by Susan King
“The York monks paid no taxes for years,” Whitehawke snapped. “King John ordered their flocks be removed from the forests. I merely aided in the execution of those orders!”
“The king gave free rein to his sheriffs to search out the monks’ flocks, and harry the farmers who tended them,” Nicholas said. “You took to those orders like a starving dog to meat.”
“I had reason to pursue those monks. That land was part of Blanche’s dowry,” Whitehawke said. “It is mine now!”
“Why, then, have the courts never produced the documents to support your claim?” Nicholas countered. “Were that land owned by another baron, you would have had a war to fight. But monks can do naught against sacking and burning, and the theft of their profits. So I chose to help them.”
“You had no right! The monks should have given up the land years ago,” Whitehawke growled. “You were once persistent in your efforts to stop me. Then we heard of your death.”
“The first time your men captured the flocks and the wagon loads of fleeces on the way to market, so that you could sell them as your own—that, my lord, was the year I began my forays into the wood. Soon I had several good men with me from the farms and villages around. We destroyed your supply wagons when we could. What profits we could steal back were distributed among the villagers, and the rest was given to the monasteries in your name.”
“My guards had you in their grasp once, but you escaped.”
“Aided by a demon wolf,” Chavant said from behind Whitehawke.
Nicholas smiled thinly. “Baron de Ashbourne heard that the Black Thorne had been captured and was being taken south to Windsor, to the king’s justice. He sent his own captain of the guard, Sir Walter de Lyddell, my lord”—he tilted his head toward Whitehawke, knowing he would recognize the name—“to free me.” His smile grew into a grin, lopsided and very painful. “The baron’s son and daughter helped, and their white hound as well. ’Twas where I first saw Emlyn. I offered to the baron for her hand because of that night.”
“Good Christ. I am surrounded by traitors,” Whitehawke said in disgust.
“Beneath your very nose, my lord,” Nicholas agreed.
Whitehawke stepped closer, and Nicholas could smell foul breath and hear the faint airy whine of his father’s breathing. “You seemed to have conceived a fierce attachment to these villeins,” Whitehawke spit out. “What, then, do you know of this Green Man?”
“I know, my lord,” he said slowly, “that the Green Man would take your soul to hell the moment you laid a hand on him.”
Growing pale, Whitehawke backed away. “Your actions are a travesty of honor.”
“Ah,” Nicholas said. “Here, then, is the proof of our shared blood. There is no honor in the father, and none in the son.”
“Enough!” Whitehawke yelled, his cheeks reddening. “I live by a code of honor you young curs do not understand! And by God, I will soon have Hawksmoor to my own! That land was a part of Blanche’s property settlement, and was meant to go to my legitimate issue. Which you, most likely, are not.”
“Try to gain my land, my lord,” Nicholas said quietly, “and see what loyalty a son has for a father.”
“I have already seen your loyalty. Son of my body or not, I gave you a name and saw that you were reared as a knight. I allowed you to take your mother’s inheritance. But now that you have been disowned, you will hold naught through me!”
Behind his back, Nicholas fisted his fingers in mounting anger. The urge to burst his bonds and throttle his father now, this moment, was so strong that he broke out in a misted sweat. “Hawksmoor is rightfully mine through my mother. Touch it, and I will have cause to kill you.”
“We will let the king decide what to do with you. He may solve all of our difficulties.” Whitehawke shook his head, his breath loud and wheezy. “Bah. I should have murdered you, her spawn. Then you would not have lived to betray me so.”
Flaring his nostrils, Nicholas drew in a slow breath, mustering the control he needed. He could feel his cheeks burning, flushed bright. “Julian swears that my mother had no lover. And I was near seven when you murdered Blanche for adultery. How is it you can insist that you did not father me?”
