The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  “You will go to a nunnery?” Maisry asked in amazement.

  “Aye, but there is more.” She told them about her siblings. “My little brothers and sister are now, I presume, prisoners at Hawksmoor Castle.” She twisted her fingers in her lap.

  Looking up, she met Thorne’s eyes. Shadowed in the flickering light, he nodded slowly for her to continue.

  “Lord Whitehawke frightens me,” she said softly. “Entering a convent would serve as penance, since I dishonor the betrothal. I can accept that. But I fear that the little ones would suffer for my actions—” She drew a shaky breath, and then another. Tears welled in her eyes and trembled on her lashes. “I must know them safe and happy, if the king will not allow me to raise them myself. When I have seen to their well-being, then I would retire to a convent willingly.”

  “What would ye have done with the little ’uns? Ye cannot gain back custody,” Aelric said. “ ’Tis a king’s order.”

  Emlyn sniffed, wiping her cheek on her wrist. “I would have them removed somehow from Hawksmoor Castle. We have cousins in Scotland, and they can be sent there for the nonce.”

  Maisry gaped at her. “Remove them from Hawksmoor?”

  Emlyn shrugged. “My uncle is one of the monks at Wistonbury, and my eldest sister is a prioress at another abbey. Perhaps they can aid me—”

  “How could a monk help you?” Thorne interrupted, an impatient edge in his voice. “No use to ask the king for mercy regarding children. He has no soft mother’s heart.”

  “My uncle can request guardianship as the senior of our family now. As a religious, he may catch the king’s ear. Nicholas de Hawkwood could be told to give the children over to my uncle. And Godwin is a scholarly man, with knowledge of the law. He will likely send a petition to the pope as well, asking that the king rescind the order.”

  “He could do so.” Thorne tossed a small stone from the floor into the fire. “But likely naught would come of his efforts. The children would stay where they are.” He glanced at her. “Do you consider that they may be well and safe at Hawksmoor? The baron of Hawksmoor is no ogre, lady.”

  “I have met the baron, and he seems a cold and heartless man to me,” Emlyn said. “I will not have my brothers and sister in a strange place. Children must have a loving home to grow in.”

  He tossed another stone into the fire, and another. Tiny sparks flared up from the flames. She watched his profile, obscured by waves of dark, glossy hair, tangled, unruly.

  “What you will, my lady,” he said at last, so softly she barely heard. Then he raised his head and looked at her. “What then of you? If you go into a nunnery, Lord Whitehawke can retrieve you. You are still his betrothed. If he wishes, he can use any method to force you to wed.”

  She had not thought of this. “I must take the chance. My uncle can send me to my sister Agnes at Roseberry Abbey. Whitehawke may consider me too much trouble. He has Ashbourne already, with or without me to wife.”

  Thorne nodded as he stared into the fire. “Roseberry is far north of here.”

  “Aye,” Emlyn said. “Agnes entered Roseberry out of grief for her husband’s death. Soon after, my father brought me out of the convent where I had been schooled. He said he was arranging a good marriage for me. He did not live to see it through.” She shrugged. “Whitehawke would never have been my father’s choice.”

  Maisry had been listening with great interest, stirring in her seat, opening and closing her mouth, growing more impatient with every exchange. Now she leaned forward, her round face shining in the firelight. “My lady, if ye were already betrothed, the king’s orders would be null. Ye say yer father made arrangements for ye to be wed?”

  “No agreement was reached. I never learned the man’s name.” Emlyn passed a trembling hand over her forehead, as if to rub away the persistent dull ache that lingered there.

  “If Lady Emlyn were betrothed,” Maisry said, “or if she were to marry another before Whitehawke found her, he would have no claim on her.”

  They all looked at Maisry. Sparks flew up from the crackling hearth as they stared in thoughtful silence.

  Finally Emlyn smiled ruefully. “Who would wed me now? Naught will undo this betrothal, and I must commit my life to God. Whitehawke, if he is a pious man, will honor my choice.”

  “How may we aid ye, then, my lady?” Aelric asked.

  “You have already helped me greatly, for which I thank you. But I would leave on the morrow to see my uncle. If you could supply me a pony, I will see that you are repaid.”

