by Susan King
“I shall not dress to please this king’s demon,” Emlyn snapped, stomping over to sit sullenly on the bed.
“Aye, my lady girl, ’tis no great matter what you wear,” Tibbie conceded, speaking gently. “But these men mean to take you away on the morrow. I shall pack as much as I can for the journey.” She watched Emlyn’s downcast face for a moment. “Ah, by the sweet Virgin, it angers my heart to know that a stranger can do this to ye, with naught to be done in yer defense. But such is life. We must make of it what we can.”
Emlyn said nothing. Tibbie chattered on, not much caring for silence except in church. “I vow, those years spent in the convent did naught for yer sense of how to keep yer things in good order.” She glanced up quickly. “Still, ye’ll be a fine countess, as fine a lady as yer lady mother and yer sister Agnes, who is a capable prioress at Roseberry Abbey.”
Emlyn ran her fingers wearily through her hair, sweeping it away from her face. “I once thanked the Blessed Virgin that Agnes’s choice freed me from the convent walls. Would that I had stayed there,” she added darkly.
“Wellaway, yer father knew ye were not made for the contemplative life, and he brought ye out of there.”
Emlyn nodded glumly. “While I could sit at a desk for long hours working at my pictures, I could not kneel so long in prayer, as do Agnes and her nuns.”
“Lord Rogier also called ye back for the sake of the little ones, and to take yer lady mother’s place here.” Tibbie leaned back on her heels and regarded Emlyn with her bright gaze. “And a more loving mam they could not have had. ’Tis cruel to take them from yer care. Mayhap when yer wed, they can be sent to yer new home, though yon Whitehawke seems a sour old goat. Yer father would have seen ye married well and proper. Not like this.”
Lifting and folding as she spoke, smoothing each garment, Tibbie made neat piles of wool and silk: long, tight-sleeved gowns, soft loose chemises, and neatly shaped hosen. Plunging her ample arm back into the chest, she drew out a silk veil.
“I shall be up the night, packing yer chests with all ye own. These men are fools. How can this be done in one night? Ye must have bed linens, and furniture, and Lord knows how many things will be needed for the children—” Tibbie quickly stifled a sob behind her hand.
Emlyn raised her hand to her forehead wearily. Her hair streamed around her, glistening in the candlelight. “Oh, Tibbie. By all the saints, what has happened takes my very breath. Guy, the castle, the children—all gone”—she sucked in sharply, fighting a sob—“and I am to marry an old man.”
Tibbie shook her head slowly. “ ’Twas for coin this was done. Our lord king is no better than a cutpurse with a black heart, God forgive me,” she said, rolling her eyes upward. “But harken. Many a girl has wed an older man quite happily,” she said, so brightly that Emlyn glanced at her with suspicion. “ ’Tis said that William the Marshal and his wife joy in their marriage.”
“Whitehawke is so cold, with his white hair and pale skin. He has the eyes of a dead man,” Emlyn muttered.
“Never say such a thing!” Tibbie gasped, crossing her bosom. “Ye know not—” she stopped abruptly, her eyes wide.
“What is it?” Emlyn demanded. Tibbie shook her head rapidly. “Say me what you know!”
“Oh, my lady. They say Lord Whitehawke did an evil thing long ago, and now must make amends, or his soul is condemned to hellfire forever.”
“What evil thing?” Emlyn asked. “Who says?”
“The steward told me, and Wat mentioned, that the earl eats no fleshmeat as penance—”
“This I know. Buy why?”
“And he founded a convent to pray for her soul—”
“Whose soul!” Emlyn exclaimed, leaning forward.
“They say the earl murdered his first wife. The baron’s mother.” Tibbie looked at her with wide, anxious blue eyes.
“Ah, God.” Emlyn bowed her head. “I feel in my bones there is some truth to this. The earl and his son bear each other a deep, bitter hatred. I want no part of such a vile family, Tibbie. How can I break this betrothal? And the children need me, Tibbie, they cannot go with that—baron—” Emlyn stood suddenly, and began to pace the room, not agitated, but pensive.
“The king commands, my lady, and ye must obey. ’Twill serve yer brothers and sister better if ye do. With all his penances and prayers, the earl’s soul is likely redeemed.”
