by Susan King
“If he appeals the betrothal to the Pope, ’twill be months before an answer is received. You need a quicker solution.”
She shrugged. “Whatever I do will bring the wrath of Whitehawke on myself and my family. King John’s anger as well, I vow.” She shook her head slowly. “Mayhap ’twere better I had gone back to Chavant when he first searched for me.”
“When I found you, my lady, you had a head injury,” Thorne reminded her. “You could not have gone back then.”
“But—wellaway, what is the use. The dye is set, the cloth is colored and cannot be undone. I have followed my heart in making this choice to go to my uncle.” She picked at the folds of her cloak as she spoke. “My nurse Tibbie always says ’tis not in my nature to think, but to rush on, heart before head. Once again I have acted without careful thought.”
Thorne sat up and tossed the last of his bread onto a far rock, where several small birds alighted to peck. “What is the wise choice here, my lady? Is it wise to marry a man known for his cruelty? Such a marriage would be like prison, or worse.”
He turned and looked at her. “The wiser choice is to flee, as you do. You can better help your family from a position of greater safety. You protest an unfair order, even though it came from the king. ’Tis bravery I see in that, not unwisdom.”
Emlyn listened, her head bowed. “ ’Tis you who have ever been the courageous one. You once went in protest against an unfair lord. And you do it still, as the Green Man.” She looked up. “Maisry told me.”
He nodded and did not seem to mind that she knew. “Those years ago, the lad you remember flew in Whitehawke’s face as mean as any demon, with the fullblown anger of youth.” He shook his head. “Heart, as you say. Not head. Not bravery, my lady.”
“What of now—the Green Man?”
“That venture is out of necessity rather than valor.” He smiled and touched her arm, pressing it gently, eliciting in her little shivers of warmth. “Be proud that you have the spirit to reject the king’s orders,” he said. “Right now, many barons do the same. King John has insulted and threatened and endangered his subjects, and will receive his due, I think. You rebel in your way against the king, just as his barons rebel.”
“I have heard of this dispute between the barons and the king. I did not know that the king could be overthrown.”
He withdrew his hand, and Emlyn immediately missed the penetrating heat of his touch. His voice became harder suddenly, and the edge sent a chill up Emlyn’s spine. “Not overthrown, my lady, but controlled. King John’s extravagances and cruelties must be—will be—curtailed. He must comply to the law, just as any subject of England must do.”
“Can a few barons force this to happen?”
“More than a few. There is support from most of the northern barons and the younger barons throughout England as well. Lately some of those who have been most loyal to the king have promised to stand against him.”
“Then this will happen for certain?”
He nodded. “They already gather in London en masse. There may be an attempt to siege London and begin civil war. Better, I think, to convince King John to honor the old laws of Henry the First. Then the king’s signature is needed on a similar charter, rewritten to address current and future needs.”
“I have heard of these old laws,” she said. “My brother spoke of them, and my father once said that if the old charter were to be resurrected, King John would not be able to carry on in the manner that he has.” She sat up suddenly, catching her breath. “Thorne—if the king agrees to these demands, will his previous misdeeds be annulled? Will retribution be made?”
“The barons will demand many changes, my lady. They mean to stop King John’s methods of gaining revenue through ransom and kidnapping and imprisonment. Some retribution should be made to those—such as your family—made homeless and destitute by the king’s actions.”
“Then he will make up for the deeds he has committed?”
“Lives lost cannot be replaced, but estates and monies can be repaid, at least in part, to heirs. The barons intend to define these rights, so that John can no longer wield such abusive power over his subjects. There will be mention made, as well, of the plight of women, widows, and those forced to marry against their will.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
She furrowed her brow, thinking. “If a charter of liberties comes about, all could be made right for my family.” She looked up at him, a new hope blooming inside her. Perhaps she had only to bide her time and wait for the barons to do their work. “Thorne, could this happen?”
“The charter is very possible,” he answered in a careful tone. “A confrontation is bound to occur soon. By high summer, or autumn, there could be new laws in effect.”
