by Susan King
A wrenching desire grabbed at him. He inhaled slowly, drawing his fingers through the sleek curtain of her hair, aroused by its gossamer texture, by the warm cream of her skin, by her slender, graceful curves beneath the blanket. His shadow fell over her face and throat. She shifted again, sighing wantonly as his gentle fingers found her jaw.
Nicholas de Hawkwood should not touch this girl, he knew. But her husband could not help himself, and leaned closer.
His head spun with the amount of wine he had consumed at supper, with headache, with her nearness. Though his mind was hazed, his feelings were suddenly clear. He fervently wanted to abandon the ruse and adopt simple honesty. He wanted to hold her, talk to her, make love to her until she called his own name. Ignoring the sensible echo in his head that admonished him to stop, he bent forward and touched his mouth, wine-scented and spicy, to hers. Her pliant, warm lips clung to his even though she slept, her kiss so sweet that his loins ached and filled.
Breathless, his heard beating loudly, he felt like a drunk walking a bridge in the black of night, uncertain when his steps would plunge him into the waters below. He took the risk and kissed her again, deep and moist, allowing his fingers to trace along the smooth skin of her bared throat, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his feathery touch.
The muffled knock on the oaken door hardly disturbed him at first. He slid his fingers up to caress her jaw. When the knock sounded again, he reluctantly raised his head.
Emlyn groaned softly, opening her eyes to blink like a kitten in the moonlight, awake but not fully aware. Then, with a little breathy gasp, she reached up to rest her hand against his cheek.
He tilted his face into her palm and looked into her eyes, wrapped in the warm magic of her sleepy, bewildered gaze. Though his heart nearly thudded out of his chest, he willed her to see him then as he truly was.
“Thorne—” she whispered.
The knock sounded again. “Psst, dearie,” Tibbie hissed loudly through the outer door. “Are ye sleeping in there?” The latch rattled, gave, and the door squealed open.
In one fluid motion, Nicholas stood and vanished like a phantom, slipping between the moon’s blue glow and deep shadows. Emlyn reached out and gave a small cry. Cool moonlight fell across her hand.
Whitehawke’s lusty, flapping snores echoed around the bedchamber as Nicholas came through the solar curtain and leaned his forehead against the wall, breathing rapidly.
Footsteps padded across the room. “My lady! Get ye gone from here,” Tibbie said. “Have ye forgotten Lord Whitehawke is at Hawksmoor! Ye promised to keep to yer room!”
“Oh, Tibbie,” Emlyn said, “I fell asleep. I dreamed—”
“The wine was strong this e’en,” Tibbie was saying softly. “I am a wee cupshot m’self, but when I woke and saw ye not abed, I came to collect ye. Come to bed now, dear heart.” Nicholas heard Emlyn’s murmured assent, and the outer door creaked shut behind them, closing off Tibbie’s whispered chatter.
A hint of the scent of rose soap lingered on the pillow, which was still warm and gently indented when Nicholas lay down on the narrow pallet. As he allowed sleep to drift through him, only one thought clung to his mind: he was finished with cowardice and deceit. On the morrow he would act on that decision, ready to pay the price.
Chapter Sixteen
“God’s wounds! Out!” Whitehawke advanced heavily toward the fireplace, kicking angrily at a ginger cat curled up on the hearthstone. When a servant ran forward, the cat arched and hissed, darting lightly across the length of the room with the servant tearing after it. Whitehawke grunted and turned away to drain his morning ale, belching noisily and wiping his mouth on his hand. Transparent wedges of light spilled from the windows and shifted across the ebony gleam of his armor.
Nicholas slouched in a wide, high-backed chair before the fireplace, one leg stretched out in front of him, nursing a violent headache, a combination of wine and the bruise hidden beneath his hair. He would have wagered that his aching pate could not have equaled his father’s after last night’s feast, but the earl showed no sign beyond a deep irritability.
Swallowing watered morning ale from a silver goblet, Nicholas watched the activity in the hall, bemused. Should a cat wander into the great hall, no one bothered to shoo it out. Lady Julian and the other ladies were fond of cats, and the children enjoyed playing with the kittens they had been keeping in the solar. Whitehawke, however, saw merit only in dogs and hawks.
