by Susan King
Maude groaned softly. “Mother, we prayed at terce, ’tis barely an hour past that.”
Her mother looked sternly at her and folded her hands palm to palm. “Dame Agnes,” she repeated.
Emlyn sighed inwardly and got down on her knees to murmur a brief Latin orison she had learned years before in the convent. After intoning the comforting, familiar words, each woman meditated silently.
Lady Julian presides serenely over all here, Emlyn thought, like a fond mother, or an abbess, with loving, pious discipline. Perhaps shortsightedness naturally turned one’s thoughts inward, she thought, for Lady Julian certainly behaved more like an abbess than a countess, with simple dress, constant prayers, and a gracious nature.
Lady Julian demanded, in a gentle, persuading way, that the ladies stop their hands and minds several times a day for prayer and silence. At eventide, when households normally settled down to hear stories read by the lady of the castle, or to listen to musicians, Lady Julian insisted that all the ladies, married or not, retire to their beds for prayers. Maude was invariably disappointed with this nightly ritual. Alarice, having just arrived, would definitely be unhappy with it.
The countess smiled beatifically when the meditation was over, and picked up a small leather-bound volume from a table.
“Dame Agnes, would you recite a few passages from Marie as we work?” There was a general titter of agreement from around the room in anticipation of the treat.
“Certes,” Emlyn said. The lais of Marie de France were among her favorite stories. She opened the gilded leather cover of the little illustrated book, filled with simple pen drawings.
She chose the story of Guigemar, a knight who went hunting and fell into a curse, and began to read. Her slightly husky voice swept through the story, each pause filled by the crackle of the fire and the sibilant sounds of hands at needlework.
Guigemar shot a hind one day, she read, but the animal was magical. The arrow rebounded to strike the knight in the thigh. The stag cursed the man, saying that the wound would not heal until a woman gladly suffered, out of love for him, much anguish.
Emlyn blushed as she read. Her mind conjured images of Nicholas de Hawkwood in the forest at Ashbourne, with an arrow protruding from his thigh. She tried to dispel the memory. Only true love would salve the wound, she read. Indeed, she thought. Guigemar, at least, was lovable, not filled with seething anger.
When Emlyn finished the story, the countess dismissed the group of women to attend to their other duties, promising that they would meet in the garden later if the day remained clear.
Eager to get to her own project, Emlyn hurried along the corridor toward the solar that the countess had allowed her to use as a workroom. A narrow outer door opened onto the corridor, and she slipped inside.
A few weeks earlier, Lady Julian had asked her to complete some unfinished decorations in a book of psalms. Emlyn had been given free access to the little room that adjoined the baron’s bedchamber, separated by a curtain from the unoccupied larger room. Now that the baron had returned, she wondered if she would be able to continue working in the little solar, which had become her favorite place at Hawksmoor.
Always filled with bright light and sweet fresh air from the gardens, always private and quiet, the solar was a haven for Emlyn, bringing privacy, scarce in any castle.
Peaceful silence greeted her as she crossed to the curtain and peeked rather furtively to make certain that the baron was not in his chamber. She had no desire to encounter him again.
The outer room was empty, though a fire blazed in the hearth and the rushes had been freshened. The baron’s huge curtained bed, with carved posts and silk hangings of deep red, dominated the room. She thought the bed ostentatious, though it looked undeniably comfortable, deep and soft. Beside the bed, a tall iron candlestick, with three fat candles, sat on a low wooden chest. Two stiff-backed chairs were placed by the hearth, a chessboard set on a table between them. A pair of boots sat on the hearthstone.
Turning away, Emlyn sat before a long oak table placed beneath a row of windows. The room also held a narrow bed and a stool, yet the solar always seemed spacious because of the tall, arched, glassed windows, whose lower shutters she now opened.
The table surface, polished and gleaming with sunlight, held an illuminated book, weighted open by rocks at the corners. Several paint pots, which had come from her leather satchel, littered the tabletop, along with an ink horn, brushes, a quill, and soft rags. Emlyn rolled up her sleeves to get to work.
