The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  “I do not remember much of last night when your husband rescued me,” Emlyn replied.

  Maisry stared at her for a moment. “My lady, ’twas not my husband who found ye. Thorne did, and tended to ye himself until this morn, when he came to our farm and asked me to come up here. We have been here since midday. Ye’ve slept the day near round. ’Tis after dusk.”

  Emlyn blinked, trying to absorb all of this. Pungent smoke from the fire stung her eyes, then cleared as a draft of chill air wafted from a far corner of the room. She wiped at her bleary vision, dimly aware of a pounding headache.

  “Are you not Thorne’s wife, then?” she asked, puzzled, too tired to sort it out. Somehow she had slept through a full day. Thorne must have taken care of her last night, and must have removed her clothing. She blushed, remembering naught beyond his warm, strong arms and his low, comforting voice in her ear.

  “Oh, nay. My husband is Aelric of Shepherdsgate. We live just beyond Kernham—that’s the nearest village in the dale. Aelric is a sheep farmer,” Maisry added, stroking Dirk’s red hair. The woman’s hands were smooth, slim-fingered, and graceful. She looked quizzically at Emlyn. “Poor dearling, ye’ve the headache, I know. Let me fetch ye a drink.” Maisry went over to a shelf, a natural niche in the stone wall. Choosing a cup from among the few wooden dishes on the shelf, she bent to scoop water from a wooden bucket.

  Emlyn glanced around the room. In the middle of the hard-packed dirt floor, the fire blazed and crackled in a confining circle of round stones. The walls were dark and shiny, without windows, the ceiling low and curved. A bench, a chest, and a few wooden stools were placed about the room. The doorway was beyond a crude-cut corner, where she saw the fluttering edge of a dark curtain. Emlyn realized that the chamber was actually a cave.

  Returning to where Emlyn lay on the fur-covered pallet, Maisry knelt and offered her the water, which was cool and tasted slightly of the old bucket. Emlyn swallowed and winced at the pain that jumped in her temple.

  “ ’Tis a deep bruise, my lady. Now that yer awake, I shall tend it with an ointment, but first, surely ye’d like to dress.” She turned to her sons. “Dirk, you may share an apple with Elvi. Mind he does not eat the seeds nor skin, and play yonder.” The children settled down in a corner with a small pile of wooden men, with which they proceeded to stage a noisy battle. Maisry fetched Emlyn’s chemise and hose and silken gown, water-streaked and rumpled, but dry and warm. Emlyn dressed, then sank weakly down on the soft furs.

  “If you have any mint, or chamomile, I could prepare an infusion for this headache,” Emlyn said.

  “I have brought some herbs with me. First let me fold up the fur, so,” Maisry said, reaching over to roll a coverlet into a fat cushion. “Rest here, my lady, and when I have seen to supper, I will see to ye.”

  Emlyn leaned back, the fur warm and yielding at her back. Maisry moved efficiently around the cave, feeding the flames until they burned brightly, setting water to boil in a small iron pot, and stirring the contents of a larger kettle that had been simmering, suspended on an iron rod, over the hearth. Then she disappeared through a low passageway at the back of the main chamber, and returned with a large jug and a small wineskin. Setting them on the low bench, she arranged loaves of dark bread and a wheel of pale cheese and covered those with a cloth.

  When all was ready for supper, Maisry set a round basket on the floor beside Emlyn and sat down again, removing an assortment of small cloth bags and a fat clay jar from the basket.

  “How did ye hurt yer head, my lady?”

  “I fell from my horse and he kicked at me,” she said.

  Maisry nodded and pressed against Emlyn’s bruised, swollen temple with gentle fingers, then probed her skull with both hands. “Thorne asked me to come up here, as I know some healing. He was mickle worried about ye, my lady. Even a little frantic, he were, insisting that I come soon, for he could not wake ye. But ’twas a natural, exhausted sleep ye were in, poor chick.”

  Emlyn listened drowsily, relaxing almost immediately under Maisry’s soothing touch, light as an angel’s caress. Though the bruise smarted, a subtle heat from the woman’s hands seemed to ease the pain and draw it away.

  Maisry sat back on her heels and sifted among the little bags, plucked a few and set them aside. “Ye’ve a goose egg, my lady, that must pain ye dearly. I will make a soothing hot infusion to drink, which will relieve the ache and reduce the swelling. But first, a little greeny ointment.”

