Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  The two neared a corner now. Emelin sucked in a breath. If Giles weren’t careful, he’d be trapped. What would she do if her brother killed the man she loved? God help her, she’d have to return the favor. If Garley harmed Giles, she wouldn’t rest until he was beneath the earth.

  Then with a fluid turn Giles stepped to the side, pinning Garley in the tight V of the corner. But on the floor behind Giles lay the dagger. One stride backward and he’d trip on it. As his foot reached that spot, Emelin uttered a soft “Oh.”

  The sound reached Giles’ ear, and he threw a concerned look over his shoulder. Garley took advantage of the distraction and raised his sword.

  Again, he was overconfident. His movement was too sweeping, too broad. Giles simply pivoted, brought his lighter sword under and up, and pierced Garley’s throat. He ducked to avoid the arcing blood as he jerked free the sword.

  A look of surprise swept across Garley’s face as he pitched forward.

  Emelin raced across the floor to fling herself into Giles’ arms. He dropped the bloody weapon to catch her. He cupped her face between his hands, and his lips began a frantic progress over her wounds.

  “Are you all right? Why did you fight him?” Each question was punctuated with a kiss. Fingers traced the still-burning welt on her cheek where Garley had slapped her to the ground when she refused to repeat the wedding vows. “Is it finished? If you’re wed, I’ll have to kill him.”

  She laughed through tears and clung to Giles as if she’d never let him go.

  She wouldn’t have to. No vows tied her to Osbert. Both had seen to that. And the older man had surprisingly withstood his own beating at Garley’s hands when he refused to marry her.

  Giles had been right all along.

  “You were right—”

  “I’m sorry—”

  They spoke in unison. Emelin smiled and winced against the split, swollen lip. “You first,” she insisted.

  “I killed your brother. Can you forgive me?”

  “How could I not forgive you? You saved me twice. If he had harmed you, I would have been forced to kill him, myself. You saved my immortal soul.”

  Giles mouth caressed her left ear. “That’s only once,” he whispered as he nipped the lobe.

  She shivered then pulled back from his crushing hug to gaze into his beautiful silver eyes.

  “You were right about his plans. He intended to force the marriage, then kill Osbert and declare himself my guardian. Eventually, after the child came, he would do away with me. If I didn’t oblige him by dying in childbirth, he said.”

  “Damn him to Hell. I wish I could kill him again.” Her words sank in at last. “What child?”

  “I told him I couldn’t marry Osbert because I carried your child.”

  An arrested look flashed over his face. “Do you? How can you know? It was but a few days ago…”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know that, did he?”

  “You’re a devious wench, Emelin. How did you manage to remain at a convent for five years?”

  She laughed again. For the first time in days, her chest unclenched and she breathed deeply. “You have no idea.”

  But she had an idea. It had popped into her mind sometime after his arms closed around her and his lips nipped her ear.

  “Father Arwin,” she called above the din of others who piled into the bedchamber.

  In her arms was the man she loved. He had come for her, fought for her. He must love her. His reputation was fierce, but she had seen his heart, and it was gentle, caring. He just needed someone to love him, to stay by his side, never leave. To accept him for who he was.

  She loved him. Accepted him.

  It didn’t matter that he had nothing. If her inheritance from Sir Clifford were not enough, if he must continue to fight, then she would go with him. Surely other ladies followed their knights to war. She didn’t need a castle to be happy, she needed only Giles. Wherever he was would be home.

  ****

  Giles held his precious little warrior tight against his chest as she called for the priest and a small man in a rough cassock appeared.

  “Yes, my lady?” The voice was surprisingly deep, mellow, comforting.

  “This is the knight, the father of my child. You must marry us at once. You were prepared for a wedding; perform one now.”

  The elderly priest’s head bobbed up and down, but when he looked up at Giles, his blue eyes glinted with humor. “I see that, yes, of course. You must marry at once. Sir Knight, take her hand.”

  Was this tiny holy man actually prepared to perform a different ceremony at this moment? Giles glanced at Emelin. Her lips were curved with mischief—and something more. Their fullness softened under his gaze, opened slightly then closed.

