The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  “Oh, God,” Emlyn whispered. “Is there no way to help him?”

  “Here,” Nicholas said, catching a small jar that Peter tossed to him. Prying loose the wax seal, Nicholas held the jar to Whitehawke’s lips and tipped a thick liquid into his mouth. The older man swallowed, coughed, and swallowed again.

  Tears heated Emlyn’s eyes to see such strength and fire brought down to such a state. She wondered if he would die. “My lord,” she said. “My lord, there is something you should know.”

  “What?” Nicholas said. She held up her hand to silence him.

  Whitehawke looked at her. “The Lady Blanche did not die of starvation,” she said to him. “I found a letter, my lord, in the tower. She was dosing herself for a heart illness. Lady Blanche planned to reconcile with you the next day, my lord. Either she took too much of the herb unwittingly, or her heart stopped.”

  Emlyn grasped his hand firmly in her own. “She did not mean to die, my lord. Neither did you kill her. Her heart was very weak, and she knew it. She wanted to live as long as she could.”

  “If ’tis true, sire, then you are free of the sin of her death,” Nicholas said quietly.

  Whitehawke drew a breath, a sibilant rustling noise, and looked at Nicholas grimly.

  Emlyn leaned forward. “My lord,” she whispered, “the lady wrote also that you have a son. He is a man of courage and purpose. A good man, my lord.”

  She raised her eyes to Nicholas. His gaze deepened with comprehension, and his cheeks suffused with a bright stain as he looked down at his father.

  Whitehawke coughed again, the wheezing burble softening. Grasping the prayerbook to his chest, he glanced at Nicholas and opened his mouth, then closed it again, stubbornly set.

  “I have often acted out of anger, my lord,” Nicholas murmured. “Aye, and without honor. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “My temper,” Whitehawke rasped. “You have my temper.”

  Emlyn brushed the pale hair back from the earl’s head with trembling fingers. The loud insistent whine that had sounded in his chest was fading. Whitehawke inhaled shakily.

  “The herbs are helping,” she said.

  “If he has the strength now, we should move him to a warmer place,” Nicholas said. “Peter! Arrange for a litter!”

  Whitehawke stirred. “Nay. I will not go on my back,” he barked hoarsely. “Get me to my horse.”

  “But my lord—” she protested.

  “Aye, my lord,” Nicholas said. Helping Whitehawke to sit, he boosted him to his feet. Wavering, the earl pushed Nicholas aside and made his way stiffly to his destrier. Two of his guards assisted him into the saddle.

  Once mounted, he glared down at Nicholas and Emlyn, who had moved to stand near his horse. A diluted ferociousness still gleamed in his pale blue eyes.

  Silently he offered the prayerbook to Emlyn. She took it, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. She was certain that the moment of gentling she had seen just now in the earl had been genuine. Whatever else happened once Whitehawke discovered the truth about the deed to the dale, she thought that some measure of peace could be established at last.

  “My lady,” Whitehawke said, “I have not shown you the courtesy you deserve. Accept my apologies.”

  “I will,” she said. “My lord, you are yet weak, and have need of a healer. And ’tis a long way to Graymere, with no roof for your head there.”

  “Go on to Hawksmoor,” Nicholas said quietly.

  Whitehawke looked at him. “You would welcome me there?”

  Nicholas passed his gloved hand along the stallion’s creamy neck. “I once told you that forgiveness was the part of valor I could not learn,” he said. “But my lady wife has tried, I think, to show me that family is one of our most valuable gifts. If we are fortunate enough to have such ties, they should be respected, my lord, not destroyed.”

  Emlyn looked up at Nicholas in wonder, and placed a hand on his arm. He covered her hand in his, looking at his father.

  “Your lady is loyal and strong-willed,” Whitehawke said gruffly. “Your mother was that, too, I see it now. Would that Blanche and I had not both been so stubborn. We destroyed each other.”

  “You are welcome at Hawksmoor, sire,” Nicholas said. “We have much to discuss, you and I, when you are recovered.”

