Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  Looking down at herself for the first time since she arrived, Emelin gasped. Bloodstains dotted the front of her skirt, and one streaked across her bodice, where she must have held the injured knight.

  The other brown gown must do. She donned it, then wrapped the cumbersome wimple around her hair. As for the bright dream? Forget it. Forget him.

  She would do her duty. Not to her brother. He didn’t deserve her duty. But she owed one to herself. No matter how much she loved the nuns, her future lay elsewhere. This marriage was her chance.

  “Thank you, Ortha. Shall we go down?” As she maneuvered the stairs, a sudden shout reached her.

  “Troops arriving.”

  Footsteps pounded. She grabbed her skirts to race down the final steps. When she reached the bottom, she froze.

  This was her brother. She just knew it. She touched the wimple, tucked up a curl that sneaked free, then pressed her hand to her midriff. Pinpricks danced across her shoulders, squiggled through her stomach. She lifted her chin and sucked in a breath.

  “Come,” she said to Ortha, “let us see who arrives.” Forcing herself to move at last, Emelin maintained a ladylike gait across the hall. If only she could prolong the journey to the door. No chance.

  It was Garley. His shoulders had gained breadth during the years, but so had the rest of him. Emelin remembered the height and the blond hair, a darker shade now. Even so, she would always know him by his resemblance to their father, down to the inflexible set of his solid jaw.

  Despite her anger at his thoughtless action, an old familiar knot of dread drifted from the back of her throat into her stomach, where it turned heavy as lead.

  Garley’s large party surprised her. How did he pay so many soldiers? No women accompanied him. He wasn’t married. Probably searched for a wealthy wife who could afford him.

  An elbow to the shoulder warned she was no longer alone in the doorway. Lady Dulsie and Lady Cleo fairly leaped to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. From their murmurs, she realized she was the only one who found her brother’s appearance objectionable.

  Giggling like a maiden, Lady Dulsie turned. “Your brother is just as handsome as I remember, my lady. I can’t imagine why such a man hasn’t wed.”

  Lady Cleo’s avid gaze didn’t waver from the man. A slight smile curved her full lips; speculation twitched the skin around her eyes. From that expression, Emelin guessed the lady planned to remedy Garley’s lack of a wife. They might just deserve each other.

  The reunion proved as unsatisfactory as she’d expected. Lord Osbert shouted for her to join him in the bailey, then complained as she approached.

  “You misrepresented the bargain, Compton. She’s no plain, dowdy maiden, anxious to do her duty. Look at that face. Look at those eyes. Damn it, man, half the garrison’s already casting cow-eyes her way.”

  Unfair of him to say that, Emelin thought, indignant. She’d not met the garrison. But he had not finished.

  “And she’s got a tongue on her. Told you I couldn’t abide spirit in a female, didn’t I?”

  Just when Emelin thought he’d run out of words, he sucked in a breath and added, “Look at her. She’s got no other clothes! Damned nun. How’s a man supposed to bed a damned nun, I ask you? It’s enough to turn the stomach.”

  His litany of complaints halted when she did. “You see?” He gestured at the proof.

  “Greetings, brother,” Emelin said, hands clasped at waist. “I trust you are well.”

  “Well enough.” His blue eyes squinted. “What have you done to yourself?”

  She answered through gritted teeth. “I had no way to purchase suitable gowns, and you sent none with your demands. What choice had I?” What irony—his first words contained a complaint about her appearance, just as his last had all those years ago. But, then, this was her brother. He had not changed.

  He waved a hand. “Not that. I mean—look at you.”

  “Surely you didn’t expect the same frightened child who left Compton.” Emelin struggled to keep her voice calm, but anger bubbled inside.

  Garley ignored the words. His furious gaze promised retribution as he latched onto her arm and turned to Lord Osbert. “Indeed. Look how she has improved. A strong lady worthy of Langley. She can stand up to anything. Tend your brats. Hold the castle safe while you’re gone. And if she can’t keep her mouth shut, shut it for her.”

  Emelin wrenched her arm from his fist. Her face burned with anger and humiliation. He might remember her as a cowed child, but he would learn his mistake. Indignation won out, and she spoke without thinking.