Lady Julian told her that she had purchased the little book from a binder’s shop in London with several illuminations planned out but left undecorated. Emlyn had agreed to fill in the blank areas with pictures and border designs, but because she had to work in an already bound book, instead of on flat unsewn parchment sheets, the process was awkward and slow.
Bending forward, she examined the border she had painted the day before. A slender vine twisted around the text margin, adorned with delicate roses washed in pink: her signature border, which existed somewhere in every manuscript she had ever painted. This time, she had added tiny black thorns along the vine. Looking at the spines now tugged at her heart.
Dipping her brush in white lead mixed with carmine and ochre, she applied the flesh color to the tiny hand of God reaching down from the clouds toward King David, who knelt with his harp. Painting with deep concentration, she did not hear the door of the outer chamber open. Her head jerked up at the sound of horses tramping across the floor.
“Do stop neighing and stomping, Christien,” she said. “You startled me so, I nearly blotted the paint.”
Her brother galloped to her side and peeked over her shoulder. “Tibbie said you were here. What’s that?” he asked.
“ ’Tis the hand of God, comforting King David.”
“Where are the knights?” he asked.
“There are none, so far, in this manuscript.”
“Well, I like knights. You painted lots in Guy’s book. And Uncle Godwin has made a huge Saint George”—he lifted his arms high—“in the chapel. When I am grown, I shall have knights painted on my castle walls, as tall as the ceilings. You can do them if you like,” he said magnanimously.
“Thank you. So you like Uncle Godwin’s Saint George?” At his vigorous nod, she picked up a small square of linen, which she normally placed under the heel of her hand as she painted to protect the absorbent vellum from skin oils. Quickly, using a thin brush dipped in ink, she sketched a replica of Godwin’s military saint, painting the details of his armor and adding a red cross to his shield. Christien watched in fascination and made eager suggestions on aspects of the armor, a subject quite dear to him. Emlyn, pleased and impressed by the extent of his knowledge, added pieces accordingly until the picture was done.
“There,” she said, moving it to a corner, “When ’tis dry, you may have it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, please, make me a dragon.”
She laughed, and shook her head. “I have to finish my work here. But you may draw one if you like.” She gave him another plain rag, a little brush, and enough suggestions to get him started. They conferred over his efforts, their heads close together, their backs to the door.
A brief cough, deep and masculine, brought their heads snapping up. Nicholas de Hawkwood stood in the inner doorway, one hand raised high, propped against the doorjamb, as he held the curtain aside. The silver trim on his black tunic glittered.
“My lord!” Christien cried, and bounced up from his seat. “Come see what my sister made for me!”
Stepping into the little solar, Nicholas leaned over the table. Emlyn kept her back turned, and slanted her head away, grateful for the generous shielding folds of the white headdress.
“ ’Tis well drawn,” the baron said to Christien. “Greetings, Dame Agnes. I was not aware that my private solar had been turned into a scriptorium.”
Emlyn blushed fiercely, feeling the heat rise from her breasts to her hairline. Bless
ed Virgin, she thought, his voice has a velvety quality like Thorne’s, but haughty, his words clipped and nasal. She turned only a degree toward him. The soft, snug wrappings swathing her throat and chin made movement less graceful, but she dared not show her face in the clear, full light of the solar, no matter how rude it was to avoid a baron.
“My lord, my apologies. I will move my things elsewhere if it disturbs your privacy,” she said. “While you were away, the countess asked me to add some paintings in this manuscript, and suggested this room as a quiet place to work.”
His hand came slowly over her shoulder as he reached out to touch the book, flipping the pages casually through his fingers.
“Ah, I see,” he said after a moment. Emlyn felt the baking warmth of his torso behind her shoulder, felt the brushing weight of his arm over hers. “ ’Tis fine work. I was not aware that the de Ashbournes were all painters.”
“My uncle and—myself, only, sire,” she nearly whispered. “I trained at the convent.”
