by Susan King
Chapter Three
“The man in black? Aye, him I know. The other, in blue, I cannot say for certain,” Walter de Lyddell answered Emlyn as they stood together on the wallwalk and gazed down on the horsemen. The bannerman had requested entry in the name of the king, and now awaited an answer from the porter, who in turn awaited word from Lady Emlyn or the seneschal.
“Bertran de Hawkwood, Earl of Graymere, called Whitehawke, after that white head of his,” Wat continued. “A powerful lord, and a cruel man as well, I have heard. He has more small barons in his pocket than you can name, and King John’s favor as well. A pair, those two, a couple of slimy toads.”
Emlyn laid a hand on Wat’s arm, the old, tarnished steel mesh cold and heavy beneath her touch. Tall and broad, his eyes dark as walnuts in his grizzled and seamed face, he wore the dark red cloak that identified him as a man of the Baron de Ashbourne. Wat had been her father’s closest friend and castle seneschal for twenty years. Now he glanced down at Emlyn with paternal tolerance as she peeked furtively over the crenellated wall.
“What might Lord Whitehawke want here, Wat?” she asked.
“It seems he bears a message from the king, my lady.”
“What do you suggest?” She felt capable of nothing beyond a fervent wish that the blue-cloaked one would go away.
He sucked in his breath sharply, his jowled face creased in thought. “They do not challenge us, but ask only for entry. I suggest we admit only the earl and the one who rides beside him. They will leave their weapons at the gate, and their men can camp in the field until the king’s message has been delivered.”
Emlyn nodded, her head jerking stiffly with the movement. “I shall not greet them in the bailey, though ’tis my duty. But—I cannot. I leave that to you,” she said.
Wat nodded and called out the order to the gatemen. The pulleys squealed as thick ropes slowly drew up the first iron portcullis. Emlyn gathered her skirts and fled back to the keep.
Tibbie and the twins stood before the windows in the great hall, the children perched on a bench beneath a row of tall triple-arched windows that were set with stained glass above and wooden shutters below. Christien complained loudly that Isobel had the best space in front of the one open casement.
“The colored glass is not much good for seeing out, but it does make pretty colors on the floors, just there,” Tibbie said, gesturing at pools of amber and red on the rushes. “Now, Isobel, shove over, before I move ye m’self.” Tibbie turned as Emlyn approached. “Ye will receive them, my lady?”
“Aye,” Emlyn said, and went to the hearth end of the long room, the hem of her blue skirt whispering sibilantly on the rushes. The hound Cadgil, resting his yellowed head on his paws, lay on the warm hearthstone and whined softly as she came near. Emlyn bent to scratch his head, and then sat in a high-backed carved chair, determined to greet the messengers graciously.
Tibbie came near, her round face drawn and lined with apprehension, her eyes rimmed pink. “Let us hope they bring good news, and pray the king does not want ye prisoner as well.”
“King John has no quarrel with me, Tibbie. I have naught of value—only some property left to me by my mother. Any dowry I had is gone to the king.” Emlyn sighed. “You know I will end in a convent like my sister Agnes.”
Tibbie shook her head. “The king is a sly one, my lady girl. Ye’ve learned that lesson well, for Lord Guy is not here.”
Emlyn pinched her lips silently, knowing that Tibbie was right. The king could not be gainsaid or trusted. She shivered inwardly. If these messengers brought news of Guy’s death, then Christien was the next baron.
She stifled a quick urge to grab the twins, fetch sleeping Harry, and run away, anywhere. So much already lost, so much more to lose. Her eldest brother Richard, when a knight of twenty, had been killed in Poitou years earlier, while fighting alongside English knights for King John. Almost two years ago, her mother, past the age for easy bearing, had died shortly after Harry’s birth. Late last summer, her father had caught a fatal ague. And then, in the autumn, Guy had been taken.
The shock and pain of each loss had piled on her like lead weights on a fragile golden scale. There were times when she could hardly breathe, could hardly think rationally, under the crushing burden. And she had discovered, to her dismay, that women had little power to sway or change what men determined. Soon she would hear the king’s next order, and be expected, even forced, to obey. Gripping the carved armrests, she felt slightly dizzy, her heart beating rapidly.
