by Susan King
“God’s very bones. The Ashbourne chit is fierce as a cat,” Whitehawke commented. “Mark me, she will soon comply like a proper wife. Once I have bedded her, she will learn to show quick respect.” He smirked at Nicholas. “All a sharp-tongued woman needs is a taste of a proper man,” he added slyly.
Nicholas pressed his lips together in silence, his cheeks reddening in fury, while his father laughed breathily.
“Better she were wed to me than to such as you,” Whitehawke continued. “I fair doubt you could handle her will. But I’ll not tolerate such arguing from any female.”
“I vow we saw Lady Emlyn’s temper because we took her home and her siblings away from her, my lord,” Nicholas replied evenly, his fingers tight on the reins.
Whitehawke rode beside him for a while longer, then spoke again. “The wedding shall take place one month hence, time enough for all to arrive at Graymere, including the bride.” The earl glanced over at his son. “Do not bring the brats when you come, I want no hearts rendered at my wedding feast. The girl will likely ask me to take them in.”
“They are her family. No doubt she expects their wardship to be given over to her husband.”
“King John has set the nursery chore upon your shoulders, not mine. Keep them at Hawksmoor until the king decides their fate. If he remembers them.”
Nicholas sighed wearily at the thought of having permanent wardship. “I must decline your invitation, my lord.”
“You will not.” Whitehawke glared at his son.
“I leave for London soon.”
“You ride with the barons who plan to roust the king!”
“Nay, my lord, though I go there to speak with them.”
“Nay, say you? I know you support those rebels, the barons who are bent on destroying the very king who has enabled me to fatten the inheritance that may one day be yours!” The pinkish tint under the earl’s skin deepened. “By God, I will get me another son and have done with you. The girl looks healthy enough to produce any number of worthy sons.”
Nicholas did not flinch at his father’s words. For years he had heard that Graymere might be his, and might not. Far better, he had often thought, to have no inheritance than to have this one held over his head and snatched away regularly according to his father’s mood. He had developed his own holding, Hawksmoor, inherited through his mother, into a thriving demesne. Graymere Keep, as far as he cared, could go to the dogs or to the monks when Whitehawke died.
He summoned patience. “The barons gather near London, not to overthrow the king, but to support the forming of the charter that we demand. Those few barons who actually threaten the king’s life and property are rough dissidents, my lord.” He had explained all this to his father before. “There are many who lend reason and logic to the rebellion.”
“A dissident you were once. Surely you are as passionate in your objections to the king as Eustace de Vesci and his group.” Whitehawke snorted contemptuously. “Overthrow the king, they mean to do. ’Tis a sad crossing we have come to. My generation understands loyalty to a king as yours does not.”
“Many wish reform for English law, my lord, though you be not among them.”
“Aye, and my company is strong. William the Marshal himself is against this action of the barons, as are many others.”
“I have great respect for the marshal. There is no finer man in England. I believe he resists the charter out of loyalty and concern for King John. In any course, we are fortunate to have his sense and intelligence near the throne.”
Whitehawke bristled. “Yet you disagree with a man whose experience and judgment far exceed your own?”
“I would see a better system for the baroncies, sire. We all must look to the future of our holdings. King John cannot be trusted. Who among us knows his property is safe, should the king have a fit of temper or greed? The fate of the de Ashbourne family could be my fate, or yours, one day.”
“He is our king!”
“He is small-minded, and though he has a keen mind, he is full of poisonous bile. His taste for vengeance is too strong for us to suffer without check.”
“Eustace de Vesci and Robert FitzWalter have vengeance on their minds as well,” Whitehawke countered.
“That is true. Both of them have been directly insulted or harmed by the king’s mean bent, and their resentments drive them on. They are good, strong leaders, but they have the rebellious faction under them. Other, calmer minds are involved in the movement. Many barons would have a set of guidelines, my lord. The king can fight a handful of barons and bring them to their knees, but he cannot stop the united power of nearly all the English barons.” He shifted his reins, tightening them to halt his destrier, and looked directly at his father, who stopped beside him.
