The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  Glancing at the bright sliver of sky at the window, he saw smoke drift past. Best, he thought wryly, to be gone from here.

  Preferring to ambush the next guard who came in, rather than going out the window on bed sheets and prayers, he had armed himself earlier with a tall iron candlestick, whose wicked tripod base and sharp candle prong made a formidable weapon.

  Shifting the candle support in his hands, he spun and tossed it, exploring the length and uneven weight distribution. Just a question of time before someone opened the door. Nicholas grasped the candlestick confidently in his hands and waited.

  Emlyn hurried through the chamber hall as simply and freely as if she had lived there all her life. Each person she passed, soldiers or servants, ignored her or glanced incuriously as they rushed outside. There was a strong smell of smoke in the hall, but no evidence of fire that she could see. With her head tucked in the shadow of her deep hood, she slipped up the stairs.

  Hesitating, she walked slowly along the gallery toward the bedchamber, relieved to find it unguarded. The heavy draw bar was stuck fast in the struts, and she strained to dislodge it and set it aside. Easing the door open, she stepped into the dim room.

  And walked into a whirlwind of motion. Instinct ruled and she ducked, throwing up her hands to defend against something that came whirring down out of the shadows. She screamed.

  Some heavy object hit the floor, thunking painfully against her foot. Then she was caught up in strong arms, and pulled fiercely into Nicholas’s embrace.

  “Oh, God, Emlyn!” he said breathlessly into the side of her hood. “Emlyn! How—”

  “Nicholas!” she cried, clinging to him. “By the Virgin, you are here, and safe.” The warm haven of his arms closed around her, and she sank against his chest, listening for a blissful moment to the simple, strong beat of his heart.

  She lifted her face and his lips slipped over hers, roughened with thirst, tender and fierce. Emlyn embraced him, desperately needing to touch him, to feel his touch and hear his voice, to know him real and alive and unhurt.

  “Where is the guard?” he asked against her cheek.

  “There was none,” she said. “Oh, Nicholas, the castle is ablaze. The world has gone topsy-turvy. King John’s routiers fired the castle at dawn. They just tossed torches—” She quickly told him what she had seen.

  “Whitehawke has been mightily betrayed, then, for he thought himself among the favorites.”

  Emlyn peeked around his shoulder and saw the empty chamber. “Nicholas,” she said slowly, “where are the children?”

  “Safe, sweeting.” He offered his brief narrative.

  Her hood slipped back as she threw her arms around his neck and whispered her thanks.

  “They are likely back at Hawksmoor by now,” he said, and bent to nuzzle his face into her hair. “Aaauggh—” he gasped. “Bloody saints. What rotten hole did you crawl from?” He put a hand up to his mouth. At her look of dismay, he dropped it. “Where did those bastards lock you? I thought you were in the old keep.”

  She glanced up at him, a little hurt. A slight stench wafted through the air as she stepped forward. “Oh, aye,” she said, “I was in the upper chamber, but the door was locked. I had to climb down the privy shaft to get out.”

  “You did what?”

  She grinned proudly. “I escaped out the privy shaft.”

  Nicholas raked his fingers through his hair. “Jesu,” he said, “you are an amazement.” He reached out and pulled her to him again, bringing his face close to hers. “A malodorous, wondrous amazement. Come here, my love.” Though his mouth tasted sticky and sour, and her own odor lingered unpleasantly, the tender familiarity of the kiss sweetened all else.

  He broke away to look at her, his eyes glittering like bright steel. In the dim light, with his bristly stubble, tangled hair and purpled bruises, he looked wild, strong, and strangely vulnerable. Emlyn put a finger gently on his cheek.

  “You are hurt,” she said.

  “I am well enough,” he said, wincing a little at her touch. His crooked half grin told her that however, wherever, he might hurt, he chose to think naught of it.

  He stroked his fingers along her jaw. “At times these past days, I never thought to see you again.” His body grazed hers, and Emlyn felt a delicious, languid heat at the brushing contact.

  “And I you, my love,” she whispered, splaying a hand on his chest. His heart thumped softly beneath her fingers.

