The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Her hands skimmed over his chest, caressing the warm, muscular surface of his hard torso and the taut contours of his hips. She touched his back, exploring, gently circling the scar that Thorne had received eight years ago. Her fingers drifted down to touch the round, smooth weal on his thigh, left from the arrow wound that she had given him only months ago. Lowering her head, she softly kissed the pink scar in loving apology. In one smooth, flowing motion, she glided her body over his hard belly and chest, raising her head to meet his lips with hers, wrapping herself in his embrace, sinking into kisses that flowed over her like warmed honey.

  His fingertips moved over her throat and shoulders, warm and lambent, easing across her body, his touch so feather-light that she felt only the sweet influence of their grazing contact. Sighing, sliding her fingers through the dark silk of his hair, she arched with burgeoning pleasure as he kissed her soft skin, suckling and swelling each breast in turn, the contact nurturing to both of them. His touch was tranquil and slow, every movement a gentle solace, cleansing, healing, renewing, dissolving the heart-wounds that lay between them.

  His fingers drifted down over her supple curves, turning her to the rousing will of his hands. With smooth and exquisite motions he stroked her hips and abdomen until she parted with a welcoming moan, and his fingers stirred her tiny quicksilver flame into limpid glowing strength.

  Taut as a golden bowstring that trembled for release, she wrapped her limbs around his waist, pleading with her body for his sweet supple weight and yielding to it. Silken and warm, he thrust, then glided into her.

  Moving to a compelling rhythm of heartbeat and breath and muscle, she yearned to meld her body, her very soul, into a rich blend with his. Pressing closer still, pulling his firmness deep inside, she surged toward the pulsating, incandescent center within her. Shivering against her, he drove breath and body into hers with sudden urgency, until her inner cadences flowed with his, released at last.

  Shifting, sighing, they drew slowly apart with small cherishing kisses. Crackling flames carried the sweet tang of applewood as she curled close to him, resting, wanting the peaceful silence to carry through into her sleep. The gentle fusing of their bodies and spirits, through expressing profound love, had created forgiveness, washing away the feelings of betrayal that had wedged between them earlier.

  She slept for a while, waking in the deep gloom of the hour before dawn to Nicholas’s brushing kiss on her shoulder. They loved each other again with exquisite gentleness, so leisurely that the sun began to stream through the shutters as they gave and received dulcet, honeyed satisfaction.

  Later, her head resting on his bare shoulder, the red silk coverlet over them, she traced a finger in circles over his chest. “Will we tell, now, of our marriage?”

  “Aye,” he whispered into her hair, “we will, this very day.”

  “ ’Twill be difficult, Nicholas.”

  “I am with you, love,” he said, shifting to look at her. “Our marriage will gain acceptance, now or with time.”

  “But your father—”

  He place a finger over her lips. “Worry not over him just now. There is still much we must speak of, you and I.”

  She nodded, watching him in the bright shadows of the curtained bed.

  He traced the contours of her face. “Your eyes are blue as lapis, and sprinkled with golden dust.”

  She laughed. “And yours are gray as stone and green as frogs,” she teased. “Changeling husband, I do not know what color to call them. But I know you now, whatever your name.”

  “As it should be,” he said. “Now, Dame Agnes, rise up and dress quickly. We have matters to attend to. I will not be called a blasphemous sinner for bedding a nun.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Nicholas folded the parchment closed and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Wat’s missive, like every message that had come to Hawksmoor of late, mentioned King John’s activities: the king now pushed north with his mercenary troops, threatening to overthrow every rebel castle in his path.

  Wat also had sent news of Whitehawke. Tossing the stiff parchment onto the table, Nicholas stood, stretching the tension from his neck and shoulders. Peter waited patiently, leaned back in a chair, his legs sprawled comfortably before the hearth.

  Beyond the tall shuttered windows in the great hall, the wind chorused like distant wolves, and frozen rain pattered against the window glass. Not a time of year to run battle campaigns, Nicholas thought; yet he doubted if the usual custom of truce during winter would persuade the king to forgo his revenge.