  Damn, the priest had best hurry when she looked at him like that. He laughed. With pleasure. And, perhaps, joy. This woman wanted him enough to lie to a man of the cloth, to force a wedding. How did she know Giles would agree?

  Her eyes sparkled with tears. Happy tears, he hoped. He wanted this woman with all his being.

  Then he remembered. Even with Lord Osbert removed from consideration, there was the other obstacle. The joy he’d felt a moment earlier became a chill of dread. He didn’t answer.

  Her eyes dimmed at his silence. Her smile faded.

  “If you don’t want me, of course…” she whispered, the hurt evident on her face.

  God’s breath! Did he want her? More than life.

  But he couldn’t have her. Jaw clenched, he spoke the words that were knives to his heart.

  “Stephen lives.”

  ****

  Emelin didn’t understand. It sounded as if Giles said Stephen lived. But that was impossible. He had been dead for years.

  “I don’t know the story,” Giles added as if reading her thoughts. “But Lord Henry told me Stephen returned two nights ago. He is at Riverton now, with Sir Clifford.”

  She couldn’t seem to understand the words. Stephen. Home. The boy she was to marry a lifetime ago, not dead. Dear Heaven—the boy she was betrothed to. Out of one betrothal, into another. And none of them to the man she wanted.

  Suddenly it was too much. She began to laugh; tears streamed down her face. Sister Ressa was there, along with Father Arwin. They led her to a bench, pressed her to sit. Still Emelin laughed. At some point, the laughter gave way to sobs. She sensed a presence beside her on the bench, and warm arms enfolded her.

  Her nose was clogged, but beneath the obstruction she whiffed perspiration, the now-familiar odors of blood and metal. How she treasured them—him. When her face burrowed into his warm neck, she caught the trace of his unique scent. She clung to Giles for dear life.

  ****

  Giles held her tightly, harnessing energy from battle’s aftermath that coursed through his veins. His mind flew back to the moment she had mentioned a child. He’d been triumphant, overwhelmed. But it was not to be.

  Even so, he couldn’t see her trailing a homeless warrior through rain and cold, sleeping in tents during sweltering temperatures or freezing snow. Emelin was too fine for that life.

  No, he would return as he came, alone. Hollowness opened where his heart should be. His mission to England was finished; the king would be pleased at the result. Giles had no reason to remain and every reason to leave. Immediately.

  He glanced up and his gaze collided with Lord Osbert’s. Chill calmed the fire in his blood.

  How could he have forgotten the one thing that had driven him endlessly over the years?

  His father. Standing right before him, unprotected. He would never have a better opportunity. His hand curled as if he yet clutched his sword. Then it relaxed. The urge to kill had left him. Emelin inhaled sharply, and Giles’ arm flexed around her. Let the old man live. The inferno of hatred had dimmed. But it had not disappeared.

  He gently set Emelin away and brushed a kiss across her brow. Teeth clenched, he faced Lord Osbert. Giles dragged the medallion from around his neck and jerked it over
his head. It dangled in his fingers, swaying with every step as he stalked forward.

  “I’ve waited my entire life for this moment.” His voice was a low growl. “Do you recognize this?”

  The old lord frowned in surprise. “Of course I do. It’s mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lord Osbert squinted through his unswollen eye and held out a hand. “It’s mine. I gave it to—”

  The words chilled Giles’ heart. He hadn’t expected the admission so soon. How could the deceiver act so unconcerned?

  “To the girl you seduced and abandoned a score and eight years ago,” Giles interrupted, his lips twisted in a snarl. He prowled closer to Osbert, driving him back toward the wall. Revenge still simmered in his heart.

  “The trusting maiden who had faith in your lies,” he ground out in a snarl. “She believed you would return for her, but you had your wealthy lady waiting for marriage, you lying bastard.”

  Giles shifted the dagger he’d grabbed, seeking a tighter grip.

