by Susan King
“Thank you, my liege.” He let out a slow breath. Take what is offered and deal with the rest later, he told himself.
“Since we offered you a choice, it seems that you have managed to escape with your life.” John turned to Whitehawke. “God’s teeth, this is good! You do us a favor with your little family war. Word will be spread of our leniency today with a rebel baron.” He glanced shrewdly at Nicholas. “But we do not forget that you remain accountable for acts of treason.”
That, unfortunately, was the rest. “Of course, my liege.”
John’s stare was like a dark, cold pit. Nicholas saw no more mercy there, and then, suddenly, not much interest either. The king turned away. “Whitehawke, as soon as the weather permits, we will depart Graymere. This man should be detained for treason. Other than that, how you handle your rebellious offspring now is not our further concern.”
“Aye, my lord king.” Whitehawke bowed, his face a peculiar shade of mauve beneath his peaked snow-white hair. The king whirled sharply and left the room, his guards close behind him. Sliding an angry glance at Nicholas, Chavant left with them.
Whitehawke paused, waiting for the room to clear. He turned to Nicholas. “You handled the king in a clever manner. Snowbound as he is, he has not had a good frame of mind. The luck of your outcome is a plain amazement to me—I paid a heavy bag of coins yestereve for such a show of goodwill. You received it for naught.”
Nicholas blinked in surprise, having expected another tirade from his father. “John enjoys our little play, as he said.”
Whitehawke stared at him, his eyes like pale quartz in the dim light. “Though you have escaped a sentence of death, you and I have much to reckon between us.”
“Aye, we do.” Nicholas returned his gaze evenly.
“I have asked the king to declare Hawksmoor forfeit due to your crimes. It reverts to me.” Whitehawke lifted his chin slightly and looked at Nicholas through hooded eyes. “And I believe I will bestow that property on my new heir.”
“My lord?” A cold feeling spread through Nicholas’s gut.
“Chavant is a nephew of mine, after all. And you are disavowed, and will be imprisoned for a long time. A little more of my gold lining the king’s pocket, and I can arrange to have you transferred to Windsor’s dungeons. No one has ever come out of there alive and sane, both.”
“Hugh at Hawksmoor?” Nicholas laughed harshly. “My garrison would never accept him, or your decision. Hawksmoor will not be yours or his. Just as the dale has never yet fallen into your palm, no matter how long or hard you have tugged at the tree.”
Whitehawke gazed at him for a long while, then drew a long, wheezy breath. “I swear,” he said softly, “there have been times that I have wished you were my son. Whatever lack of judgment has brought you to this fate, you have a heart of iron. You do not back down. That takes courage and wit.”
“Truly, my lord,” Nicholas replied. “I will not back down where you are concerned.”
Emlyn pulled at the last knot with a satisfied tug. The makeshift rope was strong and would hold. She would soon discover if it was long enough. Pushing the soft, heavy mass of colored fabrics out of her lap, she stood and flexed her hands, stiff from tying the fat knots.
Again she had felt an obligation to apologize to Lady Blanche. Silken gowns, chemises, woolen tunics, hosen, and embroidered belts now formed one long colorful rope. She had also added the dusty linen sheets from the bed.
Carrying the clumsy length back into the privy, she lifted the heavy planked seat a little and tied one end of the rope around the front edge. As she dropped the bundle into the privy hole, the bright mass of color slipped sibilantly down into the dark shaft. Tugging on the well-anchored knot, she felt certain that the bulky cord would hold her weight.
Her preparations made, she went back into the tower chamber to wait until full darkness, not eager to emerge from the privy chute into a yard full of soldiers. Smiling in satisfaction, she heated the last of the melted snow and added another pinch of mint. Nicholas could not have done better, she thought, were he caught in this very tower himself.
Truly bold action was an exhilarating feeling; she felt like an Amazon of legend. She straightened her shoulders, relishing the comparison. A thrilling sense of power, only glimpsed before in her life, filled her with confidence.
The bumbling girl who had shot a baron inadvertently could not have carried out this plan, no matter how sharp her temper, she thought. Hiding or disguised, she had relied on Thorne and Godwin to help her. Now she acted totally of her own accord, with courage and firm purpose.
