by Susan King
Whitehawke’s eyes narrowed to pale slits. “You have neatly remedied any injustice by your action. How you must have hated accompanying me to Ashbourne that day,” he added slyly.
Nicholas, silent, kept his mouth a thin line, and kept his thoughts carefully in check.
Whitehawke looked over at Chavant. “This lady is fair, eh, Hugh, with a firm body and fire in her voice and walk. By my vices, ’twas lust moved me to accept that betrothal, I think. Though quick enough she showed her wicked tongue.” He laughed, a short, mean bark. “You have made an ill marriage, Nicholas. She has no dowry, no lands, only a treasonous brother and a passel of worthless siblings. And for all her beauty, she will become a shrew who berates her husband. I am gladly spared that.”
Nicholas remained silent, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. Whitehawke continued. “Well. Perhaps ’tis for the best. I keep the lands without the trouble of the spoiled child bride. Still, what you have done is reprehensible.”
“A man who builds on another’s land, or claims another’s profits should not talk of reprehensible acts,” Nicholas bit out. “A man whose wife dies an ignoble death should not judge others.”
Whitehawke inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring wide. “I have ever been within my rights, in all that I have done,” he stated. “Cuckolding is unforgivable.”
“Forgiveness is a hard lesson. I have yet to learn it.”
“Now I know the true colors of my son and heir. But then, that has never been firmly established, has it?” Whitehawke glanced at Nicholas from the corner of his eye.
The silence in the room was as palpably cold as a winter dawn. “Nay, my lord,” Nicholas finally murmured. “But how is paternity determined? Through trust. Faith. Love. Not virtues you are familiar with.” He bowed his head mockingly.
“As I said, you are much like your mother,” Whitehawke said. “Falseness is in your blood.” He stood and picked up his leather gloves from the table, drawing each one on, slow and deliberate.
“We leave now,” he said, his voice like iced steel. “When I have thought through your news, no doubt I shall speak to the king. Perhaps I will require damages for relieving me of my bride in this manner. Or I may challenge you to a jousting to the death. You will hear of my decision. Know, however, that you will never inherit so much as a burnt straw from me. For now, regardless of what else has happened, the harassment of my men by this green bastard, or Thorne, or whoever he is, will be stopped.” He flexed his gloved fingers. “Yet it seems that mortal or no, this Green Man has more soul and guts than he who calls himself my son. Come, Hugh.”
Abruptly, Whitehawke turned to leave the hall, his black cloak swinging about his powerful calves, his armor jingling stridently. As he pulled open the door, Lady Julian was advancing down the shadowed corridor.
“Bertran,” she murmured politely as she entered the room.
“Good day, Julian,” he clipped out, and slammed the door shut after him.
The countess blinked in obvious confusion at the affront, then moved down the length of the huge room. The flowing train of her dark skirts gracefully swept the rushes in a soft rhythm.
As he passed to leave, Chavant nodded at Nicholas. “My congratulations to you, cousin,” he said, smooth and low. “Though poor as a mouse, your new wife is a delicate morsel.”
“Say aught else of her,” Nicholas growled, “and you will choke on your wagging tongue.”
Hugh smiled. “Only allow me to thank you for clearing the way for me.”
“Ah. As a cousin on my father’s side, you hope he will declare you his heir in my stead. Welcome to it, Hugh. You are a worthy successor to Whitehawke’s legacy.”
Chavant looked momentarily puzzled, then lowered his brows menacingly as he understood the insult. He stalked away, nodding briskly to the countess as he passed her.
Lady Julian halted beside Nicholas as Chavant bumped the door shut, and folded her hands over her ivory cross. She looked up at her nephew with concern. “Another argument with Whitehawke? This one appears grave. Can I help, Nicholas?”
“Nay,” Nicholas muttered, lips thin.
“Will you wish another sumptuous meal served this evening?”
“Hardly. Whitehawke departs now.”
“I see. In some haste, and furious,” she observed.
“Aye,” he agreed. “With reason.” He picked up his goblet from the table and sipped slowly.
