The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Excommunication had kept Nicholas away from mass, but the priest had appreciated Emlyn’s attendance. Saying that it boded well for the new year, he thanked her for the tithes of salted meats and cheeses, as well as several bundles of fat beeswax candles she had brought as New Year’s gifts to the church.

  Glancing back at the van, where the children peered out from under the canvas shelter, she made a face of mock consternation. They waved back, cozy and giggly under layers of furs, hot bricks at their feet. Betrys, a dark-eyed, broadly built girl who tolerated few antics, had removed them from mass early because of some errant silliness. Hearing the high giggles now, Emlyn judged that their wayward energies were still much in force.

  Ahead, through torn and gauzy fog, the road dipped and curved over the moors. A subtle uneasiness crept through her again as she glanced nervously at the blurred wintry landscape.

  King John’s relentless mercenaries were nowhere near this place, she told herself, though she still felt an uncertain foreboding. The ceaseless talk of war and defensive strategies that she had been hearing at Hawksmoor must have affected her nerves, she thought.

  The pale, heavy sky and a cold tension in the air warned of an imminent snowstorm. A trip of a few miles was completely safe, she thought. Snow would not fall until later. Shivering, she urged her horse to a faster gait. The green and white de Hawkwood banner flapped briskly atop a pole attached to a guard’s saddle, a symbol of the protection and privilege she had as the baroness of Hawksmoor. No harm could befall them today.

  On the winter-bleak moors, the fog thickened to fleecy white at every dip of the road. Had she known the extent of the chill and fog out on the moors, she thought, she would have left the children at home. Now, she only wanted to get home to Hawksmoor.

  Misty shadows appeared on the white rim of a hill, resolving into a party of at least thirty riders advancing toward them. When Emlyn saw the russet cloaks of Whitehawke’s garrison, she clutched at the reins, her breath catching in her throat.

  The sudden silence was filled by the steady crunch of hooves on the ice-crusted snow and the snorting of horses. Coming forward, the leader held up his hand.

  Halting, William murmured a quiet order to his men. They guided their horses to form a cautious, protective arc in front of the two ladies and the van.

  Emlyn squared her shoulders beneath her heavy overcloak and steadied her horse. Beside her, Alarice sat tense and silent.

  Hugh de Chavant cantered forward and stopped in front of the serjeant, glancing sharply at Emlyn and bowing his head.

  “My lady baroness,” he said. His eyes flickered restively toward Alarice. “My lady. New Year’s greetings to you both.”

  “Baron de Chavant,” Emlyn answered. “Why do you halt our escort? ’Tis bitter cold and we have young children with us. Whatever business you have can be addressed within walls. You may either accompany us to Hawksmoor, or ride on.”

  Chavant smiled, showing long yellowed teeth. One eye seemed to wander toward William. “My lady, allow me to accompany you to Graymere Keep to meet with Lord Whitehawke, at his request.”

  “Tell him to take up the matter with my husband or with the courts,” she said curtly. “Let us pass.”

  “My lady, I must insist that you come with us,” Chavant said.

  “Baron de Chavant,” the serjeant interjected. “Lord Whitehawke has no authority here on Hawksmoor land. For you to ask such of my lady is a challenge to arms, my lord.”

  Chavant sighed mildly and looked away for a moment, as if thinking. “So be it, then,” he said smoothly, and gave a quick signal to his garrison. Far outnumbering Emlyn’s guards, they spread out to surround the escort like long arms, their heavy metal helmets and nasal guards obscuring their faces.

  With a nearly physical jolt, Emlyn realized that Chavant and his men meant to enforce a confrontation. Her heart lurched into a rapid beat. She wished again, desperately now, that she had not brought the children along.

  “For Whitehawke!” Chavant yelled, raising his sword.

  “To arms!” William bellowed. “For Hawksmoor and Saint George!”

  Descending on the small escort, Chavant’s men scraped their swords free. Emlyn heard the awful, sibilant whistle of raw metal slicking through cold air as the first blows clanged and smacked, echoing eerily in the fog.