When she had poured the hot infusion into a bowl, she settled down by the hearth and reached for a small book that she had found among Blanche’s things, grateful to have a diversion until darkness came.
Flipping through the pages, she saw lovely decorations and brilliantly colored half-page paintings. The book was a collection of short prayers and psalms with a calendar of holy days. On the last page she found an inscription, dated 1180, a few years before Nicholas’s birth, that gave Blanche’s name.
Her attention was caught by a picture inside a larger letter initial B, at the beginning of a Latin verse, where the tiny, graceful figure of a woman knelt with her hands in prayer. Though not meant to be an exact portrait, the woman’s delicate face and pinkened cheeks were exquisite, and long black braids rippled over her blue gown. Nearby, a white hawk sat on a branch, an allusion to Bertran de Hawkwood.
Emlyn studied the little image of Blanche de Hawkwood for a long moment. As she leaned forward to sip at her drink, the book slid from her lap. When she picked it up, she saw that the binding was loose, and that the back board of the cover, made of thin wood covered in gilded leather, gapped oddly.
Curious, she poked at the gap, and felt a thick, crackly lining. Tucked inside the leather was a folded parchment sheet, which she drew out gingerly. Cramped, neat handwriting in French covered the verso side, with a round red seal at the bottom. On the reverse side were unevenly written words in faded brown ink. She saw immediately that the signature above the seal, dated 1178, belonged to King Henry. Emlyn frowned as she waded through the complicated French text. Her attention was riveted by the names she read there: Baron Robert de Thorneton, of Castle Wilcott in Cumberland, and his daughters Julian and Blanche.
The document concerned the parceling of lands belonging to Baron Robert. Certain portions were officially donated by the baron to two designated abbeys in York, in memory of his late wife. Other portions, the locations described in detail, were given to Julian and Blanche, to be held in their own right and not to be included in dowries, in memory, again, of their mother.
Emlyn’s heart pounded as she smoothed the old vellum with trembling fingers. Here was the deed to the dale, the land that Whitehawke coveted so fiercely. Blanche must have hidden it.
A few words were scribbled in a bottom corner beside the royal seal, written in faded brown ink that matched what she had seen on the back. Emlyn read aloud, her voice soft but husky.
“Land rightfully mine I leave to my son Nicholas. Blanche, la comtesse.” A tiny signature below the sentence read “Wil. Clerc, priest.”
Emlyn sat back in amazement. Lady Blanche had even ensured a witness. The document was genuine and had to be legal. Nicholas and Lady Julian, not Whitehawke, owned the dale with the Monks.
Stunned, she turned the page over.
“Mi chere soune Nichls.” Emlyn had to concentrate in order to decipher the letters and to understand the words, a curious mix of French and English. Most texts were written in French or Latin, and she could read those very well. Little was written in the vernacular, the spoken language that she and most of the nobility spoke, a blend of Norman French and English.
“My dear son Nicholas,” she translated aloud.
“I am told that you are with Julian and John. This pleases me.
I have asked for a priest, for I feel my days will be few. Pains in my chest plague and weaken me. Bertra
n thinks my will equal to his. He is wrong. Tomorrow I will beg his forgiveness for a sin I never made. This I do to see you again, my sweet son.
But I shall not live to see you a man. I pray Bertran will not disavow you unfairly in his unfounded jealousy. May God be with you.
Keep this little book in memoriam.
B. cmtsse.”
Tears misted Emlyn’s eyes. Lady Blanche was no adultress. The letter proved that she fully intended to live, even by confessing falsely, in order to be with her small son. More, Emlyn suspected that Lady Blanche had not died of starvation.
Among the contents of the glazed apothecary jars, from which Emily had taken the mint for her infusion, were willow bark and meadowsweet, used for pain, and hawthorn berries and foxglove flowers, remedies for heart ailments.
Weakened by hunger and a poor heart, Lady Blanche could easily have died from even a normal dose of hawthorn and foxglove, which were dangerously strong. The little jar with dried purple foxglove had been nearly empty, Emlyn remembered.
