When she merely glared at him silently, Amaury closed the distance between them to grab her by the arms and give her a shake. "Did you?!"
"Aye!" she spat, and he released her at once, almost throwing her away.
"I poured that drink into the pot you set out for the dogs last night. Now they are dead . . . of poisoning. 'Twas poison in my cup."
Even Emma went still at that damning news. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath as it awaited her response, but before she could speak, Alden hurried to her side.
"Mayhap 'twas an accident," Amaury's squire suggested in her defense. " 'Tis fair true, my lord, those weeds look very similar. I cannot tell them apart. Mayhap . . ." He paused, searching for a way his beloved mistress might have accidentally almost killed her husband.
Emma wanted to cuff him. The mere fact that the boy was seeking an excuse told her he too thought her potion was the source of the poison. One glance around the room showed confusion on the others' faces as well. Emma felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
"I made no mistake and I did not poison my husband!" she bellowed furiously.
There was dismay on every face at her unladylike display, but Emma cared little for their opinion at that moment. They all thought her a killer, for goodness sake. Even her own people were looking uncertain. Disgusted with the lot of them, she turned on her heel to leave, but Amaury grabbed her arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
"You will not simply walk away from this, wife."
Emma glared pointedly at the hand grasping her arm, then raised cold eyes to his angry face. "Husband?"
She said it so sweetly and in such contrast to the icy fury on her face that his eyes narrowed warily. "Aye?"
"S'neck up!" The entire room seemed to gasp as she roared that. Glaring over them in cold satisfaction, Emma tore her arm away and swept toward the stairs. She had no intention of standing about listening to such tripe. Next they would be calling her a witch and preparing to burn her at the stake.
Amaury stared at his wife's retreating back in amazement, then turned to his friend. "What did she say to me?"
"I believe she said s'neck up."
"Aye." Amaury nodded, his eyes narrowing to slits. "She did."
He started to follow her then with murder in his eyes, but Blake caught him back quickly. "Nay, friend. Let her go for now. She is angry and--"
"She is angry!?" Amaury bellowed, turning on him. "My wife just told me to go hang myself! And in the lowest terms! She is no lady, Blake. I tell you, she is no lady! I suspected as much when she enjoyed the joining, but now I am sure. No lady would use such common language. Nor would they enjoy the marital act. And they sure as hell would not try to poison their husbands!" he roared toward Emma's retreating back, then turned to his own men. "Damn ye to hell, think ye to let her try to kill me then just walk away?! Stop her!"
"Now, Amaury, we must think this through," Blake cautioned desperately.
"What is there to think of? 'Tis not bad enough that I have bandits and mercenaries determined to do the deed, but now my wife tries to kill me!" He bellowed the last toward his wife's departing back. " 'Tis no wonder Fulk killed himself!"
Emma froze at those words and whirled to spit an opinion or two at her husband, but her attention was distracted by the four men hurrying toward her. Her eyes widened in dismay as she began to recognize the seriousness of her predicament. What was happening was a great deal more than a simple insult to her person. She had been dosing her husband with those blasted herbs, as everyone appeared to be aware. He had poured his ale into the dogs' dish the night afore, and now, this morn, they were dead . . . poison. It was damning evidence no matter the insult. Evidence of murder. An offense punishable by death.
The castle doors suddenly burst open, drawing all eyes in surprise. That surprise deepened when Lord Bertrand entered. Emma must have made a sound of surprise, for his eyes immediately flew to where she stood and he smiled brightly enough to near blind her.
"Lady Emmalene, I came soon as I heard!" Hurrying to her side, he reached for her hands.
"Heard what?" she asked, taking a nervous step backward from his presence. Her gaze flew to her would-be captors to see that they had paused and now stood uncertain whether to take her into custody or not. Her eyes were drawn abruptly back to Bertrand when he took her hands warmly in both of his and squeezed them gently. Confusion immediately set up a riot inside her. His demeanor and greeting were all wrong. He should not be so happy to see her. She had married another, vexing his plans. His parting scowl when he had last been here had hardly led her to expect such a warmhearted welcome now. And warmhearted it most definitely was, she thought with dismay as he drew her unwilling body toward him.
