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  "Aye." Emma nodded. "Perchance he was still a bit tipsy from the night before? What ever the case, he wiped the blood on the sheets. I was about to get him a cloth, for I knew the blood would surely ruin the sheets, but then there was a knock on the door."

  "And who was at the door?" the king asked in a world-weary voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

  " 'Twas my father, Father Gumpter, and Lord Fulk's cousin, Bertrand."

  "What did they do?"

  Emma shrugged. "They simply wished us good morrow. Oh, then my father saw the sheets and ordered them taken away and hung above the hall. I think he thought that airing them would save the stain from setting, but of course it did not work. My lord, why are you shaking your head? Have I angered you?"

  "Nay, my lady," the king said grimly before turning to his cleric. Unfortunately, he was otherwise engaged in ogling Emma at that moment. It seemed by his suggestive leer and the way he was waggling his eyebrows at her that he found her husband's neglect not the least bit detrimental to her attractiveness. In fact, Emma was getting the distinct impression that he would be most willing to offer himself up as sacrifice in place of her husband "to pick the ripe fruit."

  All of his posturing and posing disappeared like smoke in the wind when the king snapped his name sharply.

  "Aye, my lord." The cleric's head dropped at once to the book he held, his hand at the ready to write.

  "Send a message to the effect that His Majesty the King desires Lord Fulk to see to his . . . er . . ."

  "Conjugal duties," the archbishop murmured.

  "Aye, conjugal duties, else . . ." He hesitated, seemingly at a loss.

  "If I might suggest," Emma murmured, and the king turned to her hopefully. "You might fine him . . . oh . . . say . . . sixty sheep? His lordship is quite fond of sheep. At least there are hundreds of them around the castle. Though we have yet to have any served up to dinner," she added with a perplexed frown.

  "A hundred sheep!" the king snapped. "Nay, every last blasted one of them will be taken should he not attend his wife forthwith."

  Emma beamed at the man, relief adding to her gratitude. "Oh, thank you, my lord. I will name our first child after you," she announced, grabbing his hand and kissing it swiftly. A glance at the archbishop as she did showed him looking alarmed and shaking his head feverishly. Flushing again, Emma released the king's hand at once and dropped into a deep curtsy.

  "Aye, well . . ." King Richard cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. "That's very . . . nice, Lady Emmalene. Now, if we have dealt with everything?"

  "Aye, Your Majesty. That was all." Emma said at once, glancing up from her curtsy.

  "Very good." He gestured toward the men by the door, and Emma glanced back to see them opening the doors for her exit.

  Biting her lip, she hesitated as the picture of the steward backing out in a bow came to mind.

  "My lady?"

  Emma took in the king's raised eyebrows and sighed. Forcing a smile, she began to scoot backward still in a curtsy. It was a very awkward move to perform. Much more awkward than a backingout bow, she was sure. Emma was rather proud of how well she was succeeding, when she managed to get halfway to the door before stumbling, and that was just a small stutter in her step.

  "My lady!"

  Emma paused and glanced up at the alarm in the voice. The king looked torn between dismay and laughter, the cleric looked flabbergasted, and the archbishop was definitely amused. Coughing suspiciously into his hand, the prelate gestured for her to get up.

  Flushing, Emma straightened slowly, hesitated, then bowed as the steward had done and backed out of the room so that she was facing the doors as they closed.

  Chapter 1

  DAMN ye, Alden! Go give your ears a shake! Did I not say my green tunic?!"

  "A-aye, my lord." Alden cringed and took a nervous step backward.

  Dressed only in hose and braies, his wide chest bare, Lord Amaury de Aneford looked just as fearsome as he did in full battle dress. Especially now in the foul temper he was in.

  Alden had only been with the warrior for a matter of two weeks. Despite this short length of time, he did not think his lord's present mood was natural. At least not to de Aneford. He based his judgment on the reactions of the other soldiers and the exasperated amusement Lord Blake had been showing over the man's behavior. Alden wasn't exactly sure what had brought about the man's displeasure, but knew it had something to do with the king's message. A courier had brought it to Amaury as he had been concluding his business with Lord Chesterford the day before. The warrior had paled as he had read the missive, then crumpled it into a ball, tossed it into the fire, and stormed out of the keep bellowing for his horse to be saddled. Seconds later he had cancelled the order, stormed back indoors, and proceeded to get drunk.