“Emlyn!” Isobel called from her perch by the window. The children jumped excitedly on the bench. “They come!”
Iron-trimmed boots thudded on the outer staircase. Emlyn summoned a calm into her voice that she did not feel. “Tibbie, take the children to their chamber, and stay there with them.” Tibbie nodded and shooed the children down from the bench, sending them before her like geese. They disappeared noisily up the backstairs that wound behind the hearth chimney.
The ornate chair carvings were cool and hard beneath her trembling fingers. A profound silence, dense as mist and smoke, filled the great hall. The curtain at the far end of the room split open and two men entered with Wat, crossing the floor with heavy, purposeful steps.
Rising slowly from the chair, Emlyn folded her trembling hands demurely before her. The blue-cloaked knight was tall, and walked with an easy swing in his stride, showing no trace of a limp. Perhaps the wound was minor after all, she thought with relief, in spite of the blood she had seen.
The knight’s eyes, stone cold and severe, bored into her skull as he approached. She knew the instant he recognized her as the girl in the forest. Mustering a semblance of the cool control expected of a noblewoman, she stepped forward smoothly.
“My lords, God give you greeting,” she said. “I am Lady Emlyn de Ashbourne, sister to the baron. You are welcome here.” Wat stood beside her, his sturdy presence like a benediction.
Whitehawke was only a bit taller than his companion, though heavier and large-boned. He towered over Emlyn and bowed, his deepset and hooded eyes pale blue, pricked by tiny black pupils. Ivory brows matched the glossy, creamy white hair that hung to his shoulders. He took her hand in sausagey fingers.
“I am the Earl of Graymere, Bertran de Hawkwood, my lady,” he said. “Whitehawke.” His voice was a deep bass rumble. He inclined his head toward the younger man who stood beside him. “My son, Nicholas de Hawkwood.”
The introduction hit her like a physical punch. Dear saints. She had not only loosed an arrow into a messenger of the king, but into the son of an earl. If these men had any influence, Guy’s fate was in sure jeopardy.
The knight’s angry expression upon entering the room had softened to a more pensive look. He gingerly bent his left injured leg to shift his weight to the right, the gray gleam in his eyes piercing as good steel. “My lady, greetings,” he said. “I am the Baron of Hawksmoor. We bring a message from King John. But first we would ask of you some refreshment.”
Emlyn realized that Whitehawke had not introduced his son properly, omitting rank and title. Holy Virgin. A baron in his own right. Her head trembled like a heavy flower on a stalk.
“My lord,” she squeaked out, her throat tight. Crossing to a small cupboard, she took out a glazed jug and two silver cups, engraved and chased with gold, their pedestal bases shaped to comfortably fit a man’s large hand. She placed the cups on the long oak table by the hearth and poured good French wine, red as rubies, handing over the goblets with a softly murmured blessing.
As the earl and his son drank, Emlyn squeezed her fingers together anxiously. Nicholas de Hawkwood pushed back his mesh hood, his dark hair unruly beneath, and rubbed his slate-shadowed jaw, watching her in cool, silent assessment. Another fierce blush crept up her neck, and she turned away.
The earl stood by the open window, conversing quietly with Wat. The setting sun cast a pink glaze over Whitehawke’s hair, and his blackened armor gleamed dully beneath his black cloak. Powe
rfully built, his body heavily muscled, his features leonine, he was handsome still, though harsh. He looked like some aged, mythical king, a ferocious mix of elven and human.
Emlyn approached Whitehawke timidly. “My lord, though I would hear your message, I will have a repast brought. We ate earlier, not expecting guests.” Her stomach churned with nervousness, and she had not eaten since morn. “The meal will be simple, but filling and hot. Food shall be sent to your men, as well.” She was grateful for the ritual formula of a castle greeting to distract and direct her: food and drink and cordialities before business, except in emergencies.
“Our thanks, lady,” the earl said gruffly, then looked away to ask Wat about the horse stock in the stable.
“Lady Emlyn,” Nicholas de Hawkwood said, beckoning to her. Emlyn turned to see him perched against the table, fondling Cadgil’s ears. Frowning with resentment, she wondered why the dog, who never left the comfort of the fire for anyone but the family, had gone to the baron. She went to him as well, dreading the encounter. Though he had been silent about his injury, she assumed he wished to have his wound tended.
