Authors: Susan King
The Raven's Wish (47 page)
He glanced where she gestured. Visible through the trees, a thick hedge rounded the outer part of the forest. When properly cared for, the barrier discouraged larger animals, especially deer, from entering the wood to eat tree sprouts and strip bark from trees grown for lumber.
"Because the king recently ordered all hedges lowered," she said, "the hedge has just been trimmed. The rest has collapsed from winter storms. The deer will roam freely here soon, with naught to keep them out of the timber wood, thanks to King John. This path is an old one, hardly used, that leads to the castle."
"A timber wood," he said dryly. "And no other here but you."
Emlyn took a breath and decided to speak the truth. Her heart beat wildly as she rushed out a confession. "It was neither an outlaw nor poacher who shot you, my lord. It was my own arrow from my own hand." She tensed, ready to flee, but his grip on her shoulder was strong enough to hurt if she pulled away.
Silence, then his laugh sounded out. "What quarrel have you with me? Black Thorne the outlaw is long dead, they say, and no other dares attack my family." He leaned forward to speak emphatically. "Protect not your family, your heart's-beau, or your husband. Where is the knave who bowshot me!" His voice lowered threateningly. "Play not with me. I am short of temper with pain and my need to be elsewhere!"
Emlyn cringed at the force of his anger. The torsion of her movement opened her cloak, revealing the quiver. Four identical arrows rattled within.
He stared at that, then at her. "So."
"Aye, my lord," she said, miserable.
"Why attack me?" His tone was near a growl.
"I intended no injury, sir. It was an accident. I was just practicing the bow." He watched her in silence. "A wind took my arrow. I aimed at the bole of a beech tree," she added lamely. Still he said nothing, but his grip eased. "In sooth, my lord, I am no goodly archer."
He grunted, let go of her shoulder. "That you are not."
She nodded. "Alas, by Our Lady, I crave your pardon. It is not meet to injure a man so."
"Not meet indeed." The knight blew out a breath and his dark brows pinched in a frown. "Well, I give you pardon, and I promise not to spit and roast you. Though it crossed my mind, I assure you." He held her arrow. "Be gone from here."
Accepting the returned shaft, Emlyn stepped off the tree stump and glanced up at the knight. Above dark stubble, his eyes were gray steel. Even pain and anger did not mar his elegantly sculpted face. Remembering that he was bleeding and in pain, Emlyn wondered if he had far to ride.
"One thing else," he called. "I would know the name of my assassin."
Before she could reply, a shout rent the forest. The knight turned to call an answer, while hoofbeats thudded on the forest path. Emlyn felt eager to flee; she should never have strayed so far from home, alone and unprotected.
"Go, then," the knight said, as if sensing her urgency. "And leave the arrow shooting to others more capable from now on." Turning his mount, he rode toward the approaching horseman.
Earlier, she had felt remorseful. Now the knight's parting words filled her with anger. Making a face, she walked off to pick up her bow and headed back to Ashbourne. Once inside that enclosure, she would be safe from bowshot young knights. But she would not be safe from Tibbie's wrath unless she returned home soon.
* * *
Arriving breathlessly in the foyer of the great hall, Emlyn pulled aside the red curtain that covered the hall entrance and peered inside. By the Rood, she thought, I have missed supper and am surely caught.
Inside the hall, a few servants worked together to push back the planked tables and benches following the late afternoon meal. A girl swept at the rushes, while another stacked used bread trenchers to be distributed in the village for the poor. A long table, its oaken surface clean, had been placed near the huge stone hearth in the far wall, where flames crackled.
"Ah, Lady Emlyn, there ye be!" The husky, warm voice boomed across the length of the room. Emlyn winced. She had not noticed Tibbie in her hasty surveillance.
The short, squat woman crossed the room like a rolling thundercloud, skirts boiling around her legs. Resigned, Emlyn waited. "Aye, Tibbie?"
"Here, let me take yer cloak, m'lady—" Tibbie stretched out an arm while Emlyn fumbled with the bronze pin that secured her mantle.
Tugging, the nurse gasped. "Yer cape is soaked!"
Emlyn shrugged out of the garment. "It is barely damp."
"Damp and muddy, with leaf bits and suchlike." Tibbie picked out twigs and leaves and fixed a baleful eye on Emlyn. Ye've been outside the walls with no guard, nor even a dog to protect ye, I wot."
"Aye so," Emlyn sighed, knowing no secret survived for long around Tibbie.
Tossing the cloak over her arm, Tibbie folded her hands over her stomach and stared at Emlyn. Neither of them was tall, though while Emlyn was delicately built, Tibbie was twice as wide, tough as brass and oak.
"I had to get away for a while," Emlyn said. "And so I left. I only went to the timber wood."
"And what would happen if ye'd met the king's men there? Wat says they're always about now, and could come for us at any time, God save us." Tibbie sketched a hasty cross over her wide bosom.
A shiver of dread went through Emlyn as she remembered the knight in the forest. She recalled the look in his eyes when she had put her hand around the arrow embedded in his thigh. Now the fear came rushing back.