  He had been behaving thusly ever since. Storming and rushing about, then pausing to get drunk and dally. His antics were beyond Alden's young comprehension, and made him terribly anxious in the man's presence.

  The slap of material against his face as the tunic was tossed back at him in disgust drew Alden out of his thoughts and sent him stepping backward to trip over a boulder. Scrambling quickly back to his feet, he began sidling away. "I-I will f-fetch the g-green one, my lord. Forthwith."

  Amaury watched his squire go with narrowed eyes, then turned back to peer at the cold lake he had just left.

  "You should not vent your anger on the boy."

  Amaury glanced over his shoulder at those laughing words, his displeasure obvious as he eyed his friend. "He is a clodpole."

  "He is afraid of you," Blake countered, smiling easily as he clapped his friend on one bare shoulder. "He will be less clumsy once he is more confident."

  Amaury grimaced at that. "He will ne'er become more confident."

  "Not if you continue to take your anger out on him."

  The warrior frowned over that but remained silent, his gaze returning to the placid lake.

  Blake followed his gaze, then sighed. "Refuse to marry her," he suggested for the hundredth time since this trip had begun.

  Amaury snorted at that, just as he had every time the suggestion had been made. "And give up the opportunity to be lord of mine own estate?"

  Blake smiled slightly and shook his head. "Fine. Then marry the wench, but if it is what you want, why be so surly with everyone about you?"

  " 'Tis not what I want," Amaury countered at once. "It is what must be done to get what I want. Who in his right mind would wish to be married to an ugly old hag?"

  "You have not even met her yet," Blake protested at once, and Amaury turned on him in disbelief.

  "Are you not the one who told me that she had to petition the king to get her husband to sleep with her?"

  "Aye, that is the gossip at court, but no one knows what she looks like save the king, and he refuses to discuss it. 'Sides, her husband died on the way home to perform his . . . er duty."

  " 'Twas probably suicide," Amaury muttered grimly.

  Blake hid a smile at that. "Then refuse to--"

  "Nay!" Amaury turned on him, frowning. "You know I cannot." He sighed unhappily. "It may be my only chance to gain a home."

  Blake nodded solemnly, then glanced to the side as Alden returned, a green tunic in hand. Smiling slightly at the boy, he strode forward and relieved him of the item. "That will be all, Alden. Mayhap you could have your lord's horse prepared. We ride shortly."

  "Aye, my lord. Thank ye, my lord." Relief shone on the boy's face as he turned and charged back to camp.

  It had only been midday when they had stopped the night before, a mere hour's ride from Eberhart Castle. Amaury had used the excuse of wishing to clean up from the trip before presenting himself to his new bride for the delay, but after making camp he had promptly set about getting dead drunk. For the first time since Blake had known the man, he had had to be carried back to his tent. Then he had woken late this morning and dallied as long as possible about his breakfast and bath. Now it was noonday again and he had yet to complete his dress.

  No doubt he would insist on pausing for lunch before leaving as another stall tactic, Blake thought as he returned to his morose friend and held the tunic out.

  "Thank you." Amaury accepted the tunic and shrugged into it quickly before walking to the rock where he had left his sword and vestments. "Mayhap we should have lunch ere we go on," he suggested with a frown as he belted the tunic. At Blake's burst of laughter, he turned to him with a frown. "What?"

  "Lord Rolfe!" Sebert hurried down the steps of the keep as he recognized the fair-haired man dismounting at the front of the party baring the king's colors.

  "Sebert!" Rolfe tossed his reigns to one of his men and clapped the steward on the back in greeting. "How do you?"

  "Fine, my lord. And all is well with you, I hope?" he responded, his gaze moving curiously over the bishop and the king's guard that had accompanied him.

  "Fine. Where is Em?"

  "In the kitchens, my lord."

  Nodding, Rolfe gestured toward the mounted men behind him. "See to the bishop's comfort, please, Sebert. I'll find my cousin."

  Nodding, Sebert turned away as Rolfe continued up the steps and into the keep.