  Wheeling her horse, she cantered back toward the van, maneuvering through the jostling, roiling haunches of battle-trained horses, all larger and steadier than her own agitated mare. Alarice, her face pale with alarm, swam past in the chaos, her palfrey circling out of control. Turning again, Emlyn saw a russet-cloaked guard knock the van driver senseless with the side of his broadsword. Reaching down, he grabbed Christien out of the wagon, tossed him over his saddle and spun away.

  Screaming, unable to wedge her horse closer, she watched in disbelief and panic as two other guards quickly snatched up Isobel and Harry, and then dragged a screaming Betrys out of the wagon. Dumping their captives over their saddles, they galloped away, shielded by a thrashing row of Chavant’s soldiers.

  Emlyn’s shrill screams mingled with the children’s cries and with the harsh ring of steel slamming steel. She felt a sudden, strong compression around her waist, and gasped as a mesh-clad arm yanked her brutally from her horse.

  Shoved facedown over another horse’s shoulders, she fought for breath as the high saddle pommel pushed cruelly into her ribs. Struggling, screaming incoherently, she could see nothing, though she heard metal blades crushing into wooden shields and grinding on mailed limbs. A heavy hand pressed down on her back.

  She elbowed her captor sharply where his surcoat split at the crotch. He grunted, and then the cruel weight of his fist slammed into her jaw. Raising her head, thinking she was going to vomit, she went spinning into a soft, deep blackness.

  * * *

  “Blessed be God,” Lady Julian said, her hand clutching her throat, “how do you mean, gone? How can this be?”

  “They are taken, Aunt,” Nicholas answered curtly, his face drained of color as he led a weeping Alarice down the length of the great hall.

  Alarice nodded, half swooning against Nicholas, her hair disheveled, her veil askew, her eyes swollen with tears. He seated her in a chair by the hearth and handed her a cup of wine that sat on a nearby table. As the girl drank, he closed his eyes, fighting back a powerful rising fury.

  Alarice, accompanied by William, two guards, and the concussed driver, had ridden into the bailey less than twenty minutes past. Breathless and agitated, they had quickly told what had happened out on the moor. The driver and the two guards, also injured, had been led away to have their wounds tended, and Nicholas had asked William to come up to the great hall with the others.

  Standing by the hearth while Alarice sipped her wine and sobbed out the details of the attack, Nicholas listened. His fingers fisted and flexed, aching for a sword. Deep in his gut, anger roiled toward Chavant. This cowardly attack must have had Whitehawke’s approval. He expected, by the style of the raid, a ransom demand, but he was puzzled. Whitehawke likely needed no coin; what, then, could he want? He swore under his breath, and inside him, rage and fear flamed together, fueling each other.

  He glanced at Peter, who stood nearby with William, and at Lady Julian, who fingered the beads of her rosary necklace as she listened intently. His gaze swung back to Alarice, whose tearful voice sobbed out the rest of the story.

  “By Christ!” Nicholas suddenly shouted, slamming his fist against the table surface. “I will have Chavant’s heart on a platter for this!”

  Alarice straightened in the chair, her eyes growing wide.

  “I understand it not,” Peter said. “How did Chavant know that Lady Emlyn would be at the village church?”

  “No coincidence, be sure of it,” Nicholas snapped. He rounded on Alarice. “Did Chavant say aught of how he came to be there?”

  “N-nay, my lord,” she stammered.

  “William?” Nicholas swiveled his inten
se gaze.

  “I heard no mention, sire, though I thought it very odd at the time that he seemed to be laying in wait for us.”

  “Alarice!” Nicholas exploded, turning to her.

  Alarice leaped nervously to her feet. “My lord,” she whined, “ ’twas not meant to happen thus!”

  “Alarice!” Lady Julian gasped. “What—”

  “I intended to ask if Emlyn had sent word ahead to the village that she was coming out this morn,” Nicholas growled.

  “I know naught of any messages.” Alarice’s eyes slid away.

  The odd cast in her green eyes reminded him, curiously, of Hugh de Chavant, and the back of his neck prickled suddenly. He moved slowly toward her. “What is it you know?” he demanded.

  She stepped backward as he came relentlessly closer. “N-naught, my lord,” she choked.

  Peter slid smoothly toward her from the other side, both men closing in on her. Lady Julian glided silently forward as well.

  “Lady Alarice,” Peter said, “has your father settled your marriage portion yet?”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Nicholas said. “I had forgotten. Chavant is your betrothed now.”