Emlyn sighed happily, hugging her knees to her chest as she perched at the edge of the rock. “We will be back in Ashbourne by autumn, or by winter at the very least!”
He put up the palm of his hand. “Nay, slow, my lady. King John is unpredictable. Even if he signs a charter, he may not keep his word.”
“But he would have to obey his own charter! He might well retract the writ regarding my family. Guy will be free, the children will be returned, and my betrothal to Whitehawke will be dissolved.” She smiled brightly at him, elated.
Thorne sighed. “ ’Tis possible that amends could be offered,” he said slowly. “But I do not think it likely. Do not forget Whitehawke in this. He is a trusted favorite of the king, and does not support the barons’ cause. Whitehawke gets what he wants, laws or no.” Thorne leaned toward her. “Even if you cloister yourself, he could force you to wed him.”
Emlyn frowned. “Even if I go to my uncle and the protection of the Church, Whitehawke could still marry me if he chose?”
“He can claim that right.” He leaned very close; she had never seen lashes so thick and black, eyes so green.
“But there must be some way to undo that.”
He looked at her for a long time. “There is but one.”
Emlyn sat curled on the warm face of the rock, hearing, as if in a dream, the hissing waterfall and lapping of the pool, and the high chirp of birds nesting nearby. “Tell me,” she said.
“If you married another before Whitehawke found you, he would then have no legal power over you.” His voice was deep and low, thrumming in her ear over the soft rumble of the falls.
“How could such a marriage be valid?” she asked, her heart beating heavily in her chest.
A splash of colored deepened in Thorne’s cheek as he glanced away. “To the Church, a marriage vow is stronger than a betrothal pact, however it is created.” When he looked back, his eyes were the gray-green of a thundercloud before a storm.
Every pulse of her heart throbbed throughout her body as she returned his gaze. Thorne could wed her and annul the betrothal. The words hung unspoken in the air between them.
She lowered her gaze to the calm pool, feeling foolish for wanting him to offer. His rejection of the other evening still confused and hurt her, and she felt increasingly angry and unhappy over her hopeless situation. Her temper suddenly flared.
“Speak no more of these impossibilities!” she burst out. “Think you I know of some convenient suitor? Where is the man who offered to my father for me years ago? I know not, and neither do you!” She was on her feet now, shouting at him, her frustration of the past weeks finding a vent. “I have no choice but to follow my sister into the convent! Leave me be on this!” She jerked up her pack and stalked off toward the path.
Jumping to his feet, he grabbed her arm and yanked her backward, slamming her to his chest, crushing her breasts against his leather hauberk as he held her firmly by her upper arms. She pushed at him, near to sobbing with anger.
“I cannot leave it be so easily,” he said, his face close to hers. “I will marry with you.”
She blinked up at him. “You?” she echoed dumbly. Her heart nearly jumped out from between her ribs. “You would?”
“Aye, I would,”
he said. His eyes gleamed with a tempestuous light. “Unless you would have none of a forester.”
A host of reasons to wed him flashed fervently and incoherently through her mind. Unbidden, reasons why she should be cautious followed. She swallowed hard, and looked at him.
She had not seen Thorne angry before. His iron grip and his narrowed eyes alarmed her, reminding her of his half-brother Nicholas, and then of the cruel father they shared. Thorne’s strong resemblance to the cold baron, and his anger with her now, touched off the rest of her temper.
“Do you think to fill your vow to my father this way? Or have you found a new way to attack Whitehawke?” The moment the words were out she regretted them.
His nostrils flared above the black hairs of his mustache. Then he pulled her even closer, dipping his head to cover her mouth with his, wrenching her head back, kissing her with none of the gentleness he had shown that night on the crag. Her body responded, though her mind was numb, and she opened her lips to his searching tongue. She felt the heated hard center of his body press against her. When a melting, dissolving sensation began in her body, with it went all coherent thought.
He suddenly pulled back, leaving her breathless and staring up at him with wide eyes. “The offer is made, my lady,” he said curtly. “You have until Wistonbury’s front gate to think it over.” He dropped her arms and leaned over to pick up his bow and quiver. Then he sauntered past her toward the upward path.