  “What a fool you were,” he taunted. “The lengths you’ve gone to, the betrayals you’ve made, all for a son. Well, here he is. Look closely at him. Do you see anything of the woman who bore him? Any trace of the gentle lady who went to her grave with your name on her lips?”

  The chamber froze in deadly silence.

  “I’ve dreamed of this moment, dreamed of the look in your eyes when my dagger slides into your belly like twine through hot lard.”

  Osbert’s mouth opened, then snapped closed. There was no fear in his face, only confusion.

  Giles halted. “Hatred has been my companion each night, each day. It has consumed my life. But it’s over now.” He raised the dagger, yet Osbert made no move to protect himself. Giles heard a gasp. Emelin. But she said nothing. He paused. No. This revenge wasn’t worth his soul. She had made him realize that. Very slowly he lowered his hand.

  “I won’t allow you to rule my life any longer.” He tossed the dagger to the floor. “There’s your life,” his bitter voice rang. “Granted you by your son.”

  The clang of the dagger echoed. Osbert looked from the floor where it landed to Giles. He frowned again, shook his head.

  “It couldn’t have been me.” His voice grated like a rusty chain, his good eye widened. “You say she called for me at the last. Was it my name she uttered?”

  Giles stared. His memory cast back through the years. His mother had never mentioned a name. Even as a child, Giles knew it hurt her too much to say. But she had told him he would know, for his father would return soon. Perhaps, had she lived beyond her son’s sixth birthday, she would have said.

  “She showed me this, told me it was my father’s. When she died, she clutched it to her heart and said, ‘You have come for me.’ Who else would she see in her fading mind?”

  “I tell you, this is not mine,” Lord Osbert insisted. “It was, but I did not give it to a woman, I gave it to—” He stopped with a shake of his head and turned to Davy, who had slipped into the chamber and now carefully wiped the blood from Giles’ sword.

  “Bring me Sir Robert. I’ll clear this up.”

  Davy flashed a grin at Giles before he disappeared down the corridor.

  “I’ll wait for what you have to say,” Giles declared. “After all this time, a few more minutes won’t matter.”

  In the unnatural quiet that followed, Lady Clysta and Sir Daviess arrived in the chamber. Both looked bewildered; Sir Daviess recovered first.

  “Glad to see you got rid of that man.” He nodded toward Garley’s body and rubbed a darkening spot on his chin. “There was no reasoning with him.”

  His gaze met Giles’. In them was such sadness, Giles swallowed hard. A good, kind old man. If the king discovered he was unable to defend this land, Richard might well award it to a stronger, abler lord. Such things happened all too frequently.

  Emelin stood beside Sister Ressa, but Lord Osbert loomed as if rooted to the floor, still frowning at Giles. Finally, his voice broke the silence.

  “No, by God. But it must be. I knew you looked familiar.” He wouldn’t explain, and Giles was ready to gut him on general principles when Davy at last returned with Sir Robert.

  Osbert motioned the knight to his side. “Do you have your pendant still?”

  With lifted brows, Sir Robert worked a leather strip free from his neck and pulled something from beneath his tunic and mail. “Thing saved my life once,” he explained. “I wear it always.”

  He lifted the cord and Giles saw a small metal disc, dented now, that matched the one he held. Giles cocked his head at Osbert.

  The older man cleared his throat. “I once gave my squires this medallion from Langley the evening before they were knighted.” He turned over Sir Robert’s. On the back was a rough scratch in an arc with a straight line angling from it. “An ‘R’ for Robert. I did that initial myself,” he added proudly.

  Giles turned his over. On the back were the same random scratches he’d always seen. They made no sense to him. Lord Osbert looked. “That’s an ‘M’. I gave this one to Mangan, Sir Daviess’ son. I assumed it was lost with him when he drowned. We never found the body, and it wasn’t among his possessions on board ship.”

  “Mangan,” Sir Daviess said softly. He reached his finger to touch the pendant.

  “If this belonged to your father, then he was Mangan, my former squire. You have his ghostly silver eyes. That’s why you looked so familiar. He was knighted in Normandy, the week before my wedding. I knew he had met someone, and he intended to bring her back after my lady and I were settled at Langley. But I never knew her name. And I never guessed he left a son behind.”