  Eyes fluttering, head swiveling between the two men, Alarice looked like a wild, trapped bird. “Hugh—Hugh told me to do it,” she blurted. “He urged me—” She turned suddenly, as if to run.

  Nicholas reached out and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her toward him. “What have you done!” he shouted. “What in the name of God have you done!”

  “Sent word to Chavant to tell him when Lady Emlyn would be outside the walls,” Peter said.

  “Alarice,” Lady Julian began, “did you meet with Chavant those times you went out riding?” Alarice nodded mutely, biting her lip at Nicholas’s hold on her.

  “I did not think he would take the children,” Alarice sobbed out suddenly, curling forward, limp enough that Nicholas was forced to hold her up. She laid her head on his chest, her tears wetting the wool of his tunic.

  “Oh, Nicholas,” she sobbed, “I wanted to be your wife. You knew that. Emlyn did not deserve you—she lied, sinned, humiliated Chavant. He said he and your father had a right to punish her.” She threw her arms around his neck. “But not the children,” she sobbed, “not the little ones, too.”

  The thought of her betrayal was nearly too much for him to endure at this moment. His whole body seemed to vibrate with anger. He ripped her hands away from his neck and grabbed her so tightly by the upper arms that she winced with pain.

  “God’s eyes!” he shouted. “Are you mad, to hand Emlyn to my father like this? He will kill her for disgracing him, just as he killed my mother!”

  His fingertips whitened with pressure, and she cried out, trying to twist away. Cold, numb fury filled him as he thought of Emlyn treated like his mother had been. His body and heart felt as if they had transmuted into cold-forged steel. He was hardly aware that he was hurting Alarice.

  “Nicholas,” Peter said quietly.

  Lady Julian laid a hand on his arm. “She is but a girl.” He let go then, pushing Alarice away in disgust, shaking off his aunt’s hand impatiently.

  Alarice stumbled back a step, lowering her eyes, sniffing heavily. “I am remorseful,” she whispered. “Truly, Nicholas.”

  “Remorse will gain you naught here,” he growled.

  Lady Julian glided silently past him with a sweep of her black skirts. “I will send for a priest, Alarice,” she said, her voice cool and precise. “You must confess, and do penance. And we will pray together for the safety of Emlyn and the children.” Alarice nodded, blubbering, as Lady Julian led her away.

  “Jesu,” Peter said softly, shaking his head.

  Still wrestling the bestial strength of his anger, Nicholas took a deep breath, “Summon the garrison to ride out,” he barked, and stalked out of the hall.

  “By the throat of God,” Nicholas said, “King John is here.”

  Mounted beside him, Peter stared through the white afternoon light. Powdery snow dusted the tiny red-gold curls that escaped from his mail hood. “Aye, ’tis the king’s standard above Whitehawke’s. And a mickle number of guardsmen on the parapet.”

  They squinted across the fell toward Graymere Keep, which rose high and solid on a crystalline rise of snow-coated rock, its slanted base surrounded by a frozen moat and backed by a steep cliff. Inside the curtain wall, the old keep jutted up like a mammoth block of stone, a newer hall dwarfed beyond it.

  Nicholas swore softly. “Even had we a thousand men behind us, we could not attack with the king inside. No telling how many mercenaries are in there with him.”

  “Not to mention, of course, that attacking now would be a blatant act of treason,” Peter drawled.

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes to dangerous steely slits. “My lady wife was stolen this morn, and I will have her back safely, king or no. Jesu! John’s presence tears my plans. Am I supposed to walk in there as the former heir and ask politely?” Shaking his head, he swore again in an utter, black sense of frustration.

  The frantic ride to Graymere, with a hundred men thundering behind him, had filled Nicholas with an urge to fight, like a bellows builds a fire to a roaring pitch. Now, sitting at the edge of a wood that rimmed the meadow fronting Graymere, Nicholas watched the king’s banner flutter over the battlements and felt powerless, halted by the king’s presence as if slammed into a wall of stone. He clenched his jaw in anger. If his father stood before him this very moment, Nicholas could not answer for the consequences.

  With Peter and Eustace, Nicholas had gathered much of his garrison, including William, who insisted on going. Primed for battle, they had ridden to the site of the capture.