  Maisry opened the clay jar and scooped two fingers into the contents. “I make it from elder leaves mostly, and a little walnut and almond oil. ’Tis messy, but helpful for such bruises. I have an herbal shampoo for ye to use, but ye must not wash yer head for a few days.” She smeared the slick, bright green stuff on the side of Emlyn’s temple.

  Dirk laughed at the sight from his perch by the fire, Elvi laughed because his brother did, and Emlyn grinned at both. “You are a knowledgeable healer, Maisry,” she said.

  “ ’Tis a gift the Lord has given me, I suppose. Many come to me, though they bring their animals as often as their families.” She laughed lightly. “Whatever the Lord wants me to heal, I try my best. My granddam taught me much of the old ways, herbs and plants and such, and I have learned some on my own.” She finished applying the ointment and wiped her hands on a cloth.

  Sorting through the little cloth bundles, Maisry sprinkled a few dried herbs into a square of cloth, and dropped the bundle into water boiling in a second, smaller kettle.

  “Do you know Thorne well?” Emlyn asked.

  “Aye, though he keeps much to himself and is gone for long stretches of time. He’s a forest-reeve here, and reports to the monks who own this land.”

  “Have you known him long?”

  Maisry nodded. “Oh aye.” Stirring the infusion, she poured the hot brew into a cup and handed it to Emlyn.

  Sipping carefully, Emlyn discovered a pleasant minty taste with a hint of chamomile and other herbs she could not identify. She leaned back, holding the hot wooden cup.

  Maisry sat near Emlyn. “Eight years ago, Aelric found Thorne out on the moors, near dead with an arrow that had pierced his lung. He was badly then, badly.” She shook her head at the memory. “For weeks we knew not if he would live or die, though I did my best, and prayed night and day for him. He stayed with us a long time, recovering from his weakness, and hiding.”

  “You know who he was, then?” Emlyn asked carefully.

  Maisry narrowed her eyes. “Aye,” she said slowly. “Do ye, my lady?”

  “My father had given him aid that night. At first we thought him safe away, but then my father heard the rumor that he had died that night.” Emlyn glanced at Maisry.

  Maisry nodded. “So yer the one,” she said softly. “He did say, this morn, that he owed ye a debt. We helped to put about the rumor of his death—he asked us to do that for him. He stayed with us till he was stronger, and we told folks he was a cousin of mine. When he left, we heard little from him for years, though he has come and gone frequently in the past two years. But in all that time, we have never wanted for anything.” She laughed. “He has given us coin and stores and shown us countless kindnesses. We’ve been repaid many times over. He’s a good man, is Thorne, with an honorable heart. He takes a debt seriously. If he owes ye aught, he will make it good, my lady.”

  “He saved me last night. ’Tis enough.”

  “Likely not enough in his eyes,” Maisry said. “He does not forget. But better old debts than old grudges, as they say.”

  She went over to stir the contents of the steaming black pot, and in a few minutes, Emlyn was served a bowl of hot savory soup, thick slices of bread and cheese, and a small cup of mead from the wineskin. She ate hungrily, dipping chunks of bread to scoop up vegetables and broth. The cheese was mild and moist, and the mead burned sweetly in her throat.

  Maisry gave the children their dinner, and then ate a little herself. When they were finished, she cleaned up the few dishes by wip
ing them with a damp cloth, and sat by the fireside to croon a soft song to the boys. Lulled by the song, Emlyn relaxed against the deep, soft furs and soon dozed.

  “Aelric!” Maisry’s exclamation startled Emlyn awake, and she struggled to sit up. The man who had entered the cave was very tall and heavyset, dressed in cloak, tunic, and braies in shades of brown. A startlingly red and wiry mass of hair stood out from his head and a matching beard covered most of his face.

  Maisry hastened to his side, and Dirk bounced nearby until Aelric bent to swing him up in the crook of his arm. When Maisry introduced her husband to Emlyn, he nodded shyly at her across the bright hearth. She smiled, but her attention was caught by the other man who entered the cave just then.

  Thorne smiled warmly at Maisry and Dirk, murmuring a greeting in the casual manner of those who are well-acquainted. Though he glanced over at Emlyn almost as soon as he came in, he leaned toward Maisry, softly questioning her and listening intently to her answers.

