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.