  Maisry shook her head, framed in the linen wimple. “Nay, my lady. Ye must rest three or four days at least, or ye will suffer much dizziness and headache. The bone in yer head may be cracked, with so much bruising.”

  Emlyn sighed, knowing Maisry was right. Her head pained her still, and she felt a creeping weakness throughout her limbs. She had ignored waves of dizziness each time she turned her head. “Perhaps a short stay here would be best,” she said.

  “ ’Twould give Chavant time to leave the area as well,” Thorne said, “if you are wholly certain that you do not wish to rejoin his escort.”

  Emlyn frowned at his slightly cynical tone. “I will stay only a day or two,” she insisted, leaning back against the fur cushion. “I must go to Wistonbury.” A cozy exhaustion began to swirl through her. She wondered hazily if Maisry’s headache remedy had a sleeping herb added to it.

  “Aye, lady, see him you surely will,” Thorne said softly, and leaned over to draw a fur coverlet across her legs. “Rest now. There will be time enough to talk.”

  “Will I see you again?” she asked him sleepily.

  His face was close to hers, and his breath blew soft on her brow. She could feel the warmth of his body, an odd, deeply comforting sensation. “I will be here, should you need me. Rest now,” he murmured.

  She nodded, grazing her eyelashes down to relieve her tired eyes, but she found that she could hardly lift them again.

  * * *

  Her throat was very dry when she woke, and though the dull headache persisted, her mind felt clearer. Stretching her arms over her head, she yawned, then looked around the cave. She was alone. The faint light at the cave mouth, edging the dark curtain in pink and gold, hinted at dawn.

  Pushing back the furs, she stood up, her legs a little wobbly as she crossed the cave. She scooped water out of the wooden bucket with a cup and drank thirstily, then sat by the banked fire and nibbled on an apple. In spite of the morning light, the cave interior was still dim. Drawing her knees up under her chin, she stared into the warm glow of the hearth.

  Her heart beat a soft, rapid patter in her chest. Black Thorne had come back into her life just when she needed him most. She had no doubt that the bearded, quiet forester was indeed the old enemy of Whitehawke. When he had entered the cave last night and looked at her, she felt that she knew him well, as if the distance between now and a moonlit summer night eight years ago had never existed. He had looked at her with the same sense of familiarity, she was certain of it. Of anyone, she thought, she could trust this man. And he owed her family a debt.

  She whispered a prayer of thanks. The saints had sent her a brave knight, or near enough to one. She had found a warrior to reclaim her brothers and sister, a hero like Bevis, or Roland, or Gui de Warwyck, who would champion her. She had only to convince him. Smiling, she hugged her knees to her chest.

  As he slipped in through the curtained doorway, she was deep in thought, unaware of his presence until he stood near her. She sat by the low hearth as if in a trance, her arms curled round her knees, her flaxen hair glorious with a glowing light of its own, flowing over her back to froth and spill onto the floor.

  Her quiet beauty, surrounded by that ethereal halo of hair, had nearly taken his breath away when he entered the cave. Finely carved features, slender limbs, delicately shaped hands; he had already had opportunity, when he had peeled off her icy garments and wrapped her in warm blankets, to assess her firm, taut body, her rounded
breasts, flat stomach, and smallish hips. She was not a large woman nor ever would be, though she carried herself with a proud grace that made her seem taller. Now, sitting here at his feet, she looked as fragile as glass.

  “Lady Emlyn?” he questioned softly. She raised her head and stared up at him as if she had never seen him before.

  By the rood, he thought, the head wound has turned to the worse. “Lady?”

  She fixed him with a look that was ferocious and elfen all at once. The delicate line of her nose and throat contrasted the stubborn squarishness of her jaw. Straight dark brows gave her expression further seriousness, above lake-blue eyes flecked with tiny circlets of gold around each pupil.

  Her small face was an intriguing blend of willfulness and vulnerability. Thorne felt an urge to protect her, a response, in part, to the subtle blend of child and woman he sensed in her. He felt, too, a strong current of desire flow through him, a burning glow in the core of his body when he looked at her. The warm cream of her skin nearly drove him to reach out a hand to touch that silkiness. He flexed his fingers closed.