  Emlyn watched him, fascinated. Her vague childhood memory agreed well enough with his appearance. He was tall, though not nearly as tall and broad as Aelric. His long, slender legs were encased in dark wool braies, and leather boots wrapped with thongs to the knee. His torso was long, narrow at the hips, his shoulders wide and square. He was clothed in a leather jerkin studded with metal rings, worn over a brown tunic, the hem of which swung just above his knees. A green hooded cowl, pushed back, framed his shadowed face, with its short, thick beard. Dark hair waved past his shoulders.

  Nodding to Maisry, he walked toward Emlyn with a graceful swinging stride. Her heart beat a rapid patter as she nervously craned her head up to look at him. Firelight illumined his face and chest in red and gold as he looked down at her, revealing an aquiline nose and dark brows slashed straight over his eyes.

  “Greetings, my lady,” he said, and squatted down beside her.

  As he tipped up the corner of his lip in a half smile, she saw that his heavily lashed eyes were of some medium color, but whether green or blue or gray, she could not be sure in the firelight. He was handsome, almost beautiful in a wild, dark, tangled way. Emlyn was aware that each movement, each expression, seemed to emanate strong masculine power, with an underlying reserved gentleness.

  After all these years, she thought, here was Thorne, with her. Realizing that she stared at him with her mouth open, she snapped it shut.

  “I see that Maisry has treated your injury,” he commented. Emlyn raised her hand to her head, suddenly self-conscious of the unattractive green slime that coated one side of her face.

  Reaching over, he pushed her hand down, his fingers dry and cool. “Nay, my lady, let it be.” Long fingers grazing her skin, he slowly lifted the heavy mass of her loosened braid away from the side of her face. A few golden strands clung to her cheek, and he combed them back. Tiny shivers traveled along her throat and into her belly at his light touch. Some image or feeling, like a vague memory, flashed in her mind and was quickly gone.

  “Keep your hair out of the way, or ’twill be bright green, especially as pale and fine as ’tis. We’ve all had a coating of Maisry’s greeny ointment at one time or another.” He smiled again, a curious tilt of one side of his mouth, half obscured by the black mustache and beard. His voice was deep and gentle.

  Sitting, he leaned back against the wall, one leg drawn up, his arm casually draped over the raised knee. Maisry handed him a bowl and a hunk of bread, and then a moment later returned with a cup brimming with ale. He thanked her and ate. Emlyn watched him, and when he caught her glance, she flicked her eyes away, embarrassed. Aelric ate also, seated on the floor opposite the fire, with Maisry and Dirk beside him. Elvi snored softly, curled on a pile of furs nearby.

  Thorne swallowed a long draught of ale and dangled the wooden cup between finger and thumb, swirling it for a moment.

  “What do you recall of last night?” he asked, looking directly at Emlyn, his black-fringed eyes piercing. Elongated light and shadow played across his face.

  Emlyn squinted at him. Her head had begun to ache again, and her thoughts were as vague and smoky as the little fire. “I remember little,” she answered. “I am lacking in my wits right now, so I ask your pardon.”

  “ ’Tis no wonder, my lady,” he murmured. “You were near frozen and sick with a head wound when I found you.”

  Swallowing a little more of Maisry’s lukewarm infusion, she was not at all certain that her fragmented thoughts and nervousness were caused by the blow to her head. Thorne’s presence beside her made her feel breathless and dizzy, as if she had been spinning wildly. Blushing furiously at the hazy memory of being gathered cozily into his arms, she sat up. “I saw—or dreamt I saw—the Green Man. My horse bucked in fright, I fell, and ran from the creature. Then you found me. I remember hearing your name. After that—” she shrugged.

  “You passed out on my shoulder soon enough,” he said. “And the Green Man is a legend, my lady,” he added, sounding amused. “I heard some perplexing noises and went looking, expecting some trapped or injured animal. Instead I discovered a wet and cold girl clinging to a tree.”

  She opened her mouth to affirm that she had indeed seen some forest creature, but he reached out a hand to tip her chin up and tilted her head gently toward the firelight. “Tell me, Lady Emlyn, why you were in the forest last night.” There was a subtle tension in his voice.

  “Tell me, sir, how you know my name,” she said.

