The Deed by Lynsay Sands

  "Aye, my lord," Emma murmured in what she hoped was a suitably dutiful voice as he drew the bedclothes up to cover her. Her husband seemed satisfied with that as he stood and moved around the bed to climb in from the other side.

  Emma lay silently for a moment. Afraid to move and disturb the stranger in her bed, she let her gaze move around the room. It had been her bedroom for two years. It had always looked as it did now, and yet suddenly it seemed completely different. She could not really understand how. Nothing had changed . . . And yet everything had.

  Concentrating on making her breathing slow and even, she listened to the sound of revelry floating up from the Great Hall below. Her people were celebrating the marriage and its consummation as well as being saved from toiling under the hand of Lord Bertrand's mother. That thought made her wonder why the old woman had not been at the door beside her son. Emma could only assume that in his effort to get here before the marriage was consummated, Bertrand had had to leave her behind and hurry on ahead. What ever the case, Emma was grateful for her absence. Truly the woman was formidable. Emma most likely would have shriveled under her cold fishlike eyes.

  Emma's gaze slid to the window beside the bed and she sighed. It had been an unusual day. Quite taxing really, what with learning of her upcoming marriage, worrying that her husband would not arrive, awaiting him at the church, the ceremony itself, and then the exceedingly tricky business of the "joining" as Amaury had called it. She felt a bit foolish now that she realized just what consummating the marriage meant, and had to wonder what it would have been like with her first husband. As unpleasant as the chore was, she could well see why Lord Fulk had not seen fit to accomplish it. He had forever avoided anything unpleasant. Still, it was the only way to achieve children.

  That thought startled Emma into laying a hand gently against her stomach. She knew enough to be aware that that was where the child would grow and be carried. Their child. Hers and Lord Amaury's. Aye, she must be carrying his child, for surely it only took one such painful joining to make a babe? Else she was sure people would have fewer babes.

  Emma floated to sleep, a small smile playing about her lips as she daydreamed about the child she was probably already carrying.

  "He's gone to lick his wounds."

  Emma flushed and straightened from her slightly crouched position by the table in the Great Hall. She had been surveying the group of unconscious men lying about the floor, searching out Lord Bertrand. Now she turned to face her cousin as he reached her side. "Who?"

  "Lord Bertrand. He departed as soon as we came back below stairs yester eve. That is who you were looking so cautiously for, is it not?"

  Emma smiled wryly. "You know me too well, Rolfe."

  Shrugging, he bent to press a kiss to her forehead. "Where is your husband? Still abed?"

  "Aye."

  "It must have been a wearing night."

  Emma felt herself blush again at his teasing, and sought quickly to change the subject. "Do you wish to break fast?"

  Rolfe grinned at her obvious tactics, but decided to let her off the hook. Turning, he raised one eyebrow at the Great Hall and its contents. "Aye, breaking fast would be nice. However, I doubt you shall have much luck in rousing this rabble."

  "Aye." Sighing, Emma surveyed the previous night's celebrants. The Great Hall was a-clutter with people. All of them unconscious. Men and women alike were strewn across the floor like dropped chess pieces. It would be difficult to cross the hall, let alone make room at the table to dine. Turning abruptly, she strode toward the double front doors. "Come."

  Eyebrows rising, Rolfe followed at once, the promise of food a strong lure. "Where are we going?"

  "Around to the back door of the kitchen to find something to eat," Emma announced, tugging the door open and leading him out into the crisp morning air.

  Rolfe grimaced at that. "I do not much care for the idea of eating in the kitchens, Em. Cook will have our ears."

  "Cook is unconscious by the table beside his wife. 'Sides, I was thinking we might go on a picnic."

  "A picnic?"

  "Aye." Emma threw a grin at him over her shoulder as she led him around the building. "We have not had one for ages. And I have missed our little excursions." Emma smiled softly as she thought of those brief escapes from the castle when they had been children. They had collected bits of food while the cook wasn't looking, and then crept out into the woods surrounding her father's castle to feast on their stolen fare before playing hide and seek in the trees. "There is a lovely clearing just ten minutes away on horse back. It has a little brook running through it."

