The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  “Lady Julian, my jewels are in that chest over there, ’tis not a bundle of straw,” the girl whined. Nicholas glimpsed drenched servants unloading baggage from a pair of wagons. “Here now!” the girl called out the door. “You shall be whipped unless you handle those chests with more care!”

  “My dear cousin Alarice, your things traveled all the way to Hawksmoor from Kent,” the countess said wearily. “Surely they will come to no harm between the bailey and the solar, but for some rain.”

  Alarice let the chapel door slam shut behind her and tossed her head. Beneath her fur-trimmed cloak hood, her hair was bright as autumn leaves, curling freely under a little cap of rose brocade and a white silk veil.

  “Nicholas,” she said sweetly, coming toward him and holding out her hands. Her rounded hips swayed in circles beneath her cloak, and generous curves peeked out, swathed in mauve sendal.

  He bowed again. “Lady Alarice, I trust you are well.”

  “My back is a little stiff this morning. Likely ’twas my bed.” She made a pretty moue of her mouth and arched her back, placing her palms along her hips. Her chest thrust and strained at the embroidered bodice.

  Nicholas blinked. “I trow you feel the effects of riding in the van for so many days. My lady aunt will see to your comfort while you are here.”

  “Cousin Alarice, my apologies,” the countess said. “Last night we offered you a poor, makeshift bed—you will have better tonight. ’Twas such a surprise to find that you had traveled north with Nicholas. Will you be with us through the summer? Nicholas has yet to read me your mother’s letter.”

  “My parents wish for me to be here, my lady, as long as I may stay,” Alarice answered. “All of Kent is so tense now. Papa was very concerned that I go somewhere safe, away from London. The king has been in a foul temper since he signed the charter in June, and my father feared for my safety.”

  “Lord Braye insisted that Alarice come north with me when he discovered that you and Maude were here,” Nicholas said to his aunt, “though I cautioned him that the north might well be just as unsafe soon. King John is incensed about the charter, and all the northern barons will need to beware, I trow.”

  “Still, ’tis good news that the charter is signed,” the countess replied. “As for Alarice, she is welcome here. Maude will be delighted to have a friend. If the situation changes, we can all leave Hawksmoor. My own castle is near to Wales, and quite secluded. We shall go there if the king has a tantrum.”

  Nicholas marveled at his aunt’s ability to sort matters in her usual unperturbed way. He sighed and shook his head.

  Alarice pointed a beringed finger up toward the scaffolding. “Nicholas, there is a nun up there,” she said incredulously.

  Lady Julian turned her head. “Good morning, Dame Agnes. Please meet my nephew, the Baron de Hawksmoor, and our cousin, Lady Alarice de Braye.”

  The nun, who had been intently cleaning brushes and ignoring them all, mumbled a polite greeting with a brief nod of her head. “Dame Agnes is from Roseberry Priory,” the countess said. “She assists her uncle, the painter.”

  “I have already met Dame … Agnes,” Nicholas said wryly. “Though I did not know she was the painter’s niece.” Agnes of Roseberry. This, then, was Emlyn’s elder sister. That would explain the resemblance.

  “An artist nun, how unusual,” Alarice murmured blandly, glancing around in a bored manner, clearly uninterested in artists, or in nuns.

  “Aunt Julian,” Nicholas said sternly, “I must admit to surprise when I entered the chapel this morning.” Actually, he felt a little as if he had been punched in the stomach. If Agnes and Godwin of Wistonbury were both at Hawksmoor, then where was Emlyn? What in the name of the devil was going on here?

  Obviously Emlyn had chosen to stay away, and had sent the rest of her family to demand the children. So be it: he was prepared to deal with their objections to his custody. But he needed to know that Emlyn was safe.

  He pinched his lips together in a grim line, guarding his tongue against being sharp with his aunt. Arriving home after an absence of nearly two months, his patience keenly tried due to endless days of Alarice’s spoiled, squirrel-brained company, he had expected the only change at Hawksmoor to be a settling in of the children, like prized cups polished and put in place.

