Silverhawk (7 page)

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 open. 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.

Giles recognized the boy. Davy, whose brother had used a whip on Nuit. Giles stood in the stirrups to dismount, and the lad’s eyes widened in fear as he hopped back. “I’ll…I’ll…”

Easing to the ground, Giles murmured, “I’ll take him in.”

He glanced toward the keep and stopped short. Eyes squinted, he identified Emelin on the top step, forest green drenched in a sunbeam. The world smiled. Not a nun this day, by God. His heart stuttered; his body hardened.

Perhaps he wasn’t too late after all.

****

“Chauvere approaches.” The messenger’s shout rang.

Emelin had started across the hall after the king’s man left, but the call brought her racing back to the door. Chauvere. Hope gave her step an unladylike bounce. Had Alyss come? Oh, to have a friend by her side at a time like this. But would Henry’s elder sister remember Emelin?

And Emelin must remember to address him as Lord Henry, now. She forced her hands to fold properly at her waist, but she couldn’t prevent her fingers from twining in hope.

She stepped outside to search the new group. She hadn’t seen Alyss for years. Five years to be exact. Her stomach fluttered in disappointment. Alyss surely must be wed by now and likely wouldn’t be here.

From this distance she couldn’t identify any of the newcomers. But when the last lone rider entered, a ripple moved through the crowd. As he rode forward, a circle yawned around him.

Rays from the setting sun gleamed in his dark hair. Emelin pressed a hand to her chest. Unable to make out his features, she still felt a tug of recognition. The way he sat his horse, the angle of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, all seemed familiar. It wasn’t Lord Henry. Emelin recognized Alyss’ older brother, who had dismounted beside a cart.

Emelin descended the steps. The girl in the cart wasn’t Alyss. She was too young, and the hair was darker, curlier than Alyss’ had been. Was this Lord Henry’s wife? As the oxen halted, Emelin could see the girl’s merry smile, and she smiled in return.

Perhaps I’ve found a friend.

Lord Osbert followed close behind the cart. “My lady...” He raised his voice as he joined her. “Here is Lord Henry of Chauvere and his sister, Lady Evelynn. My lord, come along.” He barked orders as he turned away, and servants ran to unload the baggage wagon.

Evelynn. The scamp of a baby sister who always trailed after Stephen and Henry. My, she had grown up. Emelin could see the family resemblance, especially in her eyes.

After assisting his sister to alight, Lord Henry nodded to Emelin, then hurried after Osbert. The young lady smiled again and held out her hands.