  Three guards and the young groom lay out in the still, silent cold, hacked like so much meat, reddened flesh and steel dumped in the snow. Nicholas had left a dozen men to gather up the bodies and transport them to Hawksmoor.

  “Damn Chavant to hell,” Nicholas muttered, watching Graymere through eyes pinched with tension. “Damn my father as well.”

  “What does Whitehawke want with Lady Emlyn?” Peter asked. “And why take the children, for the love of saints?”

  Nicholas surveyed the castle through the screen of winterblack trees and bracken, noting the frequency of the guards that paced the battlements, adding up numbers as if he clicked an abacus in his mind. The king’s men alternated with Whitehawke’s guard; he could see the different colors of their cloaks.

  There was no way he and his garrison could directly attack and not lose the better part of their group immediately. And they had no siege machines to batter the gates or walls, no means to dig beneath and undermine the towers. The parapet guard nearly matched his own in number. God only knew how many were inside.

  After a time he turned to Peter. “Why did Whitehawke take them? Because only Emlyn can give him the man he most wants.”

  Peter nodded in sudden understanding. “Black Thorne.”

  “Aye so.” Nicholas straightened. “Mayhap Whitehawke shall have him. In exchange, of course, for what I want.”

  “You cannot mean to give up the Thorne,” Peter said, shocked.

  “What choice have I?” Nicholas countered quietly. “In order to free my family—” He stopped. The word that fell so naturally from his lips threatened to take his breath, to tear his heart open. His family. Setting his jaw determinedly, he continued. “I wish to see my family safe, and I will risk my life for the privilege.” Emlyn and her siblings had come into his solitary life like a gift bestowed on him by heaven’s own benevolence. He would not give them up easily, now.

  “Your lady wishes to see you alive, my lord. You would do best to think with your head and not your gut,” Peter said.

  Nicholas shot him a look and opened his mouth to speak, but quickly snapped it shut, frowning off into the distance. “Hold. What is that, beyond there?” He gestured.

  Peter glanced in that direction “A supply wagon.”

  A four-wheeled wagon lumbered over a ne
arby road, a speck of wood and hides that grew larger as it approached the castle grounds. “One man. Are those barrels of ale?” Nicholas asked in surprise.

  The wagon creaked and shushed across the snowy meadow and halted in front of the gate. Shouts, too faint for Nicholas to hear, were exchanged between the driver and the porter, and then the cumbersome wooden drawbridge hovered and thumped down to span the icy moat. Like a hell-mouth opening, the iron teeth of the portcullis pulled up slowly to receive the wagon, then swallowed it quickly, slamming shut again.

  “A tradesman with ale?” Peter frowned. “Whitehawke must be hosting a Twelfth Night feast for the king.”

  Nicholas turned to his friend and grinned slowly.

  “Nay,” Peter said, holding up the palm of his hand. “Nay. Think of the risk. Once in, how could we get them all out? We cannot smuggle in a hundred men to help us fight our way free!”

  Nicholas scanned the snow-blanketed countryside and the high-walled enclosure of the keep. His eyelids blinked rapidly as an idea formed in his mind. Appealing. Ridiculous. And possible.

  “Come,” he said to Peter. “We must return to camp. I need to send out men to scour the villages.”

  “My lord,” Peter said warily, “what plan are you hatching?”

  “I am not entirely certain. But we will need tablecloths and baskets of bread. And mayhap some wine or ale.”

  “A picnic?” Peter looked at him in amazement.

  “Certes, a picnic. I am hungry.” Nicholas laughed out loud as he turned Sylvanus’s head and walked the horse deeper into the lacy black tangle of the winter forest, away from the meadow’s edge. He smiled without humor as he snapped the reins. “Aye, hungry for the taste of Chavant’s blood on my sword tip.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  No foul pit, but a prison nonetheless, Emlyn thought. The dim bedchamber was deathly cold in spite of a low fire in the hearth, and a guard stood outside the bolted door. Faint but constant, she could hear the raucous sounds of the feast that continued in the great hall.

  Casting a glance at the curtained bed where Betrys slept with the children, Emlyn drew her cloak snug and walked to the window. Though her ribs ached and her jaw was sore and bruised, no amount of fatigue or discomfort would convince her to rest.