Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  Satan’s balls. What kind of twisted mind killed innocent people to start a war?

  At last he worked his way to the kitchen house and stepped inside. A fur ball attacked his ankle, and Missy dashed over. “No, Dammit. You’ll get stomped.” She looked up then, her mouth in a small O. With the aplomb of a five-year-old, she nodded. “You’re back. Good thing. They’re not being nice to our lady.”

  Giles moved the girl and her kitten deeper into the kitchen. When Cook noticed him, she raised her brows. He’d not seen her before, but it was apparent she knew his identity.

  “Is there a place I can stay, out of everyone’s way?”

  The tiny crone motioned him over, finger against her lips. She pushed open a door to a storage room and nodded inside. When Giles hugged her, she swiped her ladle at him. Throwing her a wink, he ducked outside again and headed for the kitchen entrance to the keep, where servants carried in food for the meals.

  In the crowded great hall, he stood against the back wall. Sir Garley sat in the lord’s chair. So the Langley contingent had arrived. At least Emelin was out of the way. She’d be at her brother’s mercy otherwise.

  Sir Daviess was nowhere to be seen, nor did Giles see other familiar faces. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be recognized, however. Edging along the wall, he at last arrived at the stairs to the upper floors. With a quick glance to make sure no one watched, he dashed up and ducked into the first bedchamber. Lady Clysta sat on a bench clasping her husband’s hand. Sir Daviess’ head drooped against the wall behind them. A lighted brazier sat nearby. When she looked up, the trails made by her tears reflected in the light of the coals.

  “Is he well?” Giles dropped to a knee.

  “He’s retreated again.” Her voice broke. “This time, he just sits. He doesn’t know me.”

  “Sir Daviess,” Giles commanded in a low, firm voice. “Open your eyes. Your lady is worried.”

  A moment later the wrinkled lids flickered, opened. “Mangan? Are you home, my boy?”

  Lady Clysta sobbed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sir Daviess’ voice was hopeful as he grasped Giles’ arm. Before Giles could answer, the old man seemed to shrink. “No. Not Mangan.” He looked at his wife. “Mangan’s gone, isn’t he, my dear?”

  Lady Clysta squeezed his hand.

  “Where’s Sir Thomas?” Giles asked.

  “I believe he’s directing the guard.” She drew a quivering breath. “Those men below. I’m afraid they mean harm. They forced us up here. The leader said it was for our safety, from all the rough men-at-arms who’d descended.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “But I can’t understand why they are here. We gave what we could to his cause, and we allowed our men to go with him. Why does he punish us?” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Surprising himself, Giles awkwardly slid his arm around the plump, motherly shoulders and hugged.

  A sudden sound of shouts exploded from the hall, and Giles was at the bedchamber’s closed door in an instant.

  “Bar this behind me,” he cautioned as he slipped out. “Don’t open unless you know who it is.” He heard, “Wait I must tell you,” but he had no time to listen.

  Below, soldiers surged into the already packed chamber, and he joined the rowdy crowd without notice. The men parted as a richly dressed knight crossed the floor. Emelin’s brother rose.

  “Lord Paxton,” he called.

  So that was the infamous “king’s man.” Slightly above medium height, he wore a short pointed beard and thin moustache. Crafty, the way his eyes moved. His head was cocked to the side: overconfident. Men like him thought everyone else inferior. And that could prove Lord Paxton’s flaw. For Giles knew no matter how good a fighter, someone was always better.

  Lord Paxton ignored the greeting and strode past the table on the dais, toward the steps to the upper floor. Garley scrambled in his wake, motioning to his own second in command.

  Giles needed to follow, but too much attention focused on the stairs. He slid onto a bench at a table along the outer edge of the hall where several men-at-arms guzzled ale. The others ignored him while they placed crude bets on which of the willing maids they’d bed first.

  He slumped over a half-full cup until the noise in the hall returned to a frantic pitch. Easing away from the table proved to be a simple matter then, and he lost himself in the shadows against the back wall. After a last, quick glance at the room to make certain no one watched, he eased up the stairs.