“None can offer me aid in this but myself,” Emlyn said thoughtfully. “There has to be some way to end the betrothal.”
“Emlyn, harken now. Obey church and king. ’Tis yer woman’s lot, though ye’ve been dealt a sad portion of late,” Tibbie said gently. “Yer sweetness may be just what Whitehawke needs. What he did was long ago. And I expect ye’ll be apart from the little ones only a short while.”
Emlyn scowled, her skirt a swirling shadow as she traced the perimeters of the little chamber. Then she stopped, and slanted a look at Tibbie. “There must be some way to gain the children back into my custody, if I have to steal them myself.”
“Go with care, or ye may regret it,” Tibbie murmured.
“I care not what Whitehawke desires of a wife. If I can find no way out of this marriage, then I will paint or draw or practice archery as I have always done, and he can like or dislike, ’tis no matter to me. Perhaps he will have done with me if I displease, and let me go to a nunnery.”
“Well, ’tis not a fine way to begin a marriage, but ’tis better than ye were,” Tibbie sighed, rolling her eyes.
A knock at the door, sharp and quick, interrupted them. Tibbie pulled the door open to admit a young servant girl. “What is it, Jehanne?” Emlyn asked.
“The young baron, my lady. He sent me to fetch you to tend his bath.”
“What!” Tibbie said. “Tell his lordship that Lady Emlyn has retired for the even. Have the lady tend to his bath, by all the holy virgin saints, I—”
“Jehanne.” Emlyn cut across Tibbie’s tirade. “Tell the baron that I will come.” The servant stood still, her mouth slightly open in surprise. “Go, Jehanne, before your tongue dries out.”
When the door was shut, Tibbie thrust her face toward Emlyn, her hands fisted on her hips. “What do ye do? No chatelaine need tend to a knight’s bath, ’tis an old custom and none abide by it now. If ye mean to wipe his feet, that’s done by some, but ye should stay here and send yer regrets!”
“I must go, Tibbie. And I would ask you to fetch clean bandaging cloth, with a poultice of comfrey, or something for a muscle wound, and join us there. Be ever quiet about what you bring, hide it beneath a towel. Pray, Tibbie, do this for me.”
Tibbie gawked at her. “Sir Walter did say ye winged a chessman at the young lord, but I did not know ye’d left him bleeding by the fireside.”
“Just be there, Tib.” Emlyn opened the door and left.
The chamber her parents had shared, and where Emlyn and her siblings had slept as small children, was airy and pleasant, even at night. A tall triple-arched window, shuttered now, dominated the room. Fragrant green rushes mixed with herbs made a thick carpet, and flames crackled brightly in the hearth. At the center of the room was a large wooden tub filled with hot water, steam rising in misty whorls. Jehanne stood in the shadows by the wide bed, folding linen towels.
Nicholas de Hawkwood, standing near the hearth, turned as Emlyn entered. He flicked a glance at the maid. “That will be all,” he said. “Leave us.”
Emlyn sighed. “Thank you, Jehanne. You may go.” When the girl had gone, the baron shrugged off his blue surcoat. It fell to the floor in a heap.
“Help me with my armor, my lady,” he said. She came close and stretched to untie the leather thongs that connected the hood to the neckpiece, and that to the hauberk. He stood motionless, his breath on her cheeks and hair. The back of her hand scratched against his stubbled jaw, and he lifted his chin away, barking directions at her all the while.
She helped him ease off the mesh short-sleeved hauberk, so heavy that she stumbled a lit
tle with the weight of it. He reached out a hand and together they lifted it to a bench. Next he told her to remove the quilted vest beneath his hauberk, then his stiff leather boots, which she did.
“Cease with your orders, my lord,” she finally said. “I am full aware how to divest you of your armor. I have an older brother and until last summer a father, both of whom accepted my help from time to time with this.”
Sitting without comment on the edge of the bed, he untied the groin fasteners, and removed the armor from his right leg. When he bent to pull the mail legging off the wounded leg, she knelt to help him. Clad only in a long white linen shirt and quilted leg pieces, he began to tug next at the bulky trews.