  “Perhaps one of you fine lords can find me a suitable gown in which to wed. You have bought and sold me, now you can clothe me.”

  The men stood speechless as she marched up the stairs into the keep. In the silence, realization sent an icy tingle up her back. Oh, Sweet Mary. Her wretched temper had boiled over again. For years she struggled to harness that tongue. In less than a day, her control had collapsed. Repeatedly.

  She swept through the doors, nearly colliding with the ladies who gaped with owl eyes. Margaret clutched Ortha’s hand. A puzzled frown crinkled the girl’s forehead, and her mouth puckered. Wonderful. It only needed a weeping child.

  Emelin gusted a breath. “I will be in my chamber.” When Ortha stepped up, she added, “I would like to be alone. You can best help by looking after Margaret.”

  Mind numb, she made her way to her tiny room. She slammed the bar across the door, sank onto the bed, and pulled at the wimple. Strong, was she? Opinionated, they thought? Never had she felt so alone. Not in the early years at St. Ursula when she stood apart like a bandaged thumb. Not even as a child, in the first frightening days of travel to Stephen’s home. Self-reliance came gradually over the years, and if she nurtured an independent spirit? Well, it was hard-won.

  She must draw on those qualities now, show Lord Osbert she could fulfill his requirements, work to win over Margaret. She must repair the damage her unguarded temper just wrought. For Garley’s eyes blazed hatred when they landed on her and sent her spiraling back to a childhood fear.

  Against her will, the old uncertainty seared her new confidence. Would he force her to Compton if she didn’t satisfy Lord Osbert? Sell her to another rich lord? What would such a man be like? Lord Osbert, at least, was a known entity.

  And the child. Emelin couldn’t leave her alone. Who knew what mischief she would get up to, just to gain attention? Dear God. What if she caught Garley’s eye? He’d know at once to use her as a lever against Emelin.

  She propped her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. Her chest hurt; she couldn’t swallow. One tear, then another, then more slipped between her fingers to roll down her forearms. She wept silently until her nose began to run. Grabbing the wimple, she blew into it and mopped her eyes with the other end.

  At least that solved the problem of the terrifying head wrap. A tiny smile tugged one side of her mouth. Perhaps Margaret wouldn’t weep at her now. She straightened and flexed her shoulders. Enough self-pity. But in spite of the brave attitude, a tiny, empty ache still lived between her breasts. She sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. Where to find Ortha?

  As it happened, Ortha sat alone at the top of the stairway, waiting. Across her lap was a soft gown, the shade of evergreens. She looked up.

  “Lady Dulsie sent this for you to wear at the evening meal.” Ortha must have glimpsed a residual rebellion in Emelin’s eyes because she rose quickly. “Please, my lady. To preserve the peace. You won’t want to anger your husband before you’re even wed.”

  “Too late for that,” came Emelin’s instinctive reply. She ran her hand over the fine, soft wool. When had she ever worn such a lovely gown?

  “Perhaps you’re right. I will try. Come and help me dress. Where is Margaret?”

  A rare smile lit the other woman’s face. “With Tilda, of course, plaguing Cook.”

  Ortha had just finished braiding Emelin’s hair when the door burst op
en. Sir Garley strode in, his bulk filling the space. He jerked his head, and Ortha slipped into the passageway. Emelin shot to her feet, chin raised. The long forgotten fear nibbled at her heart, but she refused to show it.

  He loomed closer, looked over the borrowed gown she wore, and picked up a braid. Lips curled in a snarl, he gave it a hard yank before he dropped it. “Too bad we can’t do something about that color.” Blood-shot eyes narrowed. He grabbed her chin between his forefinger and thumb and forced up her head. She tried to pull away from the stench of his breath, but he pinched harder.

  “Don’t do anything else to spoil this arrangement.” His voice grated like rusty steel. “I need the payment Langley made for you. I will not return it.”

  Garley gave her head a final shake. “Do not interfere in my plans,” he repeated.

  Emelin jerked back. Rebellion overpowered the hurt, and she spoke without thought. Again.

  “Or what? You’ll immure me in a convent? I believe we’ve done that already.”