  "Sounds charming." Rolfe smiled slightly, caught up in remembrances of his own. Emmalene had not been a proper lady then. She had been a hooligan of the highest order. And she had always insisted on being the dashing Lord Darion when they had played "Catch-me-if-ye-can," rather than the fair maiden as he had been sure she should. She had been as daring as any boy as she had flown through the woods, scrambling up trees and swinging from branches. Her skirts had never slowed her down, for she had hooked them at her waist to keep them out of the way. Or simply borrowed a pair of Rolfe's braies. If her father, his own uncle, had ever caught them at it, he would most likely have tanned them both.

  Ah, who was he fooling, Rolfe thought wryly. Uncle Cedric had indulged them in all things, especially Emma. He most likely would have turned a blind eye. In fact, he more than likely had been aware of their games and had turned a blind eye.

  "Here we are," Emma announced. Pushing through a door into the kitchen, she collected a basket from the corner and began filling it.

  Shaking his mind free of thoughts of the past, Rolfe peered down at the food Emma was packing away. "Whoa, cousin, you do not need that much. There are only the two of us."

  "I thought mayhap the bishop might like to join us. I saw him crossing the bailey as we came around the building."

  Rolfe felt a brief shaft of jealousy at the thought of sharing their childhood ritual with the bishop, then shrugged and nodded. They were no longer children. And this was not his uncle's castle. In fact his uncle's castle was now his own.

  "As you wish," he said easily, taking the basket from her and offering her an arm.

  Amaury was not a morning person. He never had been, but this morning of all mornings he was feeling particularly black. He had passed the night fitfully, kept awake by the throbbing of his own poor manhood. It seemed that, while his mind was chivalrous enough to be determined not to put upon his poor young bride any further on her first night as his wife, his manhood was not nearly so sympathetic. It had not helped that he had found himself constantly sitting abed, lighting the candle beside it, and staring at her beautiful face in repose. Truly, his wife was a delicate flower in her loveliness. Even her snoring had been dainty.

  Amaury had finally drifted off into unconsciousness as the sun began its journey across the sky. One short hour later he had awakened in his new home, his new castle, his new bed, to find his new bride conspicuous in her absence from that bed. Now, after a thorough search of the castle and bailey, he had yet to discover her whereabouts. The bailey was nearly as dead as a tomb. There were only two men guarding the wall. The rest of the castle population, along with a good number of the inhabitants of the attendant village, appeared to be in his Great Hall, snoring loudly enough to raise the roof. It seemed everyone had fully enjoyed his wedding celebrations. Except him, of course. Which only managed to irritate him more. They had probably gone through a lake of ale to drink themselves into the stupors they were all enjoying on the Great Hall floor. His ale and his Great Hall floor.

  Anger rising with each thought crossing his mind, Amaury strode back into the cluttered hall, perched his hands on his hips, spread his feet, and bellowed, "Where is my wife?!"

  The only response he got for his trouble was the stirring of one or two of the drunken louts at his feet. Furious now, Amaury marched straight out of the castle again. Gathering a pail along the way, he strode t
o the stables and filled it with water from the trough for the horses, then returned to the Great Hall.

  While his first bellow had not garnered much attention, his second one, accompanied by a wash of water from the pail that he splashed across the floor's occupants in a wide arc, certainly reaped more attention.

  The women woke up with squeals of protest and shock, the men with curses as they grabbed for their swords. Amaury waited until the hall had fallen back into near silence as everyone realized who had so rudely awakened them. Then he spoke in a deadly quiet voice. "Now, if yer all ready to listen. I would know where my wife has got to!"

  The silence that met his words was emphasized by blinks of surprise that told him what he should have already known by their unconscious conditions. None of these people knew where his wife had gone.

  Sighing, he frowned slightly. "Well, know any of you of something she does, or a place she goes every morning?"

  "Mass."

  It was the plain-faced Maude who spoke the word, and Amaury turned to her gratefully as he recalled that she was his wife's maid. He had opened his mouth to respond to that when a man to the side commented, "Aye, but Father Gumpter is away just now. There will be no Mass."

