"Oh, aye." Turning abruptly, he stepped back up to the table and dropped onto the seat beside his wife, careful to avoid dunking his sleeve this time as he faced her. "I believed you had done the poisoning due to the fact that you were forever sneaking those potions into my ale."
Emma's amusement fled. "Those potions were for your health."
"Aye," he agreed soothingly at once. "And 'tis sure I am the dogs have not been healthier . . . until they died, of course." Amaury shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping. Then it suddenly flew up again, brightening as he thought to add, "And they did aid my health, wife. Think on it. Had you not been sneaking those potions into my drink since my head injury, I would not have been dumping my ale in the dogs' bowl and might have been the one to die last night of poison."
Emma opened her mouth on an angry retort, then paused and blinked. "Would not have been dumping . . . How long have you been dumping your ale out in the dogs' dish?"
"Since the first night I was up from my sickbed," Amaury admitted after a hesitation, bracing himself for her anger. Instead of anger, Emma looked completely bemused.
"Then 'twas not the damiana that brought you to my bed?"
Amaury frowned over her faintly spoken words. "What? Damiana?"
A commotion drew his gaze toward the stairs, and he sighed impatiently as he saw that Little George was returning with de Lascey and his people. "We shall finish this discussion later," he announced, getting to his feet to face the group as they approached.
Catching the coldness in his voice, Emma glanced at him curiously, then at the people moving toward them. She stood slowly. "What is occurring, my lord?"
Amaury glanced at her warily. His wife did not appear angry any more, simply concerned, so he allowed himself to relax somewhat. "Little George questioned the cook and his helpers about anyone being near my tankard, and learned that two of de Lascey's women were the only ones in the kitchen besides yourself yesterday before sup."
Emma nodded at that. "Gytha and Sylvie. Gytha came in to fetch a beverage and spoke to me while I made the potion, and Sylvie was entering the kitchen as I left." She peered up at him. "Surely you do not suspect either of them?"
Amaury grimaced. "I only wish to question them, wife. 'Tis the only clue we have so far." He frowned as he glanced over the seamstresses. "There are only five here. Which one is missing?"
"Sylvie," Emma admitted reluctantly. Sylvie was the youn gest of the seamstresses, a mere slip of a girl, not yet sixteen. Emma could not imagine the girl poisoning anyone, and feared her absence would make him judge her harshly.
Little George led the group to stand before them, then stepped aside. Amaury glared over them, his gaze going over each face. The women looked confused and anxious, but nothing more. De Lascey was doing his best to cower behind the women without appearing to. "Where is the one called Sylvie?"
There was a moment of silence as the women glanced at each other; then de Lascey stepped forward long enough to say, "I zent her to zee kitchens to get me zome vine." Then he stepped quickly back behind the women again.
Amaury turned a glance to Little George at that, but he needn't have bothered. His first was already moving toward the kitchen door.
A moment later he was back with the news that she had been and gone, and was supposed to have returned above stairs. A nod from Amaury then sent the man sprinting up the stairs to seek out the missing girl.
"Might I ask what ees 'appening, my lord?"
Emma's surprise showed when the tailor found the nerve to step out from behind his women long enough to ask that question. Amaury merely seemed annoyed. He glared at the man, then continued his slow study of each of their faces as he awaited his first's return. He wanted to see if anyone betrayed guilt by expression. All of these people were strangers to the castle and therefore any of them could have been the guilty party.
Emma nearly sighed in relief when Little George finally hurried down the stairs. The tension in the Great Hall was unbearable. That relief turned to concern, however, when he whispered something in her husband's ear that made Amaury take her arm and lead her toward the stairs.
"What is it, husband?"
"Little George found the wench." He paused at the top of the stairs and turned to her to add grimly, "She is dead. It appears to be poison. I wish to know if 'twas the same poison that killed the dogs."
Emma nodded her understanding. He wished her to view the body and look for the same signs she had found on the dogs.
"Thank you," Amaury murmured, then led her down the hall to the room de Lascey had chosen to store the fabric in. It was crowded with bolts of fabric stacked haphazardly in any space not taken up by the two makeshift, blanket-covered straw beds on the floor and the large draped bed in the center of it all.
It was the large bed where the girl in the plain homespun dress was. She was draped across the bottom of it on her back, an empty vial clutched in one hand. Her legs hung off the edge as if she had sat down to rest. She had never gotten back up. In this last sleep Sylvie appeared even younger than she had in life.
Sadness welling up inside her at this waste, Emma moved to sit carefully beside the reed-thin body and bent to peer on her eyes and mouth. She then lifted the hand holding the vial, peered at her nails, then took the vial and gave a sniff.
" 'Tis the same?"
"Aye."
Amaury grunted. "Bring me de Lascey and his women."
Emma sat staring at the dead girl, wondering what had brought her to this pass in her life, then glanced to the door as the rustle of clothing and several small gasps announced the arrival of de Lascey and his women. Straightening her shoulders, she stood and moved to her husband's side.
"What i
s zis?" De Lascey peered at his seamstress in dismay.
"She is dead," Amaury announced grimly. Then, before they could quite accept that, he asked, "How long has she been in your employ?"
"I hired her just before coming here." He looked truly taken aback by these events . . . as his missing accent suggested.
"How did that come about?"
De Lascey shook his head. "One of my other women did not appear on the day we were to leave. Sylvie arrived at the door just as we were about to depart. She claimed she was accomplished at sewing. It seemed a blessing."
Amaury grimaced at his choice of words. De Lascey's blessing had very nearly been his own funeral. "Where are her belongings?"
The tailor looked blank at that, then glanced to his workers questioningly, and one of them hurried to one of the makeshift beds and retrieved a small sack. "This was hers, my lord."
Accepting the small bag, Amaury turned it over, dumping its contents on the bed. He and Emma both stared sadly at the contents. A wooden comb with many teeth missing, a plain brown gown with several holes, a small sack, and another vial. Picking up the vial, Amaury opened it and took a whiff, then handed it to Emma for her to sniff as he reached for the sack.
The vial was empty, but there was still the faint bitter smell she had noted in the first vial, and Emma shook her head with a sigh.
"Is it not also poison?"
"Aye," she admitted reluctantly. " 'Tis the same as the one she held. But I do not believe it. Why would she--" Her voice came to an abrupt halt when Amaury tipped up the sack he held and poured out a handful of coins.
"There is your reason," he said.