  Garley’s slap caught the side of the face, sent her staggering onto the bed.

  “Keep your mouth shut.” His voice held no trace of emotion as he strode to the door. “At least until after the wedding. Then you’re his problem. Just remember, there’ll never be a place for you at Compton. Give the old man a son, and you’ll want for nothing. Fight him and you may find yourself back at the convent—if you’re lucky.”

  His footsteps thudded down the corridor. Ortha slid in, muttering beneath her breath as she dampened a cloth from a water jar on the table to hold against Emelin’s face. Emelin felt her lower lip. It was swollen a bit. Perhaps no one would notice.

  The evening meal was well-advanced by the time she arrived at table. Lord Osbert scowled. His eyes lingered on her face. With a glance at Garley, he grunted, then nodded at her. Emelin swore she detected a flash of pity.

  “Sit. Eat.” For once, his rumble sounded almost kind. “You’ll need your strength.”

  He was certainly right about that. Barring a miracle or a war—could a war be a miracle?—she would wed this man old enough to be her father. Yet that life would be kinder than any other Garley connived.

  She must reconcile to her fate. It was, after all, what she’d prayed God to send. A home, a husband, a family.

  Her vision misted at the memory of the dark-haired mercenary, and she squeezed shut her eyes. Reality held no room for childish dreams.

  Chapter Five

  Emelin dreaded the meal, but at least she sat far enough along the table that she avoided her brother. He sat beside Lord Osbert, who had another man on his right. Both Garley and Lord Osbert appeared intent on that man, a lord to judge from his rich clothing and arrogant mien.

  Voice lowered, she asked Lady Dulsie, “Who is the one speaking with Lord Osbert?”

  “Oh, my dear, that’s the king’s man. He arrived yesterday. All the way from Normandy.” Lady Dulsie’s voice rose to a squeal on the last word, and her eyes sparkled. “My husband says his name is Lord Paxton, and he brings word from Richard, himself. Isn’t he handsome?”

  Some might call the king’s man well-looking with his neatly trimmed moustache and beard, but Emelin thought his face too narrow, his nose too sharp. He reminded her of a fox.

  The lord’s eyes were sharp, as well. While he spoke with the men, his gaze scanned the hall with rapid thoroughness. She could almost see his mind grasp every detail. That gaze paused on her, and he made some quiet remark.

  “Yes, yes,” Lord Osbert boomed in grating joviality. “That is my bride, Lady Emelin, daughter of Sir Roland and Lady Hawise of Compton, sister of Sir Garley.” He cited her pedigree like a prize mare’s: Emelin by Roland out of Hawise. Evidence of her breeding ability.

  She firmed her jaw and schooled her features.

  A commotion at the door heralded the entry of late arrivals, and a rough-looking group filed in. Among them, two sported bruises and cuts; a third limped slightly. The handful of men found positions at the end of the last table and fell to eating, all except the one who limped. He stared at the dais, then wiped a forearm across his mouth before he sat.

  Emelin followed his glare to the king’s man and caught the minute pause when he saw the gesture. But he continued to speak with Lord Osbert, unperturbed by the insolent newcomer. Impossible for her not to wonder about the royal emissary. What did he intend here, and how long would he remain?

  An answer to the second question came shortly after the meal, when shouts and the stamp of horses filtered in from outside. Emelin joined others at the doors to peer out. He was preparing to depart, without even the courtesy leave-taking one might expect of such a guest.

  A surprisingly large band of soldiers congregated to accompany him. They rode in a different direction from the way she had arrived earlier, and she wondered what lay along that route. And why had the lord left so late in the day?

  From the grim expression on Lord Osbert’s face when he stormed toward the keep, she knew the answer to that question boded ill.

  ****

  “Looks like half the castle has turned out,” Giles grumbled to Henry as he kneed the black into a trot. “But for what?” A veritable mass of people overflowed into the open space before Langley’s gates. His glance swept half the crowd before he realized for whom he unconsciously searched. No sign of that pertly tilted chin. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t returned because of her.

  Not entirely.

  The two men rode ahead of Lady Evie’s cart and its guard, following the same trail Giles traveled earlier when he occupied a cart. A lifetime had passed in those few hours.