  Maude shrugged. "The Bishop could hold one."

  "Nay." Amaury shook his head before they could carry the conversation further. "I checked the church. She is not there. Neither is the bishop," he added with a frown, his gaze now moving over the sea of faces in search of that good man's visage. He wasn't there, of course. It seemed no one he sought was apt to be present this morning: For instance, Blake was missing as well. Amaury had noted that while searching for his wife, more than aware that the man was inordinately attractive to women. Though he refused to admit to himself the suspicions that that knowledge raised.

  He was grateful he never voiced the suspicions in his head, even to himself, when Blake suddenly crawled out from beneath the long table they had all been seated at the night before, a buxom blonde at his heels.

  Getting to his feet, his friend straightened his clothes with a show of great dignity, then aided his companion to her feet before turning to face Amaury. "Ah, awake I see, friend," he called cheerfully, crossing the room as if nothing at all were amiss and Lord Amaury came bellowing into rooms every morning splashing water everywhere.

  "My wife is missing."

  Blake raised his eyes at that announcement, and glanced about the room as if expecting an answer there before suggesting, "Mayhap she is at--"

  "She is not at the chapel. I checked there."

  "Ah, well . . ." He thought quickly. "Where is her cousin?"

  Amaury's eyes widened at that, for he had not thought to look for her cousin. Now he scanned the crowd quickly. "Where is Rolfe?"

  He frowned at the congregated people so hard that it took a moment for a pretty young serving girl to find the courage to step forward and murmur her answer.

  "I cannot hear ye!" Amaury roared irritably, making the poor girl jump.

  Swallowing, she took another hesitant step forward and cleared her voice before speaking a bit louder. "He slept near me last night, yer lordship, yet he is not here now."

  Her blush told him that his wife's cousin had done a lot more than merely sleep by the woman. Probably a lot more even than he had managed with his own young bride in the rush the night before. That only managed to annoy him more, and he frowned at the girl darkly before Blake distracted him from the hapless female.

  "There, you see! She is probably safe with her cousin. Mayhap they went for a ride. Did you check the stables?"

  "I did, but there was no one in the stables and no way for me to tell if any horses are missing. The stable master was absent."

  "Ah . . ." An older gentleman cleared his throat and began to sidle around him, careful to keep a distance between himself and his new lord. "That would be me, yer lordship. I'll . . . er . . . see to it right now."

  Amaury opened his mouth to flay the man for neglecting his duties, but as he did, a tinkling of laughter flowed into the room behind him. Whirling on his heel, he stared at the front door as it finished opening, allowing his wife to enter the castle, followed by the bishop and her cousin. All three of them were smiling at some private joke, totally unaware of the storm that had been raging in his chest since awakening to find her missing that morning. "Where have ye been?" he roared.

  All three appeared surprised by the anger in his voice and face as he confronted them, but it was Emma who spoke first. "Is aught amiss, my lord?" She glanced anxiously around the room full of disgruntled-looking people and frowned.

  "Where have ye been?" Amaury repeated grimly.

  "Why . . . on a picnic."

  "A picnic?" He looked nonplussed at that. Then his frown returned. "Beyond the walls?" His stomach clenched at the thought.

  "Aye." She looked surprised at his tone, then pointed out, "Well, my lord, there was nowhere in here to break fast."

  Amaury was about to argue that point when he realized that she was, of course, right. Frowning instead, he simply ordered, "You shall not leave the grounds again unprotected. Is that understood, wife?"

  Emma's eyes narrowed slowly on the man standing before her.

  Recognizing the temper coming to the fore in his cousin's eyes and deciding it did not bode well, Rolfe stepped forward to smooth the way. "You are right, de Aneford. 'Tis not safe to leave the castle unattended. However, myself and the lord bishop were there to protect her."

  "He's right, Amaury. Lord Rolfe could guard her well. 'Sides, all is well, she is found." Blake stepped to his side, then sent Lady Emma a charming smile. "Do not mind his temper this morn, my lady. No doubt his lordship is hard put to believe his luck in gaining such a lovely bride-- as well as this home-- and is simply nervous of losing you to the same fickle hand of fate that gave you."

