Silverhawk (34 page)

Henry rose. “Lord Roark of Windom, my sister’s husband,” he explained.

Giles nodded. “The tale of which I never got to hear.”

The figure striding toward them was tall and broad in his mail. Rich brown hair clung to his forehead but couldn’t cover a scar that bisected one eyebrow. Square jawed, hawk nosed, he radiated energy. Here was a man Giles wouldn’t want to cross.

Filled in on the facts, Lord Roark took on a look of implacability. “If I know Paxton, he’ll set Englishmen to raid along the Scottish Borders, as well,” he said. “By the time he’s worked his way across northern England gathering troops, the Scots will be ready to battle.”

The men discussed alternatives until time for the evening meal, then adjourned to the solar. “There’s one thing.” Roark settled back on a cushioned bench. “Paxton never acts unless it benefits himself. Something’s missing in this whole venture. What does he get out of it?”

“If he’s an agent of the French, you can be assured Philip has offered him land,” Giles said.

“What if the plan fails? What if Richard succeeds in defeating Philip?” Henry ran his fingers through his graying brown waves. “What happens to Paxton then?”

“He settles on his land in France or wherever it’s located, provided he’s able to take possession of it.”

“Paxton eliminates any odds against him,” Roark said. “He looks for the weak and takes advantage.”

Giles thought for a moment. “It would be convenient if he had a place in England,” he said. “If Scotland doesn’t send troops across the border, he can return a hero for having defeated them. Who would condemn him for protecting his country?”

“He doesn’t have a holding in England and isn’t likely to get one unless he takes it,” Henry pointed out. “Where would he find a place that’s undefended?”

His idle question met silence. He sat up straight, looked at Roark. “Riverton. Sir Clifford couldn’t stand against an attack.”

Giles went cold. “No. Granville. That’s where the troops are assembling.” The other two men stared at him. “When I left Granville Castle, soldiers were pouring in. Paxton’s captain looked for his commander any time. He insisted on posting guards to relieve Sir Daviess’ garrison.”

“You’re right, by God,” Henry said. “There’s only old Sir Daviess and his lady. I’ve heard he’s not in his right mind half the time. No one could stop a takeover there, certainly not one conducted under the guise of help.”

“I’ll ride to Riverton in the morning, warn Sir Clifford,” Roark offered. “Then I’ll return and get both our defenses in order, Henry. You’ll want to get up to Scotland as soon as possible. And then…I’ll take my men to meet Lord Paxton.” His mouth tightened in a humorless smile. “I have a score to settle with that piece of carrion.”

A familiar spark of excitement burned away Giles’ exhaustion. Planning a campaign always affected him so. “We’ll go together,” he said to Roark. “You can show me a quicker way back to Granville. I’ll send word when Paxton arrives.”

Henry left well before dawn. Roark dispatched a messenger to Windom with word for Lady Alyss. Giles was surprised Lady Evie didn’t ask to go. But she bustled around the hall, ensuring her brother was well stocked with food and “court clothes” should he need them. After he rode away, she presented Giles and Roark with packs of food for their journey.

“What can I do while you’re gone?” she asked Lord Roark.

“Stay out of trouble.” He kissed her cheek, then mounted a robust gray with black stockings and joined Giles.

The two men traveled quickly, Lord Roark pointing out landmarks. The trail across country cut hours off the journey, and before the sun was high, they sighted Riverton. The castle sat in a shallow valley not far from a small river. Giles counted four guards on patrol at the top of the wall. When one of the quartet spotted the approaching riders, more armed men popped into view.

So this is where Emelin had spent five years of her life, betrothed to Sir Clifford’s son. Her good memories of home and family came from here.

“Quite a few guards,” Giles observed. “Didn’t you say this Sir Clifford was alone?”

“Yes. He’s been ill these past months, but he’s no fool. Says he’s not about to let the king dispossess him while he’s still kicking.” At Giles’ raised brows, Roark added, “His son never came home from Crusade. Stephen’s foster father was killed, and no one recovered Stephen’s body after he went down in battle. Sir Clifford has no other heir. Once he dies, the land goes to the crown.”