  Where did they meet? With the lord and lady occupying the first bedchamber, Giles made for the solar. Light seeped from beneath the door. Shifting closer, he heard murmurs. Blessing the overconfidence that refused to post guards, he tested the door. Not barred. He eased the edge away from the rough casing. Just a tiny bit more and he could make out the words.

  The sound of footsteps alerted him to company, and he slipped into the corridor’s darkness. A figure fumbled at the door, pushed it open. The dim light showed a travel-worn man wearing a dark tunic and peasant cloak. The stench of the newcomer reached him as the man stumbled in, leaving the door ajar.

  “Done, m’lord. MacAuley’s gathering a force at the Border now. He says to tell you he’s sent word to King William.” The man’s voice gave him away. French.

  “Well done, Jean-Luc. Find Sir Justus and tell him to ready the men. And for God’s sake, clean up or you’ll sleep with the pigs tonight.”

  Laughter followed Jean-Luc as he turned. Giles again slid into the shadows. The man failed to secure the door, and the boisterous voices were clear.

  “We can move as soon as Langley arrives.” That must be Paxton. “Did you ever locate the mercenary who made off with your sister?”

  Giles held his breath.

  “No. He’s disappeared. My men searched every corner of every chamber. The old lady insists he left shortly after Emelin. Several of the people said the same. He came in sorely wounded, but now he’s gone.”

  Paxton muttered a curse. “Six damned good men I lost to that bastard knight. When King Philip eliminates Richard’s forces, I personally want the pleasure of gutting Giles of Cambrai. Silverhawk.” He snorted.

  “What’s he done to you?” Sir Garley’s voice was slurred.

  Paxton ignored the question. “Get out. I want to sleep now. You find your bed, too. We’ve a long trip tomorrow, and I want every head clear.”

  Once the room emptied, Giles made his way from the shadows and out of the keep. Nothing more could be done tonight, and he needed sleep as well. The lack of rest in the past days had caught up with him. In the kitchen, he sought the storage room and blocked the door behind him with a bag of flour.

  He stifled a groan as he unclasped his rope belt and loosened his tunic. Until now he’d managed to ignore his side, but the damned thing itched. Rubbing it absently, he dragged three other sacks around to form a bed. Paxton was right. Tomorrow was going to be a damned long day.

  The moment his eyes closed, the image of Emelin flashed in his mind. How he longed to storm into the hall and end this now. Eliminate Garley and Paxton. That might solve Emelin’s problem, but not England’s. Unless he discovered the power behind Paxton, eliminating one traitor simply meant another to replace him.

  Let her bide in peace with the nuns in Lincoln while the battles played out here. Once the fighting ended, he’d go to her.

  Send her word, is what he meant. He dared not see her again, because he didn’t trust himself. He wanted her but could offer her nothing.

  With the inheritance and her freedom from the betrothal, she could find another man to wed. A worthy one not weighed down with guilt and sin and sorrow. One who could offer her the good, safe home she deserved. She deserved the best, a lord who would cherish her warm, loving nature.

  He tried to banish the memory of her soft, seeking lips. Her vital body warm against his.

  He shuddered. Now was not the time to indulge in fanciful thoughts. He had to find proof
of Lord Paxton’s treason. And he sure as hell couldn’t do his job with a cock stand.

  It seemed his eyes had just drifted shut when a clatter snapped him awake. Cook must be up and around. Was it morning already? A scratch at the door had him on his feet.

  “Sir Giles?” Missy. He opened the door. “Davy says to tell you Lord Osbert’s comin’ and you won’t like who’s with him. Davy’s at the gate.”

  “Wait, Missy. Can you get a message to Will?”

  Her eyes grew round. “He’s hidin’,” she whispered, “’cause he saw one of the men who hurted him.”

  “Then tell him to stay out of sight. I’ll talk with him later. His story is important to the king.”

  Luck held as he made his way to the gates. With the different garrisons represented, no one noticed another unfamiliar face. Davy left his place lounging along the wall and dashed up when he saw Giles.