  Whitehawke nodded. “I would see this letter, my lady.”

  “My lord,” she said softly, “you shall see it.”

  Whitehawke nodded and turned his horse, riding slowly toward Hawksmoor, followed quietly by his garrison.

  Nicholas took the book from Emlyn’s hand, flipping briefly through the pages. “I remember this little book, I think.”

  “She meant it for you,” she said. Nicholas glanced at her questioningly.

  “Lady Blanche left the deed to the dale in there.”

  He opened the cover quickly, snatching a glove off with his teeth, extracting the folded parchment and scanning it in the winter twilight.

  “The dale belongs to the monks, and to you and Lady Julian.”

  “I see so.” He refolded the page and slid it back into place. “ ’Tis best if the monks are given the entire parcel. I think Julian will agree.”

  Emlyn nodded. “She will be pleased. Nicholas, was it truly Aelric we saw today? What will become of the Green Man now?”

  “Aye, ’twas Aelric. He saved our lives, I trow, with his magic. And if my mother’s deed is legal and true, which it appears, there will be no more need for the Green Man, except on May Day to hand out sweetmeats.”

  Smiling at that, she turned her head to see Whitehawke riding far across the moor. She felt a twinging stab of sympathy for him, with his notion of honor fast crumbling. “I feared that your father might die without knowing the truth of Blanche, or of you,” she said. “Whatever else he has done, he greatly values that state of his soul.”

  “He is too fierce to die yet, though he has lost much honor of late. This morn he was mightily betrayed by the king he has loyally supported. If death were preferable, he would be gone now.” Nicholas ran his fingers through his tangled, wind-whipped hair, suddenly looking very tired. She leaned her forehead gently against his chest, and he stroked her hair.

  “Emlyn,” he said after a moment. “Was it you shot Chavant?”

  She nodded miserably. “Now I am the one who carries a terrible sin. I will never touch a bow again,” she said, her face muffled against his chest. “I only wanted to save you.”

  “Aye so, sweeting,” he said. “But look there.”

  She looked where he pointed, at two Hawksmoor guards kneeling beside Chavant’s body in the bracken. “Oh, God,” she choked, placing a hand over her eyes.

  “Emlyn,” Nicholas said insistently. “Look.”

  She opened her eyes. Chavant sat up, rubbing at his neck.

  Nicholas chuckled. “Your arrow just grazed him. He has a nasty cut on the side of his neck.”

  Emlyn stared, and breathed out in relief. “My aim is not so true, after all—thank God.”

  Nicholas wrapped his arms around her, the green cloak enveloping them both. He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “I would have it no other way,” he murmured, “for I, too, bear the scar of one of your wayward shots.”

  Emlyn made a soft sound, part sob and part laugh, and raised her head, watching as the guards helped Chavant to his feet. “What will happen to Chavant now? You will keep Hawksmoor, certes, but will your father rename you his heir?”

  “Chavant might stay with my father, or go to his own holding. Or he could ride with the king; I hear ’tis possible to gain quick wealth in John’s service these days.” Nicholas shrugged. “I care not who my father names his heir. Hugh is welcome to it. I have you, my lady, and Hawksmoor. I am content.”

  “Oh, Nicholas,” she breathed. A sudden rushing joy welled in the center of her body and set her heart to a quick, thumping beat. She wrapped her arms around his waist beneath the green cloak and hugged him. “I do so truly love you. I have
loved you for years, since I first sat in a tree with you. There is no hero in any tale of chivalry who can compare to you.”

  He laughed softly, hugging her, and was silent for a moment. “My dragon has been my own father. Honor thy father,” he mused. “I have not fared well with that, Emlyn. Pray God my father and I will come to understand each other in time. But the chance for honor there is lost, I fear.”

  “Nay,” she said. “ ’Tis not lost. Honor dwells in the heart. Yours is filled with courage, aye, and with love, would you but see it. Even for your father, my lord.”

  “You have taught a rebel a little notion of what makes true honor,” he murmured. “You, and your family that has become my own. Do you know that the children are finer than gold to me?”

