash-house?’
‘There’s not any at the wash-house! Bertha—oh, Hélène—it is quite dreadful.’ Keeping an eye on Henri who was wandering back behind the screen for more bread, Emma lowered her voice. ‘Judhael is back! He has threatened Bertha.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Yes, yes, he has—there were marks on her wrist. Hélène, Judhael is not a…gentle man.’
‘You are saying Judhael hurt Bertha?’
‘Yes! You don’t know him as I do. Why, he beat the Fulford cook once for speaking out of turn.’
A warm hand came to rest on Emma’s knee. ‘That is why you never returned to Fulford. You were afraid he might find you.’
Emma swallowed. ‘Yes, that’s it. But it has all been for nothing, he has found me anyway. He has been bullying Bertha and…oh, Hélène, it is worse that that—he knows where I live, as well. He has been to the mill—’
‘Judhael has made threats there, too?’
‘He set a fire.’ While Hélène stared at her, frowning in disbelief, Emma explained about the fire and the threats that Gytha had been given. Finally, she laid bare her deepest fears. ‘Judhael does not know about Henri. But if he should learn he has a son…’ She clenched her fists. ‘He must not get his hands on Henri, I will not let him!’
‘So that is another reason why you refused to return to Fulford.’
‘Yes. I would never trust Judhael with a child and I always knew that if he should return, it’s the first place he would go. I must keep Henri from him.’
Hélène’s frown deepened. ‘Emma, I still don’t understand. How did Judhael find you? No one at Fulford would have betrayed your whereabouts.’
‘No, of course they would not. I haven’t the faintest idea, unless…’
‘Unless…?’
‘It has to be the gown.’ Rubbing her head, Emma took a deep breath. ‘A couple of weeks ago I met Cecily in the market. I mentioned Gytha’s marriage and Cecily misheard me. She thought I was talking about me, that I was considering marriage.’ Emma looked at the floor. ‘You see, it is what Cecily wishes for me. She is so happily married and she wants me to be happy, too. You will say it was foolish of me, but I didn’t correct her. If I were married, it would help expunge the shame of Henri’s birth.’
‘And…?’
‘The next time the Fulford carter came to Winchester for supplies, Cecily had sent me a betrothal gift. It is a gown, the most magnificent pink gown I have ever seen. Of course I shall never wear it—’
‘Never wear it! Why on earth not?’
Emma grimaced. ‘It is fit for a queen—what would I be doing with a gown like that? But never mind that. It must have been the gown that brought Judhael to me.’
‘He followed the carter from Fulford?’
‘He must have. With the result that I have no work and must look to find new lodgings, as well. I won’t let Gytha and Edwin risk themselves for me.’
‘You may lodge here with us, Emma,’ Hélène said firmly. ‘I may not have work, but I can offer you lodgings.’
Tears pricked behind Emma’s eyes. ‘That is very kind, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble any more than I want to cause Gytha trouble. What if Judhael comes here?’
Hélène waved towards the door where a man was lounging on one of the benches. Emma had seen him hefting barrels about the inn; he was built like a house. ‘Tostig will see us safe.’
‘Nevertheless, I would not put you at risk.’
‘You would be more than welcome.’
‘My thanks. Perhaps I will stay here while I think what to do. I wish I had some way of repaying you, but until I do find work…I even tried up at the castle this morning, but there was nothing there, either.’
Hélène was studying her intently. ‘Something upset you up at that place, I can see.’
‘Mmm.’ It was stupid; Emma could not think why she was still upset, it was not as though this kind of thing had never happened before. But she had believed Sir Richard, had really thought he meant to help.
‘Tell me.’
Emma opened her mouth with Sir Richard’s image in her mind and the words pompous hypocrite forming on her tongue when Frida banged through the doorway. Frida was scowling and there were splotches of angry colour on her cheeks. Emma blinked; it was hard to believe she was looking at the same girl who had paraded so confidently across the castle bailey less than half an hour ago.
‘That man! Bloody Norman!’ Frida spat, flouncing towards them, blatantly ignoring the fact that most of the customers in the Staple were Norman by birth. Her yellow skirts whisked past the fire, perilously close to the flames. She thumped on to their bench with such force, the bench rocked.
‘That was quick,’ Emma blurted, before she had time to check her words. Her cheeks scorched. ‘Forgive me, Frida, but I saw you in the bailey, less than half an hour ago.’
Some of the anger left Frida’s expression as her mouth twitched. ‘Yes, I was in the stable. But I expect Sir Richard could…’ shooting Henri a glance, Frida made a suggestive gesture ‘—I expect our garrison commander could do it quickly if he had a mind. Only he didn’t.’
Hélène leaned forwards, a line between her brows. ‘What happened?’
Frida shrugged. Unpinning her veil, she folded it and held it carefully on her lap. Her yellow gown and veil were too good for everyday wear; they would be put into storage to await a special occasion, a special admirer.
‘Sir Richard and I,’ Frida spoke with a slow precision that was quite out of character, ‘agreed that we should not suit.’
Hélène’s