"Unhand my wife!"
Both of them were startled at Amaury's thunderous words. Emma took a relieved breath as Bertrand released her. Then she turned a scowl on her husband for his capricious behavior. One moment he was accusing her of trying to kill him, and the next he was barking possessively at another for touching her.
Amaury frowned at his wife's reaction, then took note of Bertrand's.
The man looked more than startled, he looked shocked. He also looked slightly sick as he murmured, "But you are supposed to be--"
"Bertrand!"
Emma cringed at that harsh, high-pitched voice. Turning to the doorway, she eyed the woman standing there warily. Tall, thin, and cadaver-like, the hard-faced woman stared coldly back. This time Bertrand had not come alone. More's the pity, Emma thought grimly as she met the cold hatred in Lady Ascot's eyes.
Amaury bore the silent war of wills between his wife and Bertrand's mother for as long as he could, then shifted impatiently, drawing both women's attention to himself. "I take it you have come for a reason?"
Lady Ascot arched an eyebrow at his rudeness, but Amaury did not care. He had no time to humor the old nag and her mewling son just now. He had three dead dogs and his wife to deal with.
"We were on our way to court and thought to stop and offer our congratulations," Lady Ascot said after a moment of silence. Then stamping her cane on the hard floor, she snapped, "Did we not, Bertrand?"
"Aye." He cleared his throat and moved closer to his mother in a sidling move that smacked of cowardice. "Congratulations."
Amaury's gaze narrowed on the twosome. They were like snakes, the both of them, slithering about his hall and flicking their honeyed lies off narrow forked tongues. He knew they had been staying at Chesterford's keep since his wedding. Chesterford had sent him news of that himself. And Eberhart would not be out of the way on their way to court, but if they had come to congratulate, then he was King Richard's dead wife. He had not missed Bertrand's words on entering. "I came soon as I heard." Heard what, pray tell? Of the dogs' deaths? Or something else? His gaze slid to his wife as he rolled things over in his head. She was eyeing the twosome by the door with unsavory suspicion. Then she peered back toward the unfortunate beasts frozen in their last moments of life by the fireplace, before glancing finally to him. Understanding slid across her face. Then her lips twisted bitterly. Amaury flinched under that look, guilt rising in him, a wraith that wrapped itself around his innards and gave a gleeful squeeze.
"We shall not tarry for refreshments," Lady Ascot announced arrogantly now, as if some had actually been offered. "We go to join court. Come, Bertrand." Whirling imperiously on the doorstep, she swept back out of the keep and out of sight, her son scurrying to keep up with her.
Amaury turned to the four men he had originally set after his wife. "Follow them. Ensure they leave my lands."
The four men left at once.
He glanced toward his wife then to see that she had turned on her heels and was hurrying above stairs.
"Shall I fetch her back?"
Sighing, Amaury shook his head at Little George's question, his gaze returning to his wife's backside as she mounted the last step and disappeared out of sight.
"I take it you have decided your wife ma
y not be responsible for the poison in your tankard?" Blake murmured, relief obvious in his voice.
Amaury glanced to his friend, then moved back to the head table and sank wearily onto the bench. Picking up his tankard he peered into it as the two men joined him. "I have had a streak of very bad luck lately."
"Aye," Blake agreed slowly. "I have never noticed you to have such bad luck. You have nearly died three times now in but a few short weeks."
"Hmm." Amaury frowned.
"What are you thinking?"
"I am thinking 'tis odd that the bandits attacked me. According to Emma's men-at-arms, they have never attacked anyone afore. Robbed? Aye. But not tried to kill. They did not demand my purse. So why did they attack?"
"Mayhap they feared that as the new lord you would force them out of the woods," Little George rumbled the words.
"But their attacking made me do just that, and would have forced such an occurrence no matter the outcome."
Blake nodded. "They were set on killing you."
"Aye, just like the mercenaries."
Little George's eyebrows rose. "You no longer think the mercenaries were hired by someone connected with your past employment?"
"Nay."
"And you no longer think your wife tried to poison you?"
He shook his head wearily and pointed out what had occurred to him only moments before. "She is the one who said 'twas poison. Else we would have thought it just sickness."