“Give me a hand, ’tis crusted onto my flesh,” he said. She hesitated and stepped away. “Come here, what in heaven are you shy about? ’Tis because of you I need this damned bath, now help me get out of these.”
Emlyn knelt down before him and began to peel away the quilted leggings, first the right, which came away easily, then the left. His bare leg was long and tautly muscled, dusted with fine dark hairs, and he smelled of steel and leather and sweat.
As she pulled down the left trew, the blood-soaked cloth that had been stuffed inside popped up, stuck to his skin. She turned away to soak a cloth in the warm tub water, then softened the crusted bandage, gently prying it away.
When she saw the wound, Emlyn gasped. It was an ugly puncture, as large and deep as a man’s thumbnail, gaping open and inflamed around the edges. “Oh! This looks very painful, my lord,” she blurted, her hand resting gingerly on his thigh.
“Aye,” he said. “ ’Twill need a few stitches to close it.”
Emlyn bit her lip as she wiped at the wound again. Without careful ministration, the muscle would not heal properly, and an infection could poison his entire body. A strong garlic and onion poultice would be necessary in the bandage overnight. She wondered in awe at his strength and endurance, for he had hardly limped, and had given no notice of his discomfort.
Brought up to manage a household, Emlyn knew something of healing arts. She had tended many a minor injury, and fevers and agues among her family and the servants; she had been present at birthings and maintained steady vigils at her parents’ sickbeds, but she had never sewn living flesh together.
He winced as she pressed the wet cloth. After she finished, he began to unlace his bleached linen shirt. “I know ’twould be easier for my own man to help me with my bath, and for you to cleanse my feet only. But,” he said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head, “I have come here directly from the king’s court with no valet. No one else need know of this injury. And since you inflicted it, you can help me now.”
So saying, he stood, quickly unlaced his white woolen braies, banded like a loincloth around his hips, and lightly dropped them down. Emlyn gasped and turned away in confusion. She had a clear, if rapid, view of a long, sleekly muscled torso, dark hair swirling across his chest and down over his stomach. Below that, clustered black curls framed his thick, relaxed nether parts.
Emlyn blushed furiously. She had never seen a completely nude man, though she knew it was common for many women, even unmarried, to administer to male guests and relatives at the bath or for medical reasons. Modesty was not a great concern among men, she had heard. Here was certain proof of that.
She heard a splash and thunk behind her as he stepped into the tub and sank down into the steaming water with an audible groan that sounded like a mixture of pain and relief.
Embarrassed and uncertain of the propriety, and quite unwilling to stay alone with him for long, Emlyn fervently prayed that Tibbie would arrive soon with the necessary bandages and herbal ointments. Secrecy or not, Emlyn did not think it wrong to keep the injury from Tibbie, who was skilled with medicines. And who could stitch flesh.
Emlyn gathered a towel and a chunk of oil and herb soap from the table beside the tub, then handed him the soap, striving to keep her eyes averted. She felt the brush of his fingers as he took it from her, and then heard a series of splashes as he dunked his head into the tub to wash his hair.
Leaning back, he drew his knees up and rested his arms along the top of the deep, roomy wooden tub. She glanced at him. Firelight threw an amber web across his face and tautly muscled shoulders. His eyes were like silver stones, and his glossy wet hair curled around his high forehead. He had his father’s smooth, clear complexion. Her searching gaze drifted to his mouth, the lower lip full and soft, the clean line of his jaw disrupted by a small crescent scar on the left side of his chin, showing pink and shiny through the shadow of the stubble. His chest above the water was covered with dark, wet hair.
For a tall man with a large frame, he was lean as a willow, his shoulders wide, square and powerful, his muscles smooth and tight. She knew that even the bulk of armor and cloak could not disguise the strength and grace of his long, lean build.
Suddenly Emlyn felt foolish, staring at him as if he were a feast for her starving eyes. How weak, how lustful, to succumb even for a moment to the visual temptation of his face and form. He was no welcoming feast for any eye, she reminded herself; his beauty was classic but hard-edged, and he had a disagreeable temperament.
Had he possessed a pleasing manner with his handsomeness, he would have been a fine man indeed. But such men—considerate of women’s sensibilities, fair and kind—were rare. Most, but for her father, lived only in the epic stories that she loved to hear and read by the firelight. This man’s harsh manner, his very presence in her home, irritated her beyond measure.