Hugh de Chavant entered the room just as the cat streaked in front of the doorway. A brown hunting dog padded in behind him. When a vicious, loud chase ensued between the hound and the cat, Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples against the jarring pain of barking and hissing.
Waving a corner of his russet cloak and moving clumsily in his full armor, Chavant somehow managed to chase the cat away from the dog and out over the threshold. He slammed the door shut and turned, his expression smug.
“Damned lickspittle,” Whitehawke muttered, sloshing more foamy ale into his goblet from a clay jug. “Look how his eyes drift. Beshrew me, he can watch both doors at once. By Saint George, how does he handle a weapon?”
Nicholas opened one bleary eye of his own. “Hugh’s eye wanders most when he is fatigued,” he said. “You were the one made him the captain of your guard, my lord.”
The earl grunted. “He is a cunning fellow betimes, though his wits have deserted him of late.”
Nicholas glanced at his father. “Meaning—?”
“Meaning the lady is not yet found, nor the demon chased from the wood.”
“The cat is gone, sire,” Chavant said as he approached.
“I see that, idiot,” Whitehawke snapped. “Foul beasts of the devil, cats. It must have slipped in here from the stables.” He quaffed his ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The hunting dog loped over to sit beside Whitehawke, the black iron collar a peculiar match to his master’s dark armor.
Chavant pulled off his leather gloves, stuffed them into his belt, and pushed back his mailed hood. Dark hair, trimmed high above his ears, lay in limp strings along his forehead, and the sweat and dirt of a hurried ride streaked his unshaven face. Nicholas knew that Whitehawke had sent Chavant, with several riders, out before dawn to search the moors and forests near Hawksmoor. He thought he knew why.
“Greetings, Hugh, arrived at last,” Nicholas drawled. “There is cold ale in the jug.” Chavant poured a cup and drank thirstily, his bulging brown eyes drifting apart as he set the goblet down. The hunting dog stood warily, spread its front feet, and began to growl at Nicholas.
“What the devil is the matter now?” Whitehawke said irritably. “Down, you infernal hound. The cat is gone.”
“I know not, sire,” Chavant said. “Down, Ivo.”
Nicholas sat very still, his muscles tensed.
“Hey! Sit,” Whitehawke said over the dog’s harsh, thrumming growl. “Ivo! Sit!”
The dog lurched then, straight at Nicholas. Chavant leaped forward to grab at the collar, pulling the dog back and narrowly missing a mean puncture by the iron collar spikes.
“Remove him!” Whitehawke ordered. Chavant half dragged the dog down the length of the room, thrust him into the reluctant care of a servant, and returned.
“By the devil, I understand that not at all,” the earl grumbled. He turned to Nicholas. “Well. We have come to Hawksmoor because ’tis close to where Lady Emlyn disappeared, and we have lately been in the dale searching again. Since you have been south lately with our good king,” he stressed each word, looking stormily at his son, “you will not have heard the latest since Chavant misplaced my bride.”
“She was taken by the Green Man, sire, not lost by us,” Chavant protested.
“Whining changes naught,” the earl said. “She is gone, and my betrothal has become a mockery. Tell my son the whole of it.”
Chavant settled his uneven gaze on Nicholas. “You have heard the tales of the Green Man in the dale, my lord.”
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“Aye,” Nicholas said slowly. He tossed the last of his ale down his throat and reached for the jug, filling his goblet again. “I have heard those tales.”
“Most likely this Green Knight was responsible for the lady’s disappearance. We have seen him since that day he took the lady from our escort in fog. Once we nearly had him,” Chavant said.
“Saints preserve us from puddingheads,” the earl interrupted with a sneer. “They grabbed a farmer dressed as Jack-o’-the-green for May, with sweets in his pockets and a leafy hat.”
“You have admitted your own belief in demons, my lord,” Nicholas said.
“Real creatures of hell exist, absolutely. We saw such a creature just last week, when he destroyed my wall,” Whitehawke replied. “Hugh, however, insists ’twas only a man.”
“The green bastard who brought down the keep wall was the same one that we pursued across the moor outside Kernham village. He is no hell-fiend, though somehow he disappears like one each time we see him,” Chavant told Nicholas. “He is a dead shot with the longbow. I think him a man.”