Both men nodded at the truth of that. Then Blake took in his expression and frowned slightly. "You do not seem pleased at that realization, my friend."
" 'Tis the truth I am not sure I am," Amaury admitted ruefully. "While I am glad my wife would not see me dead . . . I do not look forward to the cost of my incorrect accusation."
"She will forgive you," Blake assured him, a hand on his shoulder. "In truth, I think she has great affection for you."
Little George rumbled his agreement to that and Amaury straightened in his seat. "You do?" The hope on his face faded to be replaced by a grimace as he recalled the expression on her face when she had last looked at him. She had not looked to have any affection for him then.
"You are thinking the three occurrences are connected? The bandits, the mercenaries, and the poisoning?" Blake drew his attention back to the conversation at hand.
"Four."
"Four?"
"Aye. The wedding, the two attacks, and the poison." He let that sink in for a moment. "The attacks did not start till the day after the wedding. Who would gain should I die?"
Blake pursed his lips grimly. "Bertrand."
"Aye. 'Twas his words on greeting Emma that made me think it."
" 'I came soon as I heard'?" Little George murmured the words now, then raised his eyebrows. "What did he mean?"
"Most likely he meant that he had heard of my death."
"But how? You are not dead."
"Aye, but all he would know is that his agent applied the poison and Amaury drank his drink. That being the case, this morn he should have been dead," Blake explained as he caught the drift of Amaury's thoughts. "Amaury was careful to ensure no one saw him dump his drink in the dogs' bowl, he did not wish to hurt his wife's feelings."
"Mayhap ye should send word to the king. He will take care of Bertrand."
Amaury shook his head at his first's suggestion. "There is no proof. He could do nothing without proof."
Blake nodded at that, then glanced up with surprise when Amaury got to his feet. "Where go you?"
"I must speak to my wife."
"But we must decide what to do."
"Double the guards, watch all coming and going, and see if anyone saw a stranger around, or someone besides my wife near my tankard, then check to see if anyone is missing."
"Missing?" Little George raised his eyebrows at that.
"Someone placed the poison in my tankard. 'Twould not be an easy feat for just anyone. It was most likely someone from the castle. If 'twas, they had to have gotten a message to Bertrand that the deed was done for him to have arrived this morn. Hopefully they took the message personally. Else we have a--"
"Traitor in our midst?!" Blake cut in, cursing at the realization.
Little George frowned over that. "But if they were from here, they would have known that Lady Emma was dosing you and should have realized that she would have been accused as the culprit."
"Aye," Amaury agreed dryly. "It's enough to make you think that someone doesn't want her around either, isn't it?"
Both men seemed surprised at that. Then Little George muttered, "It cannot be Bertrand then. 'Tis more than obvious that he wants her to wife."
"Aye, but mayhap Lady Ascot does not," Amaury pointed out.
"Mayhap you are right," Blake murmured thoughtfully. "Lady Ascot is a bully, and I do not think Emma would take to that very well. She has too much pride and temper to allow herself to be mistreated. Look how she handled Fulk's neglect. She put up with it for only so long, then took her complaint to the king. Nay, Lady Ascot most likely would not wish to have her about."
Amaury nodded his agreement to that, but his concentration was on the one sentence. She has too much pride and temper to allow herself to be mistreated. Aye, she did, and he very much feared he had roused both of those traits with his foolish accusation.
Chapter 11
COOK and his helpers swear that the only people in the kitchen yesterday afternoon besides Lady Emma were two of the tailor's women."
Blake glanced at Little George sharply at that news. "Two of de Lascey's women?"
Amaury's first nodded grimly.
"Damn!" Lifting his sword over his head, Blake slammed it into the post he had been practicing at when Amaury's first had approached him. "Which two?"
"The young one with yellow hair and the one Sebert is sweet on."
Tugging his sword free, Blake considered that as he swung his blade into the post again. "Were either of them near Amaury's tankard or Emma's potion?"
"He cannot recall if the yellow-haired one was, but Sebert's sweetheart was talking to Lady Emma while she was making her potion."
Blake's expression thinned at that. "Have you told Amaury this?"
"Nay, he was still above stairs when I . . . Sweet Saint Simeon," Little George breathed the words in dismay.
