LITMIR.BIZ

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      Author Note

      In the eleventh century heraldry was in its infancy—the devices of the various noble houses did not start to develop properly until the second quarter of the twelfth century. However, flags and pennons may be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry. They were used in the Battle of Hastings to convey signals as well as to reveal identity. Count Richard of Beaumont’s crimson pennon is similar to these.

      To Lucy and Mike with love and much thanks for supporting historical research in la belle France

       Chapter One

       Winchester—1070

      Emma was halfway to the wash-house just outside the city walls when the fluttering of a red pennon caught her eye. Up there, on the road that led to the downs, a squadron of Norman horse soldiers had crested the rise. With a scowl, Emma gripped little Henri’s hand. She was late, but this she had to see. Was it him? It had to be. Sir Richard of Asculf, commander of the Winchester garrison, was finally returning from campaign in the North.

      Emma stared past the row of cottages and some field strips up the hill, squinting in the bright spring sun while the March wind tugged her green veil and skirts. One knight looked much the same as another in full armour, hence the importance of his pennon. And, of course, more than one knight had a red pennon. Since William of Normandy had come to wrest the crown from King Harold, Emma had seen several such. Sir Richard’s had a silver line running through it, but the conroi, or squadron, was still too far away for Emma to make out the device.

      ‘Mama, you are hurting my hand!’ Henri said, trying to slide his small fingers out from hers.

      ‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ Emma slackened her grip, but she stayed stock-still, waiting while the column drew nearer. If it was Sir Richard, and her instincts told her it was, he had been away for several months near York. The rumours were that it had been a particularly bloody campaign; already some were calling it the Harrowing of the North. Many Saxons had been put to the sword, and not just warriors—women and children had been killed, too. Murdered was perhaps a more accurate word. Some said even the ducks and pigs had been slaughtered, and the grain had been burned to ensure that anyone left standing would have neither the will nor the wherewithal to contemplate rebelling against King William. Up around York, the Saxons that had been left alive would be battling merely to survive, exactly as she was.

      But Sir Richard would be all right; his kind always were. A strong, handsome face lit by a pair of penetrating grey eyes hovered at the edge of Emma’s consciousness. Sir Richard was Norman, and while he might be a friend of her sister, Cecily, he was likely as ruthless as the worst of them. Those eyes…so cold.

      Anger churned in Emma’s stomach as the line of horse soldiers snaked over the rise, chain-mail gleaming like silver, shiny helmets pointing to the sky. Doubtless they were eager to return to their quarters. Everything that had gone wrong in her life was their fault, she thought, homing in on the great grey the lead knight was riding. Sir Richard had a grey destrier. If the Normans had never crossed the Narrow Sea, her life would have proceeded as it should have done. Her mother and father would still be alive, her brother, too. Lady Emma of Fulford would be happily married and Henri would be legitimate…

      Normans. Apart from her mother, God rest her soul, Emma loathed them.

      Yes, it was Sir Richard sure enough, that war-horse gave him away.

      ‘Sir Richard.’ Muttering the name as though it were a curse, Emma turned back to the river path. Sir Richard was no doubt returning to a comfortable feather bed in the castle while, thanks to the likes of him, she—Emma glanced at the wash-house that sat by the river shallows, smoke gushing through the open side—must pound linen from dawn to dusk simply to put bread in her belly.

      Emma sighed. Her morning’s work lay ahead and if she wanted to eat, she had better get to it. Releasing Henri, she set about unpinning her veil and kilting up her skirts. Since daybreak, she had been dreading this moment, but there was no escaping it. Today was her turn in the river at the washing stones. No matter that the spring sunlight had little heat in it, no matter that the Itchen was colder than melt-water from an ice-field, it was her turn at the washing stones.

      Aediva was already in the river up to her knees, energetically bashing a twist of linen against the stones.

      ‘Good morning, Aediva,’ Emma said, tugging off her boots and setting them down by a twiggy hawthorn.

      “Morning, Emma.”

      ‘Mama,

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