  Instead, he had found his organized, disciplined keep in a cheerful uproar. His soldiers were relaxed and laughing instead of efficiently tending to their duties, and his hall was littered with the evidence of children. He had crunched a tiny wooden cow beneath his heel at breakfast, and dodged Christien brandishing a wooden sword in the stairwell. A new puppy had bounded up the stairs behind the boy, and a litter of kittens was in the solar.

  And now he found his chapel undergoing decoration without his opinion, and a veritable host of odd coincidences playing out around him, arranged at least in part by his aunt.

  “I did mean to tell you about the chapel, Nicholas, but there were so many other matters to discuss last night when you arrived,” Lady Julian was saying. “I knew you would not mind.” She smiled and peered up at him.

  He shrugged in defeat. “Hawksmoor bears no similarity to the garrison keep it was a few months ago, I assure you. We now have a passel of ladies, infants, nurses, pups, kittens, children’s toys underfoot—what harm a nun and a priest?”

  “Infants? Toys?” Alarice echoed.

  Nicholas and his aunt ignored her, intent on their discussion. “Oh, Nicholas, dear, do not be in the doleful dumps over this, as Mistress Tibbie would say. You once said that paintings should be added in the chapel. When Brother Godwin came here, I knew his reputation and hired him immediately. I hoped to give you a pleasant surprise. We conferred on the design and decided that Saint George was very appropriate. And on the west wall he has planned a weighing of souls scene. Certes, if you disapprove, it can be changed.”

  “The design is fine, and I have no quarrel with the subject matter,” he said. “Why, though, did Brother Godwin first come to Hawksmoor?” He glanced furtively up at the scaffold, but the slight gray figure had turned away to sort pots and brushes.

  “He came to see the children, of course,” the countess answered.

  “Children?” asked Alarice. Her auburn brows frowned over eyes like pale green glass. “There are children here?”

  “The king appointed Nicholas guardian to three adorable children,” the countess said. “Brother Godwin and Dame Agnes are their relatives, so I asked them to stay as well.”

  “Must they live with you, Nicholas?” Alarice asked.

  “The children? Until King John decides otherwise, they must,” Nicholas said. The nun on the scaffold was setting down paint pots with loud force.

  Nicholas worked the muscle in his jaw until it hurt. He had to get away to think. He turned to his aunt with a tilt of his head. “Please excuse me. I have much to attend to this morning.” Spinning on his heel, he walked quickly out of the chapel and slammed the door.

  Alarice pouted, smoothing her veil. “He seems displeased. Perhaps this fragrance is too overwhelming—’tis a special scent from the East, attar of jasmine,” she said, leaning forward obligingly.

  Lady Julian sniffed delicately. “Lovely, Alarice. Very exotic.” They began to stroll toward the door. “Maude will be delighted to see you, if she can be found. She is often in the practice yards, spending time with the horses, though in such dreary weather one would hope to find her inside.” She shook her head gracefully. “She can be a riotous child at times,” she mused as they neared the door. The countess glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Dame Agnes,” she called, “the ladies will gather in my chamber as usual, shortly after the terce bell. Please join us.”

  “Aye, my lady,” the nun replied, and ducked her head to continue working.

  “Lady Julian,” Alarice said, “will the chapel decorations be finished in time for the wedding?”

  The countess stopped by the door. “Your mother sent word months ago that
your father was interested in a marriage arrangement between you and Nicholas. Has aught else happened? Has Nicholas agreed, then?”

  Alarice laughed, a delighted, confident trill that caused the nun on the scaffold to look up from her work. “Do not fret about Nicholas, my lady,” Alarice said. “He will agree.”

  Still smiling, her cheeks dimpled prettily, Lady Alarice swung open the door and the women stepped out into the rain, pulling up their hoods.

  Emlyn set the rest of the brushes and paint pots in careful order, her stomach churning all the while. She wondered why the giggling pratter of a young and obviously pampered girl should bother her. Then she sighed. If de Hawkwood married Alarice, the empty-headed nit would be the children’s guardian as well.

  She slapped a rag down onto the stool. If they wed, they likely deserved each other, two large egos, one cold and the other vain. But she would not have her siblings caught in that.

