by Susan King
“Surely I would not,” he growled as Emlyn slammed the door behind her.
Chapter Five
“Demoiselle, you have directed your servants to overload these carts.” As Nicholas de Hawkwood walked briskly across the bailey toward Emlyn, his deep voice carried to her in the cold morning air. Raising one hand, he gestured toward two wagons piled high with iron-bound chests, rolled bedding and tapestries, and several large bundles wrapped in cloth. Servants brought yet more items to the vans.
There was no trace of a limp as the baron approached her. Although the dark circles below his eyes and the tension in his mouth and dark-whiskered jaw hinted at fatigue, he was once again the imposing knight she had met in the forest. A long surcoat of azure blue, belted low and patterned with embroidered golden hawks, covered his armor, and his cloak draped back from his wide shoulders. Freed of the mesh hood, his long dark hair whipped softly in the breeze.
De Hawkwood stood over her. “There are furnishings aplenty at Hawksmoor and at my father’s castle at Graymere,” he said. “I will order the second van unloaded.”
Emlyn struggled to mask her growing rancor beneath serene features. “My lord baron,” she replied, “the children are being forced to leave their home. I will not have them separated from all that is familiar. Those are necessary items.”
De Hawkwood was silent as he watched the bustle surrounding the two wagons. One of his own men-at-arms, clad in the dark green surcoat worn by his garrison, emerged from the stables carrying a child’s brightly painted wooden saddle and slung it onto the growing pile in the second wagon.
He shook his head in dismay. “Infants may require some coddling. But you would fain send the entire keep, piecemeal.”
“You have many soldiers equal to the task.”
“Soldiers disdain to do the work of servants, though I see my own men are eager enough to do your bidding. But not a one will drive nor ride a cart. Lord Whitehawke and I will take one wagon only. By your leave, lady.” Nodding curtly, he turned to go.
“Nay, sirrah, hold!” she said. Pausing at her haughty tone, de Hawkwood looked over his shoulder imperiously.
Anger flashing in her eyes, Emlyn moved toward him, then hastily cast her eyes properly downward and unfisted her hands. She would not relish being called an adder again.
“I also prepare to depart, my lord,” she said. “Since my clothing chests and bed frame must be packed, and the windows need to be removed as well, prithee say to your father that we cannot travel until afternoon, or even the morrow.”
“By God’s body, windows!” he exclaimed, turning full around.
Emlyn tilted her chin defiantly, unable to play demure any longer. “We have good glass windows at Ashbourne. I would have them packed and moved to my new chambers. If they remain here they will likely be broken by your father’s soldiers.”
“My lady,” he said, his words clipped. “We are not leaving because the season has changed, or because the game has run out. We are not moving the household because you are bored and the minstrels have gone south. We are following royal orders to vacate immediately.”
“By all that’s holy, you ask three children to ride out like soldiers, with naught but the cloaks on their backs,” she replied hotly, glaring up at him.
He glared back. “What drags down the axle of that van over there is hardly naught, my lady. One wagon will be loaded only. God knows it will slow us greatly.”
Her trembling fingers, clutching the neck of her cloak, betrayed the inner tumult that she struggled to conceal. “Your father bid me ready the children and myself this day. ’Tis hardly past dawn, yet you seek to depart.”
A muscle jumped rapidly in his cheek. “Strive no more to keep us here, lady. Whitehawke is impatient to be gone.” His customary control appeared to waver dangerously, and he drew a long breath. “Aught else? I would hear it sooner than later.”
Emlyn scowled up at him. “Walter de Lyddell should continue to steward Ashbourne in my absence. He knows the land, and our people here.”
“I have already suggested as much to Whitehawke. Sir Walter is very capable, and Ashbourne will profit under his care.”
“My mother’s cousin, Mistress Isabelle—Tibbie—should accompany the children to Hawksmoor.”
“My lady aunt will tend to their needs at Hawksmoor.”
“Tibbie cares for them as if they were of her own womb, as she has looked after all the children of this family.” Tears unexpectedly sprang and pooled in her eyes as she looked up at him. The slight lift of her head sent one drop in a tiny rivulet down her cheek.