“Bah,” Whitehawke snarled. “The devil is behind this one. Lightning obeys his command. The wall of my keep collapsed when he willed it to. No man could do what he did that day.”
Nicholas cut in. “Did you have royal permission to build there? ’Tis Hawksmoor land, as you surely know.”
Whitehawke flushed deeply. “No time for a royal writ. John is in a frenzy over the barons’ betrayal. And that parcel is not your land, but your mother’s, and so mine, and an end to it.”
“We differ on that. But you say the keep is destroyed?”
“Most of it is useless rubble now,” Whitehawke said. “But I shall find another place to build. That glade is fair haunted.”
“My lord earl,” Chavant said, “I have told you ’tis a man.”
“I know what you say. Tell your theory.” He turned to Nicholas. “If I was not so firmly convinced that the devil is behind this creature, I might find this next very interesting.”
Chavant cleared this throat. “My lord,” he said to Nicholas, “lately I have given this matter a great deal of thought. Lord Whitehawke has a fierce enemy in the Green Knight.”
“Chavant, get to it. You do naught quick,” Whitehawke said. “ ’Twould take you a fortnight to tell a riddle.” His white leonine head swiveled toward Nicholas, his pale gaze sharp. “Hugh thinks the Black Thorne has returned.”
“Oh?” Nicholas said mildly.
Chavant’s brown eyes slid crazily, one at a time, toward Nicholas. “The Green Man is called by another name in Arnedale, my lord. The Hunter Thorne.”
Nicholas looked down at the golden froth in his goblet and willed himself to be calm. “You think Thorne is the Green Man?”
“The guards saw Lady Emlyn with a man, a forester or a villein, handy with a longbow. He held her captive when my men would have rescued her, and killed one of them. From the sound of it, he resembles Thorne. At the same time, the Green Man discourages our garrison from riding free in the dale, as Thorne did,” Chavant said. “And the Green Man vanished like smoke, as Thorne could do. As Lady Emlyn and this man did weeks ago.”
Whitehawke rubbed the short white stubble on his square jaw, making a tiny grating noise with his fingernails. “Though the villeins confirmed his death, Thorne’s body was never found.”
“But naught has been heard of the Thorne for eight years,” Nicholas said, gripping the goblet.
“Likely he saw the wisdom in abandoning his attacks on my lord earl,” Chavant said. “He may have traveled, fought in France or the Holy Land, or married and settled somewhere.” He shrugged. “But now he is back to trouble us once more. If Thorne is the Green Man, then we deal with no demon.”
“And if the creature is a spirit?” Nicholas asked softly.
Whitehawke tightened his lips and set his square jaw. “Then, by God, I will keep my distance. The devil rides far for souls. I should send a priest to decide this Green Man’s nature.” He leveled his gaze at Nicholas. “But if the Black Thorne is not dead, then I could have two enemies, a man whom I can fight, and a demon I cannot. No doubt the Lady Emlyn is held by one of them. My men thought her dead at one point, but there has been no proof of that. We will find her soon enough.”
“Think you the Thorne challenges you again?” Nicholas turned his cup, examining the engraved pattern carefully.
“Possibly.” Whitehawke turned to slump heavily in a chair. “God in heaven,” he wheezed. “When I was younger, I had the spit and anger to fight the annoying pup. But now”—he shifted his large booted feet heavily. “I no longer have a desire to thunder around after the rogue. If he is out there, I want him dead, and no more of the dance to it.” He sat up abruptly. “Chavant. Find them, the villein and the girl.”
“Aye, my lord. We continue to search.”
Whitehawke snorted in disgust. “I would have greater luck sending dogs to the task. I may yet do that.”
Nicholas set his goblet on the floor. A peculiar prickling spread in his spine and his gut, and he stood up. “My lord,” he said. “There is no cause to look further for Lady Emlyn.”
“Why?” Whitehawke barked. “What do you know of it?”
Nicholas straightened his back and shoulders and forced himself to look into his father’s flat, pale eyes with cool control. “She has wed another.”
Whitehawke stood in one violent movement. “What!” he roared.
“There was a previous marriage arrangement when King John gave you his writ. An earlier promise takes priority.”