  “A Langley guard got ’ere not long after dawn.” The lad spun to present his back to a pair of men-at-arms walking past. “Sir Garley’s men,” he whispered. “They might ’member me from Langley.” When they were out of earshot, he continued. “Sir Thomas says Lord Osbert’ll be ’ere by midday. ’N you won’t like who’s with ’im. Lady Emelin. That Sir Garley found ’er on ’is way to Granville and sent ’er and the sister back to Langley. Now they’re all coming here.”

  The bitter taste of gall washed up Giles’ throat, accompanied by the throb of blood at his temples. He remembered the pulse of fear. He’d felt it twice before—both times Emelin had been in danger. Now, again. Every time he tried to guarantee her safety, the effort failed.

  Giles didn’t like failure. He didn’t accept defeat.

  And now she rode into danger again.

  Any plan to confront the traitor must wait until Emelin was safe. With her at Granville, he had no choice but to take care of Garley and Osbert first. The two men challenged her very life. Giles would protect her, even if it meant Lord Paxton moved his army north.

  Before she arrived, he had to warn Lord Roark of Paxton’s arrival. “Davy, I have a task for you in the village. I want you to set a very special fire.”

  After instructing the boy about lighting the signal, Giles sought Sir Thomas. “See if you can get Lady Emelin confined with Lady Clysta,” he told Granville’s captain. “She’s in danger.”

  Not long before the midday meal, Lord Osbert and his troops came into view. Beside him rode not one, but two females. Emelin and Sister Ressa. When the party arrived, Sir Thomas conferred with Lord Osbert, then dispatched two guards to escort the ladies inside.

  Giles found a spot to wait near the kitchen. The crowd in the bailey had thinned; many soldiers camped outside the walls now that the last of the troops had arrived.

  Missy popped out of the door, a grave look on her smudged face. “Cook says as how you should make yourself useful. C’mon.”

  Giles followed her inside where Cook handed him a different tattered tunic. “I need more hands.” She gave a quick blink of an eyelid. “Here put this on and take some food to the lord and lady. They must eat, too.” After he pulled on the rough wool garment, she shoved a loaded tray at him. Enough food to feed a small army.

  “And keep your head down, boy,” she whispered on his way out. “Them eyes’ll give you away, sure.” He ducked and hunched forward.

  No one gave the slump-shouldered servant a second look as he made his way through the hall and up the stairs. But only Sister Ressa sat with the lord and lady of Granville.

  “Where’s Lady Emelin?” he demanded the moment he set down the tray.

  “I don’t know,” the nun replied. “They led me here, then her brother took her away.”

  “Do you know where?” he asked Lady Clysta.

  “The only place unoccupied was the small chamber you used.”

  Even his disguise wouldn’t offer protection if he were discovered on the third level. Still, he grabbed a bowl of stew and set out. Sure enough, a guard lounged outside the tiny storeroom.

  Giles held out the bowl and pointed to the door. “T’ lord told me t’ feed ’er.” His accent was heavy, and he mispronounced enough of the words to gain a grumbled, “Stupid English. Learn to speak the language of your betters.” But the man stepped aside, and Giles ducked through the doorway.

  ****

  Emelin stood by the opposite wall. The smell of the stew turned her stomach. “I’m not hungry,” she said. “Take it back.”

  “No, milady. I’ll just set it here.”

  The sound of the voice sent a chill along her arms. She turned. The servant set the bowl on the low table beside the sputtering stub and raised a finger to his lips. Giles. Eyes wide, she came into his open arms.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered just before his mouth closed on hers.

  After a moment, he pulled away. “Not your fault,” he murmured, brushing a stray wisp from her forehead. “But we must get you away from harm.”

  Emelin shook her head. “It is my fault. Lord Osbert sent me back to St. Ursula, but I wanted to warn Lord Henry what was happening. So I…”

  “…slipped away,” Giles finished the sentence, his lips near her ear. He wisely refrained from adding “again.”

  She nodded. “But I took the wrong road and came upon Langley’s troops. He brought me along, then, for Garley to deal with.” She tightened her hold around Giles’ waist and snuggled her head against his shoulder. The situation was filled with danger, but in Giles’ arms she felt safe.