  Amaury opened his mouth to refute Blake's words, then snapped his mouth shut again, his expression revealing sudden surprise. Good God, Blake was right, he realized with dismay. While lack of sleep had made him surly, his fury on not being able to find his bride had been raised by the possibility of losing her. With his guilt over having botched the wedding night, he had feared she might have decided him a great clumsy oaf and fled to the king to petition an annulment. For someone who had worked and striven all his life to gain even the sparest crumb, being handed so much so easily was terrifying. Had Lady Emmalene been a hag, it would have been one thing, for in Amaury's experience, nothing was gained without pain or unpleasant duty, but his wife was no hag. Surely so much good fortune must have a price?

  "My husband is lucky to have such a faithful and charming friend, Sir Blake," Emma murmured, moving forward to take Blake's arm and lead him toward the table he had so recently crawled out from under. "I hope he appreciates you."

  Amaury did not hear his friend's no doubt charming response; his wife was seating Blake at the table across the room, well out of his hearing. As he watched in amazement, a few soft words from her had the entire hall moving as people set about their business. Those who should have been on guard returned to their posts. Those who worked the kitchens headed there. The rest seated themselves quietly at the table to break fast. All of them gave Amaury a wide berth as they did. Another moment, and then servants were bringing food and ale from the kitchen.

  Amaury simply stood, feeling slightly forlorn as he watched his wife set their castle to rights. He hardly noticed when Rolfe and the bishop passed him, throwing him odd looks, before moving to a table for a tankard of ale. His thoughts were wholly focused on his feelings of being an outsider once more. It was a feeling he had experienced often as a child. Being the bastard of a high-ranking noble, he had been excluded from his father's family's ranks, and yet also had been set apart from the other children in the village he had been born into.

  When his father's wife had tired of seeing him in the village-- a live reminder of her husband's infidelity-- and had insisted he be sent away, his father had sent him to squire wit
h another lord. A kindness that. His father could have simply banished him. And yet he had still been an outsider in his new home. A bastard son squiring among so many legitimate ones. He had become a strong, skilled fighter through necessity, defending himself from the attacks of these other squires who delighted in taunting him. Blake had been one of those squires at first, but they had only fought once. They were an equal match, and had fought until they both collapsed from weariness. On regaining themselves, they had awakened side by side to become fast friends. That friendship had gone a long way toward his being accepted by the other squires they trained with, so that the scuffles had ceased there. But there was always someone ready to call him bastard and battle him; squires of other lords they met at tournaments, or simply on travels. Even later, once they were both knighted, there had been other knights who had been happy to remind him that he did not belong.

  Amaury had always thought that if he had a home of his own, this sense of being an outsider would leave. He would finally belong somewhere. Yet instead, he stood in the center of his own Great Hall experiencing those very same feelings again as his wife-- very deliberately he suspected-- ignored him as punishment for his temper and arrogance and set about making his friend more at home than Amaury had ever felt anywhere.

  For one moment his temper rose, and he nearly began bellowing again, but then he reigned his temper in. Perhaps this was little more than he deserved. He was a bastard. The son of a duke and a village girl. And last night he had treated his wife most sorely. True, it had been out of necessity and from lack of time. Still, realizing that Bertrand was following, he should have insisted they take care of the bedding directly after the ceremony was over so that he might give his new bride the attention and tenderness she had deserved. Besides, had he not dallied on his journey here, they would have been wed and bedded an entire day earlier, and there would have been time for him to treat her with the care she had deserved, he thought.

  Sighing, Amaury turned away from the pleasant scene of his wife talking and laughing with Blake as he broke his fast, and walked out of the castle. Ignoring his own hunger pangs, he stalked to the stables to retrieve his horse. He intended on riding through the woods surrounding the castle. Hopefully it would improve his temper somewhat . . . and allow his wife's irritation with him to ease a bit. Mayhap then he could start again. He always believed one should start out as they meant go on, but this morning was not one he wished to repeat.