The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  He turned his head to look at her. Beneath dark brows, his eyes shone like smoke reflected in a silver cup. “By your leave, lady,” he said softly, rising. With a whispered unevenness in his gait, he crossed the room and disappeared through the curtained doorway. By the hearth, Cadgil raised his head briefly to pant after the baron, then rested again.

  “Ungrateful wretch,” she murmured affectionately to the dog as she passed by in pursuit of the baron.

  The small foyer was lit by glowing resinous torches set in iron sconces high on the wall. As she glided through the curtain, the baron turned around and nearly collided with her. “This message is more than another demand for money,” she insisted. “Tell me. I would hear it now.”

  “Nay,” he said. He did not step away, and neither did she. “What of my brother? Tell me, my lord.”

  “I think not.” He lifted his chin to gaze slowly around the foyer, hands on hips, the torchlight edging his profile. “This mural stair is a fine space for decoration, my lady.”

  The foyer and staircase, called the mural stair because it was claimed from the thickness of the massive outer wall, or mural, of the keep, was a simple broad platform with stone steps leading down to the wide, arched outer door. Another flight of curving steps led upward to the bedchambers.

  The walls of the mural stair were covered with images. Flowing, sinuous figures and decorative borders were painted on plaster coated over the stone, and gleamed with deep rich color in the amber light. Flanking the entrance to the great hall, two armored knights faced each other on red-caparisoned horses. Angled down the side stairwell, white-robed archangels floated over diamond-patterned backgrounds of red and blue.

  “These paintings are skillfully made,” he said. “Are they the work of some local artist?” He glanced down at her.

  Hesitating, Emlyn groped for an appropriate response, distracted by the matter of the king’s writ. The baron indicated the paintings and asked his question again. She pursed her lips and frowned. The paintings were partly her own work, done over a year ago with her uncle Godwin, shortly after her return from the convent. Bad winter weather had extended one of Godwin’s rare visits to his brother’s family, and he had begun the wall friezes then, the knights as a gift to Emlyn’s father, the angels in memoriam to her mother.

  Proud of her uncle’s ability, Emlyn was entirely uncertain of the value of her own contribution, which consisted of the decorative borders, and the hands and feet and flowing draperies of the archangels. More accustomed to painting tiny manuscript images, she had learned a good deal that winter about creating large-scale wall imagery.

  “My uncle, Godwin of Wistonbury Abbey, did them,” she answered finally. She would far rather discuss the king’s document. “He is a monk in York, and trained as a painter. He does murals for parish churches, sometimes castles. The income is a benefit to his order, so he has dispensation to leave the abbey occasionally. At Wistonbury, he heads a fine scriptorium.”

  “He has a strong command of color and line. I know the abbey. ’Tis not far from Hawksmoor Castle, my home,” he said. “Perhaps I shall acquire a manuscript from there.” He turned to study the painted section of the two jousting knights in the faint flickering light, his chain mail creaking quietly as he moved. “I should like to examine these more carefully in the morning before we depart,” he said.

  Emlyn was seized with a sudden chill, not of flesh but spirit, an apprehension, as if he referred to her leaving with him. She blinked away the thought. Certes, he spoke of his departure in the morn with his father and the garrison.

  He looked down at her, improperly close in the small space. The faint fragrance of wine and cinnamon wafted as his warm breath gently stirred her hair. When she shifted away, he went with her, and his arm pressed close to her shoulder as they stood side by side looking at the frieze. “Perhaps I will even request that your uncle come to Hawksmoor,” he mused.

  She glanced up. The lean planes of his face, the dark gloss of his hair and the deep glints in his eyes reflected the warm light, lending him such a striking beauty that, for an instant, Emlyn found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. His broody intensity existed in more than dark elegance, steely eyes, and a reserved manner. Every word, every action, seemed to have an undercurrent, like a river, silent, secretive, powerful.

  She did not know what to expect from him. Because he had seemed utterly somber and without humor, she had thought to be berated soundly, and publicly, for her deed in the forest. Yet he had barely acknowledged that she had shot a hole into his leg hours earlier. His discretion confused her enormously.