Giles knew what that meant. A rich reward for one of Richard’s favorites. And it would be rich. Good farmland. Plenty of water, trees. For a moment, he pictured himself standing on the wall, Emelin at his side. A pang in his chest had him rubbing the rough servant’s garb he yet wore. She should be safe by now. Lady Clysta would know how to find her. On his way to Normandy, he’d say goodbye.

Sir Garley might force her to marry Osbert later. Giles couldn’t let that happen. If he carried out the original plan, his father would no longer be a threat to Emelin. But somewhere in the past fortnight, his feelings had altered. No longer was he driven by the urge to kill the lord of Langley. The man had surprised him.

Giles had always imagined the man who was his father to be mean, cold, hateful in his cunning. He’d known plenty lords like that in his life. In his brief time at Langley, Giles had realized Osbert was none of those things. Gruff and irascible. Overbearing and not above claiming a good horse now and then, but not cruel.

Yet Giles’ mother had waited long years for the man to honor a promise and return.

In vain.

His resolve hardened. Osbert deserved some kind of punishment. Perhaps depriving him of Emelin permanently was enough.

But Giles must dispose of Garley. Her brother would never allow her to live, no matter where she took refuge. That was one last service he could do for her before he returned to his battles.

He didn’t stop at Riverton. He pushed on hoping to reach Granville that night, provided he didn’t mistake Lord Roark’s directions in the dark. It was late when he at last approached the holding. Rather than the quiet scene he’d expected at that hour, the castle bustled. The gates were closed, but the reflections of fires inside the bailey were visible. The boisterous sounds of soldiers could be heard even at a distance.

Best not to approach head on until he knew the situation inside. He retreated into the trees, circled around to the back. When he at last reached the tiny escape gate, he dismounted and eased through the shadows, careful to check for patrols.

How was he to get through the narrow door? He tried the latch. Locked. Ear pressed to the narrow seam where the wood met, he listened. The noise seemed at a distance, so he jiggled the latch again, this time more forcefully. Still it held. Damn.

Just as he turned away, a faint creak caught his attention. The door eased open, a pale light limning the edge. Davy’s head poked out. Giles reached the boy in an instant.

“Glad you’re back,” his squire muttered. “Don’t look good ’ere. Sure you want t’ come in?”

Without an answer, Giles ducked inside before he remembered Nuit.

“Don’t worry, Silverhawk,” Davy whispered, again anticipating Giles. “I’ll take ’im to the village. No one’ll notice ’im there. Leave this ’ere door unlocked. I’ll be right back.”

Once the boy left, Giles easily lost himself in the crowd of soldiers. The numbers had increased since he left three days ago. Judging by their clothing, they represented several different holdings.

He strode into their midst as if he had a right to be there, and no one questioned him. Snippets of conversation abounded, but he heard no specific plans. Mostly, the men seemed eager to meet the “murdering Scots.”

Satan’s balls. What kind of twisted mind killed innocent people to start a war?

At last he worked his way to the kitchen house and stepped inside. A fur ball attacked his ankle, and Missy dashed over. “No, Dammit. You’ll get stomped.” She looked up then, her mouth in a small O. With the aplomb of a five-year-old, she nodded. “You’re back. Good thing. They’re not being nice to our lady.”

Giles moved the girl and her kitten deeper into the kitchen. When Cook noticed him, she raised her brows. He’d not seen her before, but it was apparent she knew his identity.

“Is there a place I can stay, out of everyone’s way?”

The tiny crone motioned him over, finger against her lips. She pushed open a door to a storage room and nodded inside. When Giles hugged her, she swiped her ladle at him. Throwing her a wink, he ducked outside again and headed for the kitchen entrance to the keep, where servants carried in food for the meals.

In the crowded great hall, he stood against the back wall. Sir Garley sat in the lord’s chair. So the Langley contingent had arrived. At least Emelin was out of the way. She’d be at her brother’s mercy otherwise.

