by Susan King
“This is no marriage,” she whispered. “I married Thorne. Not you.”
“There are reasons for what I did, Emlyn,” he said. God, he thought, ’twill take time to tell all to her. He had no time left now; soon Peter would send a man to fetch him. He blew out a long breath of frustration. This revelation was exceedingly ill-timed. “I will tell you. But not now.”
The shrill blast of a ram’s horn sounded in the courtyard. “My men are gathered and armed,” he said, loosening his grip.
Emlyn shrugged free and walked past him, pausing at the door to glance back, her brows slashing across her pallid face, her rose-colored mouth trembling. “Go, then,” she said bitterly. “Save your explanations. I cannot countenance betrayal. Do not consider me your wife any longer, my lord.” Yanking on the iron latch, she pulled open the door and left.
Nicholas sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair, feeling as if he had been whipped by some unseen lash. Instead of explaining and asking her forgiveness, he had held back the truth yet again, retreating to the secrecy that was his basic nature. They had both allowed temper to rule the moment. But something precious had been destroyed—her faith in him, in Thorne. Now she was certain that he was just as untrustworthy as his father.
He punched his fist into his palm, clenching his teeth. The ram’s horn blew again. He should have told her who he was when she first came to Hawksmoor. Rather, he should have taken the risk and told her everything before they pledged. She might have listened, then.
Now, with deceit wedged between them like blocks of ice, ’twas perhaps too late. Sighing, he rubbed his brow wearily. He needed to reason this out, for he did not know how to gain back her lost trust. But he would not be here to work that riddle out and go to her. Judging from the abbot’s missive, he would be gone for weeks.
Clawed hands and drooling mouths reached eagerly for the falling bodies of the sinners. Above the hell-fiends, a tall, willowy angel stood beside a pair of delicate balances, weighing the souls of the dead. Those without sin rose into heaven, shielded by the angel’s rainbow wings. The burden of their misdeeds dragged the sinners, mouths distorted with screams, into the waiting arms of the demons.
Emlyn sat back on her heels and scrutinized her work, only vaguely aware that Godwin had left the chapel and the light was fading. She had painted no angels today. Demons were better suited to her present mood.
The sun had set, supper had been served, and Emlyn was still painting. She had no desire to see anyone, and had stayed the day in the chapel, whipping her brush over the plastered wall surface with determined strokes.
A few of the demons now had black hair and steel-gray eyes. Satisfied with the dark scowl on the bearded face of the last, she had created another with moss-green eyes and a malevolent glare. She had set its hoofed foot in a thornbush.
Stretching her stiffening shoulders, Emlyn tilted her head critically at her picture. But her thoughts were not on the images. Her argument with Thorne—with Nicholas—repeated in her head, bringing remarks she should have said, or revealing some new aspect of his crime.
The sense that she had been utterly, boldly betrayed made her ill. Anger and tears this morn gave way by afternoon to a deep, empty sadness. Her eyes were swollen with tears. Earlier, she had sobbed openly, slamming around brushes and pots when she heard the clopping thunder of the garrison riding out of the bailey. Godwin, no doubt confused because she refused to explain her behavior, had finally left.
The light was very dim as she climbed down from the scaffold and went to the altar to whisper a prayer to the Holy Virgin, pleading for guidance. Votive candles sputtered on a wooden shelf beside the altar, and Emlyn took comfort in the simple, familiar act of lighting a candle. Inhaling the odor of smoke and wax, she watched the pure, tiny flame.
When the chapel door creaked open, she turned to see Tibbie’s short, squat outline in the doorway. “Dearie? Are ye in here?”
“Aye, Tibbie, here.”
Tibbie waddled across the chapel. “Tsk, m’love, Godwin did say ye were painting like yer fingers were afire with it, and sobbing as well.” Kneeling on the cold stone beside Emlyn, Tibbie murmured a short prayer, then lifted an eyebrow meaningfully. “Say me what happened, my lady.”
“What mean you?” Emlyn asked warily.
“Wellaway, what do I mean! The ladies are buzzing like bees in a field of daisies. They say ye and the baron shouted at each other in his bedchamber. Lady Julian flopped like a cold fish in the doorway, I heard.”
