Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  Bitter laughter ended in a cough. So the bastard was planning to wed again. He’d buried two wives already. The third didn’t stand a chance.

  He glanced at the lady beside him. “You are to attend the bride?”

  “I am the bride. Lady Emelin of Compton.”

  “Congratulations, my lady.” He nearly choked on the words. His gut burned at them. “Have you been betrothed long?”

  She shook her head, a blank stare of inattention on her hem. “My brother arranged the marriage recently.” She gestured to her rough gown. “Quite recently, as you might imagine.”

  A sunbeam fell across her eyes. She brushed a hand in front of her face to block the light. In the angle of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, he glimpsed uncertainty. It disappeared in a blink, but he fisted his hand against an urge to reach out. He couldn’t explain this compulsion to touch her.

  “I have heard of a Lord Osbert of Langley. But he was older, with children grown.” He looked away, forcing his voice into calm disinterest at the leading lie.

  “Then you know more of my future husband than I do.” Her voice sounded rueful. “I was told only that his last wife died young, and he was in need of an heir.”

  The same man. Bitter hatred tasted sweet on his tongue. Who could have predicted such an unexpected turn?

  Duty to the king be damned. Giles could finish his personal mission now, deliver the message to Henry later. The temptation was great. But acting quickly would not allow him to savor his revenge. He’d abide by the original plan. Soon, however, he’d confront Langley. Then.

  “Ah, not the same man.” Those who knew him would recognize the flat tone and begin to arm themselves. “Later, if we don’t come across Lord Henry, you can provide me direction to Chauvere. I’ll be grateful.”

  The lady inclined her head.

  ****

  Emelin watched the knight examine the countryside. The air of ease he adopted was deceptive. Injured, covered in dirt and blood, he still appeared dangerous. Beneath the bulk of light mail jacket, he was lean but broad-shouldered. Prominent veins mapped his muscular hands, and his long fingers were callused but well-shaped.

  He must be a stranger to the country. His speech was Norman French, as was that of the lords here, but carried an accent she couldn’t identify.

  Why was he in England, alone, vulnerable to brigands? Surely he knew better than to travel unattended. The inflexible set of his jaw warned he was not given to thoughtless behavior. Even at rest he seemed poised for action.

  “You were separated from others of your party?” She almost winced when her words popped out. Mother Gertrude had tried so hard to curb Emelin’s curiosity. Or at least the frequency with which she voiced it. Still. How would she know if she didn’t ask?

  His head turned, and she gazed into icy silver pools. Hot tingles danced across her skin. Then two things happened: a back wheel dropped into a hole and her hand flew to her throat. The rough lurch sent Emelin forward, her elbow jabbing into the injured knight’s chest.

  A muffled oath was the only indication he felt the contact. Before she could straighten, those strong, beautiful hands she’d admired moments earlier curled around her waist, set her upright.

  Her jaws locked in mortification. Warmth crept up her neck, into her cheeks. It was nothing compared to the sensation at her sides. A blacksmith’s iron burned cooler than the white hot brands left by his fingers.

  “Your lord husband’s road could do with a bucket of dirt to smooth the way,” the knight said as he rested against the cart’s side once more. Calm. Unaffected. Unlike the bumping of her heart.

  She’d like to douse him in water. He’d react to that.

  Oh, no. Even her thoughts were turning rebellious. “I’m so sorry,” she said, jabbing her hands in her lap. “I hope I didn’t injure you more.”

  “Not at all.” He nodded behind her. “Is that our destination?”

  She twisted to look. “I’ve never seen Langley before. But it must be.” She glanced back. “How do you feel?”

  His gaze caught hers. “How do you feel?”

  Emelin’s stomach knotted. Her palms itched with nervousness. For the last hours, she’d concentrated on the injured man. Now, her new life lay just ahead.

  She wasn’t as resigned as she should be. Foolish, Mother Gertrude called her apprehension. Many ladies met their husbands on their wedding day, the abbess had pointed out. Several times.

  Emelin would be happy for this marriage.