Tibbie and Wat, the castle's seneschal, were fiercely protective of Emlyn and the de Ashbourne children, especially following Guy's arrest while out hunting. The winter had been fraught with tension, which grew worse once the king demanded an exorbitant fee. A fine, his messenger had called it.
As chatelaine, Emlyn had done her best to care for the children and the household. She had managed to send some silver marks to the king, though it drained the coffers, but coin was her only hope of seeing Guy again. She had tried to keep her thoughts on God and turn her anger to forgiveness, but that was exceedingly difficult.
Her parents and older siblings were gone by God's will or another's, but the three little ones were safe in her care. After her brother Guy's capture, Emlyn had vowed that she would never leave the children, and that their lives would be free from the stresses she had known. As their sole guardian, she would do her utmost to make sure of that pledge.
Tibbie went on. "And what," she asked pointedly, "was ye doing in the forest alone? Why did ye not bring even Cadgil?"
"I was practicing," Emlyn said. "And Cadgil is getting old."
"Tish-tosh! Never the bow and arrow?" Tibbie glowered. "Ye've been tempted with those things since ye was a child, and met that accursed outlaw. Else ye're a biddable maid."
"Oh, Tib," Emlyn sighed. Being biddable was her downfall. "Guy himself taught me archery. Many ladies hunt with bows."
"Pah! The fine ladies that traipse about with hunting parties are after bigger game than rabbits! They hunt for rich lords. Had ye not spent years in a convent, ye'd know that."
Emlyn looked away. Tibbie was too close to the truth—hunting a lord was exactly what she had inadvertently done.
Taking a quick breath, Tibbie rushed on. "Why would ye slip away from those that would protect ye from that wicked king—God forgive me, he's a one—to go out shooting at wee creatures? Better to be at yer prayers for Baron Guy, God save him." Another fingered cross hit the air. Then she sighed. "But truly, I cannot blame ye."
Emlyn blinked. "Tib?"
"No wonder ye flee this place, with all our troubles now. Tell me, did ye catch good game for the table? Did ye fetch back a hare or a squirrel?"
"Not quite." Emlyn cringed as she thought again of the knight—dusky eyes, warm hands, sharp words, bloody wound.
"Lord knows we need extra fare for the table now, with too few men to hunt for game here. The king's fines have taken almost all we have. The barrels of salted meat are near empty."
Emlyn sighed, for it was true. Despite a bustling household with servants and craftsmen at work in keep, kitchens, stable, brewhouse, and smithy, supplies were dwindling. And the reassuring presence of a castle garrison was conspicuously absent.
Only a few armed men walked the parapet now. When her brother Guy had been taken, most of their men-at-arms had gone elsewhere by king's order. Few men were available for hunting, and the lack of soldiers also meant that Ashbourne Castle could not withstand for long any attack from outside.
"We are surviving just fine," Emlyn said defiantly. "Somehow I will pay the rest of Guy's inheritance fee. And this year our sheep's wool will fetch a good price."
"Not enough for that grasping king," Tibbie grumbled.
"Then he must accept another payment in part."
"Hmph," Tibbie commented.
Thank heavens, Emlyn thought, for the help and wisdom of Walter de Lyddell, Rogier de Ashbourne's seneschal, who had remained with them. With his guidance, the castle household had a semblance of normalcy. Emlyn wanted to shield her little siblings from the current predicament; the children were her responsibility, entrusted to her and Guy when Rogier had died.
"The twins must be well occupied. All seems peaceful," she said to Tibbie, looking around, realizing there was silence.
"Oh, quiet might mean a child is plotting the most wicked of troubles. Ye and Guy, bless him—the king's a bastard, forgive me Lord," she muttered, index finger flying, "were a pair to keep up with, and yer sister Agnes and brother Richard too—God bless his departed soul, and watch over sweet Agnes in her convent." She hurried on. "But I kept after all of ye, just I do now with the twins and precious baby Harry. The twins are playing a board game, and little Harry is sleeping, bless him." Just as she spoke, a child's screams sounded overhead.
"What is that?" Emlyn looked up.
"Saints and angels, the Saracens are come again," Tibbie muttered. "I told them not to—"
"I will tend to it." Emlyn turned to run up the curving stair that led to the bedchambers above the great hall, her leather soles scuffing a rhythm on the stone steps.
Susan King is the bestselling, award-winning author of 20 historical novels, each one highly praised for historical accuracy, storytelling quality and lyricism. Her first novel,
The Black Thorne's Rose,
was published in 1994, followed by many well-known historical romances written as both Susan King and Sarah Gabriel. The author's most recent fiction release as Susan Fraser King,
Queen Hereafter: A Novel of Margaret of Scotland,
follows the acclaimed
Lady Macbeth: A Novel,
both from Crown/Random House. Susan holds a graduate degree in medieval art history and lives in Maryland with her family and a Westie.
Learn more about Susan's books at
www.susanfraserking.com
and
www.wordwenches.com
.
Happy reading!