  Henry reined in beside him. “Something has their attention.”

  Giles stood in the stirrups. “Dust. In the distance. Someone just left.”

  “At this hour?” Henry shook his head. “What could be so important to send a troop off with night so near? Surely the wedding isn’t over.”

  “I hope we haven’t missed the ceremony,” Lady Evie called as her cart rattled up to them. Her maid held fast to the wooden side, frowning anew at each bump.

  The words sent an unexpected chill through Giles. His little warrior-nun wed so soon? Not possible. He had yet to tell her… What? God’s blood. Nothing. There was nothing to tell. Still that knowledge couldn’t stop his desire to look on her one last time.

  Giles maneuvered to the rear of Chauvere’s party while it threaded its way through the narrow passage between towers. Lord Osbert, alerted to their arrival, strode forward.

  “Yes, yes, you’re here at last,” he shouted to Henry. “Come now.”

  The crowd’s attention focused on the cart where Henry rode beside a laughing Evie, but when Giles broke from the passage, it shifted. Many more soldiers and villagers congregated in the bailey than had been present when he left hours earlier.

  Murmurs spiked among them, and several women pressed forward. The monks’ salve had done its job. Bruising and swelling had already begun to fade, leaving his features clearly visible.

  As he rode, his mouth clenched in a grim line. One brow lifted as he straightened in the saddle, clasped his hands on the pommel, and rolled his shoulders. A village maid threw him a smile and arched her back, displaying a fine pair of breasts. He marked them and her saucy wink in his memory. Tonight he would look her up. He could use a little of what she offered. Especially if the wedding was over.

  Then from the murmurs at his right rose a word. “Silverhawk.”

  The name leaped from group to group as he urged Nuit forward. A few of the villagers shrank away, eyes rounded in fear. Giles tensed; the muscles in his arms and back bunched.

  The recognition caught him by surprise. Perhaps one or two knights might know him—he’d been a warrior for ten years—but English peasants? What did they know of the war with France?

  “Mercenary.” Whispers swept across the bailey. “Murderer.”

  His jaw hardened. Some stories knew no boundaries.

  Emptiness yawned inside Giles, a burning
darkness. For an instant he felt isolated, an island in a sea of nothingness. Beyond the vacuum rose the hum of the crowd, like bees swarming a hive.

  The old urge swamped him. He had to get out of England, back to his men in Normandy. Back to Mercadier, who had rescued him from the streets, taught him how to deaden the pain of being abandoned. Of being alone.

  Ruthlessly, Giles squelched the feeling. He left that solitary youth in the fetid gutters of Cambrai years ago. His jaw hardened, his hands fisted at the unexpected wash of uncertainty.

  Nuit sensed the sudden tension. The mount danced to one side; its hindquarters dropped and squared. People skittered back in alarm, leaving Giles alone in an empty circle. He patted the horse’s neck, sucked in a breath, and willed the tightness from his body.

  He had work to do here. And by God, he’d see to it. Only one part of the past mattered now, and it stomped his way.

  “Ho, there!” Lord Osbert boomed. “Stable that animal before he does harm.” He stopped, gaze fixed on Nuit, then he glanced up.

  “I know you.” His sharp eyes bored into Giles, as if he sought a name.

  Henry had dismounted to stand behind Langley. “This is Sir Giles of Cambrai. He’s a friend from Normandy. I was certain you would welcome him.”

  “Yes, yes. Told him to return, didn’t I?” Lord Osbert grunted. “Healed right fast, I’d say. Giles of Cambrai?” He stopped as the name registered. His thick, gray brows slammed together. His fists clenched. “You’re the damned Silverhawk, are you? Never thought I’d clap eyes on you here in England.”

  “No,” Giles agreed with a solemn nod. “I’d lay odds you didn’t.”

  Langley motioned to Lord Henry. “Business to discuss. Come along. Stable that devil black,” he shouted over his shoulder

  The devil black’s lips rolled back. His low whicker sounded like a growl as he eyed a stable lad loping toward them. The youth stopped short, stumbling over his own feet. “I won’t take ’im,” he announced.