De Hawkwood looked away quickly, then nodded his head with a resigned sigh. “Aye, then, your Tibbie may come with us.”
Emlyn blinked, surprised at his compliance. His cheeks burned with a deep rosy tint that spread out of his unshaven jaw and sparked his gray eyes to blue-green, like an instant of sun in a cold sky. She stared at the transformation. No blush of emotion could warm this stone man, she thought; only cold air could redden his cheeks. His father’s skin had the same tendency to color easily, she had noticed. But she was convinced that there were no tender hearts among the de Hawkwoods.
“Delay us no more, my lady,” he said curtly, then turned away and crossed the bailey in long strides to join Whitehawke. Pensively she watched him walk away. De Hawkwood had rightly perceived her attempt to delay the children’s departure. She desperately wanted more time with her siblings, and certain matters needed her attention before the castle and its affairs came under Whitehawke’s control. She simply could not leave now.
At least a full day, probably longer, would be necessary to spread word to the tenants advising them of the change in ownership. She sighed. Whitehawke would not likely show the same concern and generosity extended by the de Ashbourne family.
Since childhood, Emlyn and her brothers and sisters had known many of the families in the nearby villages and farms. The land had been seised to the family by the Conqueror, and generations of Ashbourne barons had demonstrated fairness and leniency as lords of the demesne. Willing help had always come from the villeins at planting, harvest, and market time, even now, when King John’s taxes and fines had begun to drain Ashbourne’s full coffers.
The lord and his family had always given back to the people, in land, goods, coin or charity. When the monasteries had closed during the interdict that had cast England out of the church in penance for the king’s actions, Rogier de Ashbourne had taken responsibility for the charity cases usually attended by the monks. This last winter, Emlyn had made certain that the poorest families and the eldest villeins were provided for.
She knew that King John’s writ would change the very nature of the relationship between these people and their lord. If Wat continued as castle seneschal, the lord’s traditional duty to the villeins would be met, as long as Whitehawke did not interfere. She wondered how far the earl’s cruelty extended. Perhaps he reserved his hatred for members of his own family.
Walking through the bailey yard, she approached the stable where Whitehawke stood with several others, including his son. Tall and broad, the earl was conspicuous in his polished black armor and black cloak, his white hair flowing over his folded hood. Nicholas de Hawkwood gestured toward the wagons, and his father barked out some comment.
Whitehawke turned abruptly as Emlyn neared, and glowered, his white eyebrows pushed low over his eyes. “I am told there is much to be done before you are free to depart, my lady.”
“Aye, my lord,” Emlyn stammered under his heavy, icy stare. “There are certain matters that require my attention.”
“There is no longer any matter at Ashbourne that need involve you. Only see to your packing.” He glared at her, his jowls trembling. “And we bring no windows with us, by the bones of the saints!”
Emlyn inhaled sharply, throwing back her shoulders. These men obviously had moved few households, or they would know the value in removing good leaded glass windows to install elsewhere. The frames were
transportable. The more Whitehawke and his son resisted, the more determined Emlyn became to bring the windows with her. Besides, hours would be required to remove and wrap them for the journey, hours that she needed.
“I shall not begin my wedded life with only a few garments hastily thrown in a sack. I must have linens, furniture, and my mother’s windows. And the children need their own possessions.”
“There’ll be no colored church windows in my keep!” he roared. Two or three of his soldiers edged away.
The strain of the past evening and this morning had tested her mightily. Emlyn could hold her temper no further. “If you must have me to wife, sir, you shall have windows and more!” she said loudly.
Nicholas de Hawkwood turned away to smother a smile. Emlyn flicked a glance in his direction, then flashed her eyes back to Whitehawke, towering over her. His narrowed blue eyes were icy points in his broad, reddening face. True rage seemed to gather in his cold gaze, and Emlyn resisted an urge to step away.
The earl’s voice had a low, dangerous hum. “Do as you please, lady, until you reach my castle and my bed. Then shall we learn who master and mistress be.”
Emlyn paled at the implication. Whitehawke spoke to Nicholas. “We will wait no longer upon a bratling bride. I shall accompany your retinue part of the way. We depart within the half hour.” Nicholas nodded briskly.
