The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Though the hall was pleasantly cool for late spring, the heat of the fire and sunlight made this end of the chamber quite warm. Emlyn, stifling in her close-fitting headgear and heavy woolen gown, had no wish to stand near the hearth. She paused next to Godwin, glancing curiously at the countess.

  Lady Julian wore a black wool gown that was enlivened only by a long rosary of red jasper and ivory. A white headdress swathed her forehead and chin, and the delicate transparency of her skin showed only a trace of aging. Barely middle-aged, still with a lingering beauty, she looked more pious and severe than any nun.

  “Prithee, refresh yourselves,” the countess said, pouring a little red wine into two silver cups, which she handed to them. She peered at Emlyn. “Dame—?”

  “Agnes of Roseberry Priory, my lady,” Emlyn said. Godwin, swallowing his wine, began to cough and sputter in shock. Although he had a general understanding of her plan, she had not discussed her intention to use her sister Agnes’s identity.

  Lady Julian waited patiently for his spasm to cease, smiling vaguely. “Dame Agnes, welcome,” the countess said. “How pleasant to have a sister of the cloth here. And a man of such excellent talent as well, Brother Godwin.” She looked up at the tall monk, her brown eyes, deepset and hooded, aristocratic and obviously a little shortsighted.

  “But,” she continued, “I regret that my nephew is not here to greet you himself. He rode to London to join the northern barons in their meeting with King John. We do not expect him for several weeks.”

  Godwin set his cup on the table. “We had heard at the abbey that the Archbishop of Canterbury had arrived in London to gather the king and the barons together.”

  “Aye, he did so, after those disastrous weeks when the most rebellious barons attempted to siege London and force the king to their demands. Mayhap this meeting will be a move toward peace at last between the king and his barons.”

  “With God’s will, we shall see greater wisdom from our king in future, if he accedes to the barons’ wishes.”

  Lady Julian nodded once, an assured and superior gesture of agreement. “Tell me,” she said, “about your letter.”

  “ ’Tis from Abbot John to either the baron or yourself, my lady,” he explained, handing the parchment to her.

  She accepted the parchment from him, but did not open it. “I have little ability to decipher words. Can this matter wait for the baron’s return?”

  Godwin shook his head solemnly. “My lady, the baron has lately been given custody of three children.”

  The countess lifted her slender dark eyebrows. “Aye.”

  “They are the children of my eldest brother, Rogier de Ashbourne. My niece, er, Agnes, is their elder sister.”

  The countess frowned. “And your request?”

  “We wish to visit with the children,” Godwin answered.

  “Dame Agnes, you travel without another nun as companion?” the countess asked, peering up at her.

  Emlyn blushed under the countess’s frank, oddly squinted perusal. “My lady, I have dispensation to journey with my uncle.” Godwin frowned slightly, and glanced away.

  She knew her uncle was displeased with her ruse, though he accepted the need for it. Because he could not condone lying, he would tell no outright untruth, and so far had not: Agnes was indeed a nun, and the children’s older sister, and his niece.

  A fortnight ago, Thorne had seen her to the abbey gate, parting with a gentle kiss as she rang the outer bell. Godwin, surprised to see her, had agreed to help her regain the children, but urged her to allow him to petition the Pope. Unable to persuade him to swifter action, she told him of her marriage.

  Concerned, fearing that she would try to extricate the children alone, Godwin had decided to accompany her to Hawksmoor. Only for a short visit, he had insisted. Agreeing that her safety was important, he had obtained a novitiate’s garb for her.

  His intention was to travel on to find Thorne. Clandestine marriages are legal but hotly disputed, he had told her. Now that the deed was done, a proper marriage should be performed.

  “Where is your sister Emlyn?” the countess asked her.

  Emlyn started, coloring faintly under the countess’s open, curious stare. Godwin’s cheeks showed two bright spots of color, but he turned a look of sublime innocence to the countess.

  “She was given in marriage to Lord Whitehawke, my lady,” Emlyn answered carefully.

  The countess sighed. “Of course, you have been cloistered, my dear. I am sorry to tell you that your sister disappeared weeks ago on the way to Graymere Keep. Lord Whitehawke has been searching for her ever since, sending men out daily.”

