The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Emlyn sighed. “I made the decision, however ill or blessed, to resist the marriage. There is nowhere else I can go. A woman alone ends with relatives or in a nunnery. And you know that Whitehawke will find me, sooner or later. I must give my life to God in order to save it, I think.”

  “It saddens me to think of ye like an old apple, shut away in that holy barrel. Ye should have a husband and many babes; I have seen yer loving ways with my own Elvi and Dirk. Prithee, my lady, do not hasten to this end.” Abandoning her gentle strokes, she tugged at a knot of hair impatiently.

  “Do you think I want this?” Emlyn said impatiently. “I have no other choice! My home is gone, I have no land, no wealth, no sure family. No man would wed such a poor prospect. So, the convent.”

  “My lady, there is one who would wed ye.”

  Emlyn laughed. “No soul on earth would take on Whitehawke for the sake of a penniless, landless woman.”

  “My lady, forgive me, but Thorne would have ye, I trow.”

  Emlyn turned to stare at Maisry, wet locks hanging unheeded in her eyes. “Thorne?”

  Maisry nodded and began to comb again. “Aelric and Thorne would shake my bones to hear it. But aye, Thorne would have ye to wife, and in faith, I trow ye’d be well suited to each other.”

  “Thorne would have me to wife?” Emlyn repeated, dumbfounded. In spite of her incredulity, something quickened inside her, as if her heart kept pace with a running step.

  “Would ye not have him, a good man, and handsome? My lady, as ye said, ye’ve no landed family, no coin or title, and who knows what fate brings for any of yer blood. But if ye married another man, the betrothal would be annulled by virtue of the greater vow, and ye’d have no need to retire to a convent.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Maisry, but Thorne would not—”

  “I believe he would, and gladly. Let not this cave worry ye. He has a bit of land, though I know not where. Aelric knows, I think. Thorne often goes away from here, traveling to that place.” Maisry put the comb down, and drew out the full length of Emlyn’s hair, shaking it gently. “Sit closer to the fire, my lady, and yer hair will dry, fluffed as a cloud.”

  Emlyn shifted over and turned her back to the fire, facing Maisry, who sat with her long sturdy legs curled beneath her skirts. “Has he spoken of this to you?” Emlyn asked.

  Maisry shook her head. “He has said naught. Yet I have seen him look at ye as if ye were a candle flame, and he a man in the dark.” At Emlyn’s stunned glance, Maisry held up a palm. “Aye. ’Tis yearning, and something else, as if ye trouble him. Mayhap his debt to ye weighs on his mind. He is a secretive man, and has ever kept to himself as long as I have known him. But he has need of a wife, I say.” Maisry nodded wisely to herself.

  “If he is so secretive, mayhap he is married already.”

  “Nay. Aelric knows more of him than I, and has never mentioned such to me.” Maisry leaned forward. “This is only what I think, and mayhap ye must forgive my foolish words, my lady. Likely Thorne and my husband would happily hang me for saying such.” She smiled. “Wait here a bit, and I will fill the buckets and heat the water for yer washing.” She got up as she spoke, and went out the doorway.

  Emlyn skimmed her fingers thoughtfully through her hair. Maisry’s suggestion was not unwelcome, she had to admit. Blessed saints, she thought fervently, I would rather spend my days with a kind husband who owned naught but a pallet in a cave, than in a castle with Whitehawke, or shut fast in a convent.

  She recalled the gentle way Thorne had held her while she cried. He had treated her more like a frightened little girl than a woman. She had needed that then, but she had wished, later, that he had shown his heart to her. He obviously had no such feelings for her as had quickened in her for him.

  Besides, a man who must live freely would not fix himself to a wife. She shook her head and shoved the hair from her eyes. Maisry should create love poetry in a noble court, with such imagination.

  Thorne possessed the qualities of a hero out of a roman de chevalerie, she thought, like Gui de Warwyck, or Bevis of Hampton or Havelok the Dane. Like them, he had beauty, strength, and courage. He had been gentle and chaste with her. And he had a strong, righteous sense of honor.

  But such men, she reminded herself coldly, existed only in stories, not in the hard, true world. She had been unable, after all, to convince him to play the bold knight and rescue her siblings from Hawksmoor. His logic had been like water on her fire. And then he had held her as if she were a babe.