She sighed and picked up a towel. Still, she reminded herself, she was responsible for his injury. He had not disgraced her in the hall. His request for a bath was pallid compared to what he might have said in front of his father.
He was looking at her from under half-lowered lids, and she blushed again. “Shall I send for someone to shave you, my lord?”
He shook his head as he soaped his hair. “Nay, not tonight. And though ’twould likely be pleasant, I’ll not ask you to scrub my back,” he said. Squeezing a soapy cloth over his head, he shut his eyes as the foamy water ran down into his face. “But you may rinse my hair.” He gestured blindly toward a bucket of clean water. Emlyn fetched it and lifted it over his head. The quicker this ordeal of the bath was done and over, the better.
She dumped the contents of the bucket, and the water coursed over his head and shoulders in smoking streams. He yelled and sat upright.
“God’s blessed arse!” he bellowed, sputtering, “could you not make certain if ’twas hot or cold? You nearly scalded the skin off my bones!” Shaking his head, he rubbed the water from his eyes, and fixed her with a vicious glare.
“Oh, my lord, I am sorry,” she said anxiously, patting the towel over his head and shoulders with genuine regret.
Snatching the cloth away, he held it to his face, then began to dry his hair with it. “God’s eyes, woman, are you bent on murdering me this day? I’ve been arrowshot, near clubbed by a pawn, and now boiled like an eel. Are you serving poison in the wine this even as well? Shall I be on guard through the whole of the night, or shall I leave now to preserve my life?”
Emlyn had turned to fetch another dry cloth, and spun back to whip the towel into his face. It fell against his chest and sank into the water. “Certes, my lord, feel free to leave now. I shall haul open the gate for you myself!” She stepped away, intent on leaving him to his bath. He shot out his hand and grabbed her arm as she passed the tub.
“Hold, lady. I shall stay until my duty to the king has been properly discharged. And have you forgotten your duty to me?”
She looked down at him, her chest heaving. Heat rose in her cheeks, pink from the steaming she had given him. Her hair frilled wildly around her face and clung in damp curls to her neck. She knew she looked more like a serving wench than a noblewoman, and she hardly cared. If she did not squelch her anger soon, she would look like a hound from hell.
“Your wound will be tended,
my lord,” she said through her teeth. “Other than that, I have no duty to you.”
His grip on her arm was wet and warm, and he tightened it. “None, lady? A pity,” he murmured. “You fulfill your obligations so sweetly.” His tone oozed sarcasm.
She tried to wrench away, but succeeded only in splashing her fingers in the hot soapy water. “Would you cuckold your own father, then?” she asked.
His fingers pressed deep. “You have the tongue of an adder.”
“You have the heart of one. A man who would steal babes”—she pulled against his grip, her sleeve sopping.
He sat toward her, water cascading down his chest, lapping warm over her fingers. “This writ was not my doing, lady. We both are its victims.” Slowly, while he spoke, he ran a thumb along the line of her wrist to her palm. Shivers spiraled through her arm, into her breasts, and sank into her belly.
With a wordless exclamation, she tore away from him, and he let her go. “If you are done with your bath, there is a chamber robe on the bed,” she said haughtily, gesturing toward a garment of soft, pale wool that Jehanne had folded across the bed.
A loud rap on the door barely preceded Tibbie, who burst in before the sound had faded. “My lady,” she said breathlessly, “I have brought bandages and ointment.”
The baron gaped at Tibbie from his bath, and she scurried over to him. “Now, my lord, let me see yer head.”
“My what?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“Yer noggin, where my lady bashed ye.” She bent forward. Scooting the soaked towel carefully over his groin, he pointed with one finger toward the thigh wound, just visible below the surface of the water.
Tibbie gasped. “My lord! Lady Emlyn did that with a chess piece?”
“Nay, Tibbie,” Emlyn said. “With an arrow.” De Hawkwood cast her a quick frown, and she grimaced at him. “I will leave you two to deal with this. My part of the bargain is done, my lord. Your wound will be tended. Tibbie is a careful surgeon. Surely you would not want my hand upon you again this even.”