  Emlyn glanced at Godwin, who avoided her eyes. “Disappeared?”

  “Oh, by the Virgin,” Godwin said, and murmured a Latin prayer. The countess bowed her head and folded her hands serenely. Emlyn flushed, glancing at Godwin, and belatedly did the same.

  “We are all confident that the girl will be found safe,” the countess murmured. Godwin nodded vigorously.

  “My lady, may we see the children?” Emlyn asked.

  “The baron is their guardian, but I will ponder the matter.” Picking up the letter, Lady Julian rose from the table and looked at Godwin. “Brother, I would have a word with you.”

  Godwin followed her to a bench beneath a window. As the countess spoke, he listened carefully, nodding and glancing back at Emlyn once or twice. Anxiously twisting the long crucifix cord around her fingers, Emlyn waited.

  “Lady Julian has her own request,” Godwin murmured when he returned. Emlyn stared up at him, her breath in her throat. “The baron has a new chapel. The countess wishes to commission a wall decoration there, and promises a generous gift to the abbey in return. Since I will need an assistant, I told the countess of your abilities. You are welcome to stay as well.”

  Lady Julian swept forward, her hands folded over her ivory cross. “Baron Nicholas will be pleased that I have taken this opportunity to acquire the services of a goodly painter. He expressed an interest in decorating the new chapel, and mentioned some fine paintings done at Ashbourne.” She smiled fully at Godwin. “He will be interested to meet the kin of his young wards, as well. Might I send a messenger to the abbot?”

  “We accept the commission, my lady,” Godwin said. “I would appreciate a messenger to Wistonbury, since I must request supplies. There is no need to write to Roseberry.” A letter to Roseberry Priory could be disastrous, Emlyn thought, listening. Agnes was prioress there, and had no great sense of humor.

  “A messenger will be sent to fetch your things, Brother Godwin,” the countess said. “Rooms will be prepared for you, and the children will be brought to see you shortly. I will show you the chapel later, and we can discuss the project.”

  “Our thanks for your generosity, my lady,” Godwin said.

  “We may expect good work in return, I hope, Brother Godwin.”

  “The finest that we can produce.” He smiled.

  “Of course.” She turned away, beckoning to the steward, and left the hall with him, murmuring instructions.

  “My dear,” Godwin muttered to Emlyn, “we must change our plans. This obligation could take months, and I will need your assistance for much of it.”

  Emlyn gazed up at him, chagrinned. Learning that the baron was not at Hawksmoor, she had felt relief, but now she felt a wrenching anxiety. De Hawkwood would surely return before they completed the work in the chapel. Intending to steal the wolf’s cubs, she had become trapped in the wolf’s lair.

  A door opened at the far end of the room, and the children were ushered into the hall by Tibbie. Emlyn’s concerns vanished like mist in the sun, and she held open her arms.

  “Blessed be God! I have fretted day and night about ye, so I thank the saints to see ye safe, no matter yer name. Now tell me why, my lady girl, yer here with Godwin, and calling yerself Agnes.” Tibbie raised her fuzzy brows reprovingly.

  Seated on a stone bench with Tibbie, Emlyn held Harry and nudged h
er toe at a dandelion sprouting between the flagstones. The bench was set in a sunny corner beside a riotous summer flower bed. Bees droned past mounds of white marguerites and pink roses, fringed by tall, sweet lavender. Primroses crowded beside delicately tinted columbine blossoms.

  Emlyn set Harry on the ground, where he wobbled off on bowed legs, his woolen shirt hiked up in the back over the bulk of his loose, dry breechcloth. He meandered a short distance and grabbed onto Isobel’s skirt as she tossed a ball with Christien.

  Tibbie leaned forward. “Tell me the whole of it!”

  Hesitating, Emlyn pursed her lips and glanced at the children. Christien rolled the leather-covered ball to Harry, who picked it up and began to chew on it happily.

  “All right,” Emlyn said, “harken. But ’tis a grave secret.”

  Tibbie made the sign of the cross on her wide bosom. “By the Holy Savior, I will tell no soul.”

  “I am hiding from Lord Whitehawke because I cannot marry him. And I cannot trust his son. If the baron discovered me here, he would surely send me to his father. I intended to take the children away, but now Godwin has promised the countess that we will stay until the chapel paintings are done.”