  He stroked her cheek lightly with his thumb and she shivered inside, waiting to hear his answer. “We met, years ago, you and I,” he said softly.

  “Aye,” she whispered, her heart beating fast, “I know.”

  After a moment, he withdrew the warm comfort of his hand and stretched out one leg, his toes nearly touching the firestones, and raised the other knee, resting his hand there. “Now, my lady,” he said, “we must talk. We can openly speak of your situation here. Aelric and Maisry are my trusted friends.”

  Maisry leaned forward and spoke quietly to Dirk. He nodded and went to lay down beside Elvi. Aelric waited until the boy had closed his eyes, then spoke, his voice a low rumble. “There were soldiers near Kernham today. They were asking after Lady Emlyn.” He glanced briefly at Thorne. “When they stopped at the field where I was plowing, I told them nay, I had seen no one. They warned me to speak no lies.”

  “What did they look like?” Emlyn asked.

  “Four of them, armored, in the rust-colored cloaks of Whitehawke’s men.”

  “You recognize Whitehawke’s men?” Emlyn asked.

  “The earl is well known in this dale, my lady,” Aelric said. “We are not far from Hawksmoor where his son is baron. Besides, Whitehawke covets this land.”

  “This is the dale that he claims?” She remembered her earlier conversation with Chavant concerning the land dispute that had set Thorne against the earl.

  “Lord Whitehawke has argued for years with Wistonbury Abbey and with Bolton Abbey over the rights to the dale,” Thorne told her. “Though the monasteries are both south along the river, the monks own much land here, thousands of acres, good land. They have tenanted farms and vast herds of sheep. Lord Whitehawke claims that the whole area originally belonged to his wife and is now his, including the farms, the herds, and all the profits as well. Lately he has sent workers to begin the foundation of a castle at the upper end of the dale.”

  “Aelric and I farm a parcel of the land for Wistonbury, and we raise sheep in agreement with the abbot,” Maisry added. “Our living comes from what extra we produce on the farm, and a portion of the sheep. The monks, being our overlord, take produce from the farms and make a very good income from the wool each year. ’Tis most of their income, the wool, y’see.”

  “Has Whitehawke brought his claim before the king?”

  “Aye,” Thorne answered her. “Whitehawke has hounded the king about the matter for years, but so far the court has reached no decision. The verdict must involve the Pope because part of the land is ch
urch property. The case has been delayed because King John and the Pope cannot agree well on any matter.”

  “What of his son, the Baron of Hawksmoor? Does he support his father’s claim?”

  “The baron has so far done naught,” Aelric said.

  “But his lands are nearest the dale,” Emlyn commented.

  Aelric shifted his large, muscular body and thoughtfully sipped his ale. “Aye, Hawksmoor is a few miles north of here, but ’tis across a river, and well away from the center of the dale, where most of the sheep roam. So far, the baron does naught for or against the claim, though ’twill be his dispute should his father die before ’tis settled.”

  “So, aye, my lady, we do recognize the livery of Whitehawke here,” Thorne said.

  Maisry leaned forward. “Why were you alone and lost in the wood, my lady, and why do you hide from Whitehawke’s men?”

  Emlyn looked around at them, her eyes huge in her pale face. Aelric and Maisry waited patiently for an answer, their faces, reflecting the golden firelight, open and honest. There was a sense of acceptance, of quiet friendship offered her within the firelit circle. Shyly, she glanced at Thorne. He watched her steadily. Such calm strength radiated from his gaze that she felt oddly safe and protected near him. Closing her eyes for a moment, she sent a quick prayer heavenward. Wanting very much to trust these people, she also greatly needed aid.

  “I think,” she said carefully, “that you do not care much for Whitehawke, and so I trust that you would not give me away to him.” She shifted and sat upright, and explained to them the circumstances of her betrothal, and then told of the escort’s calamitous encounter in the fog. “When the Green Man appeared beside our path, I ran, and got lost. The man who sends guards after me is Baron Hugh de Chavant.”

  “Why did you run, my lady?” Maisry asked.

  “Such betrothals are decreed wrong and sinful by the Church, though men persist in forcing marriages. Whitehawke is said to be very cruel, and I cannot in good conscience marry him. So my only choice is to flee.” Emlyn looked from one intent face to the next. “I have decided to give myself to God.”