  She sensed an intriguing depth within him, but a distance as well, as if his true self were protected behind a screen. Even if she could see behind that screen, mayhap his inner character would be dark. He was, after all, a bastard son of Whitehawke. Blood often ran true.

  Shifting about in front of the fire to dry the other side of her hair, she ran her fingers through the rippling strands, drying to the color of sunlight on gold. This much she knew: Thorne would never marry her, despite what Maisry thought. He would see her to the abbey and then disappear from her life. His debt to her was not that great, after all.

  Yet she felt as if he had tied silken strings to her heart, and each time she saw him, heard his voice, the strings pulled. Her heart thumped when he came near. She must have been a little in love with him since she was thirteen. Now that she had met him again, he was surely no disappointment to her. Surely she had yearning in her own eyes when she looked at Thorne.

  Sighing, she rested her arms on her upraised knees. ’Twas all a silly, fanciful dream. Best that she leave and go on to the abbey to meet whatever fate God had planned for her. She could not hide in this cave forever. If she stayed here longer, saw more of him, she feared her heart would hurt too much.

  * * *

  “By the saints. ’Tis longer than ye are tall.” Maisry laughed delightedly as Emlyn hoisted the longbow. “Well, tilt it, then. Mayhap if ye pull it up, ye’d clear the end of it out of the grass.”

  Tight-lipped with concentration, Emlyn lifted the bow and drew the string back until her arm ached and trembled. Aligning the arrow again when it slipped from the nock, Emlyn sighted the slender trunk of a birch tree, then released the arrow. It flew, rapid and sure, far past the target to sink, trembling, in a gorse bush. Emlyn chose another tree, a wide oak. Certes, she could hit this one. She nocked another arrow and lifted, fighting the wobble of a bow that was too long for her.

  “Oh! That squirrel will live to tell the tale, I trow,” Maisry said. “Look how it runs.”

  “That squirrel was in the way,” Emlyn said defensively. “It was hiding up there and got nicked.” Leaning against the bow, she rested a moment, and tossed her long, thick plaits back over her shoulders. She stood in a glowing shaft of sunlight that sparkled and poured through the leafy canopy. The surrounding forest floor was speckled with buttercups and bluebells and primroses, scattered among green ferns and grasses. She inhaled the spring fragrances, gloriously invigorated after more than a week shut in the cave, with its hazy fire and damp walls.

  Emlyn had cajoled and finally begged until Maisry had agreed that she could go out. Thorne’s cave was high above the dale, tucked in a fold at the base of a rocky cliff; she and Maisry, with the boys, had ventured down the wooded hillside that sloped away from the cave toward the bowl of the dale. They had stopped in this forested area near the valley.

  Adjusting the too-large leather glove that protected her hand, Emlyn lifted the heavy bow, nocked an arrow and drew the string taut. “See that oak limb, where two branches curl together? I shall aim at the trunk just below.”

  “Stay behind Lady Emlyn, boys,” Maisry cautioned. “Best we are not in front of her.” The boys scrambled well away.

  “Maisry,” Emlyn warned. “Hush.” She pulled and released.

  “Oh my! Ye nearly struck the thing.”

  “It was very close,” Emlyn agreed. “I think I am getting the feel of this handbow.”

  “Ye say ye’ve done this before?” Maisry aske
d doubtfully.

  “Aye, with a ladies’ bow at home,” Emlyn said. “Certes, I need more practice, and I’ve never tried a longbow. There were a few bows in Thorne’s storage room, but some were wrapped. This one was nearest the door, so I took it, with some arrows.” She nocked a third arrow, lifted, and shot. A slender leafy branch, high up, fluttered to the earth.

  “Well,” Maisry said wryly. “Ye did catch the tree then.”

  “Ho!” a voice called. Emlyn and Maisry turned to see Thorne and Aelric moving down the wooded slope behind them, bathed in cool green light.

  “What is this?” Thorne asked, lifting an eyebrow at Emlyn.

  Though she tried to smother it, she could not seem to stop the smile from bursting out as he came near. His eyes, as green as new oak leaves, twinkled at her. Then he lowered his eyebrows sternly. “Well? What do you outside, in plain sunlight? And with my longbow?” She thought a smile played at his lips, too.