  “Black Thorne. We heard that you were dead,” she murmured.

  Sighing, he knelt near her. “In a sense ’tis true.” Tossing kindling into the hearth, he used a stick to coax the fire to greater strength.

  “Though I was a child, I never forgot you,” she said.

  “I remembered you as well,” he replied softly, “and your brother, and Wat. I heard that your father had died, and that his family was in difficulty. I was greatly concerned.”

  “You already knew who I was when you found me,” she said.

  He smiled. “Of course, my lady. Did you think I recognized the skinny child in this beautiful woman?” Reaching out then, unable to stop himself longer, he touched the tip of her chin gently. She lowered her eyes and blushed a clear pink.

  He lowered his hand and jabbed again at the hot embers with the stick. “Your father was a fine and generous man, a great loss. When I heard of your brother’s capture, I knew that you might soon need a friend. I have, as much as possible, followed news of your family, in case I could be of aid to you.”

  She looked surprised. “How have you had news of us?”

  He shrugged. “A reeve has many sources throughout the shire, my lady. When word came of your betrothal to Whitehawke, well, to be honest, the man is vile. I would not soon see the daughter of a friend wed to him. And I remember my debts.”

  “How did you know that I was lost?”

  “I knew the escort would be bringing you through the dale, and so Aelric and I kept a watch, difficult enough in the mists. We soon found out that the escort had some trouble. At first we could not find you in the mists, though we heard you right enough, noisy as a wounded pig.”

  He grinned at her, and she smiled back. His heart felt lightened by her smile. Sweet rood, how dazzling her hair and eyes were in the firelight. He inhaled, feeling a wash of desire as they laughed together, aware that his body responded to her quickly. He had not yet decided what course to take, and this turn in his feelings was alarming.

  Her brows drew together, charcoal slashes above her clear eyes, a direct and sharply curious gaze, and his heart thumped. Squatting on his haunches, facing the fire, he fed the flames with deliberate movement, thinking all the while as fast as a whirligig. What to say to her, and how much. I dare not tell her now, he reminded himself. But he knew that he had already begun to trust her, though he never trusted quickly.

  “You look very familiar to me, as if I knew you well. But I have not seen your face for years,” she said, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. “Have I?”

  His smile faded like a dream, replaced by a stony coolness. Trust, sometimes, was a selective thing. “ ’Tis my father that you see in me, I trow,” he said quietly. Shifting his weight, he sat down beside her.

  “Your father?”

  “Lord Whitehawke.”

  She sat upright, dropping her arms from round her knees, staring at him in disbelief. “You are—brother to the baron of Hawksmoor?”

  He shrugged, and opened his hands, palm up, in silence.

  “Glory God,” she breathed, and leaned toward him. “You harangued your own father, those years ago?”

  He nodded. “A long tale, my lady.”

  She blew out a soft breath and peered at him. “Aye so. There is a strong resemblance to the baron, though I cannot see your face so clear beneath the beard. And your eyes are quite green.” She frowned, touching her teeth to her lower lip, then burst out, “Thorne, you are my friend, I trust.”

  He glanced away. “Aye, I am that.”

  “And you owe my family a debt.”

  “Aye,” he said, wary of her direction. “And I think when I deliver you safe to your uncle I will have met that debt.”

  “You could help us more than that.” Her eyes were bright with eager thoughts. He dreaded to hear them.

  “Gain my brothers and sister back from the baron,” she said.

  He drew a hand slowly across his jaw, scratching through his thick, short beard. “Abduct them, you mean to say?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  She fairly sparkled in the firelight, her eyes shining, the soft ripples of her hair glinting, her even teeth white against rosy lips. She nodded. “Aye, you could do so. ’Twould not be hard for such as you.”

  He sighed, knowing that a cold deluge would be best here. “Lady, those children are in no danger. Hold off your fancies, and think with cool wit instead. I have no men to attack a castle. And where in heaven would you keep the children?”

  “As I told you, with relatives in Scotland.”