  “I’m pleased.” Her tone wouldn’t convince a child. She swallowed, tried again. “This is what I’ve always longed for. A home, family. They are every woman’s dream, are they not?”

  Her teeth gripped her lower lip. She wanted to shout, “I hate it. I hate that I have no say in my life. I hate that my brother can sell me like a cow.” Instead, she turned to gaze ahead. Serenely. She hoped.

  What in God’s blessed name had Garley been thinking when he agreed to Langley’s offer? Emelin’s soft snort was unladylike as she answered her own question. What he always thought of—Garley.

  “You said your brother arranged for the betrothal?”

  His question returned the steel to her spine. She nodded.

  “When did he tell you?”

  “He didn’t.” The calm that angered her earlier in the knight now served to cushion her. “Lord Osbert’s captain, Sir Humphrey, brought my brother’s message yesterday. I have not seen nor spoken with him for five years.”

  Since Stephen disappeared on crusade. Since Garley rid himself of an unwanted dependent. Since he confined her to the convent.

  “We did not part on the best of terms.”

  The knight didn’t speak again, and she didn’t look at him, afraid she might see pity. She didn’t need pity. She was through with pity. She’d thought herself through with her brother, too.

  But he remembered her existence readily enough when money jangled before his nose. The note delivered to her made that clear. The words burned in her mind. Sister, his steward had written, for Garley could not, I have at last found a use for you. Lord Osbert of Langley has need of an heir and I have assured him you will provide one. As the daughter of a proven breeder—how she hated for him to speak of their mother that way—you will give him many sons. This is your last chance. It’s a better one than you deserve.

  So she’d packed her bag and set out for her new life. No illusions were tucked away amidst her scant garments. For another line from her brother’s message assured her that the groom has offered to overlook your deficiencies of face, figure, and marriage portion. So keep your tongue in your head and be thankful.

  She was grateful for an answer to her secret dream. And perhaps one day, she could thank Garley. But not today.

  The rest of the short journey continued in silence. Better that way, Emelin decided. She slanted one last gaze at the man beside her, felt the same strange energy reach out. It must be the unusual warmth of the sun, the unexpected excitement after so many dull years.

  It was not the knight.

  It must not be the knight.

  As they drew closer to the curtain wall, rattling metal signaled the portcullis being raised. Emelin lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Mother Mary,” she whispered, “be with me.”

  ****

  Giles’ silence hid a banked fury. His little nun didn’t deserve such cruel and thoughtless treatment. No lady, no female did. Her brother needed to learn consideration. Perhaps he, Giles, might point it out before he returned to Normandy.

  After he killed Osbert of Langley.

  Hatred dulled his every ache. Of all places for attack. Right outside the very holding that drew him to England.

  His little nun’s God had a grim sense of humor. He glanced at the lady.

  Her lush lips wedged between her teeth again; her wary eyes widened. Then her chin lifted, and her shoulders firmed. Like a warrior preparing for battle. His warrior-nun.

  Well, good luck to her. God knew
she’d need it, wed to Lord Osbert. The third wife. A pity for such a spirited lady to throw away her life like this.

  No, she wouldn’t be forced to do so. After Giles completed his task, she would be free of the man. The perfect wedding gift. But right now, she’d draw blood if she gripped her lower lip any harder.

  The tip of her tongue flicked that lip, and Giles forgot revenge. His aching muscles coursed with desire, and he longed to sooth her mouth with his own.

  His cock jerked. At least one part of his body wasn’t bruised. Just as well their destination loomed near. Lady Emelin of Compton was not for someone like him. A bastard mercenary with no home.

  The knowledge didn’t stop his wanting.

  He turned a warrior’s eye back to the castle. It hunkered on a slight hill, the top of the old square keep peering over a curtain wall that meandered around the whole like the stagger of a drunken lord. Both keep and wall boasted stone the color of old bones. No defensive ditch in evidence, but a good half-league of open space stretched in the three directions he could see. They approached through the only trees in sight, on a road arrowed toward the now-open gates.