  Taking a deep breath, she determined again to see this matter concluded. Throughout these past weeks at Hawksmoor, she had pleaded with Godwin to help her spirit the children away before the baron arrived home. Now it was too late for that. She would find another way; the Lord could not mean for her to lose them.

  Sighing, she glanced out through the thick murky window glass, watching the rain turn the bailey to thick mud. Nicholas de Hawkwood’s unexpected appearance in the chapel had shocked her badly. Her hands were still trembling, and her heart had not yet slowed. She had not seen the baron since those brief, unpleasant encounters at Ashbourne. When she had turned to find him standing there, her heart had nearly leaped into her throat.

  Her first thought, surely the reason she was so completely shaken, was how strongly he resembled Thorne. Shared parentage was obvious. Yet the baron was grim and tense, his cheeks clean-shaven, his eyes gray and cold as steel. The long black cloak and tunic he wore had increased his stern demeanor. He had seemed as dark and stormy as the weather, with none of Thorne’s gentle, relaxed air. Even his voice was deeper, sharper, with an irritating edge of anger in it.

  Sighing again, she absently wiped at the moisture on the glass. Angels must have been with her this morn, for Nicholas de Hawkwood had not recognized her. He would surely have hauled her down from the scaffold and sent for Whitehawke if he had.

  Rain sheeted against the windows. Wondering if it rained now in the dale, she imagined Thorne seated by Maisry’s cozy fire, sipping ale and laughing with Aelric. She recalled the strong, secure wrap of his arms, the tilt of his bearded lip when he smiled, and the feel of his warm mouth on hers.

  Dear God, she thought, leaning her head against the cold glass, she would sacrifice near anything to be with him. The longer she was parted from him, the more she felt a need for his calm presence, his protective arms, his reassuring strength.

  She twisted the simple steel ring he had given her and squeezed her eyes shut against pricking tears. She saw his face in her mind with perfect clarity, eyes as green as moss, though she had seen them change color, quick as a summer sky turns with the storm, to a cold gray-green.

  Then, unbidden, his image somehow blended with Nicholas de Hawkwood. A shiver twirled up her spine, and she shook her head to clear it. Alike as two halves of an apple, aye, and as different as steel and oak.

  Gathering her skirts around her, she climbed down the scaffold. She needed to talk to Godwin. Grabbing her cloak from a hook, she slipped out of the chapel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “We must.” Emlyn hurried alongside Godwin as they moved through a vaulted stone corridor in the main keep. “Uncle, we must act soon. We cannot trust the baron. If he recognizes me, he might tell Whitehawke that I am here.”

  “Becalm yourself, my dear,” Godwin sighed. “You wanted to be with the children, and now you want to leave. Faith and patience, and the way will become clear. Do you go to Lady Julian’s chamber?” Emlyn nodded, and they turned a corner together.

  “Uncle, you are content to stay for the paintings. But I cannot stay here now that the baron has returned. Have you sent your letter to the Pope?”

  “I have collected my thoughts, but have not yet penned them.”

  “Pen them! By all means, pen them, and somehow I will find Thorne and we will take Tibbie and the children to Scotland. When you have heard from the Pope, then send word to us.”

  Godwin sighed, and stopped to look down at Emlyn. “My girl, harken to reason,” he said softly. “Would you anger the baron, and the king as well? Whitehawke already searches for you. The baron would search as well, if you took the children. I beg you, use your head rather than your heart.”

  Emlyn pinched her mouth impatiently. “I will not fear men who use woman and babes to gain their ends. I have wits aplenty, and the strength of your canniness—do I not?—and Thorne’s. The king’s orders were made from mean greed. Now that the charter is law, ’twill be only time before the writs against us are lifted. Guy will be reinstated. We will go back to Ashbourne soon.”

  Godwin shook his head and sighed, rubbing his chin. “We cannot say what the king will do. And I fear your impulsive nature. What solution was your ill-timed marriage? Where is your protector husband now?”

  When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “Becalm yourself, and wait. I pray some provision in the charter will solve this for all concerned.” He took her hands in his, covering them like a parent calming an overexcited child. “Trust in the Lord, my dear. What is your pressing need to whisk the little ones away? They are safe. Come, see for yourself.”