  He flicked a somber glance at Peter. “Wat writes that my father has obtained another royal writ to confirm his ownership of the Ashbourne properties. He takes steps to disinherit me, and declares his betrothal to Emlyn annulled because of her disgraceful behavior.”

  Peter nodded. “Still, you and your lady have the luck of angels, my lord. Whitehawke has been remarkably docile, even so. But for Lady Alarice, your marriage has raised few brows, in spite of the rather odd circumstances.”

  “True. Lady Julian gave us her generous approval. And the servants and villeins view life in simple, pragmatic terms. She was a nun, now she is the baroness. They might chuckle over a cup of ale at eventide, but they accept and ask no questions. Only Alarice, as you say, has been discontent. But I trow she will be leaving us as soon as the weather allows. Her father, I hear, negotiates with Chavant.”

  Peter rolled his eyes expressively. “Holy saints! Chavant and Lady Alarice?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “She brings a sizable dowry, and a fat inheritance someday. For myself, I would not wish to tell the lady news of her suitor,” he said wryly.

  “Nor I,” Peter agreed. “But how is it, my lord, that your father hardly disputes your marriage to Lady Emlyn?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I am not sure what he has in his mind. Come spring, I may be invited to a tourney to have my head lopped off by my offended sire. For now, other matters concern him, since he has been with the king at Rochester Castle.”

  Peter sat forward. “Wat sent news of Rochester?”

  Nicholas nodded and stared into the hearth blaze. “The siege is over. King John had forty bacon pigs slaughtered, and his men used the fat to fire the walls and undermine a corner tower late in November. He was ruthless there. Prisoners were chained, some were mutilated. He hung a childhood friend.” He sighed heavily. “He is mad with rage, and moves north on a path of war with his foreign army. He will be in Nottingham by Christmas.”

  “Good Christ,” Peter murmured, frowning. “He moves quickly. What then of the rebel barons in London? ’Tis said they spend most of their time drinking and playing bones.”

  “Aye, but they want very badly to bring John off the throne, and have tried whatever legal means available. Naught can come of it. He counters every move too cleverly.”

  “The York landholders were summoned by the rebels weeks ago to discuss these matters, yet you did not go.”

  “I will not join them in offering the English crown to a French prince. My support of the charter is well known. Beyond that, I will not further ally myself with the rebels against this unpredictable king.”

  “John is a sly coward,” Peter agreed. “ ’Tis surprising to see him at the head of his army for such a long campaign.”

  “He would most enjoy treating his barons like those bacon pigs at Rochester, I trow, and be done with it. But, since the northerners lack the unity of an army, ’tis each for himself now.”

  “The northern barons must either surrender outright, buy the king’s favor, or lace their helms for war.”

  Nicholas nodded grimly. “Aye. I have given the matter much thought, Perkin,” he said quietly. “I will not surrender Hawksmoor. We will fortify our walls immediately.” As he gazed into the hearth, feeling the searing amber heat flicker over his face, a hard resolve forged in his gut. He would defend his home and family to the utmost of his power.

  “I will never ransom my castle gates,”
he said softly. “Look you to your sword, my friend.”

  Emlyn’s arm ached from waving, and her cheeks were bright from the bitter cold. She gripped the reins of her chestnut mare and glanced at Nicholas, who rode Sylvanus at a leisurely walk. He twisted in the saddle to wave again toward the villeins who clustered along the snow-crusted roadside. During their long ride around the countryside, he had tossed coins from a leather pouch and called greetings, knowing many people by name. They, in turn, showed him the respect and easy friendship of villeins toward a good and fair lord.

  Squinting her eyes, she scanned the bright expanse of snowy moors, shining in the sun like overturned bowls of white glass. Ahead, the gray walls of Hawksmoor Castle loomed strong and solid. The hall would feel warm as a bakehouse compared to this snapping icy chill. Eager to reach home, she spurred her horse.

  Early that morning, after everyone but Nicholas, who was still excommunicated, had attended Christmas mass in Hawksmoor’s newly decorated chapel, the baron and baroness and a small entourage of guards had begun a circuit of the frozen roads that etched the moors north of Hawksmoor.