  If he owned it, Giles would see a trench dug, filled with sharpened stakes and ready for oil. The rock walls could withstand a fire if enemies attacked. Better that, than slimy, stagnant water. He hated a moat. Nasty, stinking mess.

  The wagon at last rattled past triple metal-studded gates, through a narrow passage into the bailey. A bailey lined with enough soldiers to celebrate an attack not a wedding. What could a peaceable baron intend with so many fighters?

  Awaiting them stood a gray-haired man whose solid shoulders were matched by his solid girth. Shaggy gray brows pulled together as he eyed their approach. The attitude of the small crowd gathered around left no doubt as to his identity.

  So this was the man he hunted. The man he swore to kill. Giles imposed his iron will on the emotion clamoring for release. This moment called for quiet reason.

  He searched for something familiar in the craggy face, the sharp blue eyes, the implacable jaw.

  Nothing.

  Langley stood with hands propped on hips, chin thrust out. As the oxen clopped to a stop, he strode forward.

  “There you are,” his voice boomed. “Let me see my bride!” He reached in, grabbed Lady Emelin and lifted her to the ground.

  He frowned.

  He squeezed her waist.

  He growled.

  His big hands shoved to her hips and gripped.

  “What’s this? Your brother promised me a plain and sturdy bride. Not some frail beauty.” He stepped back to look her up and down. She seemed frozen in place, her expression one of disbelief.

  “I expected a woman with some flesh to her. By God, you’d best be breeding in a fortnight, or I’ll send you back. Wait.” His wild gray brows lifted. “You are Lady Emelin, aren’t you? Sir Humphrey, did you bring the right female?”

  Her cheeks flamed, throwing her freckles into relief, but she remained motionless. Even at that distance, Giles sensed her humiliation. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword; his jaw twitched. He quelled the drive to leap out in her defense. A deep breath—two. Knotted muscles relaxed.

  Not now. Now was not the time.

  The little warrior-nun faced Lord Osbert. “I’ve come from a convent, not court, my lord.” Her voice was deadly placid. “It’s difficult to maintain flesh on hard work and convent food. If you’re dissatisfied, I can leave.”

  She turned to the wagon, head lowered. Then she raised it; anger, not humiliation, sparked her eyes as they met Giles’.

  A connection jolted through him, a lightning bolt of affinity. There, behind her anger, lurked uncertainty and the flicker of an emotion he recognized all too well. Loneliness.

  “Here,” Lord Osbert shouted, “what do you think you’re doing? The wedding is set. The guests are arriving. Come along, my lady. I’ll have to make do.”

  She blinked, and the bond with Giles broke. Chin lifted, hands fisted, she turned. Lord Osbert glared, arms akimbo.

  “You’ve got spirit,” he grumbled. His lips curled back. “I don’t like spirit. My second wife had spirit. See what it got her. A cold, watery grave because she wouldn’t listen when I said the bridge was weak. Your brother guaranteed a docile maiden who would give me no trouble.”

  She tilted her head at Lord Osbert as he blustered. At last she nodded, lips set, one eyebrow arched. “Then I will try to be the wife you deserve, my lord.”

  Chapter Two

  In the commotion of the bride’s arrival, no one noticed the battered knight in the wagon. That suited Giles. He looked around unhampered. Servants and a few pages, those who could muster an excuse for being in the area, clustered at one side. Guards stood at intervals around the bailey.

  A handful of other soldiers and knights cast a last glance at the entourage, likely verifying no threat accompanied their comrades, then headed around the keep. Giles made out shouts and the clatter of weapons coming from that direction. The training yard.

  He wondered again at the large troop. But if guests had already assembled, the guards accompanying them could account for the numbers.

  Ahead, the still-ranting Lord Osbert stalked to Sir Humphrey. Giles’ gaze sharpened beneath eyelids that had begun to lose puffiness. After all these years. After all the wondering, the searching. The hating. At last the lying seducer would pay for his crime.

  He fought an urge to rub his chest where the medallion lay beneath a packet containing the king’s message. What if he tore that pendant from his neck and threw it at the old lord? What would the man do then?