Carefully folding the parchment, she slid it back into its hiding place. During her rummaging she had found a pouch of soft chamois trimmed with silk. She fetched the purse, fit the book inside it, and wound the silk cords around her belt.
The arrow loop still admitted gray daylight and cold air into the chamber. Shivering, Emlyn fastened her cloak, and began to pace the chamber anxiously. From the bailey, she heard distant snatches of laughter and occasional snouts. When darkness came and the castle was quiet, she would escape.
A persistent dizziness plagued her, a result of lack of sleep and lack of food. Laying across the rumpled, dusty bed, she drew her mantle around her like a blanket, intending to rest lightly.
The thunderous rhythm of galloping horses startled Emlyn out of a deep sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she dashed to the window, dismayed to find that she had slept through the night.
Golden dawn light on the crisp surface of the snow, and the red and gold cloaks of hundreds of armored riders created a dense, colorful picture. The king’s troops streamed across the white-crusted bailey in a wide body to channel beneath the open porcullis gate. Embroidered banners flew ahead of the king, whose purple cloak lifted in the wind as he passed through the gate. Looking back, he raised and then lowered his arm, not in farewell, Emlyn saw, but in a signal.
As the teeming mass of horseflesh and armor emptied through the gate to thunder furiously across the wooden drawbridge, twenty or thirty soldiers split off from the group. Each rider held a glowing, spitting torch.
Emlyn watched, horrified, as the soldiers rode through the bailey, flinging their torches toward the thatch-roofed buildings that clustered beneath the walls. The flaming brands whipped through the air like spinning gold stars, igniting the roofs.
“Dear God,” Emlyn breathed. King John had given an order to fire the castle. Even as she comprehended, shocked, what was happening, one of the torch-carriers peeled off from his group and rode directly toward the old keep, tossing his flame. Emlyn peered down, but could not see where it landed.
The riders circled the bailey until they had discharged their torches, then galloped beneath the portcullis. Barely a few moments had passed. The king and his routiers were gone.
Hot orange flames had erupted in several places at once, and thick smoke drifted up like charcoal-tinted clouds. Though the thatched roofs were damp with snow, bright flames burst from the drier places, and had already begun to lick inside the buildings. The pungent, stinging odor of smoke filled the air.
Kitchen fires often plagued castles, and wells were usually strategically placed for that reason. Emlyn heard shouts in the bailey as servants and soldiers ran back and forth from the wells carrying sloshing buckets of water. Others grabbed shovels to fling snow in an attempt to smother the flames.
She could smell smoke, acrid and stinging, inside her tower chamber. Running to the locked door, she pressed her face to the wood. The strong odor came from the stairwell.
The keep was on fire. Certes, she thought, the routiers would make certain that Whitehawke’s stores burned. She sat atop a ready torch, made of barrels of wine and ale, and hundreds of sacks and baskets of dry goods.
Running back into the privy, she took hold of the taut rope fastened to the seat, whispered a quick, frightened prayer, and lowered herself into the round hole. Bracing her feet against the side, she inhaled as if she were slipping underwater and resisted the urge to pinch her nose shut.
Clinging firmly to the long rope, she inched down into dense, cloying darkness. With the makeshift rope pressed between her feet, as she had learned years ago when she and Guy used to climb ropes in the stable loft at Ashbourne, she moved further down. The blackness was alarmingly oppressive. A faint stench lingered, but not of smoke. The odors here were old and unpleasant, imbedded in mortar and stone.
The cold breezes wafting up from below were still fresh, and she moved down.
The fat tumble of rope swayed with her movements in the narrow shaft as her back slid along one wall and her knees and feet brushed the opposite side. Repeatedly, her long braids snagged in the stone cracks, and her skirts hampered her, making the difficult task even more awkward.
What she had not anticipated, as she descended further, was the slimy coating on the walls. Thick oozy molds, in some places quite fetid, clung wherever she touched stone. Her nose clogged with the musty stench and her throat grew irritated. When her head pressed into something spongy, she jerked away.
After a while, her shoulders and hands began to ache. The purse knocked rhythmically against her thigh, and the weight of her heavy cloak and her thick braids strained her neck.