  Tibbie flattened her hand on her chest. “Can ye truly refuse to wed that white-haired old goat?”

  “ ’Tis impossible, now, for me to wed him. Tibbie—we must make certain the children understand I am to be called Agnes.”

  Tibbie nodded. “Easy to make a game of that. Why is it impossible for ye to wed the earl?” She gasped. “My lady! What happened when ye disappeared from the escort? Were ye … harmed?”

  Emlyn sighed, watching Isobel take the ball from Harry and then hug him, covering his head with kisses until he pushed her away, screaming impatiently.

  “Tibbie,” she said softly, “when I hid from my escort, I met a forester who helped me.” Squaring her shoulders, she shrugged back the wings of her veil. “And now, I am married to him.”

  “Ahh!” Tibbie shrieked. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Hush,” Emlyn urged, glancing at the children. “He is a kind, brave man. And our marriage vows annul my betrothal to Whitehawke.” Tibbie’s lower lip hung loose in astonishment.

  “Holy saints,” Tibbie said, recovering. “Holy, holy saints. I should have gone with ye instead of the little ones. What a loose-brained scheme this is. Ye wed a stranger?”

  “He is no stranger,” Emlyn said. “He is the Black Thorne.”

  “Eek! A dead man! An outlaw!”

  Emlyn twisted her mouth in wry amusement. “Nay, dear, he is alive and well. We pledged sacred matrimony by mutual consent.”

  “By the rood,” Tibbie murmured. “A clandestine marriage. What a devil of a tangle. Does Godwin know?”

  “Aye, though he has not met Thorne. He wants to pronounce vows over us himself. But he says that such clandestine vows are valid in the Church, Tibbie. The betrothal is voided.”

  “And who has courage enough to tell the earl that? Holy jumping virgins! Married!” Tibbie glowered at Emlyn for a moment, then sighed heavily. “Yer vows came from the heart?”

  “Aye, Tibbie,” Emlyn replied quietly. “They did.”

  “I pray that however quickly made, this may be a blessing.” Tibbie half smiled. “Ye need not tell me about clandestine vows, my lady. My father—yer mother’s uncle—arranged a marriage for me with a knight who was fat and mean as a boar. I loved another, a young squire. The day the banns were posted, Thomas and I ran off and made our own vows, and consummated them as well. My family needed a full year to recover from the shock of it. And the knight was furious.”

  Emlyn leaned forward to hug Tibbie. “I did not know,” she said. “Then you understand.”

  “Aye.” Tibbie smiled ruefully. “We were young, as ye. I never regretted my boldness in choosing my own husband, bless his eternal soul. He died of a fever before I reached twenty-five years, and our daughter with him. After, yer mother asked me to Ashbourne, when ye was a babe,” she added quietly.

  Emlyn pressed Tibbie’s round, roughened hand. “I am sorry for your loss, but glad you came to us, Tib. Pray for me,” she said. “I would not regret my boldness, either.”

  “If this man is kind and trustworthy,” Tibbie murmured, “ye will never have cause for regret.”

  Pushing open the chapel door, Nicholas closed it firmly against a soaking blast of rain. The interior of the chapel was cool and silent except for the steady beat of the summer storm on the copper roof tiles, and the rumble of distant thunder.

  Dropping the damp hood of his cloak, he walked the length of the chapel, his boots scuffing softly on the floor stones, his black wool tunic, trimmed with silver braid, swinging against his calves. The cloth felt light and comfortable after weeks of heavy chain mail. At the altar, he dipped to one knee to whisper a prayer and light a votive candle, then rose to his feet and turned. He noticed the changes almost immediately.

  On a sunny day, the chapel windows glowed with colored light, but this afternoon, thick purple shadows lingered in the corners. But there was light enough to see the half-finished paintings on the wall over the doorway: a row of figures sketched over a fresh coat of plaster.

  Against the northern wall, a sturdy timber scaffolding, its platform about eight feet off the floor, was set up between two banks of tall arched windows filled with milk-white and colored glass. The wall area between the windows, once plain whitewash all the way up to the vaulted, stone-ribbed ceiling, was now covered with brightly painted images.