  “Are you all right?” His big, beautiful, callused hands rubbed the knots from her shoulders, caressed her back.

  “Yes.” Her whispered words fell against his neck and he shivered. His embrace tightened.

  “But why are you still here?” she murmured. “I thought you must be leagues away by now.” She stretched up to brush a kiss along his jaw. “You must be careful. If you are discovered, who knows what might happen.”

  He hugged her once more. “And you stay safe until I know their plans.”

  As if she would leave him again. She’d learned her lesson.

  “I’ll send a guard to relieve the one outside,” he whispered. “Now I must go before he becomes suspicious.” His lips brushed her ear. “Don’t go anywhere.” She shivered from the contact. With a wink, he kissed the tip of her nose, then slipped out the door.

  How did he manage that? With a slump of the shoulders and a light shuffle, he became the servant again. Emelin shook her head in the silence of the dim room. Now that she knew Giles had not left Granville, she felt safe.

  Foolish of her to do so, especially with Garley in the temper he demonstrated earlier. She rubbed her cheek where the blow had landed. But she never doubted Giles had a way to free them both. She pressed a fist against her stomach in attempt to still the army of tiny drums beating there.

  ****

  Giles blended into the crowd of soldiers by keeping his head down and eyes lowered as he searched for Sir Thomas. He needed the captain to replace the guard outside Emelin’s door with one of his own. Giles checked several other locations, but found no Sir Thomas. In fact, at every turn he ran into Paxton’s men.

  These were handpicked soldiers, all with the accent of France or Brittany on their tongues. The hum in his veins ramped up; something wasn’t right.

  At last he saw Davy pop up among the mass of men. Giving a furtive wave, the young squire caught his attention, and he changed direction. He ducked inside the kitchen house and followed Davy into the storage room.

  “I gathered the pile of brush and Ran’l will see to setting it,” the lad reported. “But there’s worse, m’lord. Sir Thomas and the other Granville men’ve been locked up.”

  Giles wasn’t surprised at the information. “Where’s the dungeon?”

  “No dungeon ’ere. They been put up ’igh in the guard tower. Nobody’s supposed to know.” Davy flashed a cocky grin. “But nobody pays attention to a stable ’and. ’Sides Missy’s right ’andy with ’er ears.”


  Only one reason for Granville’s soldiers to be rounded up. Paxton planned to assume control here. Damn. Sometimes he hated to be right. “Can you get back to the village?”

  Davy hiked his brows; he didn’t bother to answer.

  Giles nodded. “Well, then. Tell Ran’l to stay there until I send for him. I’ll talk to Sir Daviess.”

  The hall was empty but for servants preparing the tables. No guard stood at the bedchamber door. Strange that all the men around earlier had disappeared. A shrill warning kicked up in his head and he paused. Turned. The thought of a frightened Emelin made him turn back. No time to explore his over-cautious nature. He pushed open the door.

  He wasn’t even surprised when Lord Paxton met him with a drawn sword and a sneer.

  “Welcome, Giles of Cambrai.” One side of Paxton’s mouth curled into his moustache. “I never imagined the notorious Silverhawk would allow himself to be caught in such a simple trap.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hand still behind him, Giles shoved the door open and dashed out. The surprised Paxton shouted commands, then raced down the corridor after him. As Giles leaped from the bottom step, a sword blade whizzed past his ear.

  God be blessed, the hall was still empty of soldiers. Giles managed a sprint through the midst of surprised servants. A savage curse, a whining “mewl” followed by a thud brought a quick glance over his shoulder. Paxton had managed to stumble. But the maids weren’t clustered at his side, they were gathered around a small, weeping girl.

  Giles halted in mid-step. Surely the devil hadn’t struck a child. The image in the hall connected in his mind: The little girl was Missy, who clutched her kitten. Roaring, Paxton charged toward him, and Giles dashed into action again just a few lengths ahead of his pursuers.

  Outside he maneuvered himself into a clot of villagers wending across the bailey, their wagons loaded with goods for delivery. Giles ducked around one cart piled with flour, stopped outside the kitchen.