  Frowning, he lifted his head to sniff exploringly in the air. “We must leave here. The smell of smoke is stronger.”

  “None stopped me as I came in. With caution, we can get to the gate and join those who are leaving.” Distracted by his nearness, she traced her hand in gentle circles on his chest.

  Nicholas watched her with a bemused expression, and tilted his face down to hers. “Best we leave soon, or I shall give into a very lustful temptation to put that bed to its finest use.”

  Circling an arm behind her back, he fitted his hips to hers, and the warm weight in the core of her body dissolved into an eager yearning, molten and trembly. His turgid arousal pressed against her lower body, and She gripped his shoulders as an urgent desire nearly buckled her knees.

  He groaned softly against her lips. “Dearling, though I am loathe to say it, ’twould be too great a delay.” He took her elbows and put her away from him, wrinkling his nose briefly. “And by my troth, you do reek, lady wife.”

  “Nicholas,” she said, placing a detaining hand on his arm. “There is something I would tell you—”

  “Later, my love, we must go. Hurry!” He opened the door and pulled her along with him, into a corridor filled with smoke.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The castle complex, encircled by the high curtain wall, lay curled like a great dragon belching flame and smoke, and pungent charcoal-colored clouds rolled furiously overhead as Emlyn and Nicholas ran out into the bailey. Hurrying beside Nicholas, every exposed inch of Emlyn’s skin felt the scorching, suffocating heat, as if the wintry chill did not exist here.

  The stable had collapsed, a ferocious, flaming pit. Beyond that, the kitchen roof beams were crashing to the ground, pulling the weakened stone walls partly down.

  “Hounds of hell! The chapel!” Nicholas called.

  Emlyn looked up. Crowning the chapel was a gleaming, swirling mass of rainbow color, like sliding oil. “What is it?”

  “The roof is made of sheets of tin. They’re melting.”

  “Jesu,” she breathed, as he hauled her forward once again.

  They stumbled into the crowd that condensed and shoved toward the gate. Graymere was home to hundreds of soldiers, servants, craftsmen, and their families; now it seemed as if most of them pressed forward at once in a frenzied, shouting, jostling body.

  Jammed into the crowd and carried along like driftwood in rushing water, Emlyn gripped Nicholas’s arm, determined not to lose him. Bouncing up on her toes, she tried to see over the heads and shoulders in front of her.

  Whitehawke, his white hair a signature banner, guided his horse ahead of a group of armed, mounted knights, who led their destriers under the gate, delaying the exodus of the crowd of people behind them. Looking for Chavant, Emlyn saw him riding with the garrison. She gestured, and Nicholas nodded.

  “They leave with the landed knights,” he said over the din. “The rest of these people must fend for themselves.” Someone stumbled next to him, and he turned and bent over to pick up a small, lost, dirty-faced, crying boy.

  Reassuring the child, promising to find his family, Nicholas carried him easily in one arm as they moved slowly under the portcullis arch. Once outside the castle walls, the mass of people drifted apart into smaller groups.

  Villeins from the near countryside were filtering onto the rolling white meadow that fronted the castle, coming in wagons, on mules and plow oxen, or on foot, to see what help was needed and to find family members. Women gathered near a fire, over which was hung a large iron kettle full
of steaming soup. Others tapped barrels of cider in a wagon, handing out drinks from deep wooden ladles.

  Emlyn’s mouth watered at first, but when she looked in another direction, her throat nearly closed with anguish and shock. Bodies lay clustered on the bare snow, or on blankets or cloaks. Some writhed in pain with burn wounds; others were still as cloth dolls. Women knelt among them, applying snow or ointments to wounds, and offering liquids.

  Looking around again, she saw that Nicholas had walked away, carrying the boy toward a crowded hay wagon. When a woman reached out, he lifted the child into his mother’s arms.

  Watching, Emlyn felt a surge of love flow through her, from the top of her head to her toes, a warm, tingling, nurturing rain of profound gratitude that Nicholas was safe and unhurt. With a sudden sense of clarity, she admired the grace and power of each simple movement he made as he found a blanket and wrapped it around the boy, and she relished every nuance of his deep, gentle voice as he spoke to the child’s mother.

