Silverhawk (4 page)

“Well then,” Osbert propped hands on hips, “go back along the road you came and keep left to Chauvere. You’re welcome to return with Lord Henry for the celebration. One more mouth won’t be a strain. Food enough for all.”

Giles ignored Osbert’s forced joviality. His gaze pinned the stable boy. “My saddle and pack?” he murmured.

Davy’s eyes bulged. His narrow throat bobbed as he swallowed. “In the s-s-stables, sir,” he stammered. “I’ll get ’em.”

When the boy brought out the belongings, Giles fought down anger. The pack had been tampered with. Who opened it? The boys, to see what they could pilfer? Or someone who searched for a particular message?

If so, they found only disappointment. The king’s letter, along with his own medallion, was safe under his tunic, and nothing else could identify him. He fought back a curse, then hefted the saddle onto the horse. His jaw locked against the pain, and he fought an onslaught of black spots across his vision as he tied down the pack.

Giles cinched the saddle, then reached for the pommel. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his ears rang as he swung up. Damn the injuries. Not by moan nor flinch would he betray his pain. His head still pounded; his ribs felt ready to break the skin. But once alone, he could use the ointment in his pack.

He nodded to Lord Osbert. “We will meet again, my lord of Langley.” His cracked lips pulled into a line.

Shadows nudged the dirt of the bailey. The short afternoon had begun, but he’d rather take his chance on the road than remain here overnight. He didn’t think the outlaws—if that’s what they were—would search for him this soon. Now he was alerted to danger, no one would surprise him again.

Jesu, he would hate telling Mercadier he’d been caught unaware. His mentor had been the one to dub him the Silverhawk for his keen vision “and those damned, eerie eyes.” But this day he’d proven blind.

Guiding Nuit toward the gates, Giles glanced again at his little warrior-nun. Her wide eyes focused on him, and again the invisible connection thrummed. The space between them seemed to compress along their odd connection. Was it possible she experienced it, as well? Then she shook her head. Yes, he must be a grim sight.

His gaze lingered. He fought an urge to feel her lips again. He recalled that kiss, and his left hand brushed the cheek where her slap had landed. He winced. Damn, it hurt to smile.

A shame about her. She was too good for Langley. At least the marriage wouldn’t last long, just until he delivered the blasted missive. Then that wrinkle of uncertainty would ease from her smooth brow. She would be free to tilt her chin and defy whomever she chose. But it wouldn’t be Sir Giles of Cambrai.

He was a mercenary, a soldier for hire. Ladies were not his responsibility. Not even maidens with eyes as bright as spring and lips as sweet as rose honey.

Chapter Three

Emelin’s gaze lingered on the battered knight, and when his head turned her way, their glances caught. Her heartbeat bumped, and a ringing began in her ears. Space seemed to shrink to only the two of them. The clatter of voices faded, the world slowed. Did he also feel the bond? His impassive face revealed nothing.

The huge black horse picked its way over the packed earth of the bailey, bearing the knight toward the open gates. With a dip of his head, he looked away. The corners of her mouth trembled. She didn’t even know his name.

She felt as if he had deserted her, and that was foolish. He was a stranger. They had shared a chance meeting only. It meant nothing. Now she must get on with her life. She only wished…

“Lady? My lady?” The rough, insistent voice of her betrothed caught her attention.

Only a child had time for useless wishes. Emelin had never been that child. The sides of her throat tingling with unshed tears, she turned to face her future.

“Plan to stand here all day, do you?” If anyone could speak and growl at the same time, it was this man. “Past time for the midday meal, what with all this commotion. Held it when I saw you coming.”

Emelin conjured a smile and lifted her chin. There was still spark left in her spirit. “Not at all, my lord. I am simply overcome by the magnificence of my welcome.”

His lower lip thrust forward in a puzzled jab. Had he recognized her gentle disdain?

Perhaps not so gentle. Mother Gertrude was right. Sometimes Emelin needed to knot her tongue.

Lord Osbert waved his arm toward a thin woman who stood expressionless among the onlookers. “This is Tilda. She’ll get you settled and show you the brat. And Tilda, tell Cook to ready the meal.” With that loving sendoff, her betrothed headed toward the practice yard where the clatter of training resounded.