“The time has come for new laws in England,” Nicholas said. “John is not the king that his father was. He is brilliant, aye, but he has no heart. The country slides into chaos beneath his heavy hand. We must protect our lands and our families from such abusive power. England has always had laws to protect its people. We cannot countenance a king who ignores laws.”
Whitehawke was visibly perturbed, working his chest like a bellows, his face flushed, the color spreading into the roots of his white hair. “For me, I have had no trouble with John. He is generous and fair with those who support the good of England.”
Nicholas huffed disdainfully. “The good of John, you mean.”
Whitehawke glared at him for a moment, his eyes blue ice beneath furred white brows. Nicholas could hear the man breathe, loud and wheezing. “If these young barons had offered true obeisance to the king—as you each pledged to do when the sword was laid upon your shoulderbone—then we would not have this sorry state. You will be beaten down, every one of you. Why do you persist in supporting this bedeviled charter of liberties? God gives liberty to man through church and king. Men do not declare such for themselves.”
“Mayhap ’tis time men tried, sire,” Nicholas answered.
“I have misjudged you. I had hoped that you would lose the wildness in your heart. Your mother’s blood taints you. Still, mayhap age will becalm you and bring you some sense.”
A muscle bunched along Nicholas’s jaw as he kept silent. He had given up long ago attempting to reason with his father, having tried both logic and rebellion. Whitehawke seemed to glory, at times, in his crystalline hard judgments: the world was as he declared it to be. No alternative point of view existed in Whitehawke’s microcosm, and he dictated the shape of the larger macrocosm from within the center of his little sphere. Not even the tragic death of Nicholas’s mother had showed him the faulty crack in the haughty structure of his world.
Eventually, Nicholas had accepted the futility of his efforts to explain his views to Whitehawke. Instead, he had learned to give away little of himself, keeping his distance unless forced into Whitehawke’s company by king or by region, since Hawksmoor and Graymere were only eleven miles apart.
“Mayhap age is all I need,” Nicholas replied dryly.
“Age has a settling effect,” Whitehawke agreed affably. “And I look to this marriage to settle me further.” He grinned suddenly, reminding Nicholas of a great large-toothed wolf. “But I vow I am young enough still to relish my fair bride.”
The unwarranted image of his father behind bed curtains with Emlyn de Ashbourne, his meaty hands exploring her delicate body, made Nicholas’s blood simmer with anger: he suppressed it with an effort. “I would speak with you concerning a particular matter, my lord,” he said curtly.
“Eh? What is that?”
“I have lately had word from my seneschal that you have directed workmen to begin building in the northern end of Arnedale,” he said. “That site is partly on land that belongs to me. I must ask that you order your workmen to cease.”
Whitehawke slanted a look at his son. “ ’Tis not your land.”
Nicholas sighed. “Let us not step into that mire. None of the land in the dale is yours, yet you persist in claimin
g it, and now building on it. My seneschal assures me that your latest project does indeed extend onto Hawksmoor land. Whether the rest of the dale belongs to you or to the abbeys of Wistonbury and Bolton is not part of this question. Simply instruct your masons to choose another place to build, and take up further argument with the abbots if you wish.”
“I am tired to the bone of arguing with the abbots and with you over this matter. That dale is mine, from your mother’s dowry, and I will prove it in time,” Whitehawke growled.
“Do not build on my property, my lord,” Nicholas said in a flat voice. “I will be forced to stop you if you continue.”
“Hawksmoor is disputedly mine as well, do not forget,” Whitehawke said. “However, since I have need of a keep in that area, the Arnedale site is best.”
“I warn you, my lord. Cease this plan of yours.”
“Would Hawksmoor not benefit from a well-fortified neighbor? There have been troubles enough in that area. Consider it well.” Whitehawke nodded, then whipped his horse’s flank and rode away.
Nicholas clenched his jaw and turned in the saddle, his eyes hooded and expressionless, to see the van pitching and rolling toward him. The children waved, and Nicholas lifted a hand, feeling a raw tug at his heart. He sighed gustily, releasing some of the tension left from speaking with his father, as he watched the wagon approach.
