Silverhawk (31 page)

Will’s eyes closed as he lay down once more, his shallow breaths loud. Finally he murmured, “’T’weren’t no attack. I were on guard duty, up in a tree. Carl were on the ground. Reckon I closed m’ eyes fer a minute, ’cause next I knew, heard Carl yellin’. There’s these men wearin’ plaids, ridin’ right fer us. He tried to stop ’em, but one of ’em jest stabbed ’im down. Then they stopped right under me. I didn’t know what to do, so I jest kept my mouth shut.”

Eyes screwed tight, the boy chewed on his lower lip.

“Then what?” Giles prompted.

“After a bit, I heard another horse. I looked down, careful, and it was Sir Justus, him that’s our leader. They was talkin’, ’n they took off the plaids ’n put ’em in their packs. Said, ‘All’s well. Two gone.’”

“Two what?”

“Don’t know. Sir Justus says, ‘Hand ’em over. I’ll take ’em back.’”

Giles puzzled over the story. “How were you shot then?”

The youth groaned, but at last opened one eye. “Thought they’d all gone. Started to climb down ’n I heard someone shout. Then somethin’ jest hit m’ shoulder ’n knocked me right off’n the limb. Hit m’ head. Broke m’ arm. They came over ’n kicked me ’n laughed. Said, ‘Poacher’s brat. He’s dead. Leave ’im.’”

“They didn’t know you were with the army, then.” Giles nodded. “Good work, soldier.”

A broken whisper came back. “But…if I hadn’t slept, Carl wouldn’a died.”

“You couldn’t have helped Carl,” Giles said. “Those men would have killed you both for discovering their secret. By remaining hidden, you were able to report back valuable information.”

He doubted Will knew just how valuable. Giles would bet his crusader’s sword that reports would soon arrive of a raid by a band of Scots. Not an uncommon practice—pretend to be an enemy, stir up trouble to divert attention from the real threat.

One last question he wanted answered. “How did you get back here before the others?”

“Knew a short cut. After a while, I come on a burnt up cottage. Found a ole’ mare in the pasture.”

Giles clasped Will’s good shoulder again. “Resourceful lad. Rest now. Sir Daviess will want you up and around as soon as can be.”

Outside, Giles avoided the soldiers and worked his way back to the great hall. He hated to be right at times like this. But the story he’d just heard verified what he’d come to suspect.

Lord Paxton, posing as “the king’s man,” schemed to foment trouble between England and Scotland. He dispatched fighters dressed as Scotsmen to raid and kill. But who would believe they came this far south into England? He answered his own question: Anyone who saw fighters dressed the part.

And everything Giles learned led to another conclusion. Lord Paxton appeared to be collecting an army en route, enlisting fighters from the lords he visited. This army would be ready to move the moment proof came that the Scots had attacked England.

When word reached King Richard, he’d be forced to split his attention and his soldiers between France and England. Philip of France would benefit. So would any man devious enough to take advantage of uncertainty wherever the battles occurred—say, in England.

Giles decided. Once Emelin was safely away from Granville, he’d ride to intercept Henry.

Chapter Twenty-Four

He ran her to ground in the solar. Nodding to the other two ladies, he took Emelin’s hands.

“You must go with Sister Ressa. This wasn’t your brother, but unless I miss my guess, he’ll be here soon, along with Langley.” He turned to the nun. “Can you offer Lady Emelin a place until I come for her?”

Sister Ressa nodded. “Of course. She’ll be safe with us.”

Emelin opened her mouth, but he shook his head. “No arguments, now. I’ll ride to Chauvere as soon as you’re gone. There’s more at stake than we thought.”

He glanced at the nun. “You must leave as soon as you can be ready. I’ll ask Sir Daviess to arrange an escort.”

“I think I can manage that.” Sir Daviess stood in the doorway. He leveled a forefinger at Giles. “You, sir, I want to talk with.”

Giles turned to Emelin. “I’ll see you before you leave.” Realizing he still held her hands, he squeezed them before walking away.

The old lord could be trusted, and Giles decided to tell him the truth. As much of it as he needed to know, that is. The two made their way down to the hall, while Giles outlined what he suspected. He even admitted he was under orders from the king. Sir Daviess simply nodded.