  “I borrowed it, with some arrows, and a glove for my hand,” Emlyn said. “I pray you do not mind. Today I feel strong, and wanted to come out. Maisry and Dirk and little Elvi have been very encouraging,” she said, casting a look at Maisry.

  “Oh, aye, Lady Emlyn needed the air, surely. And if ye wait a bit, there’ll be something for the cooking pot,” Maisry said, smiling up at Thorne.

  “I saw. Acorn soup,” he said. Aelric and Dirk laughed, and Emlyn scowled a bit, blushing.

  Thorne pursed his lips, scratched his bearded chin idly, and then sighed. “Well, you would pursue this, so let us get it right, at least.” He turned to Aelric and murmured a few words. With a quick nod, Aelric spun and climbed back up the hill.

  Thorne took Dirk with him, stepping over soft tangles of undergrowth, to fetch the arrows already loosed. Emlyn and Maisry watched Elvi struggle to lift the big bow, laughing at his bravado, though they swooped together to stop him when he grabbed a handful of steel-barbed arrows from the quiver.

  In a few moments, Thorne and Dirk came back up the hill, and Aelric returned with another bow. He handed it to Emlyn.

  “Now, my lady,” Thorne said, “if you want to shoot, try a bow more your size. This one is a smaller hunting bow. I have not used it since I was a boy. I have been planning to give it to Dirk when he is a bit older.” Emlyn lifted the shorter bow, which was nearly as tall as she but easier to balance, and nocked the goose-feathered arrow he handed her. She lifted and aimed, all the while listening to his voice as he stood behind her.

  “Tilt it a bit—aye. Now draw back just to your chin. Well,” he said, touching the tip of her chin with the lightest fingertip caress, “the arrow is really too long for your short arm. Draw to here.” His fingertip brushed the corner of her jaw, just below her ear, and a shiver spiraled through her. As he took his finger away, she blushed again, feeling the heat in her cheeks and throat, and looked straight ahead.

  “Now pull—steadily, girl, don’t let it wobble away from you. Keep your bow arm straight. And lift your other elbow. Higher.”

  “She leans into the belly of the bow,” Aelric observed.

  “Aye, so,” Thorne agreed. “Turn your shoulders as if you were flat to a wall. Don’t lean into the space between the bow and the string.” She felt his fingers again, pulling back on her shoulders, kneading them a little. He ran his fingers lightly down her spine, lingering at her waist for a moment. “When you draw, keep your body straight but relaxed. And breathe,” he added. “Breathe in as you draw, and out as you release.”

  At his touch, such utterly pleasant shivers spread throughout her body that she had to make an effort to concentrate on his words. Then, trying to put his instructions to good use, Emlyn shot four arrows, one after the other, toward the same spot she had aimed at earlier. The fourth shaft grazed just past the trunk of the oak, closer than she had done yet.

  Applause greeted this effort. Emlyn, serious, nocked and lifted the bow, endeavoring to remember Thorne’s instructions.

  He stepped up behind her as she steadied her stance. “My lady,” he said at her ear, “this little bow shoots very sweetly. Just let your fingers slip off the string. Gentle as a breath. If you pluck too hard, the arrow will fly to one side or the other. Let it go smoothly, girl,” he murmured. “Sweetly.”

  She felt his warm fingers press her shoulder through the silken fabric of her gown. His breath feathered the hair at her brow for an instant, like a caress. She flicked a nervous glance at him. “Breathe with the shot,” he whispered, and stepped back.

  She breathed, and released the string as if it were a thread on the wind. The arrow chunked into the wood, very near her target, and stuck.

  She turned, pleased, to look at Thorne, and he nodded at her, smiling with a tiny lift of his lip. “An archer yet, she’ll be,” he said to Aelric. “There’ll be game meat for supper after all.”

  “Not this even, sirrah,” she retorted. “I can only hit a still target. A large, still target.”

  He grinned. “Sweetly, my girl, sweetly will do it,” he said.

  Maisry stepped up to Emlyn, Elvi held snug against one hip. “Sweet as honey, and the bee stuck fast,” she whispered. Emlyn’s eye popped open wide, and Maisry laughed, a delicate happy trill. “We must be going, my lady,” she said, “with all the preparations for the morrow to be done yet.”

  “The morrow?” Emlyn asked.