Taken from the familiar safety of their home, the children tumbled and cavorted now in the wagon, resilient, untroubled. But then, they had one another, and Mistress Tibbie, and a sister who had sworn to gain them back.
He remembered her slender hands reaching up to adjust the little girl’s hood, to touch the boy’s forehead. The loyalty and the love that existed so easily there was enviable. He might give whatever he had, he thought, to see such a love shine, even briefly, in his own life.
Only his mother, who had died when he was seven, had offered him such a pure love. Her memory lingered like a sweet refrain played on silver bells: a warm embrace, a gentle voice, shining dark hair scented with roses. Years later, he had learned what his father had done to her, and he had come to realize how much contempt his father held for him. Returning the sentiment had hardened his own heart.
Watching the van rumble along, he lifted the reins and allowed Sylvanus to walk slowly onward. He felt a sympathetic bond with the de Ashbourne children, for he, too, had been sent from his home at the age of six, to foster with his uncle, the Earl John de Gantrou, who was married to his mother’s sister. But Lady Julian had reared him gently, and her husband had been a good man with a hearty laugh and a strong sense of duty. Peter and his own cousin Chavant had fostered there, too.
The strong, loving influence of his aunt and uncle had been a blessed counter to his father’s opinion of him as he reached manhood. Whitehawke had made it quite clear that he considered Nicholas less than acceptable as a son or as a knight. Any weakness he had was pointed out, any strength he had was ignored.
He had developed a tolerance for much of his father’s meanness, and felt that the resistant, reserved facet of his character was, perhaps, his mother’s legacy. Lady Blanche had gracefully endured Whitehawke’s cruelty and jealousy for years before it had killed her. That death, above all else, Nicholas found unforgivable.
But he sometimes sensed a human, vulnerable side to his father. He hesitated to judge Whitehawke as evil, knowing that his own life and deeds could measure ill, were he himself judged.
The children called out, asking him to wait, and he halted his horse. Rubbing the animal’s sleek, smooth neck, he continued to muse as he watched the van draw nearer.
Surely there was no honor in taking these children from their home. At times he felt tainted with dishonor, like the sour undertaste of bad wine. As long as he stayed at odds with his father, honor would elude him. And as long as he continued secret defiances against Whitehawke, no matter that he acted on behalf of others who were harmed by his father’s harshness, he would not know the full flavor of chivalry.
Emlyn de Ashbourne was right: taking children was a coward’s ploy, unworthy of any baron who opposed King John. Her barb had stung as much as her arrow in his thigh. But she did not know that he had accepted the chore to keep the children from Whitehawke’s custody. That, at least, he could do, though he owed Rogier de Ashbourne’s family more, much more, than that.
Four years ago, wanting to repay a debt owed to her father, Nicholas had made a discreet offer for Emlyn’s hand. He had been accepted by her parents, but the girl had been young and still in a nunnery, and Rogier’s death had precluded a final arrangement.
He was certain that no one knew of this offer. Now, with the girl given to Whitehawke by royal writ, Nicholas could only accept the guardianship of the children. But there had to be a way to fulfill his debt to the family, and he would find it.
Now that he had seen Emlyn de Ashbourne, he regretted that his offer of marriage had never been finalized. Kindness was laced through her like a vein of gold, despite all that anger she had voiced. She had courage, wit, and temper enough to spark his quick temper. Yet she was guileless even so, and possessed a gentle, alluring beauty. Such a woman was a rare gift. Whitehawke, he feared, would only sully and damage her.
As the wagon rumbled alongside his horse, the little boy called out at the sight of the great destrier, stretching out a hand to touch the black’s sleek muzzle. Nicholas walked the horse closer, and both children reached out, the girl timidly extending her small hand, her brother massaging the horse’s broad neck with fearless enthusiasm.
Nicholas smiled and answered their questions about Sylvanus. Glancing up, he saw Peter riding back toward the wagon.
The knight pulled up his dappled horse beside Sylvanus, sending Christien into loud ecstasies. Behind him, Tibbie yanked at the boy’s tunic when he nearly overbalanced in his enthusiasm, and threatened that he would not pat another horse the rest of the journey if he did not settle down.