“Why did he come here yesterday?” Her long-hooded eyes were pinched with concern.
Nicholas swallowed the tepid ale. He had had enough of confessing his sins, and his head ached cruelly now. He needed to tell Julian of his marriage, but it would hold for now. “To inform me that he continues to pursue the Green Man in the dale.”
“And he continues to look for his betrothed, I suspect. He mentioned to me last even that when she is found, he will shut her in a convent. Though I cannot agree with his methods, others in such a position would have the girl beaten, or worse, and be well within their rights. A convent is a merciful punishment.”
“She will not be found. And he wants no more female deaths on his conscience,” he answered sourly. “He founded a priory, and does daily penance, and claims it enough.”
“Is it, Nicholas?” she asked softly.
He turned to face the firelight, his glowing profile cleanshaven, his jaw held taut. “I am no avenging angel, Aunt. ’Tis not for me to judge.”
Lady Julian placed her hand on his arm. “If what we love is snatched from us in one place, ’twill be restored in another. ’Tis one of God’s most gracious laws.”
Nicholas smiled, a mirthless twisting of his mouth. “Aye. And so you have been mother to me in your sister’s place. I am always grateful.”
“You are like Blanche—her eyes, her mouth. ’Tis a blessing to see her beauty in you. And I see Whitehawke there, as well. I always have.”
He laughed, short and cruel. “My father does not see it.” As if some overwhelming burden pulled at his shoulders and chest, he felt a dark heaviness and closed his eyes against it, rubbing his brow. Now his father’s contempt for him had true reason.
“Will you help him find the girl?” Julian asked.
“Nay,” he answered, “I will not.” A muscle quirked in his jaw, and he could feel the cursed easy blush, which he regarded as his father’s legacy, began to heat his cheeks. He turned his face away. As much as he trusted his aunt, he did not wish to confide in her yet. He watched the fire in silence. After a moment, Lady Julian quietly excused herself and left the hall.
Nicholas leaned a hand against the long slope of the stone hood, and with his other hand grasped the silver goblet tightly enough to distort the soft metal. His head throbbed, tense and painful, as he stared into the flames.
His thoughts were never far from Emlyn, even more so after his spiteful encounter with Whitehawke. Still, there was relief in revealing his marriage, no matter the risk. He had grown heartily sick of the whole play and both their ruses.
Witless fool, he thought, to have left her at the abbey. Riding on to London and Runnymede with Peter and half his garrison, he had felt a smug satisfaction that Emlyn would be safe until his return. He should have known she was too impatient to wait for Thorne’s return.
Shaking his head in dismay, he downed the last foamy drops of ale. Her appearance in his own home had thrown him into utter confusion. He had hidden like a timid deer from the hunter, knowing the contempt she held for Nicholas de Hawkwood.
He was certain that Emlyn had not yet recognized him as Thorne. But he had known her in that ridiculous wimple. He grinned fleetingly. Guileless as a babe, she was, thinking her nun’s garb hid her well. He had nearly guessed when she poked her head over the edge of the scaffold. Later, in the solar, he had heard the distinctive huskiness of her voice and seen the steel ring she wore. And he had deeply appreciated the black thorns on the rosebud vines in the manuscript.
That ability to paint had been unexpected, t
hough. She had made no reference to any such training when she had been with him in the forest. Her unusual ability made him even prouder to be her husband.
He had come to love and cherish her, and he had made himself very scarce of late. He had combed back his hair, requesting a clean shave every other day, and he had paid careful attention to the timbre of his voice and the manner of his walk. Spending more time away from Hawksmoor than inside it of late, he had gone hunting and hawking and attended to details of his estate. And he had gone frequently to the dale, for days at a time.
Emlyn had looked at him once or twice, quite directly, her blue eyes, touched with gold specks, wide with curiosity. He had held his breath in those moments. But his cover was stronger than he had expected: voice, clothing, oiled-back hair and clean jaw, cool gray eyes, all changed from Thorne’s. Last night, for a moment, she had seen him as Thorne, yet she thought it a dream.
