"Your wife's?" Amaury asked reluctantly.
He nodded. "It has our initials."
Amaury crossed the few feet that separated them and took the ring. Peering at it closely, he looked for those initials, then sighed when he espied them. Handing the ring back, he clasped his first's shoulder. "She has been dead all this time?"
"They found her two days after she was taken, but said she looked to have been in the water for at least a day."
Thinking he had been patient long enough, King Richard crossed his arms and frowned on them all. "What goes on here? Amaury, explain yourself. You are obviously not injured. Why was I told you were?"
"I am sorry, Your Majesty, and I do appreciate your forbearance so far," Amaury murmured, squeezing his first's shoulder before turning to face his king. It was a breach of protocol, Emma was sure. One was not supposed to show the king one's back, but Richard did not appear upset. In truth he was so tangled up in intrigue at the moment, she suspected he had not even noticed.
"We have had some difficulties since the wedding," her husband announced now. "I was beset by bandits, then mercenaries in two separate attacks, and my dogs were killed by poison meant for me. My wife and I were attacked on the journey here. Then we learned that my first's wife had been kidnapped a few days after the wedding in an attempt to force him to aid in seeing to my demise."
The king digested all of this, then quirked one eyebrow. "Bertrand?"
"That is my guess."
"And this injury you supposedly suffered?"
Amaury cast a glance at Little George, then sighed. " 'Twas for George's wife. He was ordered to kill me if the last attack failed. At threat of her death. We hoped my being on death's door would protect her and Emma at the same time. There was also the hope that they would grow impatient with my lingering, try again to kill me here, and be caught in the act."
"And now?"
Amaury hesitated, then shrugged. "It may still work as a trap."
"You forget your maid. By now she has no doubt told one and all that you are recovered. Up and about, in fact."
"Aye," Amaury agreed wryly. "But that may be to our advantage. Aye, 'twill work," he decided. "You and Blake can explain that I am still weak, but definitely on the mend. 'Twill force them to make another attempt."
The king considered that, then nodded. "I will have my own men posted at the door and--"
"Nay! My apologies, Your Majesty, but I would not have you do anything to put off my assassins. Guards may frighten them away entirely. Then I shall just have to deal with them later. I need no guards. I have an advantage in that I am not ill. I shall be waiting for them."
"I will not have that, de Aneford. Bertrand may be a coward, but his mother is clever. They may see right through this ruse of yours. I would have at least one guard with you. Here in the room."
Amaury considered that, then nodded.
"I will be that guard." When everyone peered at him, Little George tightened his hand on the ring he held. "I have an interest in seeing justice done."
"It shall be so," King Richard decided.
Emma paused on the path and tipped her head up, closing her eyes as she inhaled the sweet scent of the flowered trees about her.
It was the second morning after their arrival at the king's temporary court at Leicestershire, and for Emma the last day and a half had been a nightmare of anxiety. Waiting was not one of her favorite activities on the best of occasions, but waiting for someone to try to kill her husband was unbearable. Even Amaury, who had seemed to relish the idea at first, was beginning to show the wear of wasted hours lying abed awaiting assassins who were definitely taking their time. It was one of the reasons she had delayed returning to their room. Her husband was growing short-tempered in his impatience. A few moments alone in the garden had seemed a lovely treat. It was so fresh here, clean. Truly, court was foreign to her. Everyone seemed so cold, uncaring, and quite debauched. It made her mind spin to think of how many wives were sleeping with other wives' husbands. But that was only one of the infractions going on here, she thought, grimly recalling a conversation she had had at table.
Emma had been seated next to Lady Magdalyn, a rather cold and caustic creature who seemed to delight in shocking people. When she had noticed Emma staring warily at Lady Ascot as she had entered the hall, Magdalyn had leaned closer and murmured, "She is a nasty old bitch, is she not? 'Tis lucky you escaped marrying her son." Then after a silence, "I wonder where her maid is? I have never seen them apart until this visit."
Curious at the way Magdalyn drawled the word maid with such sarcasm, Emma had murmured, "Her lady's maid?"
"Hm. She is much more than maid. If court gossip is to be believed, she is Lady Ascot's lover. Though of course, for propriety's sake she is called maid."
"Lover?" Emma had gaped in amazement at the very idea. Being a woman herself, she was positive the maid would not have that odd appendage that was needed for the joining. How could they possibly be lovers then, she had wondered with confusion. But when she had stated these thoughts aloud, Lady Magdalyn had laughed and shaken her head in amazed disgust.
"You are naive, are you not?" she had drawled, then stood and moved to another seat. Moments later, loud laughter had drawn Emma's eyes along the table to find Magdalyn and the woman next to her laughing openly as they eyed her.
The snapping of a twig brought Emma's eyes open with a start to stare at the man before her. "Bertrand." She eyed him warily, discomfort creeping up her back when he smiled at her.
"Good morning. Lady Emmalene. I see you like gardens as well. We have something in common then."
Shifting carefully to the side to move around him, she nodded stiltedly. "I must return to my husband. I have been remiss in neglecting him so. He will be fraught." More than fraught, she thought grimly. Her husband would be livid should he learn that she had put herself in a position to be caught alone and unawares by Bertrand. He had ordered her to stay in the room where he could protect her at all but mealtimes. Then she was to travel directly to the hall to dine, then return directly. In fact, he had taxed Blake with the chore of seeing her back and forth. But on arriving at the table that morning, King Richard had announced his wish to have a word with him.
When her husband's friend had hesitated, Emma had assured him that she would be fine and would return directly to her hu
sband once she had finished breaking fast. Only then had he reluctantly stood to join his king. One did not refuse royalty.
Emma truly had meant her promise when she had made it, but after Magdalyn had left her alone, a servant had placed some greasy cheese and a chunk of brown bread before her and Emma had felt her stomach roll in protest. For a moment she had feared she might be ill, then had managed to swallow the bile in her throat. She did not think she was coming down with anything. In truth she blamed her jumpy stomach on the constant tension of anxiety she had been suffering, not only this last day, but for weeks now. Her stomach had always been the first to react to troubles. Her head was usually second, and she could already feel the beginnings of the aching gathering in her head.
"Is he often fraught?" Bertrand asked, and was not surprised by the startled confusion on her face. He knew her thoughts had been far away. He had watched the play of emotions cross her face for the last several moments, his heart lifting with hope as he noted that each expression seemed to be a negative one. A frown, a sigh, a grimace. Aye, Lady Emma was not happy in her marriage. He had suspected such would be the case. De Aneford was a great buffoon with beefy hands and little between the ears but wood. How could anyone prefer a man like that over himself? Impossible. Bertrand was aware of his attractiveness to women.
Nay. Lady Emmalene did not love her husband, Bertrand decided now. He had feared it might be otherwise when Gytha had told him that she cried out at night with her passion, but now he decided those cries had been pain-filled sobs. Nay, they had not been cries of pleasure the wench had heard. Women did not do such things. It was only men who shouted their victory as they succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh. He ought to know. Had he not bedded a hundred women at least? And not one of them had cried out with pleasure.
Emma frowned over his question, and rubbed her forehead in a vain attempt to ease the aching that was beginning there. "I must return to my husband."
"Wait!" Catching her arm, he drew her back to his side. "I heard of Lord Amaury's misfortune and wished to express my sympathies."
Emma's mouth tightened at his words. It was more likely he wished to gloat than sympathize.