  The heat that met him when Rolfe reached the door to the kitchens and pushed it open was enough to make him pause. It seemed to roll at him in waves. Swell after swell of the damp heat surged over him. It came from the pots by the fire. Three of them. Each big enough to boil a full pig in. Frowning, he squinted through the steam at the darkly garbed figures near the cauldrons, fancying for a moment that he had stepped into a witch's dwelling . . . then he recognized his cousin. She was the tiniest figure in the room. Had it not been for her voluptuous figure, Rolfe would have thought her a child as she carried her small stool from one pot to the next, set it down, then stepped up onto it to peer down into the cauldron.

  A much larger woman stood by with an air of forbearance as Emma gave the pot a stir before moving on to check the next one. Expression exasperated, Rolfe stepped into the room and let the kitchen door swing shut behind him.

  Emma never had been able to keep her nose out of the servants' business. He blamed it on her husband and her father before him. Cedric Kenwick had allowed his only daughter free run of the castle as a child . . . and Fulk, Emma's husband, had never bothered to stay around long enough to notice her, let alone bother about what she did.

  Shaking his head, he moved up behind his cousin to tap her on the shoulder. A mistake. She was bent over the pot at the time. His touch startled her enough that she nearly tumbled into the vessel of boiling liquid. Catching her by the waist, he drew her back in the nick of time and sighed. "Em, can you not leave this to your servants?"

  "Rolfe!" The petite blonde squealed and turned to throw herself into his arms as she recognized his voice. Then, remembering that she was in mourning, she stepped back and presented a suitably solemn demeanor. "How do you?" she asked more sedately.

  "I am boiling to death, if you must know," he told her dryly, taking her arm. "Let us go into the next room and speak."

  "Oh, nay, Rolfe! I cannot. I must see to the last of the blacking."

  "The last of the . . ." His gaze shot to the pots, missing her proud nod.

  "Every piece of cloth in the castle has been blackened," she informed him, moving back to the pots.

  "Every piece?" Rolfe let his gaze drop down over his cousin's black gown. He recognized it at once as the one she had worn to her audience with the king. However, then it had been a pale blue. Suddenly recalling the somber weeds Sebert had been wearing on greeting him, Rolfe glanced instinctively toward the laundress, noticing only then that she too was adorned in black. It seemed his cousin thought the entire population of the castle should mourn Fulk's death.

  "Aye. This is the last of it." She turned to stir the pot she had nearly fallen into. "The bed linens."

  He goggled at that. "The bed linens? You even blackened the bed linens?"

  Emma frowned over her shoulder at the disbelief in his voice. "We are in mourning, Rolfe. My husband died this last week."

  "Aye, but . . . Faith, Em! You hardly even knew him! Good Lord, from all accounts, he hardly spent a week here if you put all the days together of the last year."

  "Aye," she said unhappily.

  "Surely you did not love him?"

  She frowned at the question. "Of course I loved him, he was my husband. 'Twas my duty to love him."

  "But . . ." He shook his head as he realized he was being distracted and took her arm once more, pulling her away from the pot. "I must speak with you. This is important, Em."

  "So is this, Rolfe. I am in mourning now. I must show the proper respect."

  "Aye, but this is important."

  "Well, then talk to me here."

  Rolfe opened his mouth to argue, then shrugged. There was no sense fighting with Em when she got the determined set about her shoulders that she was showing just now. Besides, once he informed her of the reason for his visit, he would no doubt be able to get her out of the kitchen.

  "I bring greetings from the king," he began staunchly, pausing when she whirled around again, excitement on her face once more.

  "Really? Is that not exciting? It means he remembers me."

  "Aye, well, I doubt he shall ever forget you," Rolfe commented dryly. "At any rate, he sends his greetings, his best wishes, and an order for you to be married."

  "What?" She gaped at him briefly. "Married? Again? But my husband was just buried."

  Rolfe considered her displeased expression, and decided the bishop really should be allowed in on this chore. Taking her arm determinedly, he steered her away from the pots and their heat. "Come. Bishop Wykeham accompanied me and is no doubt waiting impatiently in the hall."