  “ ’Tis the first of May!” Dirk crowed. He had been lifted high onto his father’s shoulders. “We shall have games in the village, and lots of food, and girls will dance around the may tree. Not me,” he added, “only girls.”

  He grabbed two fistfuls of Aelric’s hair, and clucked as if his father were a great red-maned horse. Emlyn smiled and waved as they left. She turned to see Thorne standing with leggy ease, his longbow propped in one hand like a walking stick. He watched her evenly, his thoughts sheltered behind green eyes.

  “Well,” she said, “do you say a bow will shoot sweetly, then show me how ’tis done.”

  “I will, my lady. But first put on your cloak and hood.”

  “Why? ’Tis a warm, lovely day.”

  “Aye, but your hair is bright as a beacon fire. Better you were not out here at all. Lovely the greenwood may be, but ’tis dangerous for you.” He bent as he spoke, and chose an arrow from the quiver on the ground, hefting the shaft lightly in the palm of his hand. “That is, if you still desire to hide, and then go on to the abbey,” he added softly.

  Emlyn put her green cloak over her blue silk gown, fastened the brooch to close it snug, and pulled her hood up. From a distance, better she looked like a pillar of moss than glinting gold. And though a part of her wanted to stay in the forest with Thorne, she lifted her chin with a decisiveness she did not truly feel, and answered him. “Certes, I wish to go on to the abbey.”

  “Then I shall take you there tomorrow,” he said, his back to her. “Do you like primroses?”

  He straightened suddenly, nocking the arrow and drawing the string, one fluid and graceful motion, quick as the lift of a hawk’s wing. Emlyn barely marked the aim and draw before she saw the bolt arc high, skim through the trees, and sail down.

  “Where did it go?” she asked.

  “Where I meant it,” he said. “There.” He pointed. Between two birch trees, over two hundred feet away, gray goose feathers trembled deep in the center of a cluster of yellow primroses that cascaded over a fallen tree.

  Emlyn laughed, shouldered her bow, and picked up her skirts to run down the slight incline toward the landed arrow. She heard Thorne running behind her, and she laughed breathlessly, the first to halt at the fallen tree.

  Reaching for the arrow at the same moment, their hands touched around the slender shaft, deep in the soft blossoms. Thorne drew the arrow out, and small yellow petals scattered at Emlyn’s feet. She lifted her eyes to his, and slowly slipped her fingers from the arrow shaft, giving it up to him.

  His eyes were as green as the cloak she wore, his hair and beard as dark, in this shaded part of the wo
od, as raven feathers. A memory flashed through her mind, of pulling the bloody shaft from Nicholas de Hawkwood’s thigh, his hand together with hers.

  In spite of Thorne’s eerie resemblance to the baron, she quickly dismissed the thought. This warm, gentle man was completely different from his hard-edged half-brother. The look he gave her, piercing yet apprehensive, stopped her heart, and an odd tingle began in the core of her belly. Her breathlessness was not from running, now. She leaned in toward him.

  Thorne plucked a primrose, sun-bright and fragrant, and touched it to her cheek. She put up a hand to take its damp softness into her fingers, still looking up at him.

  Suddenly he raised his head and looked to the side. Then he grabbed her shoulders and dragged her to her knees, going down with her. She gave out a little huff of surprise as he threw her onto the ground beside the fallen log and landed heavily on top of her. What little air she had left went out of her like a squashed wine bladder.

  “Sirrah—” She panted, pushing at him, shocked by his aggressiveness, “I am a modest woman—”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed the length of his torso, solid and hard, over hers, one knee between her legs. “Your virtue is safe,” he muttered in her ear. “Hush.” His short beard tickled her cheek, and the leather of his hauberk pressed against her neck. They waited, silent, breathing in tandem after a few moments, their bodies accepting and adjusting to the contour and swell of hips and legs and torsos.

  Emlyn, curled beneath him, heard the faint pounding of hoofbeats in the greenwood. Thorne lifted his head to look, and she struggled to see as well, but he held her down. Silently, his eyes warned her to freeze her movements.

  The creaking and thumping noises of several horsemen came alarmingly close and seemed to last a long time. Thorne’s hand covered her mouth and jaw firmly, and his breath was gentle beside her ear. She smelled wood smoke and leather, and the sweet trace of crushed primroses on his fingers. Watching the subtle pulse in his throat, she sensed the vital rhythm of his heart.