“Not surprised there’s trouble brewing,” he admitted. “We’re sheltered from politics, out of the way as Granville is. Knew Prince John had his fingers in things a few years back, but lately life’s been quiet. Still, I’d have to be deaf not to hear what has gone on at Langley. Don’t know what Osbert’s thinking. A good, steady lord he once was. Not having an heir can change a man, that’s the truth.”

Giles could hear the pain in the other man’s voice. What would he do if Giles revealed Osbert did have an heir? Or could have, had he kept the promise to Giles’ mother.

Now that more of his men had returned, Sir Daviess appointed four guards to escort the ladies to Lincoln. He carefully outlined the route, naming manors where they could shelter along the way, if need be.

While Emelin and Sister Ressa prepared for their journey, Giles made his plans. Best warn Davy or the dratted boy would trail along and likely land himself in trouble. He knew just where to find the youth. In the kitchen shack, the lad and Missy shared a small loaf of fresh-baked bread slathered in honey.

Giles pulled Davy aside for orders. “I depend on you to tell me what’s happened when I return. You must be careful.” He lowered his voice. “Stay out of sight. Do you understand?”

Davy nodded eagerly. “I’ll keep a good lookout, milord.”

“I’m not a lord,” Giles reminded the youth. “Now. Take no risks. Squire’s honor?” There was no such oath, but if it would keep the irrepressible Davy cautious, he’d create one. The boy gave a vigorous nod.

When Giles returned to the hall, he noticed an increased number of soldiers milling around the bailey. The main gate stood open, and he spotted another pair ride in. Best leave by the postern gate, to avoid explanations he wasn’t ready to make.

Emelin and the Sister stood at the bottom of the hall steps with Lady Clysta. Damn. He couldn’t say goodbye in front of the others. He grabbed Emelin’s hand and dragged her behind him as he tried the latch on a lower storage chamber. Finding it unlocked, they darted inside.

He jerked her into his arms, his lips finding hers for a final farewell. At last, she pulled away, gasping.

“Learn to inhale through your nose,” his rough voice teased.

“I would if you didn’t rob me of breath every time you appear,” came the pert whisper. But her eyes were solemn. “Will we meet again?”

He groaned. His arms enveloped her once more, pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’ll find you when it’s over. I vow to see you safe before I return to Normandy.”

Emelin’s hand scrabbled against his chest. Was she weeping? His fingers touched her wet eyes.

“Don’t ever cry for me.” His voice caught in his throat. When had any woman ever done so? “I’m not worth your tears.”

She rose on tiptoes and grasped his shoulders. “You are worth everything. Be careful. I won’t be nearby to bind another injury.” Her lips muffled his answer. Then she was gone.

Striding after, he insisted in setting her on the mare she’d ridden from Langley. His hand slid around her ankle for a quick caress before the group made its way through the gate.

With every step of the horses away from the castle, a vacuum opened in Giles’ chest. A gaping black hole he feared might never heal. He raised his hand in a last farewell, then ran up the steps to gather his pack.

Inside the small chamber he’d so briefly occupied, he set down the candle and donned an old tunic Lady Clysta had thrust at him earlier. He gathered the rough, excess fabric under a belt. Big man, Cook’s husband had been. But dressed as a servant, he’d escape notice. A quick brush of his side confirmed no pain from the wound.

Outside again, he took his time in an unobtrusive ramble to the stables where he met Davy. The boy had saddled Nuit. Giles opened his mouth in surprise. Davy shrugged.

“We come to an understandin’.” The youth threw the animal a glare. “’E don’t kick me, ’n I give ’im an apple. It works.”

With all the turmoil in the bailey, Giles hoped no one noticed a servant riding a knight’s horse. He mounted, slung the pack over the saddle, then leveled a finger at the lad who’d become his shadow. “Stay.”

Davy nodded and smiled. “Squire’s honor. ’Sides, you need me. I ’spect I’ll visit this gate right often ever’ day. Just in case.”