  “ ’Twas a fortuitous assignment that the king gave you, those months ago, to seize babes for hostaging.”

  “Aye so. And you,” he tilted her chin with his finger and looked down at her. “You, my lady, are more precious than my own soul.” In his eyes, she saw a muted, beautiful gray-green, the blended colors of winter and spring. Then his lids drifted shut and he kissed her, as gently as the snowflakes that fell on their cheeks, his lips warm as sunlight.

  “Now, my lady wife, since our king still rides his terrible path up the length of England, will you go to safety at Evincourt?”

  She looked up at him. Not for a long, long while, would she endure another parting from this man. “Oh, aye, my lord,” she answered, “but only with you.”

  Epilogue

  October 1216

  “Hurry, Godwin, ye’ll never make it at that pace,” Tibbie gasped as she rushed ahead of him down the corridor. “My lady will not wait longer. Oh, dear saints, that it should come to this,” she muttered, her fingers flying in a rapid cross over her bosom. They hurried to join Nicholas, who stood outside the door to his bedchamber, tapping an impatient foot.

  “My lord, my lord,” Tibbie said breathlessly. “Yon Brother is arrived, finally.”

  “In here,” Nicholas directed, throwing open the door and stepping inside after them. As Tibbie pulled Godwin toward the bed, he fumbled for the small cross suspended from his belt.

  Emlyn reclined against several pillows, her face flushed brightly, her sweat-darkened hair wound in a thick, untidy braid. Breathing in a heavy, pronounced rhythm, she slid her hands in slow, deliberate strokes over the great mound of her belly, which was hidden beneath the rumpled red samite coverlet.

  Glancing up, she frowned. “By the rood, not more visitors,” she groaned. “Am I some mummer’s dancer, to be gawked at?”

  “Oh, dear,” Tibbie said, wringing her hands, “she is quite irritable. We’ve not got much time.”

  “Very little,” Maisry said as she came forward from a corner of the room carrying a stack of linen toweling. Setting the cloths down, she knelt beside the bed and began to trace gentle circles on Emlyn’s rounded, turgid belly. “Easy, my lady,” she murmured, “easy.”

  “Easy this is not,” Emlyn gasped. Her cheeks turned a ferocious red, nearly as deep as the coverlet, as she huffed out several breaths of air.

  Nicholas knelt beside Maisry and slipped his fingers into Emlyn’s. She grasped at his hand, squeezing so hard that his knuckles cracked audibly. “Not much longer, my love,” he said quietly, his palm damp next to hers.

  “Sod you,” Emlyn muttered, opening one eye.

  He shot a nervous glance at Maisry, who smiled brightly at him. He knew a wealth of reasons for her smile. Maisry had been delighted, months ago, to learn about Thorne’s identity and about his marriage to Emlyn. As for the rest of that smile, Nicholas thought, birthings please women mightily. His own nerves felt taut as catgut.

  When summoned at the start of Emlyn’s labor before dawn, Maisry had arrived as promptly as possible. Depositing her two sons to play with Christien and Harry, she had hurried to Emlyn’s side. Tibbie and Maisry had fallen in with each other like long-lost sisters.

  As Nicholas watched knowing glances pass between Tibbie and Maisry now, he suddenly wanted, quite desperately, to flee this roomful of chattering females. He thought enviously of Peter and Guy and Wat, who waited, anxious but comfortable, nursing goblets of ale in the great hall.

  Emlyn blew out a long breath. “I am sorry to be rude, Uncle,” she said, and then looked at Nicholas in alarm. “Why has Godwin come? Is aught wrong? The babe—”

  “The babe is fine and strong,” Maisry said. “As are ye.”

  “Yer husband wants to wed ye again before ’tis born, is all,” Tibbie said. “Ye both promised the Lady Julian, and since the excommunication has been lifted, she sent for Godwin, hoping to see ye wed before the babe came. I pray ’tis not too late.”