  She stood staring as if he were the only person in the snowy meadow. Then he turned, and his eyes met Emlyn’s across the short distance. He raised his arms, and she ran toward him.

  Cradling her against him, he stroked her hair as they stood wrapped together, heedless of the confusion and commotion that surrounded them. They turned to face the burning castle. Though the flames had tempered in some spots, dark smoke still billowed and belched from within the walls. Graymere would be a blackened, hollow shell by nightfall.

  “My lord,” said a voice behind them. Emlyn whirled.

  “Peter!” she cried.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing his head. He glanced at Nicholas. “I am heartened to see you both safe.” Though his voice was calm, lines of exhaustion were etched around his blue eyes. Coppery bristles sparkled as he rubbed his chin and looked at the castle.

  “You walked out of the jaws of hell, my lord.”

  “Aye so,” Nicholas replied wearily.

  “What of the children?” Emlyn asked.

  “Snug at Hawksmoor by now and likely being treated like saints arrived from heaven.” Peter gestured toward the trees, where a long line of Hawksmoor’s garrison waited, armed and mounted. “We have been mickle worried about you both, and disputing the best time to attempt a rescue. For the meanwhile, many of our guards have been helping with matters out here.”

  Emlyn noticed then several green-cloaked guards moving among the crowd, finding spaces in packed wagons, boosting people onto horses, and hitching harnesses. Her breath swelled with pride, and beside her, Nicholas nodded his approval.

  “Whitehawke and his men rode off as if hellhounds were after them,” Peter remarked to Nicholas.

  “Aye, intent on claiming Hawksmoor for Hugh’s inheritance. When better than now, when they have no roof for their heads?”

  “Thunder of heaven,” Peter muttered. Emlyn glanced up to see the quick look that Nicholas and Peter exchanged.

  “I will go with you!” she exclaimed. “I can shoot a bow!” The flush of her Amazonian escapade was still with her, and she hardly heard Peter’s muted groan.

  Nicholas turned pewter-colored eyes on her. “You, my lady, will go to Evincourt as planned, since the king still proves unpredictable. Your taste of adventure is over, Emlyn. I would have you safe and know where you are. A stitching needle would be a goodly thing for your hands now, rather than a weapon.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Nicholas took advantage of the sudden silence. “My lady,” he nodded, “I will see you in a few weeks. An escort will be given you.” He strode briskly away from her toward the trees where his soldiers waited.

  Stunned, Emlyn hesitated a moment too long before she took off after him. He had already leaped up into Sylvanus’s saddle by the time she reached him.

  “Nicholas!” she cried, remembering the little prayerbook that weighted the purse at her belt. “I must speak to you!”

  Someone tossed him a green cloak, and he wrapped it around him. Steadying the restive prancing of the war-horse, he looked down at Emlyn. His eyes, reflecting the cloak, were now the cool green of bottle glass. She would have placed a detaining hand on his boot, but his gaze stopped her.

  “See that my lady wife is given an escort,” he called out to one of the guards. “The rest of you will ride out with me.”

  “What will you do?” she cried in alarm.

  “There are matters to be finished, lady.” Yanking the reins, he turned the horse and rode off, signaling to the others.

  Feathery spray churned from the horses’ hooves as they thundered and glided over the snowy moor. Hair flying out like dark silk, his cloak lifting behind him, Nicholas vanished in the white distance, headed west for Hawksmoor.

  Fuming with a hot blend of anger and fear, Emlyn watched with snapping blue eyes until he disappeared over the rim of a hill.

  “My lady.” William, who had defended her bravely outside the village just days ago, cantered his horse over to her. “We will depart now,” he said.

  Mounted on a strong gray stallion and wrapped in another of the thick green Hawksmoor cloaks, Emlyn had taken the time to sip a long draught of cider and eat a hunk of bread dipped in stew. With a little sustenance, she felt clearheaded and determined as she looked around at the twenty guards who waited for her.