Whitehawke shot him a hard look, but paced away and back again. “Women are temptresses by nature, so the Patriarchs teach us. Even a married woman cannot be trusted alone with a man. Before you were born, I was gone for over two months with King Henry. When I returned, your mother had a courteous friendship, she called it, with a young baron. I accused her then of adultery, and she denied it. I chose to believe her.” Nicholas waited, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. Though he had asked, he did not want to hear of the hate and anger between his parents. He felt slightly sick.
“Blanche was with child,” Whitehawke continued. “She said she discovered it while I was gone. But when you were born, I counted back the months. Likely not mine, I said, though the midwife claimed the child was born well before his time.” He shrugged. “But I had reason to doubt your mother’s word.”
Nicholas remembered hearing how tiny and weak he had been at birth, not expected to live because he was born too soon. He looked away for a moment, listening to the ragged whine of Whitehawke’s breath.
“Several times over several years, I found her with this man,” the earl continued. “Talking only, singing some, but I suspected falsity. Years she maintained this friendship, even after the man wed another. Finally, I could stand no more insult.” He whirled to face Nicholas. “I challenged him, won the tourney, and locked her up.” Nicholas remained silent in a kind of fascination, wanting him to stop, and wanting him to go on.
“She was held in her favorite chamber—no hardship there. I simply wanted her to admit her wrong. I would have sent her to a nunnery. I might even have forgiven her, had she asked. She did naught but return silence to me, and refuse most of the food that was brought to her, eating less and less. Then, after a few weeks, she asked for a priest, though she would not speak to me. Her stubbornness enraged me. I ordered no more food sent, no visitors, until she begged my forgiveness.”
“Did she beg?” Nicholas asked dully, lowering his head, his hair swinging down to shield him.
“I went to the chamber after a week.” He paused for a long moment. “She was dead.”
Nicholas felt exhausted. He wanted suddenly to drop his eyelids and sleep a very, very long time. His father had starved his mother to death, and he was the product of that cursed union.
Somehow he knew that he was Whitehawke’s son, knew it with every bone and fiber in his body. Honor had always been his most tortured struggle. Tainted blood told in time.
* * *
Emlyn sipped the hot drink, feeling its heat run down into her empty stomach. Holding the small wooden bowl in the palms of her hands, she glanced around the chamber. Another moment, and she would get back to work; for now, she wanted to enjoy her resourcefulness. She had started a fire in the little hearth using the torch that Whitehawke had left; she had found something to assuage her painfully empty stomach; and if she had not yet opened the lock, she was at least working toward that end.
The results of her productive day showed in the chaos of the chamber. As morning light grew into midday, Emlyn had dumped out the contents of two wooden chests and a few small coffers, looking for any sharp tool that could break the lock.
Blanche’s possessions had been stored here, since this had been her private chamber. Clothing of all kinds, woolen kirtles and silk gowns, chemises, veils, hosen, littered the floor. Stacked and tumbled nearby were small carved-ivory boxes; shoes, silver belts and buckles; gold and silver brooches and an amber rosary; three books, a psalter, an herbal and a bestiary, all beautifully illuminated; several candles; and a leather case containing quills and a ram’s horn, its ink dried to powder.
One lead coffer had contained several painted earthenware jars stoppered with wax over cork, each carefully labeled in painted letters and symbols. Curious, Emlyn
had pried open a few seals and found dried herbs, still potent by their fragrances: chamomile, mint, and rosemary; fennel, rosehips, and bramble leaves; baneberry root for lung ailments, and willow bark and meadowsweet for pain; hawthorn and foxglove, both powerful and poisonous.
Earlier, Emlyn had collected falling snow in a small brass jug. After a while, she had enough to melt for drinking. The henap served as a pot for the fire, and she sprinkled mint leaves and rosehips into the heated water, knowing that the chamomile would only increase her thirst. Removing the hot jug with a cloth, she had been well pleased with her ingenuity.