  “Wellaway, hurry, if you must,” Emlyn moaned.

  Cheeks flushed anxiously, Godwin stepped forward and quickly made the sign of the cross over Emlyn and then Nicholas. Drawing a deep, loud breath, Emlyn groaned, a long, guttural sound that sent shivers up Nicholas’s spine. When she grabbed his hand, he was amazed by the steely strength in her small fingers.

  “Get on with it, Brother,” Tibbie hissed. She bustled over to the side of the bed and slipped her hand under the covers, groping past Emlyn’s uplifted knees.

  “Tibbie,” Emlyn managed to gasp out indignantly, “I am being married!” Glancing up, Nicholas noticed the intense, sudden beauty that bloomed in Emlyn’s eyes, blue as a lake lapped with golden light. She crushed his fingers tightly and uttered another breathless moan.

  Tibbie, still groping, pursed her lips and nodded sagely. Then she withdrew her hand and wiped her fingers on a cloth.

  “Tip of the head,” she murmured to Maisry, who nodded and slipped her arms under Emlyn’s upper back.

  “Push,” Maisry said to Emlyn.

  “Beloved children,” Godwin began.

  “Aye, and bless us all,” Tibbie added, turning Godwin away from the bed. “She’ll have no breath to spare for yer wedding for yet a while, Brother,” she said as she drew him to the door. “Tell the Lady Julian that ye made yer attempt. I trow God will smile kind enough on their forest vows for now.”

  Shutting the door firmly in Godwin’s face, Tibbie turned to Nicholas. “Now, my lord,” she said, “ye’d better go. Yer looking a mite green. It do lend an odd color to yer eyes.”

  An hour later, Nicholas sat beside the bed, holding a small, squirming bundle uncertainly in his arms. Once again he looked at the tiny, perfect face of his daughter, and once again raised his eyes to Emlyn’s.

  She smiled, her face rosy and sheened with sweat, damp golden tendrils trailing along the sides of her face and neck. “Aye,” she said softly, “you are a father.”

  “She is a beauty,” he said, his voice reflecting only a part of the deep, complete wonderment he felt. Gently pushing back the silken wrapping, he gazed again at the wisps of pale, fluffed hair that fringed the diminutive head like an angel’s halo.

  “ ’Tis nearly white, her hair,” Emlyn said.

  “Aye so,” Nicholas agreed, covering the little head again. The babe squirmed and curled in his arms, and her slight, warm weight measured the deepest joy he had ever known. “And that should be her name, I think.”

  “Of course,” Emlyn murmured, placing her hand on Nicholas’s arm. “Blanche. ’Tis perfect for her.” She rubbed his arm thoughtfully. “Whitehawke—”

  “Will be pleased enough, I think,” he said. “He has softened like butter these months, my lady, under your attentions. I trow, he seems almost human at times.” He paused, frowning. “Emlyn, Godwin brought important news.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  “King John is gone.” He glanced at her. “He died of stomach pains, no more than a day or two past, near Lincoln. After losing, they say, most of his royal treasure in the Wellstream estuary, the Wash, near Swineshead Abbey.”

  “Jesu,” she whispered. “Mercy on his soul. Henry is king, then? He is hardly older than Christien.”

  “Nine years old, I t
hink. He will be crowned in a few days. Whitehawke has declared his support of the boy, as will most of the barons. William Marshal will be asked to regent until the boy is old enough to rule.”

  Emlyn looked up at Nicholas. Her eyes, bright with tears, glowed with the inner joy of the tiny blessing that lay mewling in Nicholas’s arms, and with something more, a glistening hope.

  “England, at last, has its chance to begin anew,” she said.

  “Aye so, my love,” he murmured, reaching over to cover her hand with his. The babe kicked against his chest through the soft wrapping, and he smiled. Bending forward slightly, he kissed Emlyn’s brow, then drifted his lips toward her mouth.

  “As do we all begin anew,” he whispered.

  The Black Thorne’s Rose

  © 1994 Susan King

  ISBN: 0451405447

  TOPAZ

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