Silverhawk (6 page)

Then Henry motioned him to some low rocks a short distance away. Once settled, Giles outlined his mission and what had happened earlier in the day. He tugged a cord from around his neck, freeing a small, flat packet. A jab of pain in his right arm made him wince.

Henry took the leather, frowning at the wounds on Giles’ face, the scrapes and cuts visible beneath the torn sleeve of his shirt.

“You should have traveled in full mail,” Henry observed.

Giles snorted. “Yes. What better way to announce I’m on an important journey, than to travel alone in battle dress.”

“Still, you need those injuries treated. Return with me to Langley, see a healer.”

Giles scowled. The last thing he needed was someone to fuss over him. “I can take care of myself. I’ll rest tonight, while I wait for your answer.”

Henry shrugged, examined the simple, private seal, and unfolded the parchment. A deep line bisected his forehead as he read. Then he pinned Giles with a sharp look.

“Do you know what this says?”

“Some of it,” Giles admitted. “The king suspects a problem here in England that he wants you to investigate. And he plans to demand more knights for the fight against King Philip. Hubert Walter is to present the order to the barons later in the year.”

A muscle in Henry’s jaw twitched, his lips thinned. “Isn’t the truce with France in effect?”

Giles shrugged a “yes.”

“Then Richard doesn’t trust Philip.” It wasn’t a question. Henry lifted the parchment. “You’re correct. The king has heard of a plot in England, although he’s not sure where the traitors will strike. His instinct says in the North, but I’ll keep my eyes open here.”

Giles nodded. So that’s why he was attacked. Someone disapproved of any interference in a plot against the king. His healed lips lifted in a sardonic curve. No wonder they wanted the message to disappear.

But that knowledge didn’t explain how anyone knew he carried word from the king.

Refolding the parchment, Henry said, “Tell me again what happened to you. Leave nothing out.”

Giles settled into a more comfortable position, then related the attack, rescue, and his subsequent journey from Langley to Chauvere.

At one point, Henry waved over his squire with a wineskin and a napkin-wrapped wedge of cheese. Giles ate while he finished the tale.

Henry listened in silence. Finally he asked, “Do you think they followed you from the king?”

“No. I’m certain. I was told only three knew of the
message—King Richard, Mercadier, and me. Obviously, that was wrong.”

Henry rose to pace. “Whoever ordered this may not have known what the message said.” He turned. “Six?”

“Yes. Three escaped, three died. Their bodies had disappeared when I passed the spot earlier.”

“The others returned for them.” Henry rubbed his jaw as he stared at the brush behind the rocks. “I must notify my brother-in-law,” he said at last. “He lives at Windom—not far. Oh, one more thing.” He rounded on Giles.

Giles stiffened. He didn’t like the spark in the other man’s eyes, the grim set to his mouth.

“King Richard recommends that Sir Giles of Cambrai help in the investigation. He said you’ve planned a personal project in England, so you won’t mind to remain.” Before Giles could speak, Henry waved the parchment again. “If you’d care to read his orders for you?”

Giles’ glared, then jerked his head “no.” He’d never learned to read more than his own name.

Henry nodded, no hint of disdain at the refusal. “I’ll dispatch a message to my brother-in-law, Lord Roark. You must join us for Langley.” When Giles hesitated, he added in a dry-as-dust tone, “Unless you’ve somewhere else to be?”

If he only knew. Langley was the only place Giles needed to be. He shrugged.

“Then rest here until I finish,” Henry said.

Giles leaned against an adjoining rock, the unexpected contents of the king’s message replaying in his mind. Neither Richard nor Mercadier thought to mention that one salient point to him. They intended he stay in England, assist Lord Henry with the search for traitors? God’s blood, no. He couldn’t postpone his own mission any longer. And once Lord Osbert was dead, England would be no place for Giles.

A claw of disappointment scored his chest. His fist rubbed at the sensation. The one man in the world he trusted, Mercadier, hadn’t warned him. But perhaps Richard failed to tell the mercenary captain. Or perhaps Mercadier had known Giles would refuse outright, ending his chance of being sent to England.