  “He did not know,” Giles whispered. He couldn’t manage more with the obstruction in his throat. It was not tears. He was Silverhawk. He did not cry.

  Emelin was at his side, then, although he could not see her through the haze before his eyes. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. He gripped hers in return.

  His father had been a young knight, who loved the woman he’d left behind. Only death had parted them. Or brought them together, in the end.

  Lady Clysta whispered to her lord as he looked at Giles. Tears streamed down the old man’s face. His grandfather. Lady Clysta smiled and opened her arms. His grandmother.

  He didn’t know how he got there, but the lady was holding him, smoothing his perspiration-damp hair as if he were a child. Somehow the shoulder of her gown had become wet.

  Sir Daviess clasped his arm with a trembling hand. “Grandson,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Everyone seemed to speak at once until a commotion at the door heralded arrival of Lord Roark, sword in hand. “They’ve surrendered. As soon as they knew Lord Paxton had disappeared and I explained his mission, they lay down their arms. All but Sir Justus. He won’t cause problems any longer.”

  “Paxton escaped?” Giles repeated. After all of this, they still had to chase the bastard over northern England?

  “Henry has followed him. I guarantee he won’t escape again.” He nodded to the body on the floor. “Let’s get this all cleaned up.”

  Giles hadn’t realized he still clutched Emelin’s hand until she eased it from his grip. She caressed his face, then disappeared. He found her again in the great hall, after Garley’s body had been removed to the bailey and signs of battle cleared away. Maids with buckets of water scoured blood from the floors.

  Roark and Giles, accompanied by Lord Osbert and Sir Daviess, interviewed the men who had surrendered. It was as Giles had thought; most had been duped by Paxton’s story. They were unsuspecting allies who had joined an army to defend their country against invaders. The few men who had come from France either were dead or had vanished into the countryside.

  Disposition of the remaining local troops occupied Giles’ mind for the rest of the day. Not until evening was he forced to confront his own life again.

  “No.” The word was a flat command from Sir Daviess after Giles announc
ed he would leave the next day. They had gathered in the solar for the meal, the great hall overrun with soldiers who had yet to depart.

  “You are my grandson,” the old lord insisted. “You must remain here, with your family. Who else will take Granville when I die?”

  Giles was speechless. They wanted him to stay? They couldn’t understand who he was, what he had been. A warrior for hire. People called him a murderer.

  “You are a famous fighter,” Sir Daviess insisted when Giles told them. “Who better to defend his own land and people?”

  “Anyone can see you’re a good man,” Lady Clysta’s calm voice added. “You could not harm the one man you hated all your life. That is not the heart of a murderer. We are your family, my dear. Where else would you be? The king will see the right of it. You have his ear. Tell him.”

  Giles chuckled. “My lady, no one tells the king anything.” Could it happen, however? Would the king understand? Would Mercadier release him? Could he desert his commander, the man who had been like a father?

  The thought of real family, of having a place where he was wanted, even loved, held more appeal than he cared to admit. But no, he cautioned himself. This feeling of acceptance couldn’t be trusted. It wasn’t him they wanted, it was his father.

  A small voice in his head whispered he was wrong. They had known and accepted him long before his identity had been discovered. And there was Emelin. If he remained, he would be forced to live as her neighbor, watch as she swelled with some other man’s child. He could never manage to blot Emelin from his heart.

  Yet his grandparents needed someone. He could see that having him remain would mean a great deal to the pair. When Sir Daviess died, the land would revert to the crown, awarded to some royal favorite.

  If Lady Clysta survived, she would live on her dower land, alone and unwanted. That was a sad future for such a kind, loving lady. He glanced at the old couple seated together by the hearth. A change had taken place in Sir Daviess just in the few hours since the discovery. He sat erect, his vision clear, focused, as if he’d awakened from a long sleep.

  “They have a point.” Lord Roark’s voice was firm. “Look what happened here. They need a successor to take charge.”