"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.