Emlyn sighed. “So everyone knows,” she said.
“Some do. Lady Maude and Lady Alarice and Margaret de Welles were discussing it at supper. When ye did not arrive at table, the talk grew even more curious.” Gentle candlelight smoothed the seams in Tibbie’s fierce expression. “The Lady Alarice thinks he wants ye fer his mistress.”
“Hah! That would be simple.”
“Then he’s discovered who ye are!”
“Worse,” Emlyn muttered. “The baron is my husband.”
Tibbie gasped. “By the Virgin! How many do ye have?”
“Oh, Tib.” Emlyn half laughed. “The baron is the forester I wed.” She lowered her eyes. “I am ashamed to say I did not know him until this morn. He was somehow different, before. Bearded, and …” Kinder, she thought. Gentle and caring, with eyes green as hawthorn leaves.
“And did he know ye, in yer nun’s wimple?” Tibbie asked. Emlyn nodded sheepishly. “Well, I count him no dunce. Ye’ve not fooled any who knew ye, my lady.”
Emlyn scowled. “Well.” She paused. “I do not think the marriage is valid. He has betrayed me.”
“Wed is wed, dearling, if ye consummated it.”
Blushing a deep rose, Emlyn remembered bare feet at the pool, and much, much more. She hung her head, feeling ashamed and helpless. Part of her wanted Tibbie to remedy this as she had solved her childhood dilemmas, but she knew no one could help her—except Nicholas. “Oh, Tib,” she whispered miserably.
Tibbie stood and paced away, then turned back, frowning thoughtfully. “Yer baron surprises me, I admit. He is older than ye, and seems not one to act rash. But I like him well, for he has a gentle way with the children. I trow he has a loyal heart.” She fisted her hands in her hips. “As I see it, the Lord of Heaven has provided ye a fine husband. Would ye rather have the earl?”
“You mean the Lord works in mysterious ways.” Emlyn sighed.
Tibbie nodded vigorously. “He will find a way to release ye from Whitehawke. That one is yer only trouble, methinks.”
“Only trouble!” Emlyn exclaimed, dismayed. “I was tricked into marriage! I do not wish to be the baron’s wife!”
“Yer choosy, betimes. Do not forget that he is yer forester, as well. Did ye ask him why he fooled ye so?”
She lowered her eyes. “Nay. I was too angry to hear it.”
“Aye, well. Some knots are slow to unravel. The man is steady, and so the reason must be steady as well. There’s much honor in that one.”
Emlyn shot Tibbie a wry glance. “Hmmph. But I know not when he will return, nor where he has gone.”
“I hear he rides to Arnedale at the abbot’s request, to talk peace with Whitehawke. The earl has begun new attacks on those poor farmers in Arnedale. He has threatened to burn them all to the ground.” Tibbie shook her head. “Rather the earl should look to his holy salvation and let go the claim, I say.”
“Whitehawke has a stubborn, vengeful nature,” Emlyn said. “Oh, dear God. What if there is a skirmish between Nicholas’s garrison and his father’s?”
Tibbie slanted her a curious glance. “Ye worry yer baron will come to harm? Men will struggle over land and wealth like babes over sweets, and there’s naught women can do to change that. Trust the Lord to protect yer love, my lady. If ye would fret, then dread what his father will do when he finds ye two are wed,” she pronounced, nodding sagely.
“I am befuddled by this, Tib.”
The nurse leaned forward to pat Emlyn’s h
and. “Well and I know it, my lady. But only wait. Let not anger break the holy bond between wife and husband.”
“I feel no such bond with the baron,” Emlyn murmured. “Once I did with the forester, but I am not sure now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Swaying from a high tree limb, the figure burned bright and hot, a roaring torch fanned by late summer heat. Villagers circled below the straw effigy, joining hands and softly chanting. Dark smoke sullied the azure sky and dissolved over the green and gold bars of the harvested fields stretching beyond the village.
Nicholas shifted in his saddle and glanced uneasily at Whitehawke, noting the peculiar glint in his father’s pale eyes as he watched the burning. They sat their destriers on a low slope overlooking the village green, accompanied by several guards from each garrison.