Now that sounded like his mentor. Giles’ sense of betrayal eased. He’d refuse the King’s suggestion—it hadn’t been an order. He’d return to Langley with Henry and his sister. Inform Henry when they arrived that he’d not be remaining. Then he’d wait until the wedding guests departed before making a move against Lord Osbert.

The decision made, Giles found a more comfortable position and closed his eyes only to have them fly open. Lady Emelin. He’d see her again. Unexpected energy flared through him, and he felt the side of his mouth lift. He’d witness her marriage. That image doused the flames. He swallowed a groan.

He reminded himself once more that ladies like her were not for a bastard whose own father never claimed him.

A pity.

****

Emelin’s eyes opened, then snapped shut. For a moment, memory of her dream lingered—the silver-eyed devil who held her, warm lips pressed to hers. She sighed. Only a dream.

She jumped at a pounding on the door. Oh, heavens, she’d meant to rest, not sleep, after the mid-day meal.

“My lady,” came Ortha’s voice. “Lord Osbert bids you come at once. More visitors approach. He says it might be your brother.”

Garley. Her stomach fluttered with apprehension, and despite the coolness of the tiny chamber, moisture dotted her upper lip, her forehead. Then she sat upright. She refused to allow fear to rule her any longer. In the last five years, she’d found strength of purpose. He would not destroy it.

She put aside the sturdy bar and opened the door.

Ortha spoke as she stepped inside. “Lord Osbert asks that you wear a more, ah, worthy gown.”

“I fear my lord will be disappointed. I have two gowns. They are identical.”

Without a blink of disapproval, Ortha said, “Then you might wish to consider your second. The one you are wearing is rather travel-stained, if I may say so.”

Looking down at herself for the first time since she arrived, Emelin gasped. Bloodstains dotted the front of her skirt, and one streaked across her bodice, where she must have held the injured knight.

The other brown gown must do. She donned it, then wrapped the cumbersome wimple around her hair. As for the bright dream? Forget it. Forget him.

She would do her duty. Not to her brother. He didn’t deserve her duty. But she owed one to herself. No matter how much she loved the nuns, her future lay elsewhere. This marriage was her chance.

“Thank you, Ortha. Shall we go down?” As she maneuvered the stairs, a sudden shout reached her.

“Troops arriving.”

Footsteps pounded. She grabbed her skirts to race down the final steps. When she reached the bottom, she froze.

This was her brother. She just knew it. She touched the wimple, tucked up a curl that sneaked free, then pressed her hand to her midriff. Pinpricks danced across her shoulders, squiggled through her stomach. She lifted her chin and sucked in a breath.

“Come,” she said to Ortha, “let us see who arrives.” Forcing herself to move at last, Emelin maintained a ladylike gait across the hall. If only she could prolong the journey to the door. No chance.

It
was
Garley. His shoulders had gained breadth during the years, but so had the rest of him. Emelin remembered the height and the blond hair, a darker shade now. Even so, she would always know him by his resemblance to their father, down to the inflexible set of his solid jaw.

Despite her anger at his thoughtless action, an old familiar knot of dread drifted from the back of her throat into her stomach, where it turned heavy as lead.

Garley’s large party surprised her. How did he pay so many soldiers? No women accompanied him. He wasn’t married. Probably searched for a wealthy wife who could afford him.

An elbow to the shoulder warned she was no longer alone in the doorway. Lady Dulsie and Lady Cleo fairly leaped to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. From their murmurs, she realized she was the only one who found her brother’s appearance objectionable.

Giggling like a maiden, Lady Dulsie turned. “Your brother is just as handsome as I remember, my lady. I can’t imagine why such a man hasn’t wed.”

Lady Cleo’s avid gaze didn’t waver from the man. A slight smile curved her full lips; speculation twitched the skin around her eyes. From that expression, Emelin guessed the lady planned to remedy Garley’s lack of a wife. They might just deserve each other.

The reunion proved as unsatisfactory as she’d expected. Lord Osbert shouted for her to join him in the bailey, then complained as she approached.