Missy materialized from behind a hay bale in the stables, Dammit tucked in the crook of her neck. Holding one of the kitten’s paws in her other hand, she waved it at Giles then stood at Davy’s side.

As the door swung silently shut, he heard Davy warn, “Not a peep o’ what you saw, aw’ right?”

A galloping horse would attract attention, so Giles meandered as if he had every right to be leaving the castle. In that leisurely manner, he made his way to the path Sir Daviess had outlined. Now to intercept Lord Henry.

****

Emelin rode quietly as the small group led by Sir James made its way along the dusty road. She couldn’t speak if she tried, not for the lump constricting her throat. No matter how hard she swallowed, it clung. Sometimes it bounced down into her chest where it lodged, like now, threatening to crush her with fear.

Fear for those innocent men and women left behind. Fear that Giles rode to his death. Fear that she’d be forced to wed one man when her heart lay with another.

For a distance Emelin gave in to the emotions swirling in a morass that sucked her into the vortex. Tears filled her eyes. She tilted back her head to keep them from escaping down her cheeks. Sister Ressa would notice and expect her to explain. How could she tell the nun that her life stretched before her like a desert.

Oh, she knew her thoughts were overly tragic, but right now she didn’t care. She missed Giles, wanted his warm, strong arms enfolding her. Perhaps she’d never feel them again.

He faced a real threat with her brother, even more than with her betrothed. And the mysterious “king’s man” he sought? She didn’t understand why the mission was so important, but Giles had convinced her the man presented a real peril.

She had every confidence he would prevail, but that confidence didn’t prevent her worry he’d be hurt again. And she wouldn’t be near to tend him.

“Life is never so bad as we think,” Sister Ressa said.

The voice grounded Emelin, bringing her back to reality with a jolt and a vague wash of guilt. “I was indulging a bout of self-pity,” she admitted.

“The threat of danger and sadness always exists,” the nun said. “No need to live them before they occur. Trust in Our Lord to do the worrying. We cannot be certain of what will happen tomorrow. So for today, let us enjoy all His gifts.” She swept her hand to indicate the surrounding landscape.

The sun cast merry beams along the countryside, bathing a nearby pond in golden sparkles. Even fields, stubbled in remnants of summer crops, thrust their browned faces to the warmth.

To Emelin’s way of thinking, with all that had occurred today, the sun should be obscured by gray clouds, not taunting with brightness in an ocean of blue.

She recalled the trip to Granville with Giles in the cart. Sunbeams had danced through autumn branches then, as well, winking shadows across his face. It seemed a lifetime ago he had stolen her away from Langley, not just days. She’d lost track of the number.

The rich fragrances of earth and dried grass, the occasional pungent wisp of manure on the air, were like perfume. She loved the land, the people. In her short time at Granville, she experienced again the harmony of a home filled with love, with acceptance. How she longed for such a home of her own.

With Giles, perhaps? What would life be like with the infamous Silverhawk? Perhaps his only home
was
a tent beside a battlefield. She could make a home in a tent, provided he shared it with her. The nights would be magical enough to offset any inconvenience of the hard life.

Her face burned, but her mouth twitched. Sister Ressa threw a glance, raised her eyebrows, then smiled in return. “He’s a fine young man,” she said. “He has his demons, but you can lay them to rest.”

Emelin didn’t want to answer, but she lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “He’s a soldier. A mercenary. If he survives, he’ll return to the king.”

“Hasn’t left yet, has he?”

Sister was right. Much could happen before he sailed back to the war. Perhaps he’d ask her to go along. But he’d never mentioned love. Nor marriage. Passion sparked between them, but passion seldom provided a strong basis for marriage.

What basis existed with Lord Osbert?

Realization hit her like a rock. She was actually considering a future with Giles of Cambria. “I can’t.” The words rushed out on a gasp.

“Of course you can.” Sister Ressa reined her mount closer to Emelin. “I’ve seen the way he watches you. He loves you. He simply hasn’t realized it.”

“No. I mean, I can’t reject my obligation.” Panic drove Emelin’s voice higher. “I’m betrothed to another.” The story came out, then, words tumbling over each other. When she’d finished, she cast a wary glance at her companion. “You must think me depraved.”