Leaving his sword in the post, Blake turned to peer about at those muttered words. A laugh immediately launched itself upward from his gullet when he followed the other man's gaze to see Amaury approaching. It seemed the tailor had finished some of his new outfits. Amaury's ragged hose and braies had been traded in for a fine new pair. His worn old tunic had been replaced by a spanking new doublet of forest green with sleeves so long they trailed on the ground. And on his head was a turban-style hat with an overlarge plume that stuck out and waved in the wind as he approached. But that wasn't what made Blake want to laugh. It was the way his friend was walking. Amaury was stomping toward them, lifting each leg high in the air and slamming it down in an exaggerated march. Disgust was clear on his face as he cursed, muttered, and snorted his way across the bailey.
"Good morrow, friend," Blake murmured as Amaury reached them.
Little George went to the heart of the matter. "I see you have decided to don some of your new finery."
"Aye," Amaury snarled in disgust. "Have you ever seen such frippery?"
Little George chose diplomatic silence, leaving it up to Blake to tell the lie. " 'Tis fine. Finer than fine. You look most lordly in the new doublet."
"Lordly? My sleeves drag on the ground like a lady's gown. And just look you at this hat," he complained. Rolling his eyes upward, he grabbed at the foolish looking feather, giving it a disgusted flick with his hand. Then he glared down at his feet. "And see you these crakows?"
"I have been trying not to," Blake admitted wryly, glancing down at his friend's feet once more. He was unable to hold back his laughter any longer, and a small burst of it exploded from his chest before he caught his friend's de
jected look and controlled himself enough to force the lie. " 'Tis not so bad."
" 'Tis not so bad?!" Amaury glared at him. "The toes are so long they near reach my thighs!"
"Well, nay, not that long," Little George said honestly. In truth the turned-up toes of the jester-like shoes reached only to his knees where they were held by gold chains.
Blake frowned over the sight and shook his head. "Could you not have him make another pair? Shorter mayhap?"
Amaury sighed his misery. " 'Tis the latest fashion at court."
"Aye, but--"
"I'll not embarrass Emma by looking odd at court."
Little George shrugged. "If you ask me, you'll look most odd indeed slapping around like you've two fish tied to the bottoms of your feet."
"I know," Amaury moaned. "What am I to do?" Blake scratched his head. "I would have the popinjay take the shoes in a bit. And the sleeves. And mayhap try a different style of hat."
Biting his lip, Amaury frowned miserably down at his feet.
Deciding a change of subject might be helpful, Blake stuck his blade back in its scabbard and asked, "Did you set things to right with Emma?"
"What? Oh, nay." Propping his hands on his hips, he glared blindly at the activity in the bailey. "She would not speak with me. She is in the bedchamber with the door barred."
Blake and Little George both nodded. They, along with most of the castle occupants, had stayed in the Great Hall for quite a while listening to him blustering above stairs to his wife, demanding she listen to his apology and forgive him. Blake had considered going up and giving him some advice on how to deal with the situation, but while he knew bellowing at her through the door would not work, he was not sure what would, and had stayed out of it.
"What will you do?" Little George asked now, gaining a scowl for his trouble.
"I am doing it."
When both men merely stared at him blankly, he gestured impatiently to his attire. "I am wearing these. She wished me to wear fine fashionable clothes and I am wearing them." He glanced down at himself with distaste, then sighed and asked, "Think you she will be pleased?"
Blake shook his head. "I fear 'twill take a bit more than donning your new finery to make her forget you accused her of trying to kill you."
Amaury grimaced. " 'Twas stupid of me. I must have misplaced my faculties in that moment to even consider such a thing. My wee wife trying to kill me? Nay. 'Twas the height of foolishness. Bertrand is behind all this. Or more likely his mother. Now there is a she wolf if ever I saw one. Not like Emma." He sighed her name, his expression softening. "She is far too gentle for such base behavior. I have never met a more kindhearted woman. Why, I doubt she could bring herself to swat a fly. She--" Amaury's dissertation on the softer qualities of his wife came to an abrupt end when a hissing whoosh of air sounded just above his ear. It was followed by a sensation of sudden coolness that made him reach up to feel that his hat was missing.