During the fortnight that Nicholas and his men had been encamped in the dale, Whitehawke had not mentioned his son’s marriage, and indeed had barely spoken to him. Nicholas had been surprised to receive a summons to join the earl in the village.
He turned back to watch the slow swing of the blazing effigy. On Saint Bartholomew’s Day, following an ancient custom, a humpbacked, ugly straw creature dressed in rags was dubbed Old Bartle, carried around the village three times and hung in a high bare sapling. Once the pitch-soaked straw was ignited into a fierce torch, the villeins chanted verses, danced, and feasted, in part an homage to some long-forgotten pagan harvest spirit.
Aelric was among the villagers, a head taller than anyone else, with Maisry and their sons beside him. Nicholas saw Aelric grin and laugh at some jest, nodding to his wife as the people meshed their voices in a singsong chant.
“At the crag he dressed in rags,
And blew his horn at Hunter’s Thorne …”
Curved sheep horns sounded, eerie and hollow, mingling with the crackling flames and the continued chanting.
“Old Bartle is burned, and this day I send a warning to the Thorne,” Whitehawke told Nicholas abruptly. “Look there.” He gestured toward the steep valley wall.
A group of Whitehawke’s guards rode down the long, grassy, hummocked slope toward the village, ten or twelve in a rapid flange, russet cloaks brilliant in the sunshine.
One of the guards carried a long bundle across the front of his saddle. Galloping into the village, he flung it down beneath the flaming Bartle and rode past. Squinting, Nicholas saw another crude effigy of straw, this one wrapped in green rags, its arms and legs and head decorated with thorny branches.
From a position on the slope, a crossbowman loosed a flaming bolt toward the village green. A woman screamed as the shaft slammed into the green-clothed effigy and ignited it.
Whitehawke cantered past the village church and rode in a slow circle around the burning effigies. His glossy white hair blew back from his high forehead and wide neck, and his black cloak whipped out. Stopping, he slid his pale gaze around the circle of villeins. His formidable presence demanded silence. A child’s cry was hushed by an anxious mother.
“Bartle is burned to cast out evil amongst you,” he called. “So, too, I burn the Thorne and the Green Man. His evil has long haunted this place. I will show you favor should he find his death here. This land is mine to keep, and I am your lord. Harken to my words if you would have my good will.” Lifting the reins, he cantered away, riding past Nicholas and the guards.
“The Thorne is finished,” Whitehawke said confidently as Nicholas drew up beside him. “They will protect him no more.”
Hearing the rising rhythm of the chant once again, Nicholas glanced behind him. Voices drifted through the hot atmosphere, sunlight laced with smoke.
“At the crag he dressed in rags,
He blew his horn at Hunter’s Thorne
At high hill’s end he made an end …”
Aelric ran through the circle carrying a bucket of water, and tossed the deluge onto the strawman that was Thorne. As the people cheered and laughed, Aelric laughed, too, rich as a great deep bell. Someone trilled a pipe, and the dancing began again.
With an amused quirk on his lips, Nicholas turned away.
Summer faded quickly, falling away like the garden blooms. Most of Hawksmoor’s harvesting and tallying and preparations for winter were completed under Eustace’s supervision in the baron’s extended absence. Nicholas returned only three times within a period of several weeks to consult with Eustace and Lady Julian. Each time he left at first light, always riding out with more men than when he had arrived.
Emlyn avoided him completely when he first returned. Sharply aware that he was in the castle, she kept to the chapel and to her chamber. He left at dawn. A few weeks later, he rode in again, well past dark. The next morning she overheard his deep chuckle in the garden as she walked past, and heard Alarice’s light response. Emlyn hurried away and stayed in her room the remainder of the day.
Tibbie urged her to approach him, but Emlyn refused. Confusion and anger had formed a sullen lump in her heart. She would not speak to him until he came to her, she told Tibbie stubbornly; ’twas his betrayal, and so his place to make amends.
Late in September, he returned again one afternoon and stayed through the following day. Searching for Christien after breakfast, Emlyn walked into the great hall. Nicholas and Lady Julian stood together near the hearth, in earnest, quiet conversation.
Emlyn halted her steps as Nicholas turned and saw her. He stopped in mid-sentence, gaining a curious glance from his aunt.