  “And how do you mean to get them there? If you commit yourself to a convent, what then for the children? Think carefully, my lady. They are soundly kept where they are now. What if those in Scotland will not take them? Will they reside in religious houses with your uncle, or with you?”

  “They need their family around them. They are so young, and I promised my father—” She stopped abruptly and jumped to her feet in a dash of blue silk. Whirling, she paced and turned before she spoke again. When she did, the fierceness in her tone brought him to his feet in surprise.

  “I promised my father I would keep them safe by me always!” She pressed her clenched fist to her mouth. A sob burst out of her slim frame, and she spread her fingers over her face.

  He watched her crumple, feeling a dismal helplessness. Something whorled in his gut, as if he had suddenly absorbed her anguish. Reaching out, he took her by the arms to support her, and she wilted against him, crying. Gently, he gathered her close, stroking the soft, fragrant mass of hair, patting her shoulders in a soothing rhythm until the storm began to subside.

  “Hush,” he said, his cheek on her head. “Hush. You have done no wrong.”

  She sniffled and laid the palms of her hands against his chest. “We promised our father, Guy and I,” she said. She swallowed another sob. “But now Guy is gone, too. The promise has come to me, and I must keep it.”

  “A promise is a sacred thing,” he said into the gossamer crown of her hair. “Well I know that. And a father lost is never regained elsewhere in your life. But you have no fault in what has parted you from the children.”

  “I must honor his wishes.” Her voice was thick and tremulous. “ ’Twas the last thing he spoke of, their welfare. Oh, God,” she cried. “I cannot bear to be away from them. Should some harm come to them—” her voice broke.

  He held her in the secure fold of his arms and rubbed his thumb in circles on her back. Suppressed sobs shook her in tiny quakes, and he slid his hand against her neck, thin and as vulnerable as a child’s beneath his fingers. He inhaled the smoky, herb-scented silk of her hair, felt the slight, warm burden of her in his arms, and felt a measure of her pain.

  “ ’Twas wrong for them to be taken from me,” she sobbed.

  “I see,” he said. He closed his eyes. “I see, now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Oh, ow,
ease up, Maisry!” Emlyn said, wincing. “I am not one of your sheep, to be scrubbed raw!”

  Maisry lifted her fingers from Emlyn’s soapy head. “Hold yer head over the bucket, and I shall rinse ye,” she directed. Emlyn, kneeling, squeezed her eyes shut as a warm deluge cascaded over her head and into a large wooden bucket. Maisry lathered her hair with a rosemary decoction followed by another plunging rinse, then wrapped linen toweling around Emlyn’s head.

  “My head is still quite tender,” Emlyn pouted.

  “Well, aye, ’tis only the second day since ye cracked yer nod. But ye shall feel all new again, with clean hair.”

  “Could I not have a bath?” Emlyn looked at the two buckets, one for clean warm water, and one to catch the soaped rinsings.

  “Thorne has no tub here, my lady. He bathes in a pond, cold as ice ’tis, too. When yer strong enough for the walk, ye shall come to our farm and use our tub, big enough even for Aelric. For now, if ye wish, we’ll heat more water for a quick washing with a cloth.”

  Emlyn nodded, then toweled her head gently. “I must leave here as soon as I can, Maisry. Tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “Not yet, my lady. Thorne said he will take ye to Wistonbury when I feel yer ready for the journey.”

  “Ah,” Emlyn said as she set the towel about her shoulders and took the wide-toothed ivory comb that Maisry handed her. “Then you and Thorne will say when I may leave, and not I?”

  “Well, my lady, if I said my thoughts, ’twould be a long while before I declared ye ready to leave.” Maisry picked up the bucket and walked to the entrance to toss the soapy contents out the door. She peered into the sunshine, looking for Elvi and Dirk, who played nearby. Satisfied that they were safe, she came back into the cave.

  “What do you mean?” Emlyn asked.

  Maisry knelt next to Emlyn and took the comb to work the tangles out of Emlyn’s hair, her fingers as gentle for combing as they were for healing. “I mean, my lady, that no woman should have to shut herself in a convent to avoid a marriage. I would keep ye here, if I could, to save ye from that.”