His parting words rang in her ears. She could swear he said, “Show her the brat.”

Exhaustion must have fuzzed her hearing.

The servant woman avoided Emelin’s gaze but muttered, “M’lady,” then turned to trudge toward the keep.

At the top of the stairs to the great hall stood a trio of ladies, their gowns blots of color against the shadow of the open doorway. Clustered in a bud they whispered, ignoring Emelin until she reached them. She paused, expecting Tilda to introduce her, but the servant ambled into the hall without a backward glance.

The nearest of the three fluttered her hands. The woman wore a saffron-colored gown embroidered with green vines at the neckline and along the sleeves. She cast an eager look into the bailey, then glanced at Emelin.

“Will your lady be along soon, girl?” Plump cheeks reddened with excitement. “I confess I want to see this paragon who has caught our Lord Osbert’s fancy.”

“You mean whose brother has met Langley’s price,” sniped a dark-eyed beauty, younger than the two others. Her ruthlessly curled black hair was barely covered by a loose white veil. The deep-russet colored gown reminded Emelin of dried blood.

“Dear Cleo,” the lady in yellow chided. “You must not say such things. The poor little bride has been freed from her convent home to marry our dear lord.”

Lady Cleo’s smile looked as hard as her eyes. “Dulsie, if you were not my sister, I would positively hate you for such good humor. Let’s wait inside for the future mother-of-the-heir.”

“Come along, my dear.” The third member of the group gestured to Emelin, her voice timid. “If your mistress sent you ahead, you must wait for her in the hall.”

The three retreated to one end of the cavernous chamber where servants were busy assembling tables for the delayed meal. As she followed, Emelin glanced around, appalled. A darker, more depressing place she’d never seen. What few openings for light and air were high in the stone, mere arrow loops if anyone could climb that distance to shoot a crossbow.

The walls bore residue of what once must have been whitewash, but smoke and dirt had turned them dingy gray. Several tapestries might be beautiful beneath encrusted grime. Some lady placed them there, but how long ago? She was wife three; had it been wife one or wife two?

“Well, girl,” the yellow lady called, not unkindly, as she sat and arranged her skirts at the edge of a bench. “What is keeping your mistress?”

“Yes,” murmured Lady Cleo, her voice dry, “where is the bride and new mother?” By now the ladies had clustered together, their shoulders curved inward in exclusion.

“I’m Lady Emelin. I
am
the bride. But I’m not yet a mother.”

Three heads popped up; three sharp glances flew from her face, to her wimple, to her gown, and back again. She bit the inside of her lip. Laughter wouldn’t be polite, even if they did remind her of hungry hens, bobbing for tidbits.

“Oh. Oh!” Yellow Lady seemed lost for words. “But you’re…not what we expected, is she, ladies?” The women whispered, and their tight circle widened as benches scraped back. As if some exotic flower opened to lure in an unsuspecting butterfly. A brown, insignificant butterfly.

“Sit down, Lady Emelin. I’m Lady Dulsie.” A plump hand indicated the end of a neighboring bench. “This is my dear sister, Lady Cleo.” She beamed at the black-haired beauty, then fluttered her fingers dismissively at the third lady. “Oh, and my companion, Ortha.” She leaned forward. “You’re from the north?”

Now the inquisition
. Be pleasant. They’re only curious.
“Yes, my family is at Compton.”

Emelin perched on the edge of the seat. Lady Cleo occupied most of the bench with her bloody dress. She did not make room. Emelin glanced up to encounter a look of sly insinuation from the lady and felt a moment of kinship with soldiers under attack.

“Compton, Compton.” Lady Cleo thought for a moment, before her thin, arched brows rose in mock recognition. She looked like a cat smugly eyeing dinner. “Such a large family you have, my dear. Six brothers, is it not? And several sisters?”

Emelin nodded once. Let Cleo the Cat guess the number of sisters.