  She wondered if his silence honored some inner chivalric code, or if, instead, he plotted some hideous revenge. Like the dangling sword in the ancient story, a threat swung over her own head as long as the de Hawkwoods were at Ashbourne. Let them deliver the king’s message, she prayed, and depart in the morn.

  “… of a sanctified nature?” She stared up at him, her eyes widening slowly. What had he said? She frowned and scrambled to put the lost echo of his words together. He had spoken further about his castle Hawksmoor, but she had not been listening.

  He leaned closer, the low, mellifluous vibratto of his voice entering her skull. “You are pale, and seem distracted, my lady. I will say it again.” He enunciated precisely, as if she were deaf. “There is a new chapel at Hawksmoor. Might your uncle agree to paint images there, of a sanctified nature?”

  “You must ask his superior, the abbot,” she answered primly, embarrassed at her inattentiveness. She hoped his leg pained him, she thought sourly, standing so long beside her.

  “Then I shall do so.”

  “Tell me what the king’s document says,” she said. “Tell me what you know of my brother Guy.”

  “Nay,” he answered.

  “Why have you brought so many men here?” she asked. “Do you need an armed garrison against a girl and three babes?”

  “Three babes?” he asked, looking perplexed.

  “I have two small brothers and a sister,” she replied. “One of whom is little more than an infant. We will give you no trouble, sirrah, should you choose to take our home by force.”

  “No one mentioned an infant.” He frowned, distracted. “And force is not our mission here.” Placing both arms on either side of her head, he trapped her against the wall. The light glinted off the mesh that covered his arms, and his breath was spicy with onion and cinnamon as he stood over her.

  “I have had some little trouble from you already today, demoiselle,” he reminded her softly. “I do not anticipate more. Cease your questions, and accept what comes.”

  She felt pinned by his eyes, thoroughly aware of his strength and masculinity. For a wild moment she thought he was going to lower his head and kiss her. She pressed the back of her head against the wall and pinched her mouth shut, staring at his lower lip, full and soft, and the even white teeth behind it.

  “The king’s document is not my doing,” he said. “God knows, if I had been consulted, it would read differently than it does.”

  “Tell me some word of my brother, sirrah,” she said.

  He looked at her for a long moment. “Your brother is alive and fares well, from what little I have heard of him,” he finally said. Dropping his arms, he stood back. “Now direct me to the solar, my lady. I would rest until my father returns.”

  “That little door in the far corner leads up some steps to the gallery, where you will find the solar,” she answered. De Hawkwood nodded curtly and spun on his heel.

  Emlyn, shivering in the cool air, grabbed her green cloak from the row of wall pegs by the stairs, whipped it around her shoulders, and returned to the deserted hall. She went to the hearth and knelt beside Cadgil, who nuzzled at her hand and rested his head on her knee until she rubbed under his jaw, staring into the flames.

  Chapter Four

  Whitehawke’s voice was deep, tinged with arrogance and capable of thunder. Listening to the formal opening phrases o
f the king’s document, Emlyn sat in a chair angled toward the fireplace, her hands and feet cold, her throat dry as straw.

  Nearby, within the wide pool of light emanating from the huge fireplace, Nicholas de Hawkwood leaned against the oak table. Wat stood beside her, a fierce guardian, his jaw set like iron.

  “Let it be known and carried out with expedience,” Whitehawke read, “That all properties belonging to the barony of Ashbourne are forfeited to the crown. Guy de Ashbourne shall remain in our custody due to the debt of five thousand marks owed the crown.”

  “Five thousand!” Emlyn exclaimed indignantly. “ ’Twas two thousand marks just past Yuletide!”

  Whitehawke slid her a sharp look and read on. “The youngest issue of Rogier de Ashbourne are given into the care of Nicholas de Hawkwood until the debt is paid in full to the crown.”