In spite of the length of the room, his eyes fastened to hers with keen intensity, and his cheeks flushed. She thought she saw distinct longing in his glance. Her heart beat rapidly, and she stood there, willing him to speak. But his expression hardened, and he turned away. Her own face reddening, she fled the hall.
At first angered and hurt by his betrayal, over the weeks that he was away from Hawksmoor she gradually began to wish that he would come to her and explain his deception. But during his brief visits, he never spoke to her.
She wanted to understand, to know why he had manipulated this deceit. Where did the calm, loving forester she knew mesh with the cool, remote baron? When Nicholas had turned away from her in the hall so abruptly, Emlyn had felt, in spite of her own resentment, a blow of utter and complete rejection. When they had argued, she had told him to no longer consider her his wife.
Now she began to fear that he had taken her at her word.
While cold autumn rain pattered on the chapel roof, Emlyn and Godwin finished the Weighing of Souls scene. With only a few minor areas left to paint, Godwin decided that his part in the chapel decoration was complete. He told Emlyn that he would return to Wistonbury soon.
“Abbot John will wish me back,” he said. “There are many manuscripts to be done in our scriptorium. ’Tis well past time for me to go.” Outside the barbican gate one cool morning, Emlyn hugged him fiercely, and stood with Tibbie and the children as he rode away on a fine new donkey, a gift from Lady Julian. Godwin carried the payment for the chapel work in a pouch tucked under his belt. The coins were to be given to the abbey, since Godwin could accept no money for himself.
Blowing frosty huffs of air and pulling her cloak close, Emlyn looked fondly at the children as they waved at their uncle. They had grown so much that Lady Julian had ordered seamstresses to make new clothing, and had commissioned a cobbler to cut new leather shoes to fit their larger feet.
Christien was taller and thinner, stringing out like a sapling, his moods bold and boisterous. Emlyn recalled that Guy had grown along the same pattern. Isobel was taller, too, though she would always be small like Emlyn. Her natural uncertainty was lessening, though she still relied on her brother’s lead. Harry was walking and running on sturdy legs, although it would be awhile yet before he wore breeches beneath his tunics.
The children were well cared for at Hawksmoor, as loved and cherished by the household as if they were the lord’s own. Much to her chagrin, her siblings had found exactly the kind of life she had meant to provide
for them herself. Removing them was no longer a question; they were happily settled as Nicholas’s wards. Emlyn knew that their welfare was assured.
Her status in the baron’s household was not so certain. With the chapel almost finished and her uncle gone, she had less reason to stay on as Dame Agnes. She kept to the nun’s disguise, though, since only Nicholas and her family knew she was Emlyn. Needing to be with the children, whose light, joyous energy helped her own somber feelings, she stayed silent.
Unsure of her status as Nicholas’s wife since their quarrel, she was not about to expose her identity yet. If Whitehawke found out that she was there, she feared what he might do in his son’s absence. Originally she had used the ruse to get into Hawksmoor to take the children; now, she clung to it as protection from Whitehawke.
Often, she lost sleep turning in her bed until the small hours, thinking about whether to stay or go, to trust Nicholas or remain wary, whether to approach him or wait for him to speak.
One night she dreamed of a hawk who had become trapped in the thorny tendrils of a flowering vine. In struggling to free itself, the hawk destroyed the pink roses and golden primroses that somehow had sprouted together from the vine. She had awoken from the dream with tears in her eyes, desperately wanting Thorne’s arms around her.
Cooler autumn weather changed the routines of summer. Because of the earlier darkness, Lady Julian relaxed more often her rule that dictated that the ladies should retire at sundown. Emlyn read or told stories to an increasing number of listeners, including the ladies, and servants and knights who lingered after supper to hear the tales she recited before a roaring fire in the hearth.
A small group of children, including Christien, Isobel, and a few of the knights’ sons, came to Emlyn each day for lessons in reading, writing, and a little mathematics. To her surprise, Harry showed an interest in books and letters, and she would give him a stick of chalk and a piece of slate while she taught the other children. But more often, Harry ran on straight chubby legs, chattering blithe half sentences as he roamed the keep and bailey with a maidservant in close pursuit.