The earl turned back to Emlyn. “Stay you here at Ashbourne and fill wagons at your leisure, but quit this castle within the week. Hugh de Chavant, captain of my guard, will remain to escort you to my castle at Graymere.”
Emlyn stared up at him, shocked into silence. Her efforts to delay the time of departure had gone terribly awry. The children would leave with Nicholas de Hawkwood’s escort, with Whitehawke, but without her. In declaring that she was not ready, she had given Whitehawke an opportunity to outwit her.
“One week, my lady. Time enough to tear the privies from the towers if you wish them packed as well.” Whitehawke turned his back abruptly and strode across the bailey.
Panic squeezed her chest and throat. She launched forward in pursuit, but de Hawkwood stepped quickly in front of her. As she careened into his mail-covered chest, he grabbed her shoulders to steady her.
Gulping in air, she twisted against his grip. “Dear God, you would truly take these children from me,” she breathed hoarsely. “Let me go. I must speak to him.”
“Hold, my lady. You are hardly the one to wrestle such a dragon as Whitehawke. Listen well. Be wary of Whitehawke, and provoke him not. Learn now that what he orders, you must obey.”
A sob escaped her, and she pressed her lips shut. She refused to cry here, before servants and strangers. She would not dissolve into a helpless puddle in this man’s arms. Anger, for the moment, formed the structure that held her together.
“God curse your father,” she said between her teeth. She jerked away from his grip. “And you, my lord, should have greater honor than to take babes hostage. ’Tis a coward’s way to siege a castle.”
“My lady, I but obey the king,” he replied tersely. “The children are surpassing young. I would rather not be burdened.”
“Tell your king that I refuse both this betrothal and your guardianship.” Her eyes flashed a cerulean flame. “I promise you, by God’s will, I will have these children back from you.”
“Brave words for a spit of a girl,” growled de Hawkwood. “Do you have spiteful thoughts, my lady, learn to hold your tongue.” He lowered his voice. “Some have been imprisoned for less.”
“Prison, my lord, could have tortures no worse than what my family has endured of late!” As Emlyn whirled away, one golden braid whipped out with the force of her spin to brush his arm. Several delicate strands tangled in the steel mesh. Fuming, she gave the braid an angry yank, pulled loose, and stormed away.
“Damned daft knights, to follow such cupshotten royal orders,” Tibbie muttered.
Emlyn reached over and lifted Harry’s warm, solid weight from Tibbie’s arms, nestling him against her hip. Isobel stood beside her, and Emlyn put out her free hand to stroke the child’s glossy dark curls. “Go, Tibbie,” she sighed, having explained the arrangements, “and pack your satchel.”
Tibbie nodded, her eyes misted pink, and turned to walk forcefully through the bailey, not missing an opportunity to elbow one of Whitehawke’s soldiers out of her path. Skirts flapping furiously, she mounted the outer stone steps of the keep, loudly voicing her opinions as she climbed.
Christien, just arrived from the stables, pulled at Emlyn’s cloak, his brown locks unruly in the cool breeze, his eyes blue as sapphires and dancing with energy. Harry reached out a fat hand to tug at his brother’s hair.
“Emlyn,” Christien said, ducking Harry. “Can I ride with Sir Peter on his war-horse? Sir Peter said I might. I do not want to ride in the van with women and babes.” He wrinkled his nose.
“Most of the way, you will be in the van. But if Sir Peter says aye, then you may ride some.” She smiled at his simple, innocent excitement, in contrast to timid Isobel, who had clung close to Tibbie or Emlyn all morn.
Harry pulled at her cloak hood, obscuring her face, and Emlyn twisted away. Isobel and Christien laughed as she pried the cloth out of Harry’s fat, stubborn fingers. The sweet childish trills swelled Emlyn’s heart with love.
“Must we go with that wretched old white-haired man?” Isobel was petulant, a result of an early rising and the day’s confusing events. “He was mean to Cadgil in the hall at breakfast.”
“Are we prisoners? Do we go to a dungeon?” Christien asked.