  Intrigued, Nicholas strolled toward the scaffolding. Far above his head stood an armored Saint George, one foot on the back of a coiled green dragon. The saint’s graceful, swayed posture seemed to echo and balance the arc of the slender windows. Vibrant color sparked the plain little chapel to life: deep ruby red for the saint’s cloak and the cross on his white shield, brilliant grass green, crisscrossed with blue, for the dragon. Nearby, a willowy princess in a gown of yellow and blue thanked her rescuer with folded hands.

  Nicholas had seen wall decorations at Westminster on his last visit to London, done by a well-known school; now, standing in his own chapel, looking at the bold color and fluid lines, he knew that this work could compete with the Westminster painters.

  A movement from above caught his attention. Though he had seen no one when he entered, he stepped back to peer at the top surface of the scaffold.

  A woman sat with her back to him, cross-legged in a loose gown of pale gray, her head covered in a wide white headdress that trailed over her slim shoulders and down her back. Leaning toward the wall, she held a long wooden brush in one hand, another clenched between her teeth.

  Oblivious to his presence, she carefully painted tiny flowers beneath the princess. Beside her, a small collapsible stool held a motley jumble of clay jars, clamshells, brushes, and paint-blotched rags. Three fat candles flickered to light her work.

  Nicholas frowned, wondering why his lady aunt had neglected to mention the new work in the chapel when he had arrived late last night. He stepped toward the scaffold.

  “Greetings, mistress,” he said. The woman jumped and squeaked, dropping the brush clenched in her teeth. She lost her grip on the other brush, which flipped and came down over the edge of the scaffold to roll toward his feet.

  Bending down, he picked up the brush and rose. Wide eyes under a big headdress peered at him over the edge of the scaffold. Her face was indistinct in the deep shadows, but he could see that she stared at him with her mouth open.

  Stretching his arm up, he offered the brush. She reached down a hand and snatched it back. He frowned again. “How do you come to be painting my chapel walls, mistress?” he asked sharply. He wished she would come out where he could see her. A new torrent of rain hit the roof, rattling and pounding, and the gloom in the chapel increased.

  The woman cleared her throat, then spoke in a curiously hushed voice. “I assist the painter, my lord.”

  “Who is this painter? Where is he no
w?”

  “He was called to Lady Julian’s chamber to perform a low mass, sire.”

  “A mass?”

  “He is Brother Godwin of Wistonbury, my lord.”

  Nicholas’s heart thudded against his ribs. Of course. Godwin the uncle, the painter-monk, must have come here to speak with him about the children. He responded with a cool, even tone. “I know the name. Who sent him here?”

  “Lady Julian requested that he decorate the chapel, my lord.” She held back in the shadows, and her voice, barely above a whisper, quavered timidly. He noticed that her eyes were large, the neutral color of rain in the dim light, shaded beneath the wimple that sat over her brow.

  There was a sharp burst of thunder, and an instant of lightning illumined the chapel, outlining the woman’s face. Nicholas narrowed his eyes. She looked like—his breath caught in his throat for an instant. But now he saw that this woman was clearly a nun of indeterminate age. He craned his head to get a better look, but she ducked and turned away to wipe her hands on the front of her coarse brown apron.

  “Who are you, Dame?” he asked.

  “I assist Brother Godwin. I am called Agnes,” she said.

  “You are a religious?” he asked. He needed a closer look. She bore too much resemblance; the mystery intrigued him.

  Her headdress bobbed like a sheet flapping in the wind as she nodded. Then her head snapped up and she looked toward the door.

  “Nicholas!”

  He whirled as two women entered the chapel, sweeping back hoods sparkling with raindrops. Lady Julian nodded to him, and he bowed in return. “Good morning, Nicholas, I did not expect to find you here already,” she said. “The weather is frightful.”

  “My lady,” he said curtly. “Good morning.” A muscle flipped in his cheek and he fisted one hand behind his back tensely. He had no wish to be rude, but he needed a few explanations.

  A high moan and the strong stamp of a foot diverted his attention before he could question his aunt. The girl who had accompanied the countess stood in the open doorway, looking through silvery sheets of rain into the muddy courtyard beyond.