  Sighing at the prospect of yet another escort ready to lead her away from Nicholas, she realized that she had been separated from him far too much. His orders condemned her to weeks of cloistered waiting, protected from the king, but isolated from Nicholas, and perhaps from news of his fate.

  A wise wife obeyed a husband’s judgment, the Church taught, and she knew ’twas best to support the ladies and children who would arrive later at Evincourt. Nicholas did not want her with him. Though some women had followed their men into battle, they had been royalty or ladies of pleasure. And certainly, her taste of men’s affairs of late had left her longing for the serene comforts of a peaceful home.

  William waited, puzzled by her silence. She shifted in the saddle, and the little purse bumped against her abdomen. Its insistent weight decided her. Nicholas must have the deed.

  Pulling sideways at the reins, Emlyn dug in her heels. The gray responded with a glorious surge of speed, tearing west across the hills.

  “My lady!” William called.

  Snow caught delicately on her eyelashes and dusted her cloak. Emlyn brushed at her eyes with one hand and pressed on beside William, fighting a numbing, painful fatigue. She wanted a hearth, a soft bed with hot, hot stones, and a bowl of steaming soup. Her fingers had nearly frozen with cold until she had borrowed a pair of leather gauntlets, overlarge but warm, from one of the guards. Breathing out puffs of mist, flexing her fingers inside the heavy gloves, she looked up as the escort rounded yet another white-blanketed swell of moorland.

  Impulsively heading for Hawksmoor, she had been ill-prepared for hours of hard riding. When the snow had begun again, she almost wished that she had sent the prayerbook to Nicholas via one of the guards. But she needed to bring him the truth herself. Now, having set both the pace and the direction, she would not complain about the bone-deep chill, an aching fatigue, or a ferocious, dizzying hunger.

  She rode on over the wild, white, airy moorland, with twenty men pounding a faithful rhythm behind her. Crossing slick stones to ford a broad stream, they turned for Hawksmoor.

  Moving steadily along a sweeping descent where the cold winds cut like strong, sharp steel, Emlyn ducked her head and pulled her cloak tighter. Not only was the air raw with cold, but the dimming light would soon fade entirely.

  Finally, distant but visible through flurrying snow, Hawksmoor’s crenellated walls rose at the far crest of a long white hill. Dense forest covered the slope and reached back toward the moorland like long, dark arms.

  Fringing a wide clearing, the trees were draped with snow and hung with icicles. Farther down the immense sweep of the incline on which she sat, Emlyn saw Nicholas’s garrison, their green cloaks unmista
kable, heading for the clearing.

  Beyond them on the moor, approaching the stretch of land that backed up to the castle, she glimpsed the russet cloaks of Whitehawke’s guard, like autumn leaves scattering over the snow, as they hastened toward Hawksmoor. Spurring the gray, she urged him down the rolling contours of the slope.

  Just then, a small party of men galloped out of the forest to angle across the snowy moor toward Emlyn and her escort. Emlyn slowed, and William caught up to her.

  “Who are they?” she asked him, watching them approach.

  “Men from Hawksmoor, my lady, though I do not recognize them two in the lead, with their red cloaks.”

  Emlyn squinted, then suddenly leaned forward to furrow the gray through the snow. “Guy!” she screamed as she rode. “Guy!”

  She nearly toppled from her horse in her haste to embrace him. Guy caught her, hugged her, and set her back in the saddle.

  “Emlyn! What do you here?” he exclaimed in surprise.

  She smiled breathlessly at Guy and at Wat, who rode up beside them. Wat, his nose red with cold, frowned at her. “You should not be here, Lady Emlyn. ’Tis no place for a woman. The baron means to catch Whitehawke before the earl reaches Hawksmoor.”

  “How is it you knew to come here?” she asked him.

  “When the children were returned from captivity—they are well, my lady, and full proud of their adventures,” he added, “we posted extra guards on the battlements. Whitehawke’s men were spotted not long ago, with Nicholas and his garrison coming hard behind them. We rode out, taking that shortcut through the wood, to see what aid we could bring. I, for one, am anxious to draw steel against those who seize children.”