At least for now, this wimple and gown would keep her safe from being accosted by randy men. It would also guard against her dark secret until she was able to destroy the evidence that she’d been anything but pure and proper.
Looking out to sea, she shaded her eyes from the sun, searching for other ships – preferably ones with black sails. Pirate ships, that is. All she had to do now was wait for pirates to arrive and hope she’d find the same ones who boarded and raided her husband’s ship.
Hurrying down the dock, she followed the men into the Fish Head Inn. As soon as she took one step inside the door, she reeled back, covering her nose with her hand. The stench inside was a combination of fish, sweat, alcohol and . . . sex! She knew it well since Jean Philippe had forced her to go to taverns with him, showing her off as some sort of trophy wife. She hated this place already.
It took a moment for her eyes to get accustomed to the dimly lit room. Two men from behind pushed her inside, impatiently wanting to enter.
“Hold up,” said the bouncer at the door, holding out his grubby palm. “That’ll be a half-pence for each of ye to enter.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I have no money,” she told him, her heart racing, hoping not to be thrown out.
“She’s a nun, ye fool,” spat one of the men behind her who had been part of the crew of the fishing ship that gave her a ride up the channel.
“Umph,” snorted the filthy man, eyeing her up and down. “Then it’ll be a whole pence to come inside since we don’t serve the likes of ye, Sister.”
“I’ll pay for her,” said the fisherman, handing the man the money.
The man at the door bounced the coins on a piece of wood to make sure they were real. Then with a grunt, he nodded his head. “All right, go on inside and get somethin’ to eat. But don’t tarry if ye know what’s good for ye.”
“Thank you, and God bless you,” she said, playing up her new role. Her hand went to the rosary hanging around her neck – the only thing considered jewelry that she wore. Pirates had stolen her wedding ring when they’d raided her late husband’s ship. Not that she missed being married to Jean Philippe, but she had liked the beautiful ring.
“Wait a second, Sister,” growled the man at the door before she could walk away. “Haven’t I seen ye somewhere before?” He bent over, trying to see her face in the darkened room. “Ye look familiar.”
“I – I do?” Emmaline purposely kept her head low, looking at the crucifix that she rubbed between her fingers in worry. “No, I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’ve never been to Great Yarmouth before.” She turned away from him.
“Are ye sure?” asked the man, making her nervous. “Let me see yer face.”
She shyly looked back over her shoulder, trying not to make eye contact with the man. She thought her disguise would serve her well, but now she realized it was probably a mistake coming here. After all, pirates tended to brag, and she wasn’t sure how many of the men here might have actually seen the evidence of her dark past.
“Come on, ye’re blockin’ the door,” complained a big man from behind her.
“Mayhap I’ve met ye overseas,” said the bouncer. “I used to sail on a trade ship that went back and forth to France.”
“Nay! You’re mistaken. I’ve never been to France,” said Emmaline, barely able to breathe since she was so nervous. Her hand went to her leg as she reassured herself that the dagger was still hidden beneath the robe. All it would take was one man to recognize her and they’d be all over her like flies on dung. She needed to be careful.
“Aw, hell, I don’t know. Mayhap ye’re right.” The burly man waved his hand through the air. “I suppose after a while every woman starts lookin’ like a whore to me. Go on in, but stay in the shadows unless ye want trouble, lady.”
Emmaline didn’t wait another moment. She hurried into the room and chose a seat at a small table in the corner that sat only two. All the other tables in the establishment were long trestle tables with benches, shared by many drinking men. Some of the men had whores on their laps as they fondled the girls or nibbled at their necks. It was disgusting and appalling and she didn’t even want to look. Sitting down, she wrapped her arms around her, feeling gooseflesh under her clothes now. Being exhausted, her eyes drifted closed. The sounds of the room grew louder and louder, echoing in her head, bringing memories rising to the surface that made her want to scream and run.
“Do ye want a drink or what?”
Emmaline jumped in surprise and her eyes popped open. A serving wench stood there, holding out a tankard of ale. The woman clutched the handles of four more tankards in her other hand.
Emmaline devoured the ale with her eyes, wanting it more than anything. Damn, she wished she had managed to convince some of the sailors to give her coins on the way over here. Or mayhap she should have stolen money from them as well. But they were so kind to her that she felt bad just lifting one of their daggers for her own self-protection. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any coin,” she told the girl.
“Then why the hell did ye come in here?” spat the woman. “Move on, and save the table for payin’ customers. Go on. Go, now!”
“Do you perhaps . . . give nuns free food and drink?” she asked, hoping for a miracle.
“Like hell we do. Ye either pay up or get out. Now make up yer mind before I fetch the proprietor to throw ye out.”
“I’m . . . I’m waiting for someone,” she blurted out, stalling, trying to think up something to say. “I’m sure they will pay for my food and drink once they get here.”
“Oh.” The girl gave her a satisfied nod. “Well, why didn’t ye say that in the first place?” She thunked the tankard down on the table, foam from the ale sloshing over the rim and splashing onto Emmaline’s gown. “Sorry about that, Sister. But if ye come into a place like this, it’s to be expected that ye’re going to leave with somethin’ spilled on ye.” She giggled and took off for the next table, leaving Emmaline alone.
Emmaline slowly reached out and picked up the heavy tankard, taking a big drink of ale. Her eyes closed and she let out a sigh. She’d been so thirsty that she could barely swallow. After chugging half the brew, she placed the mug back down on the table. The sounds of the men laughing and talking weren’t so threatening now. Instead, with the ale relaxing her, the noises lulled her into a half-slumber. Leaning her head back against the wall, she felt so tired from not sleeping for the past few days that she immediately drifted off to sleep.
Emmaline was transported back to France, back to a time and place that she wanted to forget more than anything in the world.
“Take it off, Emmaline. All of it,” commanded her new husband, Lord Jean Philippe.
Emmaline clutched her clothes tightly to her neck, afraid of what was to come next. This wasn’t her wedding night. That, thank God, was over. The consummation of their vows had been bad enough and she never wanted to couple with the wretched man again. He’d told her it was custom, and had invited all of his friends to watch. Then, when he drifted off to sleep, the men tried to bed her as well. That night was horrible, but this was the day that really changed her from a lady of stature to being a lady of shame.