“My lord,” Isobel said. Nicholas raised an eyebrow toward her. “Are we at Hawksmoor yet? We’ve been riding a long time.”
Nicholas smiled and pointed. “There, past that wide strip of forest, do you see the towers against the sky?”
The children clambered over each other to look, and Tibbie breathed a huge sigh. “At last, my lord. They’ve asked nigh a thousand times since we left.” She turned away to pick up Harry, who had awoken from a nap, his eyes blinking wide.
Peter slid back his mesh hood, shaking loose his coppery curls. “That stretch of forest ahead has no easy way around, as you know, my lord. Whitehawke has decided to enter.”
“Swords at the ready, bows drawn among the archers,” Nicholas repeated the familiar litany of defense. “How long has it been, Perkin?”
“Since Whitehawke was accosted in a forest? Eight years.”
“Yet he does not forget.”
“Have you ever known him to forget any slight? Especially such as happened then, to his men and his goods?”
“ ’Twas a thorough rousting, those years ago.”
“Aye, ’twas that indeed, and more. Did he not lose gold and plate, and shipments of grain and goods that went to his castle through the forest? And several men as well?”
“Aye, the men. Well, I vow, loss of men is always to be regretted.”
“For two years Whitehawke suffered the revenge of a forest outlaw.” Peter looked directly at Nicholas, his blue eyes gleaming. “Think you he will ever slacken his defense? Nay, he will enter a forest fully armed for the rest of his life.”
“Particularly since the Green Man has begun to harass his convoys,” Nicholas commented.
“Aye so. Pray we do not meet that hellwretch today. The little ones would have the nightmare after them for months.”
“Oh, Jesu,” Nicholas groaned. “Not in my hall.”
“Sir Peter, I want to ride with you,” Christien called. “You promised me.”
“Certes, lad,” called Peter, grinning. Nicholas wondered at Peter’s easy h
umor. His own mood felt heavy as a lead coffin. “Later, though,” Peter continued. “Now we must advance with caution, for we approach a dangerous forest.” Christien’s eyes grew large as dishes, and Isobel squeaked nervously.
“Have a care, Perkin,” Nicholas muttered, “else you’ll have them awail for the rest of the journey.” Peter’s eyes sparkled mischievously.
“Are there outlaws, sir? We have no outlaws near Ashbourne, my lord. There’s no dangerous forest, only a timber wood, where my sister shoots her bow,” Christien said.
“What?” Peter asked. Nicholas scowled and would have interrupted, but Peter pursued it. “Your sister? Not this charming lady here?” He winked at Isobel, who giggled.
“Nay. Isobel only likes to be a silly princess.” Isobel pushed him, but he ignored her. “My sister Emlyn uses a little bow and arrow betimes. She’s not very good. Guy tried to show her how, and was teaching me, too.”
Peter raised his eyebrows at Nicholas. “Lady Emlyn is an archer, my lord. Did you know?”
Nicholas felt his cheeks burn. Peter smirked happily and leaned forward. “She caught some big game the other day, I vow.”
Christien blinked. “How did you know she was out then?”
Peter laughed out loud, a delighted hoot, and grinned.
“Ride on, simpleton, and remind the men to arm when they enter the forest,” Nicholas snapped.
“I will, but they need not beware such an enemy as haunts the timber wood at Ashbourne.” Still grinning, Peter wheeled his horse and cantered toward the guards who rode behind the wagon.
Nicholas shifted his reins, took leave of Tibbie and the children with a brisk nod of his head, and rode ahead. For all his friend’s triumphant crowing, Nicholas knew Peter would be discreet, though wisekin remarks would fly fast for a while.
He rubbed his thigh with the palm of his hand. The injured muscle, irritated by days of riding, had been aching fiercely, though with Tibbie’s stitches and ointments it would heal well. He would rest when he reached Hawksmoor, but only for a day or two. In mulling over what he owed the de Ashbourne family, a plan had begun to form in his mind. To pursue it, he would have to leave Hawksmoor fairly soon.