They headed toward the river that flowed far in the distance, silver sparks glinting off its surface. To the right, a wide stream flowed back to the gorge; these waters spilled over the cliff edge to form the waterfall. Thorne turned toward the stream, across which lay a moor that met, at a lower point, the river that would bring them to the abbey.
Chuckling and flowing incessantly around rocks and stones, the stream followed a winding course back toward the edge of the gorge. Ferns, grasses, and slender trees hugged the edges of the beck, shading the streambed with a cool green curtain.
Thorne, his face obscured deep in his hood, stepped onto a rock covered with a scant washing of water. He began to cross, pausing briefly to gesture her onward. From his position in the middle of the gurgling stream, he could hear no other sound.
Emlyn glowered at his back, her mind still whirling from his angry proposal and heated kiss. Placing one foot carefully on the slippery stone, she raised her head, alerted by some indistinct noise that did not naturally belong to the trill and burble of the water. Shrugging, hearing nothing else amiss, she stepped down, wincing at the cold water that seeped into her thin leather boots and sucked at her hem. She lifted her skirts above the water.
Thorne had reached the far bank and she was climbing up when the first piercing shout rattled over the sound of the stream.
“Ho! You there! Stop!” Emlyn whipped her head around. From the side where she had begun to cross, three horsemen rode quickly toward the bank, wearing russet surcoats.
“Lady Emlyn de Ashbourne! Halt where you are!” one of them called. She recognized Gerard, one of the men in Chavant’s escort, by the deep gravelly thickness of his voice.
Thorne turned, his feet slanted on the incline of the other bank, and nocked an arrow in his longbow in the instant it took for Gerard to shout. He raised the bow and pulled the string tight just as Gerard stepped his horse down into the stream.
“Come, Lady Emlyn!” Gerard called. Emlyn paused, stunned and alarmed. She saw Thorne set his legs wide, his eyes fierce. His extended arms held the longbow in a deadly still aim.
“Leave the girl!” Thorne warned in a clear voice.
“Leave you to the devil!” Gerard growled. In his hand, a crossbow gleamed as he raised it above the level of his horse’s head. A shot tore out, just missing Thorne, who barely flinched.
“When I shoot, serjeant, I shall not miss,” he said low.
In an instant, the other riders—Emlyn recognized Robert and the one called Etienne—urged their mounts down into the stream.
Emlyn whirled to cross to the opposite bank, but realized that would lead them straight to Thorne. Instead, she ran downstream, splashing through the center of the shallow water, away from Thorne and the guards. Launching their horses forward, the guards followed her, churning noisily through the water.
The water reached only to her shins at the deepest point, and she held her skirts up, running with a fast, open stride. The leather satchel smacked rhythmically against her back, and wet hems slapped her legs. Rocks and pebbles in the streambed stung through the thin soles of her boots, but she ran on.
From the corner of her vision she saw Thorne on the bank, running alongside the stream, bow in hand. He shouted to her, but she could not hear him over her own loud breathing and the noisy splashing and pounding of the horses close behind her.
A hand clamped on her shoulder, slid off, and then grasped one of her thick, heavy braids. A ferocious pull nearly yanked her off her feet.
Stumbling, she struggled to keep from falling. Her knee struck a rock and she straightened, trapped by her braid. Pain burned through her scalp and her neck twisted as Robert pulled hard, dragging her toward his horse. Her linen headpiece came loose and floated into the stream.
Whirring past her head, an arrow slammed into the guard’s chest. He cried out, dropping her braid as he fell from his horse. Emlyn lurched away, slipping and rising again, to run downstream. Gerard shouted for her to halt. She glanced back to see one guard lying facedown in the stream, and Etienne and Gerard still in pursuit of her.
One of them closed in, roaring at her to stop, reaching out just as the other man had done. An arrow caught him in the upper arm, and he screamed and pulled back. Another whine sliced the air by her head as a crossbow quarrel pierced the muddy bank. The bolt was meant for Thorne. She whipped her head around to look for him.