“Sir Garley is your brother, then?” Lady Dulsie’s voice caught on a breath. “So handsome. You must be grateful that he has your interests at heart, to arrange a match with our dear Langley. Such a strong, confident man. So handsome.” Her sigh carried the same high drift as a young maiden’s.

Did Lady Dulsie think every man handsome? She must have weak eyes or no discrimination if she thought cold, heartless Garley easy to look at. His glance could chill a snake.

Ortha’s hesitant voice added, “So reassuring to know some men have family duty at heart.”

Emelin swallowed a sharp retort. Family duty her little toe. Her brother was a selfish, greedy beast like their father. Their loving papa had sold off her three sisters as soon as the girls could breed. She’d been lucky. Betrothed at age eleven to Stephen, she was sent to live with his family at Riverton Castle for his mother to train. She blossomed in that loving family.

When Stephen disappeared, Emelin feared she’d be sent back to Compton. Garley ruled there, now that their father had died.

Bless her brother’s greed. Faced with the addition of another mouth, he quickly arranged her entry to the convent. She could still hear his cruel words that last morn.

“You’re better off in a nest of women than home to trouble me.” His careless finger had poked her cheek. “Considering your spotty face and pudding of a body, you shouldn’t expect another man. Not when the one you had took himself off to die among heathens rather than stay home and marry you.”

For years after, the spiteful words had the power to scrape her heart. No longer—although his current action showed Garley’s nature hadn’t changed. She didn’t know about his appearance. Five years had made a difference in hers.

Lady Dulsie leaned forward. “This must be all so different for you,” she said with a sympathetic nod. “Poor child.”

Emelin hid clutched fists in her skirts, careful to guard her words.
They mean well.
She eased her shoulders, smiled. “Thank you for your concern. Do you live here, then?”

Lady Dulsie gasped. “Oh, my, no. If any of us did, would this hall be so dreary? I live to the south, at Wormley. My husband is Sir Robert. He fostered with Lord Osbert here at Langley. Poor Cleo is a widow, aren’t you, my dear? She’s been so kind to visit since my happy news.”

Her hand smoothed her stomach, and Emelin realized the woman was with child.

“I depend on her so,” Lady Dulsie added, beaming at her sister. “If you need help, I can let you have Ortha for a few weeks. Now that dear Cleo is at my side, I have little to keep Ortha busy. Although I must warn you, I’ll ask for her return after my own babe arrives.”

A quick glance told her Dear Cleo wasn’t so enthusiastic about her new position. As for the expendable Ortha, she met Emelin’s glance with a blank expression and pink cheeks. The poor lady was embarrassed. And so would Emelin be, if she were traded around with no word, no thought to her own wishes.

Oh Sweet Mary
. Her face warmed with realization. That’s exactly what
had
happened.

She decided immediately. “I would be grateful to have someone here.” Turning to Ortha, she added, “If you don’t mind to spend a few weeks with me?”

Relief flickered in the other woman’s eyes. “I would be pleased to give you what help I can,” she whispered. “I do love the child already.”

The continued reference to “the child” puzzled Emelin. Surely they didn’t think…? “Why do you speak of a child? That event will take at least nine months.”

Absolute silence. Lady Dulsie’s face registered shock; Ortha’s neck reddened.

Emelin caught the side of her lip between her teeth. She’d done it again. Spoken without thought. Why did those old habits return the moment St. Ursula’s doors shut behind her?

Lady Cleo snickered. “Oh, my,” came her snide whisper. “Did our Lord Osbert neglect to mention that tiny fact? Why am I not surprised? Just like a man to ignore an unwanted daughter.”

Emelin opened her mouth for air but couldn’t seem to inhale. Garley had said Lord Osbert was childless. No. He’d said the man had no heir. She had assumed that meant no children. How foolish for men to ignore a girl child as useless.

A daughter. She’d have a young one to care for, to love. Now the future looked brighter.

Now she could face her betrothed with smiles. Now she could put behind all thoughts of the knight whose kiss awakened a traitorous longing. It would be easy. Just moments ago, he rode out of her life. Forever.

Lady Dulsie crowded onto the other side, her soft arm sliding around Emelin’s shoulders.