Braced against the wall, she paused to rest, and briefly thought of her frenzied descent with Thorne in the gorge. That day she had been nearly paralyzed with terror. But now, even in this dark slimy shaft, she felt a surprising sense of calm. Necessity and firm purpose enabled her to squelch her fears. Breathing hard now with the effort of descent, she thought of the children and Betrys, locked up in the chamber hall. If the fire reached there, who would see that they were removed from danger? She had to get to them and find Nicholas, and the need spurred her on. Hawksmoor’s garrison would undoubtedly arrive soon, but the snowy moors would greatly delay them. The castle could be a hollow black shell by the time they arrived.
The molds that poisoned the air were making her ill. She must have descended over halfway by now, she thought. Slipping one foot down the silky folds, she toed into empty space.
Her heart lurched. The knotted rope was not long enough to reach to the bottom. Groping madly in the dark, she climbed upward a little in a sudden panic.
Dangling like a caterpillar on a branch, she peered cautiously downward, and was greatly relieved to see the floor of the cesspit, though she could not easily judge the distance. A wedge of light, swimming with motes, filtered in from one side and sliced through the thick shadows below.
Her hands and shoulders burned fiercely. She would not be able to cling much longer. A formless, needy prayer, thoughts and images only, rushed through her mind. Then she let go.
An instant in midair, and her forearms and knees struck solid bottom. Rolling with the momentum of her fall and the natural slope of the floor, she lay for a long time without moving, until her lungs gradually filled again and her head stopped spinning. Inhaling, she smelled smoke laid over a malodorous stench similar to compost and dried manure; the ground beneath her was frozen hard and slightly crunchy, a rounded pile of something indefinable. She sat up quickly.
A few feet away, the bright outline of an ill-fitting slatted door emitted streams of light. The shock of her descent still quivered in her bones and muscles, and she stood cautiously, then opened the little door and stepped out into the bailey, pulling up her hood.
Sunlight and smoke and freezing air hit her all at once. Blinking away stinging tears, she stood transfixed by the uproar as servants, soldiers, women and children ran in every direction, yelling orders, carrying
water buckets, hatchets or shovels. Some screaming, some carrying their belongings or their children, a throng of people streamed toward the gate.
Near the portcullis, Emlyn saw Whitehawke mounted on his white destrier. Even as her belly clenched in fear, she knew that he would not see her amid the confusion. Armored and helmetless, he called out orders to the soldiers gathered by him. Chavant, mounted beside him, directed a group of Serjeants and servantmen toward the stables.
Flames were devouring the roofs of the stable and kitchens, and the smithy had begun to burn. Ugly, thick curls of smoke spiraled up, and cinders and glowing sparks drifted through the air, capable of igniting new fires elsewhere.
She looked up to see smoke pouring from the arrow loops of the old keep. Stepping hastily away, she nearly bumped into two men, who ran past carrying water buckets.
Emlyn broke into a run. The children were locked in the chamber hall. Somehow, she must get them out and find Nicholas.
She ran past high piles of cleared snow, gleaming like molten gold as dawn and fire reflected off the glossy surfaces. Servants stood atop with shovels, flinging snow onto the smaller blazes. Further on, sparks had ignited the walled garden near the hall, leaving the bare-branched orchard trees black, flaming torches.
Emlyn ran faster, rubbing stinging cinders from her eyes and coughing into her fist, toward the chamber hall.
Smoke, increasingly pungent, traced through his nostrils, but he could not determine the source. Puzzled, he also heard distant shouts and heavy footsteps in the corridor. By the commotion in the great hall at dawn, he had already surmised that the king and his troops had departed.
But something else was happening now. Briefly, Nicholas wondered if Peter and Eustace had decided to attack. Then he guessed, with an acute twist in his gut, that King John had torched the castle as he left.
After his visitors had left yesterday, he had made quick work of the ropes around his wrists and ankles. No one had been back since. Even with his limbs free, he had been unable to find a way out, and had finally rested for part of the night. He had been awake for a long while, stalking the perimeters of the room, investigating every niche, chest, and coffer, and listening to the increasing uproar outside his door.