  He led her along the stone passage to a recess in the wall that was pierced by one small window, open to the breezes blowing in from the garden. The rainstorm had ended, and thin sunlight glazed the lush trees and plants. Near the orchard end of the garden, Emlyn saw Christien and Isobel join hands with Harry and a few other children. They skipped in an uneven circle, Harry toddling along to keep up, their giggles blithe and silly.

  When Harry tumbled, he brought Isobel and two others down with him. One of the boys picked up a piece of fruit from the ground and pelted another child. Soon they were all gathering half-rotten crabapples and peaches, and the air was filled with projectiles. Laughter turned quickly to irate screams, until Tibbie barreled through the gate to scold and separate pairs of children and brush off muddy bottoms.

  Emlyn smiled, resting her chin on her hand as she watched, having been admonished often enough by Tibbie to imagine what was being said. A fresh damp breeze fluttered the white wimple around her head. Godwin placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “The children had a loving home at Ashbourne, God knows,” he said. “But here they have freedom again. They may go outside the walls without fear, and they have the children of servants and knights to play with. Would you take that from them?”

  Emlyn sighed. “I admit, I did not expect them to be content here. But they are my family, not kin of Nicholas de Hawkwood! Christien is not even old enough for fostering. I vowed to my father to keep them safe. They are hostages here.”

  “They are treated kindly here.”

  “I want what is best for them.”

  “What is best for them, or what suits you best?”

  She turned to face him, stung by the truth. In seeking to obey her father’s wishes, she had determined to take back the children, stirred by anger and her insistent conscience. Her siblings were in no danger here. And perhaps, she realized, they did not need her as much as she needed them.

  “Watch and wait, my dear,” Godwin urged. “Let God decide if you will stay or go.”

  After a long moment, she nodded, and the relinquishment that she felt was both painful and a relief. “I will try to remember what you say.”

  Godwin smiled, and patted her shoulder. “Trust, my girl.”

  The soggy weather had encouraged a larger gathering than usual in Lady Julian’s bedchamber, the thriving center of feminine activity at Hawksmoor. Several women, wives of knights, had joined the countess, her daughter Lady Maude, and L
ady Alarice by the time Emlyn arrived.

  The cozy chamber, furnished with a curtained bed, chests, two fine chairs and a few low stools, was filled with chattering and laughing as Emlyn seated herself in a wide window niche, fitted with twin stone benches and deep cushions. Beginning her stitchery task of hemming a new shirt for Harry, she glanced at Lady Alarice and Lady Maude, who sat on the opposite bench, bent over embroidery frames and talking softly.

  Much of the time sewing for the castle household, both functional and decorative, was done here whenever the ladies gathered. Garments were mended or embroidered, and bedding and linens were hemmed. Wall hangings, pillows, and other embroidery pieces, on which some of the women worked, were set up in wooden frames.

  Emlyn glanced at the countess, who drew a needle in and out of a square of fabric, squinting, her stitches crooked. Lady Julian’s vision was so poor that she usually had no idea what work the other women were doing unless she peered closely at the task in hand. Still, she had great appreciation for color and design, and loved stitcheries, paintings, and books.

  Recently, Lady Julian had mounted the scaffolding in the chapel to examine Godwin’s work at close hand, since she saw only blurred color and shape from the floor. Emlyn knew that glass spectacles were often available from skilled glaziers, and she resolved to suggest such to the countess or to Maude.

  Maude smiled brightly at Emlyn, her brown eyes twinkling. “Little Harry has grown much since he has been here,” she commented as Emlyn turned the shirt to finish the hem.

  “Aye so,” Emlyn replied, smiling. Maude was perhaps a year or two younger than Emlyn, with an open, friendly nature, a tall, sturdy girl with hair like warm mahogany, and her mother’s eyes. Emlyn liked her immensely and found her honest and good-humored, interested more in hunting and riding than embroidery or silken gowns or the texture of her skin.

  “Dame Agnes,” Lady Julian said. “ ’Tis time for a prayer.”