The steaming infusion was enormously comforting. She sipped at it and watched the low fire. Lady Blanche’s embroidery frame had burned down already, followed by the legs of a little wooden stool that she had pulled apart. With whispered apologies to the spirit of Lady Blanche, Emlyn had tossed in carved boxwood combs and two distaff rods for spinning, a twig basket, and a pair of wooden clogs. Wooden bowls lay stacked with other items that looked as if they might burn well.
With light and warmth and drink, she felt calmer and thought more clearly. So far, her captivity had been spent in greater physical ease than Whitehawke had obviously intended for her. She refused to think what it would be like once her few luxuries ran out. By then, she would have escaped, she thought firmly.
But the lock still held. A pair of scissors, an iron-pronged candlestick, a lead belt buckle had all been tried to no avail. She had gouged and scraped without result.
Tearing apart the contents of the room had proven a good antidote for too much time. Engaged in rummaging, with constant apologies to Lady Blanche for overt curiosity, Emlyn had examined the books and admired the jewels and other fine things. Expecting some response to the tendrils of smoke wafting from one of the old keep’s chimneys, she had heard no footsteps on the stairs.
From the narrow arrow slit, she had watched as servants cleared the snow with shovels and brooms, while soldiers passed back and forth continually. High above a castle full of activity, she felt a strange sense of isolation.
Setting down her bowl, she went to the wooden chest beside the bed, meaning to replace Blanche’s things, and to sift through them once again, in case she had missed some useful implement.
As she lifted the awkwardly heavy lid, it slipped from her hands to fall against the wall, which was covered by a wide embroidered hanging. The lid pushed against free-floating linen.
Puzzled, Emlyn stood and peeked around the edge of the fabric. Where she had expected to see solid wall, she found a tunnel-like space, dark and cold. Excited, she grabbed up a lit candle, then lifted the heavy embroidered curtain and stepped into the dank, musty interior.
Damp chill, and a faint unpleasant odor, permeated the enclosed space. The uneven surface of the stone wall was slick with frozen moisture. Shivering, Emlyn felt her way forward and followed the turn to the left.
Since the tower chamber had once been a private room for Lady Blanche, it did not surprise Emlyn to find that it was fitted with a privy. At the end of the angle, a wooden seat with a round hole in it was placed over a narrow opening. A small window spilled a thin beam of light across the plank. Fresh, cold air swirled through the tunnel.
Emlyn set her candle in a little niche, where the melted wax from long-ago candles had formed a high, hard relief. Climbing up on the seat to peer out the window, she saw another angle of the bailey.
The blacksmith’s thatched open-sided building, brightly lit, reverberated with the clang of iron tools. Two large siege engines, freshly brushed of snow, stood outside, and just beyond was the long, large stable, where the yard was thick with soldiers. She heard the chapel bells ring out the hour of nones, sweet and clear. With the bailey so close, and yet so far, she felt like crying from sheer frustration.
Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she prayed fervently: Dear God, please, please help me. Nicholas is still alive, I feel it. I have to be with him and the children.
Opening her eyes, she scrutinized the window. Merely a gap left unfilled between two stones, the space was hardly wide enough to admit an arm or a head. Had it been large enough, she would have attempted to climb out. She had heard of many such escapes, in stories and in fact. The privy disappointingly yielded nothing for her until she needed its services. Sighing, she turned away and stepped down from the planked seat.
Remembering the candle, she reached up to the niche, and her fingertips grazed the smooth wax. The candle fell off the stone shelf, hit the seat and rolled into the privy hole.
Emlyn peered into the hole as the flame flickered and went out. She heard a bouncing, tapping echo all the way down.
She stared into the black chute for a long time.
There was a way out of the tower after all.
Be careful how ye pray, Tibbie had always said; ye might get yer wish. Emlyn paced back and forth in front of the hearth in agitation. Her prayers had been answered, but she was not certain she liked the solution.
Privies, she knew, were basically long shafts that led to cesspits below a building. Sometimes the shafts were built on a slant, as at Ashbourne, connecting to privies on other levels in the building, all feeding downward. Others were simple and straight. At Ashbourne and Hawksmoor, as at most castles, leftover washwater was dumped regularly to keep the shafts clean. Workmen were hired to clean out the cesspits, and the exorbitant fee they demanded was always paid.