  In spite of the cold, villeins came running everywhere they went, shouting and laughing, catching the silver coins and handing up fresh bread and mistletoe and holly for luck. After a few miles, Emlyn and Nicholas had accepted cups of hot spiced cider from an innkeeper, and had turned their escort for home.

  “Have you any doubts remaining about your welcome here, my lady, set them to rest,” Nicholas said, smiling. “Our Christmas procession is cheered loudly enough to show their approval.”

  Emlyn looked at him, her eyes glowing with a sparkle put there by cold, sunlight, and happiness. “I vow I felt like a bride as we rode past, sirrah,” she answered lightly, “but ’twas likely your largess of coin that widened their smiles most.”

  “Nay, love, though the coins were welcome, ’twas you they cheered,” he said, and turned to wave as a woman called enthusiastically to them.

  Emlyn settled in her saddle, recalling the noisy, colorful blur of the past week, and the increasing demands on her as the new chatelaine of Hawksmoor. But her duties had been very pleasant, including the supervision of the hanging of garlands of fresh holly and ivy and lengths of bright silk in the hall.

  The huge Yule log had been dragged into the hall by seven men, placed into the hearth, and ignited to burn until Twelfth Night. They had hosted a feast to feed hundreds of castle servants, knights, and a steady stream of villeins.

  Yule gifts were exchanged among the family. Emlyn gave Nicholas a small painting that she had made on wood, of the Holy Virgin, with Saint Nicholas on the reverse side of the panel. He had been well pleased with the gift, and she had loved his to her: a belt of gold links, set with several oval-cut sapphires.

  Then he had whispered, to her great curiosity, that his other gift would be presented later. Blushing, she had laughed and kissed him, thinking that he referred to spending another magical, tender night in his great red-curtained bed.

  Weeks earlier, he had helped her to find gifts for the children. Christien had received a yew bow with arrows and a quiver, and Isobel a bracelet of carved amber that had once belonged to Lady Blanche. Harry was gleeful over a set of small lead knights on wooden wheels. But the most delighted recipient of all had been Lady Julian, who had been given a pair of tiny gold-wired spectacles that Nicholas had ordered from a glazier’s shop in York.

  The children had stayed up until their eyes were bleary with fatigue and excitement. Harry had found a bean in his cake, and had been proclaimed, amid raucous laughter, King of the Feast. He had ruled wisely enough, until he broke down in a tyrant’s tears and had to be removed to bed.

  Still smiling at the pleasant swirl of memories, Emlyn clicked her horse ahead to cross over Hawksmoor’s drawbridge and under the wide arched portcullis grille.

  Grooms ran forward to take the horses. As Emlyn was being helped down from her mount, an older steward came stiffly down the outer keep stairs and approached Nicholas, murmuring low.

  Listening to the old man, Nicholas frowned, nodded quickly, and tossed his reins to a groom.

  Emlyn’s puzzled glance went unnoticed as Nicholas whispered a quick word to Peter. Then he spun on his heel and went toward the keep, running up the steps.

  A man in mud-spattered armor and red cloak stood before the hearth, gazing into the huge, flaming Yule log. His beard was grizzled and gray and his face showed harsh lines of exhaustion as he accepted a cup of steaming spiced wine from a serving girl. Nicholas strode quickly toward him, and the man turned.

  “Wat!” Nicholas smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Christmas greetings, man. Emlyn will be well pleased to see you. When did you arrive?”

  “My lord baron,” Wat said. “No more than an hour past. I have arranged what you requested.”

  “ ’Tis done then?” Nicholas asked sharply.

  “Aye, my lord,” Wat said, nodding.

  Accepting a leather-sleeved cup filled with hot wine from the servant, Nicholas dismissed her with a brief nod. He sipped the steaming liquid gingerly, then glanced at Wat. “And the parcel?”

  “Handed over to your seneschal, Sir Eustace.”

  “Good.” He exhaled, long and low, as if releasing a burden long held. “Have you had difficulty at Ashbourne?”

  “Nay, my lord. The king’s path goes north, but not west. We are spared his wrath by our location and Whitehawke’s ownership.”

  Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. “I see you wear the red of the de Ashbourne baron, and not the russet of Whitehawke’s men.”

  Wat shrugged. “I wear whatever cloak I choose, now that I am no longer Ashbourne’s seneschal.”

  “What say you?”

  “Whitehawke sent word that he had appointed another seneschal upon his arrival at Graymere.”

  “He has come back north? I had not heard.”

  “Aye, he sent a missive to me last week. But I had heard from you long before then. By God’s wounds, my lord, I was much pleased to learn of your marriage to Lady Emlyn. Your father must be livid, my lord, if I may say.”

  “A long story, which you will hear soon, Wat. Rest your bones, and tell me word of the king.” He leaned a hip against the table while Wat sat heavily on a bench. “We heard that he was in Nottingham at Christmas with his mercenaries.”

  “Aye, my lord, and ’tis said he rode out of there with the fury of hell in his soul.” Wat sipped at his wine and shook his head. “He sends his foreign routiers out in packs, like wolves to the kill, to take rebel castles wherever they find them. Attacking, burning. He has met with little resistance, and goodwill—coin, my lord—is extended him everywhere. He accepts or not, as his wont goes.”

  “What is his route?”

  “Steadily north. Rockingham, Belvoir, and Doncaster among others have surrendered. Castles and towns are throwing open their gates to him to avoid the inevitable. Any castle that refuses him entry meets his army and siege machines. He collects ransom fees like a clerk at tax time.”

  “Where is he now, then?”

  “Last I heard, Pontefract, perhaps York by now, my lord.”

  “Then he is not so far from Hawksmoor.”

  The door swung open at the far end of the room, and Peter looked in, then advanced to greet Wat. Shoving back his mail hood and propping a foot on the bench, Peter listened as Nicholas summarily told him Wat’s news.

  Intrigued, full of questions, Peter leaned toward Wat to discuss the king’s northward rampage. Propped against the table edge, Nicholas sipped the remainder of his wine and lifted his eyes around the room to study the graceful swags of greenery looped above the mantel and windows and door frames.

  Traces of laughter and joy still lingered in the room for him, as tantalizing and warm as snatches of a pleasant dream. The gigantic, fragrant Christmas bush, made from a wheel-shaped framework of green boughs hung with apples, pears, nuts, and silk ribbons, was suspended from the rafters over the center of the long ch
amber. Filling the hearth, the Yule log glowed orange and black, crackling and snapping out its light and warmth.

  Nicholas felt loathe to give up this recently acquired taste for peace and family, and return to the grim business of war and snarling disputes that had become the norm in England lately. Still, there was no choice for it. Sighing, he turned back to listen to Wat and Peter.

  “Does the king follow a planned route?” Peter asked Wat.

  “He heads for Berwick on the Scots border, knocking down each stronghold that stands along his path,” Wat answered. “Alexander of Scotland moves into England, and John is determined to stop his progress at the same time that he swears to wipe the rebellion from his realm.”

  “Evidently Alexander smells the rotting carcass of England beneath his nose,” Peter observed.

  “As does Philip of France,” Nicholas said. “John invited the French to help him quell the rebellion, and soldiers and knights have come over in herds. So many, I have heard, that with the proper leadership, they could wrestle England to the ground. Or so the French would hope.”

  “What a stew John has made of England,” Peter said. “Little wonder that outsiders seek the chance to invade. They see us torn amongst ourselves, withdrawing support from our own king.”

  “Aye so. The man is brilliant in his own right, but more impetuous than any rebel. A wise council and limitations such as in the charter were all that was needed. But this has gone too far, now. Once angered, he does not cool easily. He will see us pay by coin or castle or life,” Nicholas said, shaking his head. “A stew, as you say. Wat—the king’s army is mostly French?”

  “Aye, my lord, as well as Gascons, Brabantines, and Flemish.”

  “Ha,” Peter said. “If John is lax with the payroll, he will have a mutinous bunch riding at his back.”

  Wat lifted an eyebrow and looked at Nicholas. “They say the king travels with his entire treasury on packhorses.”