  Now is not the time. Wait for the right moment.

  First, Giles must deliver the thrice-damned letter to Lord Henry. Then—then he’d be free to seek vengeance, to kill the man who fathered him.

  He lounged against the side of the wagon, gathering strength, willing the drum in his head to stop. He needed to find a horse and continue the journey. Strange that the well-trained Nuit had vanished. The loyal gelding would never have gone on its own.

  Mount and master had formed a bond during the past three years. Giles bought the mistreated colt earlier from a whip-happy dealer who trained his animals with violence.

  Bought was, perhaps, the wrong term, although he “paid” the man the night he liberated the horse, then freed all the others penned up for sale the following day.

  Giles hated a bully.

  His attention swung back to Osbert. Overbearing men like the lord of Langley often were bullies. Had the man bullied Mère? Giles remembered his mother, Rosaline, as a fragile, loving presence, who never lost faith in the lying bastard.

  Yet now, in the midst of his anger, Giles experienced a strange transformation. Looking at the man he knew as his father, the lava of hatred cooled. Pooled into hard, icy resolve.

  If he’d learned anything during his years in Mercadier’s mercenaries, it was patience.

  Sir Humphrey muttered to Lord Osbert, and they looked toward him at the same time. The lord strode to the cart.

  “My captain tells me you were set upon by a half-dozen men, but he routed them.” Osbert’s meaty fists gripped the side of the wagon. “Do you know why you were attacked?”

  Giles looked up. How easy to raise his sword, bury it in the old man’s chest. Too easy. The consequences wouldn’t be to his liking. He had no intention of dying alongside his father.

  Out of sheer habit, his control took over. “Brigands, looking for an easy mark.” He shrugged, then related his carefully crafted story of a visit to an old friend.

  “Can you provide me a mount to continue?” he ended. “I’ll return it, of course.”

  Those heavy gray eyebrows gathered in a frown. Osbert rubbed the side of his neck. “Don’t have any to spare. Where’s yours? Killed was it?”

  “No,” Giles answered, his voice low, laced with polite venom. “Your man said no other horses were around when he arrived.”

  Sir Humphrey
nodded. “Right. Must’ve spooked in the fight.”

  Giles’ level gaze never wavered. What fool believed a trained horse bolted in battle? The words he longed to fling stilled on his tongue. Years of training taught him, a knight who spoke little provoked an enemy into incautious action.

  “Wait, now.” The lord straightened. “Didn’t…”He glanced around then bellowed, “Davy! Davy in the stables!”

  Turning back he said, “I remember the stable master reporting a stray horse earlier today. What did yours look like?”

  “Black.” Bedamned if he’d say more. Giles climbed to the ground. His muscles were stiff, his arm hurt like Hades, and one eyelid felt crusted with blood. Jaw set, he turned toward the stables. His spine popped as he stretched. Holy Hell, his ribs ached.

  A scrawny youth scurried up, sending dirt divots ahead of his gangling feet. “Milord?”

  “Was there a stray mount found outside before midday?”

  “Yes, milord. A big, strong black ’un.” The youth flipped aside straw-colored bangs.

  Lord Osbert’s mouth disappeared into his moustache. “Good sturdy horse, you say?”

  “And a devil ’e is, too.” Davy nodded. The ragged bangs slid back to tickle his nose. He puffed them aside. “Kicked my brother when all Tom did was tap ’im with a whip to get ’im in the stall.”

  “You whipped my horse?” Giles’ quiet voice dripped menace.

  Defiant eyes stared up at him. “Well, an’ ’ow would you’ve made ’im go where ’e didn’t want to?”

  Lord Osbert stepped forward, hands lifted. “There’s no proof that horse is yours.”

  “My pack was behind the saddle.”

  A cunning look crossed the other man’s face. “There wasn’t a pack on that stray animal, was there, Davy?”

  The boy didn’t bother to answer.

  “A stranger can’t just claim any mount he likes. I’ll take a look at him and see if he might be yours.”

  “I’ll come along.” Giles wasn’t about to wait outside for the inevitable lie.