With relief, Emlyn realized that the cesspit for this keep would be clear, since the building was used only for storage now. Besides, anything disagreeable would be covered with snow.
Before the tumbling candle flame had gone out, she had glimpsed the chute, which appeared to be barely wider than her shoulders and a straight drop. She was small and slender and could probably squeeze down along its whole length.
“Gaillard,” she muttered to herself, twisting her fingers anxiously as she walked to and fro. “They did it at Chateau Gaillard. And they were armored men, much larger than I am.” She remembered hearing a story of the conquest of King Richard’s impenetrable fortress, Chateau Gaillard, in France, which was lost when a group of French knights entered via the privy shafts. That clever infiltration began the downfall of one of the finest castles ever built.
Emlyn whirled around the room. Better the privy shaft than starvation here, she told herself. Better the privy shaft than lose the chance of finding Nicholas and the children.
She went over to the pile of clothing in the middle of the room and began to sift through the tumble. Refusing to dwell on the more frightening aspects of her plan, she concentrated firmly on what she must do to get out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Greetings, Baron de Hawkwood,” the king said as he crossed the room. Whitehawke and Chavant followed with ten or twelve soldiers. Someone kicked the door shut.
“My liege,” Nicholas said. Standing with the ropes still tied around his ankles, he worked the muscles of his feet and legs to keep an upright balance, and looked down at the king.
Shrewd, round dark eyes regarded him. A full head shorter than Nicholas, King John had short-trimmed auburn hair, a square jaw made more angular by a neat, close beard, and a powerful trunk with wiry, strong limbs. Nicholas was reminded of a monkey he had once seen, cunning, watchful, and nervous.
“We have heard from Lord Whitehawke of your indiscretions. We find them curious indeed.” The king turned to Whitehawke and grinned. “Your pup gives you much trouble, by God. Not properly heeled, eh?” Whitehawke returned a stone cold look, but John seemed unperturbed. He looked at Nicholas. “Do you admit to being this renegade called the Black Thorne?”
“I do, my liege.”
“And may we count you among those northern barons who have crossed with us?”
“You may, sire.” Nicholas regarded him steadily.
“Then you have two crimes against you. But our displeasure can be rectified, at least in part.”
“My liege?” Nicholas knew what was hinted.
/> “A token of your good intentions would be welcomed.” The king tipped his head slightly, touching his fingertips together.
“Sire,” Nicholas said, “as you are no doubt aware, I am in jeopardy of my life at this moment. Imprisoned, you understand.”
“Aye?” The king looked puzzled.
“Sire, my pockets are empty,” Nicholas said, shrugging.
John threw back his head and laughed. “A man who attacks his own father is either without sense, or brave beyond measure. And since your sire is Whitehawke”—-he lifted his shoulders eloquently—“you are undoubtedly brave. In recognition, then, we will offer you a choice—will you be executed as an outlaw, or for high treason as a rebel?”
“An outlaw, sire.” A hope glimmered in Nicholas’s mind.
“Very well. So be it.”
“My lord king,” Nicholas said. The king raised his eyebrows. “There is a law, my liege, regarding any outlaw who evades capture for at least a year and a day.”
John frowned. “God’s bones, so there is. An obscure law made by the Conqueror decrees that such a man shall be pardoned forever.” He glanced at Whitehawke. “How much time has passed since the first time you captured this man?”
Whitehawke ground his teeth. “Eight years, my liege.”
John’s delighted grin hooked his brows into a demonic angle. “By God, Whitehawke, this is better than any mummer’s diversion you might have arranged for our snowbound sojourn here. Because we so enjoy a jest, we will go along with the play.” Smirking, he turned to Nicholas. “Very well, then, de Hawkwood—we pardon you of your crimes as a forest outlaw.”