“You misrepresented the bargain, Compton. She’s no plain, dowdy maiden, anxious to do her duty. Look at that face. Look at those eyes. Damn it, man, half the garrison’s already casting cow-eyes her way.”

Unfair of him to say that, Emelin thought, indignant. She’d not met the garrison. But he had not finished.

“And she’s got a tongue on her. Told you I couldn’t abide spirit in a female, didn’t I?”

Just when Emelin thought he’d run out of words, he sucked in a breath and added, “Look at her. She’s got no other clothes! Damned nun. How’s a man supposed to bed a damned nun, I ask you? It’s enough to turn the stomach.”

His litany of complaints halted when she did. “You see?” He gestured at the proof.

“Greetings, brother,” Emelin said, hands clasped at waist. “I trust you are well.”

“Well enough.” His blue eyes squinted. “What have you done to yourself?”

She answered through gritted teeth. “I had no way to purchase suitable gowns, and you sent none with your demands. What choice had I?” What irony—his first words contained a complaint about her appearance, just as his last had all those years ago. But, then, this was her brother. He had not changed.

He waved a hand. “Not that. I mean—look at you.”

“Surely you didn’t expect the same frightened child who left Compton.” Emelin struggled to keep her voice calm, but anger bubbled inside.

Garley ignored the words. His furious gaze promised retribution as he latched onto her arm and turned to Lord Osbert. “Indeed. Look how she has improved. A strong lady worthy of Langley. She can stand up to anything. Tend your brats. Hold the castle safe while you’re gone. And if she can’t keep her mouth shut, shut it for her.”

Emelin wrenched her arm from his fist. Her face burned with anger and humiliation. He might remember her as a cowed child, but he would learn his mistake. Indignation won out, and she spoke without thinking.

“Perhaps one of you fine lords can find me a suitable gown in which to wed. You have bought and sold me, now you can clothe me.”

The men stood speechless as she marched up the stairs into the keep. In the silence, realization sent an icy tingle up her back. Oh, Sweet Mary. Her wretched temper had boiled over again. For years she struggled to harness that tongue. In less than a day, her control had collapsed. Repeatedly.

She swept through the doors, nearly colliding with the ladies who gaped with owl eyes. Margaret clutched Ortha’s hand. A puzzled frown crinkled the girl’s forehead, and her mouth puckered. Wonderful. It only needed a weeping child.

Emelin gusted a breath. “I will be in my chamber.” When Ortha stepped up, she added, “I would like to be alone. You can best help by looking after Margaret.”

Mind numb, she made her way to her tiny room. She slammed the bar across the door, sank onto the bed, and pulled at the wimple. Strong, was she? Opinionated, they thought? Never had she felt so alone. Not in the early years at St. Ursula when she stood apart like a bandaged thumb. Not even as a child, in the first frightening days of travel to Stephen’s home. Self-reliance came gradually over the years, and if she nurtured an independent spirit? Well, it was hard-won.

She must draw on those qualities now, show Lord Osbert she could fulfill his requirements, work to win over Margaret. She must repair the damage her unguarded temper just wrought. For Garley’s eyes blazed hatred when they landed on her and sent her spiraling back to a childhood fear.

Against her will, the old uncertainty seared her new confidence. Would he force her to Compton if she didn’t satisfy Lord Osbert? Sell her to another rich lord? What would such a man be like? Lord Osbert, at least, was a known entity.

And the child. Emelin couldn’t leave her alone. Who knew what mischief she would get up to, just to gain attention? Dear God. What if she caught Garley’s eye? He’d know at once to use her as a lever against Emelin.

She propped her elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. Her chest hurt; she couldn’t swallow. One tear, then another, then more slipped between her fingers to roll down her forearms. She wept silently until her nose began to run. Grabbing the wimple, she blew into it and mopped her eyes with the other end.

At least that solved the problem of the terrifying head wrap. A tiny smile tugged one side of her mouth. Perhaps Margaret wouldn’t weep at her now. She straightened and flexed her shoulders. Enough self-pity. But in spite of the brave attitude, a tiny, empty ache still lived between her breasts. She sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. Where to find Ortha?