He paused, his finger sliding gently along a decorated border. Emlyn watched his clean, trim fingernail trace a cluster of thorns and roses, stop there, and move past. “Your work is excellent,” he said. “Well. You may use the solar, then.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Please depart, she silently begged. His hand was perched on the table in front of her, his long fingers, dusted with dark hairs, fanning the pages of the book, his body warming her back. Her hand, with the steel circlet, rested on the table beside his. She tapped a finger nervously.
“Please, my lord,” she said, “some of the paint is yet damp.”
He withdrew his hand, slowly, almost deliberately grazing her shoulder in passing. At the contact, a shiver plunged, tickling, to her loins. Stunned by the feeling, she ducked her head, her cheeks reddening, her heartbeat rapid.
Christien reached out to pick up the cloth with the painted Saint George. “ ’Tis dry?” he asked her.
Emlyn nodded quickly. “Aye. You may take it, Christien.” Trying to sound cool and ecclesiastical, she felt very rattled. Her brother held the cloth gingerly by a corner, letting it flap in the slight breeze that came through the open windows.
“Isobel will be so jealous!” he crowed, and scampered away, leaving the chamber as noisily as he had burst in.
Behind her, Emlyn felt Nicholas de Hawkwood’s silent, powerful presence, felt the keen heat of his gaze upon her back. She flattened her hands on the table, afraid to turn around. The baron disturbed her enormously, threw off the rhythm of her breath, broke the pattern of her thoughts.
“Dame Agnes,” Nicholas said, after a long moment. His voice, deep and low, thrummed in her body. The slight mocking tone with which he said her name reminded her of Whitehawke’s insolent manner. “Will you and your uncle stay long at Hawksmoor?”
“Until the chapel work is done, sire,” she stammered. “If we are welcome.”
“Of course.” He paused. “Your ring is quite unusual.”
“I wear it for a vow, my lord,” she whispered.
“A vow.” The silence that followed was thick as honey. “Well,” he said finally, his voice hushed, “I will no longer interrupt your work. Good day, Dame.”
His footsteps crossed into the bedchamber with a purposeful stride. The heavy outer door was opened, then slammed hard against the stone frame.
Emlyn jumped in her seat. The baron was angry, but then each time she had seen him he seemed to be angry about something. She shrugged, trying to shake off the powerful cling of his presence. At least, she thought gratefully, he had not recognized her.
Chapter Fifteen
Thunderclouds slid across the wide sky, the odd greenish light creating crystal-clear detail. Standing at the parapet, Nicholas could see well past the river that flowed beneath Hawksmoor’s walls, over vast clusters of forest, far into the long green dale that rolled out below. The peaceful view was marred, a mile or so away, by plumes of slate-colored smoke.
“What the devil is that?” Nicholas asked as Peter joined him on the wall walk.
Peter looked out. “Beyond the river? A fire in a field.”
“And what else lies there, beyond the smoke?”
“Looks like a broad stone wall.” Peter squinted. “Jesu. ’Tis the curtain wall of a keep, just begun.”
“Aye. My father’s,” Nicholas said. “On my land.”
“But your boundaries are well marked by whitewashed boulders. Whatever he dares in the dale, the earl would not build within another’s markers.”
“Would he not?” He shot Peter a wry look. “Weeks ago I asked my father directly to cease work on that keep. But he has given no order for his masons to stop.”
“Think you he has the king’s permission to build there?”
“Nay, but with the whole realm on the verge of an uproar, he likely thinks this will be overlooked because he is one of the few loyals left to the crown. Damn. Fighting for that charter has changed little. ’Twill not even help me here.”
“Surely the sheriff would intervene in this case, at least. Those walls are clearly on Hawksmoor land.”
Nicholas huffed impatiently. “The sheriff of this shire has consistently refused to act against Whitehawke, and grows more blind and deaf each time my father rides into that dale.”
“The king and his loyals in York still bear malice against the Cistercian monks,” Peter said. “There lies their blind eye.”
“Aye, that and a steady stream of Whitehawke’s gold flowing the sheriff’s way to keep the man ignorant.”
“Your father’s arrogance has no limit, my lord.”