  Emlyn gasped. The king would have the children. She had not anticipated this. She dug her fingernails into her palm and looked at the baron, whose face was shadowed and unreadable. He seemed cold and military, hardly someone to entrust with children. Her brothers and sister were very young, Christien not even old enough to foster in a knight’s household, Isobel timid as a rabbit, Harry barely even walking. Holy Mother Mary, she prayed, help me to endure.

  She knew that the king had taken other children, ostensibly as wards, but actually as hostages. Some had never been heard from again. A few years earlier, several little boys, Welsh princes, had been made political hostages. They had been hung. Uncurling her fingers and breathing deeply, she forced herself to concentrate. “Continue, my lord,” she said.

  Whitehawke bowed his head and handed the document to his son. Nicholas de Hawkwood explained, summarily, that Ashbourne Castle had been bestowed upon Whitehawke for the good of the estate. “In addition, there is to be an exchange from Ashbourne to the crown of thirty oxen or twenty men, in good faith.”

  Emlyn listened with a growing numbness. She doubted there were even fifteen guards in total at Ashbourne now, and the oxen were all in use by her villeins.

  “Lady Emlyn,” the baron said, “the king declares your betrothal in marriage to Lord Whitehawke.”

  Her downcast eyes flashed open to meet Nicholas de Hawkwood’s steady gaze. In the firelight, gossamer strands of hair glistened and curled around her face, and she felt the flush drain from her cheeks.

  Inwardly, she fought against pricking tears. Her throat constricted and her breath came quickly. Think, she admonished herself, ’tis not a moment for weeping, but for a clear head. Even had she anticipated such an action, what power did she have against it?

  King John could strike with cruel efficiency when he wanted to render a baron helpless. Using the parchment writ, he had torn apart her family as surely as a beast tears its prey. Guy would remain in prison, perhaps die there, his home and lands granted to another; the children might never return to her care; and she had been promised in marriage, without her consent, to an old man with a cruel reputation.

  The enormity of the king’s animosity threatened, like a violent storm, to overwhelm the remaining structure of her life. She swayed briefly, and through a haze, felt Wat place a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  Closing her eyes and breathing slowly, she felt as if a cool, numbing fog filled her. Another breath, and another, and she was able to raise her head with a measure of dignity, and look at de Hawkwood. His steely gaze did not waver from hers.

  “Can the king do this?” she asked him in a hollow tone. He nodded slowly. Emlyn fought to separate her gaze from his. She turned to Wat. “In truth, this is a minor dispute. I do not understand the king’s actions. What then of Guy?”

  Wat snorted in disgust. “King John does what he pleases, my lady. ’Tis apparent he sees no minor dispute here, and has set a mighty sum upon it. His pouches must be empty again, and his ire has been raised by the rebellious actions of so many barons asking him for a charter of liberties of late. I’ll wager others are feeling a similar sting from him.”

  “If your brother is accused of treason, the king has a right to punish him and his. There is no merit in argument, my lady,” Whitehawke said. Emlyn could not bring herself to look into Whitehawke’s pale, icy stare.

  “Surely King John knows that women, babes, and sticks of furniture will give him no resistance,” Wat responded bitterly.

  A low bench beside her chair held a chess game, its progress interrupted. Emlyn reached out a slim finger to touch an alabaster playing piece, her brow furrowed. “Women are as pawns in the game that men play all over England,” she murmured. “Not even queens, only pawns to be shoved here and there and bits of land taken with them.”

  She raised her head. Irresistibly and inexplicably, she was drawn again to the intent, calm gaze of the young baron.

  “You cannot refuse a marriage ordered by the king, Lady Emlyn,” he said evenly. “Nor may you keep the children with you once they are officially removed from your custody.” Emlyn, hearing his low, soothing tone, wondered fleetingly if he had some sympathy for her predicament after all.

  “My consent will be needed for the marriage,” she answered.

  “Consent is not necessary,” he answered bluntly. Whatever she had imagined in his tone had shuttered. Feeling very much alone, despite Wat’s presence, and gripped by a strong, sudden fatigue, she slumped a little in the chair.