He was well aware of the mutable quality of his eye color. When he was in a castle surrounded by stone walls, clothed in drab gray or black, or in steel armor, his eyes had a stony gray cast. Even his blue surcoat and cloak kept them grayish. But in the greenwood, when high, clear light flooded through verdant foliage, his eyes were green as moss.
Verifying it in polished steel mirrors and pond surfaces, he knew it to be consistent and reliable. His eyes reflected his environment and protected his identity. Thorne had deep green eyes; Nicholas de Hawkwood had gray. No man could change his eye color—unless Heaven gave him the means.
As Thorne, he had struck in a series of raids that constantly disrupted Whitehawke’s supplies and escorts. Even now his hands closed into tight fists as he remembered how he had despised his father for insulting Blanche, for showing her such cruelty. Young and rebellious, vengeance had been his succor in the days when only violent soothing would do.
At first, lashing out at Whitehawke had been enough. Later, as it became more of a political struggle, Thorne became an unintentional hero. When Whitehawke began to harass the people of Arnedale in earnest, Nicholas, who had no tolerance for injustice, discovered more reason to sting at his father. Thorne quickly captured the admiration of the people of the dale.
No one had ever seen Thorne in him. He easily grew thick, dark beards, and his eye color was a protective, blessed screen that changed with his clothing and environment. Only Peter de Blackpoole and Aelric knew the truth.
Currently, to those in the dale, he was Thorne the reeve, a man with a common name, who worked for the abbot of Wistonbury. Indeed, as the baron, he met often with the abbot to appraise him of the situation in Arnedale. Not even the abbot had guessed.
At first, he had raided alone, but soon he began to find willing help among the villeins who despised Whitehawke’s tactics. They had attacked the earl’s convoys to steal grain, ale, wine, and occasionally a chest or two of gold. Keeping nothing, they had made certain that families in the dale received compensation from the earl’s own stores.
As the earl grew bolder in his attacks on the dale, other barons made it clear that they abhorred Whitehawke’s arrogant disregard for the law. Rogier de Ashbourne had been among the barons who had shunned Whitehawke at court and made public their contempt for his tyrannical, possessive demands. They had privately cheered the attempts of the young greenwood renegade.
But the current of distrust surrounding Whitehawke had not prompted the king to reprimand the earl, and had not eased the process of resolving the legal questions of ownership in Arnedale. The matter, quite simply, had gathered dust on the royal dockets and had continued to fester in the dale itself.
But the night that Thorne had been lung-shot had ended his secret activities for a while. Hiding with Emlyn that evening eight years ago, he had finally seen where following his anger had led: innocents had been placed in danger because of him. The arrow that felled him had been like a reproving bolt from above.
Long weeks of recovery under Maisry’s care had given him time to think. He had been selfish and impulsive, guilty of outright thievery and profound dishonor. In his fury with his father, he had lost cool logic, control, and a sense of valor. When he saw the wrong turn in his path, he had sought to correct it.
As soon as he was strong enough, he had gone to the village chapel and confessed to theft and failure to honor his father. He had made his penance and put Thorne to rest. Then Aelric had begun the rumor of his death, which quickly circulated.
Finally, a restraining order issued by the king, under pressure from several barons and the monks, had discouraged Whitehawke. But when the writ had expired, Whitehawke demanded the legal deed, a record of which apparently was lost somewhere in the vast roll depositories at Westminster.
The raids on the dale resumed and grew worse. Barns and homes were torched, forest land was razed. Hawksmoor, which came to Nicholas on his majority, was now peripherally threatened.
Late one night, Nicholas and Aelric had devised the ruse of the Green Man between them. With Maisry’s help, they developed an elaborate costume, the first of many, and a fearsome creature was created. Glimpsed through a green halo of foliage, it would glide silent and threatening through a mist, or sit the crest of a hill. Armed with longbow or axe, a powerful guard for the dale, it had never had to directly attack.
So simple, so easy: the mere threat of losing one’s soul to the demon had been frightening, and Whitehawke was highly superstitious. Perhaps guilt over his misdeeds made the earl sensitive to even the merest suggestion that he could go to hell. His fear of the Green Man was strong enough that he reduced his raids and pulled a number of his men out of the dale.
