“I’ll take her to the young lord instead then,” decided the first guard.
“Won’t be interested in wenches neither,” said the second man. “Just wed, and part burned alive he is, poor bugger.”
Emeline was struggling, but now surrounded by six armed guards, two of whom had a good hold on her, she pleaded, “Then please let me go, for I’ve done nothing, and I promise not to come back.”
“Can’t,” insisted the first guard. “Mayhaps you was lighting fires. Mayhaps you lit that first one. Mayhaps you’ve silver up your shift. I ain’t takin’ no risks.” And he began to march her back over the drawbridge towards the castle’s western wing.
It started snowing again.
There were four people in Nicholas’s chamber. They all looked up in considerable surprise as Emeline entered, a guard either side. Nicholas was sitting propped up in bed, a swathe of pillows behind him. Two chairs had been drawn to the bedside, and a girl wrapped in a velvet pelisse sat in one. The other was empty but a young man stood by the hearth, his elbow to the lintel and his foot to the grate. A page knelt at his feet, building up the fire, and two panting hounds lay on the turkey rug, basking in the flames’ reflections.
“Caught running,” explained the principal guard in a faintly apologetic voice. “Not sure wot to do wiv her, my lord, being as how there’s still stuff to steal in the Keep, and damage to be done. But we didn’t want to examine the wench wivout your permission, sir. Though looks mighty suspicious, she do, in all that mess and dirt, and no shoes and no hat.”
Emeline stood very still and looked at no one. She stared down at her toes, and noticed how they had painted little black patterns across the polished floorboards. She could not hug her arms around herself since they were both clasped very tightly by the men who had brought her, and she knew that her now filthy bedrobe had fallen a little open, revealing an equally filthy shift and the vague outline of her body through the fine linen. Her hair, thick with dust and other filth, hung improperly loose and bedraggled across her shoulders and down her back, and she was sure her face was besmirched, but she could not free a hand to wipe across her cheeks. Since she had previously been crying, she also supposed that the dirt on her face would be striped into sooty streaks, and she could even taste ashes on her tongue. She did not blush, for the horrible shame she felt had turned her to ice, and beneath the filth she was as white as the snow now falling steadily outside. She refused to raise her eyes.
The guards pushed her forwards a little, presenting her shame to their lord.
“A beggar, a thief and a maker of fires, if you asks me, my lord,” continued the guard. “I’ve never seen a trollop so deep in sin.”
“She does look rather dishevelled,” agreed Nicholas with a delighted smile. “But you can leave her with me, thank you, Rumbiss.” He turned to his guests. “So, my dear cousins. Let me introduce you to my wife.”
Chapter Eight
“I am laughed at and mocked by Nicholas,” Emeline said, low voiced. “who has no consideration for my feelings whatsoever or even for my pride, which you’d think would reflect on his own. I’m stared at by his two cousins as if I’m an interesting but rather unattractive beetle for whom they feel some pity. Papa simply shouts at me, Avice just giggles, and the castle servants grab at me, thinking me a thief. So, Maman, what will you do?”
“Bundle you into the bath tub as quickly as possible,” said her mother, hands on hips. “Honestly Emma, why do you insist on being so bothersome? Your Papa is furious, and he has every right to be. He believes you are bringing shame on us all.”
Emeline sniffed, and said, “I don’t care, Maman. I don’t care what all these horrid people think. The earl is a beast and his son is just a liar – and a horrid mean pig.”
“I have ordered the tub set up in here in front of the fire,” said her mother firmly, “and old Martha will help you wash your hair. I shall see to it that you have some of your old clothes to dress in afterwards, which is a shame, but all the precious new gowns and shifts were burned. All that remains are your old things left in my own trunks. You may have to borrow something of your sister’s, and then I shall escort you to your husband’s chamber. You will apologise to him for your recent absurd behaviour, and whatever he orders you to do after that, you will obey.”
“He doesn’t want me,” said Emeline, going pink. “Except to laugh at.”
“Consider yourself exceedingly lucky that he only laughs instead of beating you raw, my girl.” The baroness remained standing, looking down on her daughter’s soot blackened curls. “The poor man must wonder what sort of imbecile he has wed. At least he did see you beautifully gowned at the chapel.”
“And I don’t want him,” Emeline mumbled. “So I shall come home with you and Avice on Monday, and just do my best to avoid Papa.”
“Too late,” announced the baroness, “your husband insists you remain at the castle. So he does want you. What he wants you for is another matter of course.”
They were interrupted by the troop of scullions who set up the linen lined barrel beside the hearth, and the stable boys carrying buckets of steaming water. So the bath was filled and the steam rose to the ceiling beams where it formed small drops of watery condensation along the painted rafters, and turned the entire chamber into a moist and clammy dungeon of mesmerising mist. Emeline sat, refused to watch and stared out of the window, even though the small panes were immediately fogged and completely opaque. The baroness bustled off to arrange the appeasement of her own husband and new clothes for her daughter, while the family’s ancient nurse loomed over the proceedings, sponge and soap in hand. There was at least the consolation of good Spanish soap perfumed with flowers and herbs, water which was truly hot and strewn with dried lavender and whole cloves of spice, and Nurse Martha held a real sea sponge and not simply a wet drab of cloth. This was a castle of lavishly wasted luxury, clearly quite opposed to the abstemious strictures of the Baron Wrotham’s household.
“Well now, my sweetest mammet,” Martha held out both arms, “I will scrub you soft and pink all over and dust you with pounded cinnamon. Come to me, my duckling and I will sing as I scour.”
The shift and bedrobe were discarded and Emeline hopped into the scalding water, sank deep, and allowed the tingle to release all the chill and the tension from her body. The warmth absorbed her, and she closed her eyes. Her nurse wielded the huge scrunched sponge, but Emeline kept her eyes shut. This heat, unlike that which had ripped the flesh from her cheekbones and chin, and which had turned the ends of her hair into tight singed tousles, was soothing and lapped her in comfort. Steamy ripples pressed against her breasts, turning her nipples soft. She sighed in pleasure.
It was dark outside now, and the shutters had been lifted into place. The chamber was enclosed by steam, and the candles and wax tapers hissed and spat, objecting to the condensation. The room was well lit, another luxury. The cost of upkeep must be enormous. Emeline decided Nicholas might well need her money in time. If she stayed.
She had missed supper, being in no fit state to present herself at the dining table and knowing that apart from the earl himself, there would be the guests. Two cousins, who, although they had been present at the wedding, remained strangers. Peter had spoken of both in the past, kindly of the girl, less so of the man. The next day Emeline expected to face them again, but for tonight she hoped to be left in peace. Apart, perhaps, from apologising to her husband though only if she was forced to it. He would be dining in his chamber, again forbidden by the doctors to leave his bed.