He nodded grimly. “Well I know it.”
“I thought the forest extended more to the east.”
Nicholas looked, wind whipping his long hair back from his face. “It did. ’Tis why we could not see the walls until now. Whitehawke has cleared a section of my forest for his keep. Even now it burns.” He knocked a fist against stone. “This needs quick discouraging. I cannot allow my land to be invaded, burned, and built upon under my very nose.”
“You do not mean to start a war with him!”
Nicholas turned, one eyebrow lifted. “Nay? Ah, chivalric sentiment forbids such dishonor. Quote me no codes.”
“If you go down there with your troops, Whitehawke will retaliate, and knock at Hawksmoor’s gates with his battering devices within days. You know full well he needs only an excuse to pursue what he has been eager to do for years—attack you full out in the name of some minor dispute.”
Frowning, Nicholas scanned the clouds that dimmed the afternoon light. Indeed, he would do whatever he could to keep an attack away from his walls. Hawksmoor held precious treasure now, more valuable than Whitehawke or Peter realized.
Had he not been so angry, he would have laughed to recall Emlyn’s disguise. He had recognized her quick enough, once he had seen her in the solar. For the nonce, he would remain silent until he knew quite what he wanted to do with her. Or to her, he thought irritably, relishing the temptation of shaking sense into her wimpled head. Now that she was here, and the children and his lady aunt and the rest as well, he could begin no outright war with his father. He would simply find another way.
“What will you do?” Peter asked him.
“I shall have a look, I think.” A peculiar glint in his eye reflected the greenish storm clouds overhead. “I would like to know how close he is to my boundary stones. By the rood,” he muttered, “a mickle lot of things have gone on here in my absence.” He pushed away from the parapet edge and turned to stride quickly along the wallwalk, Peter keeping pace behind him.
The rider halted at the crest of a hill, pulling gently on green-tinted leather reins, watching cloud shadows scud over the verdant bowl of the dale. An acrid hint of smoke teased his nostrils. He glanced toward a clearing, where a band of pale limestone blocks formed high, smooth walls.
Masons and workmen climbed up and down on rubble piles and wooden scaffolds, looking, from this distance, like ants busy
with crumbs. Some hoisted dressed stone in nets, using pulley frameworks as high as the wall, shouting orders back and forth.
A tall, white-haired man sat a creamy horse, surrounded by a few of his guards, watching as smoke, dark as a breath of night, rose into the stormy sky. Fields and forest edges were being burned to make space for the castle grounds.
The rider urged his horse forward silently, the long green caparison blowing back over his legs as he cantered down a slope. Entering the greenwood, he rode swiftly toward the partial wall of the new keep. When he was near enough to the worksite to be seen by sharp eyes, he reined in between the trees and sat, folding his leafy gauntlets over the saddle, watching.
After a while, low thunder rolled through the darkening sky. The workmen turned up their faces at the sound and looked toward the earl. Chavant leaned over and spoke quietly to Whitehawke. Beside the earl’s horse, a brown hunting hound, wearing a spiked iron collar to protect him from wolves and boars, pricked up his ears and whined softly.
The sky was ash-dust now, a ponderous color that sucked the brightness from the greenwood and shadowed the pale stone walls. Thunder broke overhead, heavy and loud. Without waiting for the earl’s permission, the men scrambled down from the walls and ran to safety inside a thatched hut some distance away.
Whitehawke rode off with Chavant, the guards, and the hunting dog behind him. As they cleared the work area and moved through the deepening gloom, large spattering drops of rain fell, and a new thundercrack sounded overhead.
Chavant glanced up nervously and called something to the earl.
The rain burst with its first energy, drenching forest and field and men in a beating downpour. Guiding his horse out of the wood, the Green Knight rode steadfast through the rain. Water flowed in rivulets from the densely woven foliage that covered his trunk and limbs. A stiff trim of spiked holly and hawthorn leaves fringed his hood, deflecting the rain from his face, and water beaded on the ointment that greened his skin. He rode forward smoothly, easily, a legend riding out of time and straight into the present moment.