The baron leaned toward her until his head was close to hers. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet, dark velvet on a breath, that she, too, leaned forward, straining to hear. Mixed odors of wood smoke, metal and leather, and a tired, sweaty smell lingered about him. To her confusion, she found it warm and masculine and quite pleasant, and though she knew she should step away from him, should be repulsed, something held her there.
“Do you order food for us now, my lady,” he said quietly, “you should know that Lord Whitehawke eats no meat.”
“But Easter is past, Lent is done,” she said, confused.
“No Lenten penance, this. He never eats animal flesh.”
“None? How does a man live without meat?” Unable to conceal her surprise, she glanced over her shoulder. Whitehawke hardly looked deprived.
“Fish is his only flesh food,” de Hawkwood answered.
“Why is that?” She placed her fingertips over her lips, about to apologize for so personal a question.
The baron seemed not to mind her impertinence. “ ’Tis a penance,” he answered, shrugging.
What a sin the earl must have committed, to vow so, she thought. “A priest set such a penance?”
“He set it himself, long ago.” As he turned his head a beam of late sunlight touched his face, filling his eyes with a sudden gray-green transparency. Long black lashes lowered over the brief gleam. His cheeks, peppered with short dark hairs, were suffused with a rosy blush above a firm jaw and a pleasantly shaped mouth. “A well-deserved penance,” he murmured.
Sensing that she could ask no more, though she burned with curiosity, Emlyn pressed her lips tight. The baron leaned against the table, resting his injured leg, long fingers idly scratching the dog’s head. Cadgil wore an expression of silly contentment. “Shall I send for someone to tend you, sire?”
He turned his gaze on her. “Pardon?”
“Will you have someone—ah—tend to your needs, my lord?”
“I will accept a hot bath later this even, my lady.”
She nodded. “A servant will prepare your bath in the solar.”
He leaned close. “I would prefer that you attend me, my lady.” His low voice seemed to hum in her chest.
She gaped at him, and he lifted one eyebrow slightly. “My lord,” she said crisply, “I will be glad to offer you the customary bathing of the feet, and can divest you of your armor. If you require assistance, the squire Jenkin can help you. I will fetch a skilled healer—”
His quiet words cut across hers. “In this matter, my lady, ’tis best if you attend me alone. Only one other knows of my—er, disability. Since I cannot call a knight out of the field to tend my bath, and you can be present by custom, you will do so.”
Emlyn nodded, feeling a rush of her earlier guilt. Beckoning to Jenkin, who waited at one end of the room, she ordered the bath for later, and gave instructions to be relayed to the cook concerning the meal, taking care to request that a fish or egg dish be added for the earl. With a small swell of pride, she knew that the food would come quickly and would be of the best quality, even if supplies were low.
Jenkin took off at a lanky half run, scattering rushes as he went, and tore down the stairs, calling for the steward.
“Your servant seems ill-trained,” observed Whitehawke.
Emlyn whipped her head around, startled. “He is not a servant, sire, but a squire. He fosters here, first with my father, and then with my brother Guy. He is young, and full of the eagerness of youth.”
“He should be whipped for leaving a hall in such an unseemly manner,” Whitehawke returned.
“I have never had any servant or squire beaten, nor did my father or mother before me,” Emlyn replied curtly.
“My lord Whitehawke, if I may interrupt,” Wat said mildly, “the lad is bare twelve, a good lad, the son of a cousin of Lord Percy. While Lady Emlyn will not allow any servant to be beaten, they accord her the finest loyalty.”
“They must have been trained by charm, sire,” drawled the baron. “I vow ’tis not the strict discipline that your lordship would demand. And yet there are castles where discipline and beatings are lax, and the servants still perform satisfactorily.”
“I would not tolerate such in a castle of mine,” Whitehawke growled. “A lord rules best with a hard fist.”
“Aye, ’tis the philosophy of your house, sire,” his son replied. “Ah, behold. Here are the servants come to set our table, and behind them, the first part of the feast arrives.” He gestured toward the doorway, where Jenkin and three servants entered, carrying platters and dishes. Nodding to Emlyn, he sketched a little bow. “Beauty and grace triumph over the whip.”