Emlyn kept her voice light to hide her apprehension. “Hush, dearlings. None of us are prisoners. Lord Whitehawke will go on to his own castle, called Graymere. You shall stay at Hawksmoor for a little while with Baron Nicholas.” Uncertain how to tell them of her betrothal, she had not yet mentioned it. The children had been presented with enough changes for now.
“The baron I like well enough,” Christien said. “He is fine and strong, and looks like a king. His black war-horse is called Sylvanus. Syl-van-us.” Christien tried the name nimbly.
“Why do you not ride with us?” Isobel asked.
“There are matters I must tend to here first,” Emlyn said gently. “You will be safe and happy at Hawksmoor, sweetings, until I come along later and fetch you.”
Harry struggled to get down. Holding him firmly, she bent to squeeze the three children together into a lumpy, fierce hug, inhaling their combined odor, redolent of milk, wool, apple pasties, and warm young skin.
“Be brave,” she said softly. “Christien, remember, a true knight protects those who need him. You and Isobel watch after Harry, and see that he always has someone near him.” They nodded solemnly. “Be true friends all.” She kissed each soft cheek. “I will come to you as soon as I can.” No one, not even a king, she thought, can take you from me forever.
“Come, chickens, we shall make a cozy nest,” Tibbie called on her way to the wagon, and the twins dashed off to join her.
The wagon was ready, the load strapped tightly, the horses harnessed, the canopy top set up to provide protection for those who rode within. As Emlyn carried Harry to the van, she saw that the vehicle swayed slightly, and was hardly surprised to discover Christien and Isobel bouncing wildly inside.
Wat leaned over the side of the wagon, and Christien and Isobel spilled out like puppies from a basket to climb into his arms. He held them both, then lifted them back inside and briefly touched Harry’s head. His brown eyes crinkled with strain as he nodded to Emlyn and then to Tibbie before turning away abruptly.
When Tibbie was settled on a wooden crossbench, Emlyn kissed Harry again and lifted him into Tibbie’s lap. Her eyes swam with distorting moisture. As if she moved through a dream, she kissed the twins, ruffled their silken heads, adjusted their cloaks, and reminded them to behave, to listen, to pray, to eat their meat and vegetables, to wash. Lastly, she embraced Tibbie.
The wagon lurched into motion,
cushioned between ranks of horsemen riding in widely spaced pairs. Whitehawke rode in the lead. Nicholas de Hawkwood, with Peter de Blackpoole, passed her after the wagon lumbered away. The baron nodded briefly to her, his gaze piercing before he turned away.
Slowly the escort crossed the bailey, watched by the solemn servants who filled the yard. Wheels creaking, wooden body swaying rhythmically, the van rolled beneath the immense portcullis arch, followed by the last of the guards.
As Christien and Isobel lifted their hands to wave at Emlyn, their small pale faces were touched by a sudden bewilderment.
Four days later, by the time the escort skirted the ridge of the long dale that stretched out below Hawksmoor, Nicholas was exhausted. The cumbersome wagon had slowed them down, and the surprising number of necessary stops for the children had been an exasperating delay. The journey had taken much longer than he had planned.
Traveling north to the York shire by the old Roman roads had added the most time. Whitehawke had insisted on following roads that trailed over downs and past farms and nestled villages. Nicholas had ground his teeth in frustration whenever they circuited clusters of forest, forgoing those straight, quick paths. But the weather had been mild, and the children had proved remarkably hardy travelers despite a penchant for asking repeatedly if that manor house or this castle was Hawksmoor.
Now, at last, Hawksmoor was visible in the distance, three of its six curved towers glinting pale gray in the afternoon light. Seen from the south, the vast protective curtain wall rose as if cut from sheer rock, built on a promontory that jutted out over a river. The rock base sloped steeply away at the back to meet wide moors and forested land.
They would cross the river at a shallow place and travel around the perimeter of the impenetrable shell wall to the western barbican gate to be admitted. At the river, Whitehawke and his men would veer east for Graymere.
Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief in anticipation of that splitting of ways. He turned to look at his father, who rode beside him, apparently caught up in his own thoughts.