Sir Daviess was nowhere to be seen, nor did Giles see other familiar faces. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be recognized, however. Edging along the wall, he at last arrived at the stairs to the upper floors. With a quick glance to make sure no one watched, he dashed up and ducked into the first bedchamber. Lady Clysta sat on a bench clasping her husband’s hand. Sir Daviess’ head drooped against the wall behind them. A lighted brazier sat nearby. When she looked up, the trails made by her tears reflected in the light of the coals.

“Is he well?” Giles dropped to a knee.

“He’s retreated again.” Her voice broke. “This time, he just sits. He doesn’t know me.”

“Sir Daviess,” Giles commanded in a low, firm voice. “Open your eyes. Your lady is worried.”

A moment later the wrinkled lids flickered, opened. “Mangan? Are you home, my boy?”

Lady Clysta sobbed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sir Daviess’ voice was hopeful as he grasped Giles’ arm. Before Giles could answer, the old man seemed to shrink. “No. Not Mangan.” He looked at his wife. “Mangan’s gone, isn’t he, my dear?”

Lady Clysta squeezed his hand.

“Where’s Sir Thomas?” Giles asked.

“I believe he’s directing the guard.” She drew a quivering breath. “Those men below. I’m afraid they mean harm. They forced us up here. The leader said it was for our safety, from all the rough men-at-arms who’d descended.”

“Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. “But I can’t understand why they are here. We gave what we could to his cause, and we allowed our men to go with him. Why does he punish us?” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Surprising himself, Giles awkwardly slid his arm around the plump, motherly shoulders and hugged.

A sudden sound of shouts exploded from the hall, and Giles was at the bedchamber’s closed door in an instant.

“Bar this behind me,” he cautioned as he slipped out. “Don’t open unless you know who it is.” He heard, “Wait I must tell you,” but he had no time to listen.

Below, soldiers surged into the already packed chamber, and he joined the rowdy crowd without notice. The men parted as a richly dressed knight crossed the floor. Emelin’s brother rose.

“Lord Paxton,” he called.

So that was the infamous “king’s man.” Slightly above medium height, he wore a short pointed beard and thin moustache. Crafty, the way his eyes moved. His head was cocked to the side: overconfident. Men like him thought everyone else inferior. And that could prove Lord Paxton’s flaw. For Giles knew no matter how good a fighter, someone was always better.

Lord Paxton ignored the greeting and strode past the table on the dais, toward the steps to the upper floor. Garley scrambled in his wake, motioning to his own second in command.

Giles needed to follow, but too much attention focused on the stairs. He slid onto a bench at a table along the outer edge of the hall where several men-at-arms guzzled ale. The others ignored him while they placed crude bets on which of the willing maids they’d bed first.

He slumped over a half-full cup until the noise in the hall returned to a frantic pitch. Easing away from the table proved to be a simple matter then, and he lost himself in the shadows against the back wall. After a last, quick glance at the room to make certain no one watched, he eased up the stairs.

Where did they meet? With the lord and lady occupying the first bedchamber, Giles made for the solar. Light seeped from beneath the door. Shifting closer, he heard murmurs. Blessing the overconfidence that refused to post guards, he tested the door. Not barred. He eased the edge away from the rough casing. Just a tiny bit more and he could make out the words.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to company, and he slipped into the corridor’s darkness. A figure fumbled at the door, pushed it open. The dim light showed a travel-worn man wearing a dark tunic and peasant cloak. The stench of the newcomer reached him as the man stumbled in, leaving the door ajar.

“Done, m’lord. MacAuley’s gathering a force at the Border now. He says to tell you he’s sent word to King William.” The man’s voice gave him away. French.

“Well done, Jean-Luc. Find Sir Justus and tell him to ready the men. And for God’s sake, clean up or you’ll sleep with the pigs tonight.”

Laughter followed Jean-Luc as he turned. Giles again slid into the shadows. The man failed to secure the door, and the boisterous voices were clear.

“We can move as soon as Langley arrives.” That must be Paxton. “Did you ever locate the mercenary who made off with your sister?”

Giles held his breath.