  "Bishop Wykeham is here as well?" Emma smiled with pleasure. She had met the Bishop a time or two and liked him. He was a kind and gentle soul who had managed to remain so despite his time at court as Lord Chancellor. It was her opinion that the church had lost a good man when he had retired.

  "Aye." Rolfe looked uncomfortable. "He accompanied me here for this business of your remarriage."

  "And we have left him alone all this time? Fie, Rolfe! You should have told me he was here," she chided, handing the stick she held to the laundress.

  Rolfe smiled slightly as he watched her attempt to brush the wrinkles out of her slightly damp skirt and pat ineffectually at her hair. It was a wasted effort. Several strands of the golden glory had slid out of the chignon they had been placed in, and the heat and steam had managed to turn them into frizzy little ringlets about her face. In his opinion, the gossamer curls resembled a halo about her face and added to her charm, but then he supposed he was biased. He loved her dearly.

  "Come," Emma said now with a sigh as she realized her appearance was beyond repair. "We cannot leave the bishop unattended so long. 'Twould be rude." Turning to lead Rolfe through the room, she asked over her shoulder, "Who does the king wish me to marry?"

  "His name is Amaury de Aneford," Rolfe muttered, stepping around a pile of already dyed linens on the floor.

  "Amaury de Aneford?" Emma paused at the door and repeated the name thoughtfully. "I have never heard the name, but then I fear I do not hear much news out here. We are quite out of the way of society."

  "He has been newly lorded. He was a knight. His majesty titled him out of gratitude for saving him from assassins during the expedition in Ireland."

  "He saved the king's life?" Emma peered up at him wide-eyed.

  "Aye."

  "Oh." Turning, she pushed through the door into the hall. "He must be a great warrior. Is that not nice?"

  Rolfe rolled his eyes at her statement and followed her into the hall.

  "My Lord Bishop." Emma held out her hands as she moved to welcome the man who stood patiently by the mantel. "How nice to see you. And how kind of you to come all this way simply to help my cousin tell me I am to be remarried."

  The bishop's eyebrows rose at that. "But my Lady, I am not here to inform you of your marriage. I am here to preside at it."

  Emma blinked at him. "Preside at it?" She turned to glance at her cousin with a frown. "But . . . That cannot be so. I am newly widowed."

  There was silence for a moment as the two men exchanged glances; then the bishop cleared his throat. "His Majesty is aware of the timing being poor, my lady, but he wishes that this marriage occur. Immediately."

  Emma looked taken aback. "Well . . . that is simply not possible. Surely you misunderstood him. I have not been widowed even a sennight."

  The bishop glanced at Rolfe, who threw him a warning look and stepped forward to say, "Aye, but Emma, he feels since you are so desirous of having children, you would wish to remarry . . . soon."

  Emma bit her lip as she considered that. She was aging swiftly. Goodness, she was already two and twenty. Truth to tell, she had nearly reached the end of her childbearing years. "Aye, mayhap due to my age we might shorten the mourning period," she murmured uncertainly.

  Rolfe and the bishop looked relieved.

  "Aye," she decided with a nod. "Certainly we can shorten it. Three months should be acceptable under the circumstances. Do you not think?" She glanced at the men questioningly to see that the bishop was staring at her cousin wide-eyed.

  Rolfe shifted uncomfortably, then sighed. "Emma, you do not comprehend. You are to be married as soon as de Aneford gets here."

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "When is that to be?"

  Rolfe shifted on his feet, then sighed. "Today. We hope."

  "Today?" Her eyes widened. "But . . . That is not proper. And . . . and I have nothing to wear."

  The bishop turned to share an amused smile with Rolfe, thinking this the usual woman's cry, but his eyebrows rose in question when he saw the frown on that man's face.

  "They just finished blacking everything," Rolfe explained.

  "Well surely there is something?" He paused at the younger man's expression.

  "Did you not notice that even the servants are in black?" Rolfe asked dryly.

  The bishop glanced around the empty room at that. Truthfully, he had not noticed. He supposed he had been wrapped up in his own thoughts. Frowning now, he walked to the door of the keep and tugged it open to peer out at the bailey. His jaw dropped when he saw that every man, woman, and child was running about in black clothing. Slamming the door, he turned back to peer at Rolfe in mingled bewilderment and irritation.

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