Behind a cluster of birches at the edge of the beck, Thorne ran parallel to her panicked downstream course.
“To the bank!” his words floated to her. “Run to the bank!”
Angling left, she dashed through cold, swirling water and over sharp slippery stones to reach the edge of the stream. She heard a horseman in pursuit. Another bolt slammed into the bank, splitting the gnarled root of a tree close to her foot as she scrambled up the embankment toward Thorne.
He reached for her hand and hauled her up beside him, turning to drag her with him. Not far ahead, the grassy bank ended abruptly as the stream poured over the cliff. Thorne and Emlyn neared the edge, skidded, stopped, and turned in unison, breathing hard.
The guards advanced at a leisurely, threatening walk, seeing that the runners were trapped. Thorne put his arm around her shoulders and stepped back a little, urging her with him as the horses came closer. Glancing nervously behind her, Emlyn saw only air and white spray, and heard the ferocious noise of the falls.
Below, the beck disappeared into a rushing, thundering mist. Grass and heathery blooms curled over the edge of the break. Emlyn looked at Thorne, who stood with the heels of his boots bouncing partly in thin air. He slid a glance at her, and she thought he jerked his head slightly. Nay, he could not mean it.
The men stopped their horses. Blood dripped from a wound above Etienne’s elbow, congealing on his steel sleeve.
“So, bastard, you are the one who has taken Lord Whitehawke’s betrothed,” Gerard said.
“Serjeant,” Thorne said, “the lady sought escape of her own will.” Breathing like a small bellows, Emlyn stood beside him, held close in the circle of his arm, watching the guards warily.
“She is glad enough to be rescued now, I think.” Gerard extended his gauntleted hand toward her. “My lady. Whitehawke will be greatly relieved to have you safe again.”
Thorne squeezed her shoulder. She glanced up at him, and he tilted his head again, subtly, toward the cliff. She blinked. He meant for her to jump. She gaped at him.
“Lady Emlyn,” Gerard growled. Emlyn looked nervously up at the guard, then back to Thorne.
Thorne murmured something that sounded like “now.” His grip shifted to her waist and he stepped back over the cliffside, taking Emlyn with him.
Chapter Eleven
An instant later her feet hit a hard surface, jarring her ankles and slamming her forward onto her knees. She felt as if her stomach had flipped into her mouth. The leather satchel whacked against her, throwing off her precarious balance. Only Thorne’s iron grip on her waist kept her from pitching backward over the lip of the rock.
“God on high, what are you doing?” she hissed.
“Saving us both. Can you climb down from here?”
They hunched on a wide ledge of rock about four feet below the cliff edge, high up on the gorge wall, barely a body length from the water that arched and roared over the edge. The spray hit her face like soft wet needles and blew loosened hair wildly about her face. Emlyn peered down and squeaked in dismay.
Lichen-covered rocks jutted out at odd, sharp angles, tumbling down to form one toothy greenish wall of the gorge. To one side, Mercie’s force poured with a steady, muffled rumble over the rocks, plunging down to the deep pool. Above, shouts came as the guards dismounted and ran toward the cliff edge.
She took a deep breath. Once she was oriented, the height lost some of its threat. The inclined wall of the gorge did not appear to be even as high as the mural towers at Ashbourne. Moss-covered ledges would provide plenty of niches for climbing, and the slope of the escarpment would make the descent manageable. Besides, she thought, what else was left to do?
Gulping, she nodded. “Aye, I can climb down.”
“Brave girl. Come ahead.” He slid his legs and torso over the rock edge, grasping it near her toes. His feet found a sturdy support and he let go, dropping beneath her.
He looked up. “Now you.” One of the guards screamed incoherently. “Do not listen to them, only to me,” Thorne said.
She dropped down and slid, half falling to the ledge he was crouched on. He clambered down again, and she followed.
Slowly, they worked their way down the slick incline. Emlyn watched where Thorne placed his hands and feet, and then climbed after him, listening to his continued words of encouragement, carefully testing before she put her weight on any rock, her way a little altered from his because of her shorter arms and legs.