Nicholas blew out a long round breath and pushed away from the fireplace hood. The situation in the dale would require some intense thought. Whitehawke rode there even now. Perhaps ’twould be best if the Green Man made an appearance or two, from a safe enough distance.
He knew he must speak with Emlyn soon. He had let it go long enough, and she deserved to know what had transpired today. Yet he felt that he had to ride to the dale soon. Another week or so would have to pass before he would speak with her.
In spite of his anger, Whitehawke had seemed surprisingly inclined to accept their marriage. Perhaps, as he claimed, he was glad enough to have Ashbourne without the burden of a penniless bride.
Nicholas would have been grateful, but he was afraid to trust his father.
Chapter Seventeen
“Not that one, the other—there!” Light as a silver bell, the voice that floated over the garden wall was off-tone with impatience. “Reach. Well then, go higher.”
Having left the chapel, Emlyn was crossing the bailey on her way to the keep. Hearing her sister’s voice as she passed by the garden wall, she sighed and altered her direction.
Beneath a tall apple tree at the far end of the garden, Isobel stood with her head angled back, her dark braids swinging gently. “There, Christien,” she said, looking up just as an apple fell from above and hit the toe of her felt shoe. “Ow!”
Emlyn marched to the orchard. “Where is Christien?”
“There,” Isobel said, pointing up.
A pair of brown leggings and small leather boots dangled far above Emlyn’s head. Shifting around until she saw her brother’s face through the green weave of branches, she placed her fists on her hips and tilted her head back. “Christien, come down!” she ordered firmly.
He squirmed around on the branch that supported him, extended his legs, and then peered down at her. “I cannot,” he replied, his voice quavering. “I think I am stuck.”
“Follow down as you came up,” she called.
“My feet will not reach the branch below me. I will fall,” he said plaintively. Frowning, Emlyn carefully assessed his position. The nearest lower branch was a good stretch away, and the limb to which Christien clung was slender and green. When he stretched out his leg again, Emlyn heard splitting wood.
“Christien!” she cried in alarm. “Slide back toward the trunk. Take hold of it and stay still. I wi
ll come get you.” She began to hike up her skirts.
“What is the difficulty here?” Low and powerful and very close by, the voice caused her to whip around in surprise.
Nicholas de Hawkwood stood a few feet away, his face grim. For a moment, Emlyn was stunned by his presence; he had been away from Hawksmoor for over a fortnight, and though he had returned a few days ago, she had hardly seen him. And the brisk activity of men and horses in the bailey this morning indicated that he was headed out again, this time with a good portion of his garrison.
“Is the boy injured?” He strode quickly over to the tree and looked up.
“He is well and truly caught, my lord,” she said, watching the play of his shoulders beneath a tunic of fine, pale gray wool, and the rich waves of mahogany hair that swept over his shoulders. Glancing briefly at her, he looked up again.
“However did he get up that high?” Nicholas sounded amused.
“We wanted apples,” Isobel said.
“There are apples aplenty in the storage rooms, my girl,” Nicholas said, moving around to examine the lay of the branches.
“I cannot get down, my lord,” Christien called.
“Those are wrinkly ones from last season,” Isobel said.
“Well, these are still quite green, and would give you the devil of a bellyache,” Emlyn told her sternly.
“But some are red, and we wanted fresh apples,” Isobel said. “Christien said he could get some. He is the best at climbing.”
“Oh?” Nicholas’s eyes twinkled as he looked up at Christien. “Are you a good climber, boy?”
“I—I thought I was, my lord,” Christien replied hesitantly.
“Well, you shall soon show us your skill, for you will have to make your way down from there.”
Emlyn turned to Isobel. “Run and find Tibbie,” she said. When Isobel left, she turned to Nicholas. “I will go up and guide him down to safety, my lord. I can reach him easily.”
He frowned at her, then looked up, exposing the strong line of his throat, dusted with powdery black stubble. “He can get down safe enough, I trow. I would not have you both injured.”