  “Best prepare your belongings, my lady, and those of the children,” Whitehawke said gruffly. “We depart on the morrow.” To Nicholas he added, “I will check into the arrangements for the garrison before I retire. Should you sleep this night within the castle, see that you do not cuckold me with my bride.” With a brisk turn, he strode rapidly from the room.

  Through the mist of her tumultuous feelings, Emlyn heard the bitter distrust in Whitehawke’s words to his son. Though she looked up at the insult, Nicholas de Hawkwood remained silent.

  Emlyn picked up a stone chess piece and rolled it in her palm. The alabaster was smooth and cool, quite unlike the fire beginning to blaze within her. Inwardly, she churned with fury at the king’s raw injustices. And Whitehawke’s vicious directive to his son had felt like a direct, physical blow to her gut.

  Her upbringing urged her to accept this as her woman’s lot. But years of strict religious discipline, meant to subdue undesirable attributes in the female character, suddenly collided with the early years of freedom under her parents’ gentle care. The natural spark, the resolute spiritedness that had fueled her childhood, long discouraged and cooled, now caught flame as she sat and idly twirled the little stone chess piece in her hand.

  With a sudden ferocity, she knew that she could not acquiesce easily to the king’s demands. Uncertain what she might do in particular, she had, at least for the moment, a direction: unaccustomed, impulsive, and necessary resistance. However futile it was to object to a royal order, objections rose inside of her and demanded expression.

  She stood, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders to pool, forgotten, on the rushes. Her slender form was silhouetted against the firelight, and her hair fell freely to her hips in a dazzling halo. Squaring back her shoulders, her spine straight as an arrow, she raised her chin and looked directly at Nicholas de Hawkwood.

  “Obeisance to our king is expected of all his subjects,” she said. “But this betrothal is made without my consent. Such marriages are not legal in the sight of God and the Church.”

  “The Church continues to debate that. However, the matter does not give my father much concern,” he replied, his eyes locked with hers.

  “And you, sirrah, become the children’s guardian against my will as their natural, God-given guardian.” She drew a breath against the anger that fought for release. “If there is a way to stop this assault to my family, rest certain I will find it.”

  The alabaster chess piece was clenched tightly in her fist. On angry impulse, she flung the stone at the wall, not thinking where she aimed it. Flashing narrowly past Nicholas’s head, it cracked against the fireplace h
ood and fell to the floor. Emlyn spun on her heel and exited the hall as quickly as she could.

  Nicholas retrieved the stone pawn and weighted it in his hand. Then he flipped it over to Wat, who caught it deftly.

  “It seems even a little pawn could crack a man’s skull,” Nicholas said wryly. Eyes wide, Wat nodded in agreement.

  De Hawkwood turned to pour a fresh cup of wine. “In sooth, Sir Walter,” he said, “Lady Emlyn is assuredly a fine beauty. In that, my father has done well.” He downed some of the wine and pursed his lips a moment. “But she has a sharp temperament. At first, I admit, I thought her a woodenhead. ’Twould be better if she was, for a thinking wife is often a dangerous thing.” He sipped again. “Or so my father would believe,” he added softly.

  The heavy oak door slammed against the stone jamb with enough force to wake the dead. Emlyn cursed long and loudly as she marched the length of her small bedchamber, setting two fat candles to flickering as she passed by. She paced anxiously, stopping to punctuate a breathless tirade with an occasional kick to the bedstead, the door, and on a particularly aggravated turn at the corner, to the stone wall.

  Hearing a soft knock, Emlyn yanked the door open, nearly spilling Tibbie into the room. “Sir Walter himself came as I was putting the wee ones to bed,” Tibbie said.

  “He told you of the king’s message?”

  “Aye, he did that.” Tibbie went to a wooden chest and knelt with a heavy sigh, settling her skirts around her wide body. She opened the lid and began to sift through its tumbled contents.

  “Yer things are ever in a tangle,” she said, “and ye shall need fine things for yer marriage day.” She pulled out a gown of mauve sendal, its shimmering folds creased. “This will do, with a hang by the fire.”