Whitehawke’s eyes narrowed. A hot, vivid stain crept into his cheeks. “Say what you mean,” he growled.
“Lady Emlyn became my wife several weeks ago.”
Chavant gasped. “ ’Tis a jest!”
Whitehawke took a step forward, his eyes glittering. “Explain yourself,” he said menacingly.
“I had long owed a favor to Rogier de Ashbourne. In token of that, four years ago I offered for Emlyn’s hand,” Nicholas said. “No marriage was made because she was young, still in a convent. And at the time, the interdict, which the Pope had placed over all England for years, forbade priests to perform the sacraments. Later Baron Rogier died, but the heir had no chance to pursue the arrangement.”
He clenched his jaw, bunching the muscles, waiting for his father to assimilate the shock. His glance slid toward Hugh, who drifted his hand to his empty sword hilt. “Stay your hand, cousin,” Nicholas warned. “Your sword is safe with the porter.”
With a clang, the earl’s cup fell to the floor. Ale foamed slowly across the hearthstone. “What have you done?” Whitehawke said, his voice rasped with anger. “By God’s eyes, you betray me! Cuckolded by my own son!” For a tense moment, Nicholas thought Whitehawke would leap and strangle him. But some iron control kept the earl still, though the muscles of his wide neck were red and corded, and his eyes became slivers of hoarfrost.
Nicholas faced his father, deep breathing and flared nostrils the only outward clues to his inner struggle against long-buried rage and fear. He fisted one hand by his side. “I wed her by my right as her first betrothed,” he said. “She had run from her escort, to avoid marriage with you. She swore she would not go back, and was set on kidnapping her siblings from here. And I was certain that when you found her, she would no longer be regarded as your betrothed, but as ruined goods.”
“Aye! I would toss her in a convent and lock her there for life for dishonoring me!” Whitehawke countered angrily. “I may still do that, by God!”
“She is under my protection now,” Nicholas said.
“ ’Twas you took her from the escort!” Whitehawke accused. “Not some green monster, or this Thorne!” Hugh began to protest, but Whitehawke silenced him with a lethal glance. “Was it you who was with her at the waterfall, and killed one of my men?”
“But sire, the guards would have recognized Baron Nicholas,” Chavant interrupted. He looked at Nicholas. “Did she te
ll you aught of that forester? Where did you find her?”
“She was in the wood, where she had run from your escort. Villeins had helped her in the forest.”
“Then you know who aided her. You, or these villeins, can lead us to the Green Man,” Chavant said.
Nicholas shrugged to indicate he knew little.
“By God’s teeth,” Whitehawke snarled. “Where is she now?”
“Safe enough, and no longer a concern of yours.”
“By God, know that I will look into the legality of this. I think that chit can tell me what I need to know about Thorne. Give her over to me, or I will find her myself. Jesu!” Whitehawke spat. “Why did she run from the escort?”
“Your reputation as a lightsome helpmate is widely known,” Nicholas drawled.
“God’s eyeballs—” Whitehawke’s face took on an ugly dusky hue, the roots of his scalp pink against the snowy strands of his hair. “You are your mother’s son, are you not, to turn on me thus! I am roundly cuckolded!” He slammed his fist down on the table with a volatile curse. Chavant, leaning against the table edge, jumped away, bobbling his eyes warily.
“Trouble yourself no longer with the lady,” Nicholas said. “I trow you never wanted her, but only took her for Ashbourne.”
Whitehawke turned and looked at Nicholas for a long moment. Neither gaze wavered. “Ashbourne remains mine,” the earl said. “No traitorous act can alter that.” He crossed his arms over his chest and sat on the edge of the table, his breathing growing rapidly more labored and noisy. He shook his head slowly, rubbing his hand over his face and streaming his fingers through his lanky white hair. “By Christ! What would you wager, Hugh, that the king set this betrothal not as payment for my loyalty to the crown, but as a cruel jest against the de Hawkwoods.”
Chavant nodded nervously. “I would not wager against it.”
“Since the king was doubtless aware of my previous offer, such a jest would appeal to him,” Nicholas said. “But since a first betrothal holds precedence, then, sire, who cuckolds who?”