Uncertain of his mocking tone, Emlyn decided the better course for her was to address the task at hand. She began to supervise the setting of the table and the arrangement of several platters, which were brought in and set on a small side table.
A serving woman spread a bleached linen cloth over the oak table and laid down a silver saltcellar with an elaborate cover shaped like a dove, and two silver spoons with engraved handles. Square bread trenchers, thick and pale, were placed beside covered dishes, and wooden platters of apples and cheese were set down as well.
Jenkin stepped forward to serve the meal, and the other servants left the room, bowing awkwardly toward Whitehawke, obviously unused to demonstrating homage. As the guests sat and rinsed their hands in rosewater, Wat excused himself, saying he would ensure that Whitehawke’s garrison was provided for before dark. Emlyn declined to sit with them, waiting nearby.
“Is the fish fresh?” Whitehawke asked.
“Of course, my lord, caught from our own garden pond,” she answered. Whitehawke nodded and accepted a portion of a trout pie, while his son was served a savory meat and vegetable stew. When Jenkin offered roasted onions and baked apples, Whitehawke, chewing vigorously, gestured toward the onions.
“ ’Twas with grief that I heard of your father’s death, Lady Emlyn,” Whitehawke said, salting his food heavily with his fingers as he spoke. He picked onions and carrots and bread sops out of his trencher with his knife, ignoring the spoon. “His death, and the imprisonment of your brother, has placed Ashbourne in a precarious state. The push of one greedy baron or another would do you in without the king’s generous protection.”
“King John has afforded us no protection, my lord,” she said, puzzled.
“But he has been most interested in Ashbourne.” Whitehawke locked a brief glance with his son.
Nicholas de Hawkwood signaled that he was finished, though he had eaten little, and Jenkin quickly removed the trencher.
“My father and I have been at court for several weeks,” the baron said. “ ’Twas there that we heard of your father’s death and the arrest of your brother Guy. Many wondered who might take over this parcel.”
“Take over the parcel!” Emlyn straightened i
ndignantly. “My brother is baron of Ashbourne by right. He paid the succession dues, but the king arrested him because the relief fee was higher, suddenly, than what had been paid. Ashbourne’s revenues have been exhausted by taxes and dues and fines, and the king even claims the profits to come from this spring’s lambings and wool. But when the last of what is owed is sent to the king, my brother will be released. ’Tis a hateful fee, a ransom in truth, but ’twill be paid. No one will take this land, my lord.”
“But your brother is young,” Whitehawke said. “And a young baron is often no baron at all. As well, the king suspects your brother of treason.”
“Treason!” she exclaimed. “I have heard no charge of this.”
“He has been sympathetic with those rebellious barons who, since last autumn, have demanded a charter of liberties,” Whitehawke said smoothly. “He is known to have met with other barons at Bury St. Edmunds concerning the old charter of King Henry, on which some think to base a new charter. Your brother has not paid his relief, and refused the scutage fee last year when he and many other barons refused to fight for King John in France,” he said as he shot a venomous look at his son. “It rests with the king to decide what shall be done with your brother’s inheritance, since the property of a criminal becomes that of the crown.” Cutting into a pulpy baked apple with his eating knife, he slipped a wedge into his mouth.
“I wish to know the contents of the king’s message,” Emlyn said through gritted teeth. “Is my brother safe and well?”
“For now, Lady Emlyn,” Whitehawke said, demolishing the rest of the soft brown apple, “I thank you for a fine meal.” He dabbled his fingers in the rosewater and wiped them on linen. “Soon you will know the contents of the king’s writ. Excuse me. I would consult with my men.” He stood and nodded, then crossed the room, his heavy boots beating a forceful rhythm.
Emlyn expected the baron to rise as well, but he stayed, thoughtfully watching his father’s exit. Golden firelight played across the lean planes of his stubbled jaw and slender nose. He looked, she thought, like a painted sculpture of a brooding, armored Saint Michael, colored with deep tones, beautiful and severe. The only softening of the image was in the mahogany mass of his hair, which feathered and waved against his cheek and the firmly muscled column of his neck.