had met Lady Emma before, albeit briefly, but he knew her by repute.
It was not lost on him that she had not used her title, nor that she had chosen to ignore him yesterday by the river. As he recalled, despite her Norman mother, Emma of Fulford had been singularly unhelpful in the days immediately following the Conquest. For that reason alone Richard was disinclined to like her, never mind that she had obviously divined that he had an assignation in the stables, and was currently trying to look down her little nose at him. He bit back a laugh. Since the woman only reached his shoulder, looking down her nose at him was, of course, impossible.
But, by St Denis, the years had changed her. Emma of Fulford’s clothes were little better than a beggar’s. Gone was the finery she had once worn to flounce around her father’s mead-hall. Gone were the thane’s arm-rings she had called her own. Briefly, Richard wondered what she had done with them. They had been jingling on her wrists the day he had met her, barbaric Saxon bangles with the soft gleam of gold. When had that been—three years ago, more? He couldn’t recall. Had she lost the arm-rings, or sold them?
She always had been a stupid wench. Why else would she have run off with that Saxon hothead? The whole of Wessex knew they had been lovers, and for her, a noblewoman, to have taken a man out of wedlock—it was almost unheard of. She was lucky not to have had a child.
As Richard looked at her, his gut tightened and for a moment he thought he saw pleading in those large, dark-lashed eyes. But, no, he must have been mistaken. Her nose lifted, her lips firmed.
‘Sir Richard.’ She inclined her head, eyes flickering briefly, haughtily, to his naked chest. He could almost see her thoughts—why was he, a knight, grooming his horse? What would she say, Richard wondered, if she knew he was soon to be Count of Beaumont?
More was coming back to him. In the winter of 1066, hadn’t Emma of Fulford been persuaded to abandon her rebel lover on Beacon Hill? Richard hadn’t liked her haughtiness then and he didn’t like it today. Striding past her, he went to the water trough, sluiced himself down and dragged on his shirt. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself that this was Cecily’s sister, and that she had been brought up as a thane’s daughter. A laundry maid! He wouldn’t mind betting that her status as a fallen woman meant she was shunned by half the town. What was that Saxon word for nothing—nithing? Did the people consider her nithing? Whatever her past mistakes, this woman deserved better. There was breeding and beauty there, and, of course, she spoke fluent French.
‘You need my help?’ he asked, reverting with relief to that language.
‘I…Yes, please. My sister, Cecily—she married your friend Sir Adam—’
‘I know who your sister is.’ The woman before him was perhaps an inch or so taller than Lady Cecily, but she was not tall. Richard seemed to remember that her figure had been fuller when he had met her, but it was hard to judge it today, hidden as it was beneath that hideous gown. Her waist seemed slim. He found himself recalling the daintiness of her feet and the exact curve of her calves. He hoped Frida was half as attractive.
‘Yes, of course. Well, I do remember Cecily mentioning you were a good friend—’
To Richard’s horror, her voice broke. Abruptly she turned her head. ‘I…That is…Oh, Lord…’ She blinked rapidly, but not before Richard had seen her eyes glaze with the swift shine of tears. When she looked up a moment later, she had herself in hand. ‘I would like to work here in the castle. I thought—since you know my family—you might be able to put me in touch with the castle steward, and perhaps…perhaps a recommendation…’ Her voice trailed off.
Richard could tell by the set of her lips that she loathed asking this favour of him. Emma of Fulford might have been stripped of her finery, she might have lost her reputation, but she had kept her pride. ‘Work? You mean washing linen?’
The nose inched up. ‘Yes, I…I have experience. I have been working at the wash-house. But I would prefer to work in the castle. Clothes, household linens, fine silks…anything. I know how to handle the most delicate imported fabrics. Nothing will be damaged. I am also a competent seamstress.’
How the mighty had fallen. It was hard not to smile, but Richard managed it. Something in her proud posture touched him. Let her keep what dignity she had left. ‘There are competent seamstresses aplenty here.’ He rubbed his chin while he thought. Lady Emma might have been foolish in the past, but this was Adam’s sister-by-marriage, and he wanted to help.
‘I see.’ Emma of Fulford’s shoulders slumped; she began to turn away. ‘I…I thank you for your time, sir.’
Richard took her arm gently. ‘Don’t be so hasty, I have not said I will not help you, merely that we have no need of seamstresses.’
The arm beneath the cloth was slighter than he had expected, fine-boned. It crossed his mind that she might not be eating enough. Releasing her, Richard knew a moment’s confusion. Sir Adam Wymark had married this woman’s sister. Adam was the best of comrades and amenable to Cecily’s every wish, so why had Emma not been given houseroom at Fulford?
He opened his mouth to ask before it occurred to him that the less involvement he had with this woman, the better. He would be leaving soon. And while he did not know much about her, what he did know told him that she was—complicated. Richard already had more complexities than he could cope with. But there was something in her manner and person than held his admiration. Add to that the loyalty he felt for Adam and Cecily and he had to help her.
‘Geoffrey will make an appointment for you to meet our steward. Geoffrey?’
‘Sir?’
‘See to it.’
‘Is she to work in the laundry here?’
Richard shook his head. ‘I think not. Lady Emma needs something more suitable to her station, you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, take her to the steward, and if he has nothing for her, let her make enquiries in the ladies’ solar. In the meantime, pass me my tunic, would you?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Emma of Fulford said, bowing her head. Geoffrey handed Richard his tunic and he dragged it on. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, curtsying gracefully.
Richard was buckling on his belt when a movement across the yard caught his eye. A smiling woman waved and started making her way slowly towards them, hips swaying as she walked. This must be Frida from the Staple.
Frida was wearing a tight-laced yellow gown that emphasised her generous curves. The deep slash in the front revealed more than a hint of bosom, and the full skirts frothed about her ankles. Yellow suited her and that undulating walk was calculated to draw the gaze of every man in the bailey. Frida’s walk had the power to halt the tocking of the masons’ chisels. It even reached the cookhouse—through the open door came a clang as someone dropped a pot.
Richard grinned and wished that he had shaved. This was the sort of woman for him. His relationship with Frida would be uncomplicated, a brief business affair unencumbered by guilt or messy emotion.
Emma of Fulford had seen Frida and with a slight tinge to her cheeks was edging away. ‘Your…lady…is here, I see.’
Face flushing for no reason that Richard could point to, he cleared his throat. Frida was a whore as everyone knew, but she was said to be a faithful whore who kept to one lover at a time.
