Laird of the Wind (49 page)

England

April, 1215

A trick of the wind took her last arrow. Released from the bowstring and caught on a breeze, the shaft traced a high arc and flew past its target. As it disappeared into a stand of leafy trees near the forest path, Emlyn de Ashbourne sighed and shouldered her bow. Drawing her green cloak close against the chill, she pulled up her hood to cover her flaxen braids and set off toward the path.

Several of her practice shots had gone awry today, more from inexperience than breezes. There were only four gray-feathered arrows left in the leather quiver suspended from her belt, of the dozen she had taken with her. She had best retrieve them if she wanted to continue shooting.

Emlyn moved quickly beneath the thick forest canopy, surrounded by the rustle of leaves in the spring air and sunshine. She was glad that she took the risk that day of slipping out to the greenwood after these months of stale confinement.

But in a forest near here, last autumn, her brother Guy, baron of Ashbourne, had been arrested by King John's men. Cautioned by the castle seneschal who feared for their safety, Emlyn and her three younger siblings had not gone beyond the walls of Ashbourne Castle all winter. Even now, no one knew where Guy was kept, or whether he remained alive.

Archery, which her brother Guy had begun to teach her before his capture, had been forgotten until this afternoon. Emlyn had not fared well, her stance and pull stiff, her fingers like wood on the waxed hempen string. Today, with no intention to hunt, she had come here hoping to practice in the open.

Not accurate enough with the short lady's bow to bring down small swift animals or birds—though God knew any game was needed at Ashbourne these days—she nevertheless had been intrigued since childhood by the weapon's graceful speed and the challenging skill it demanded. Target shooting in the bailey always drew Emlyn to loudly cheer the men as they aimed at bales of hay, and at straw effigies dressed to resemble French soldiers or, lately, King John.

Glancing around for her lost arrow as she walked, Emlyn neared the forest path, where the dense tree cover began to thin. Startled by a sudden metallic jingling sound, she quickly hid behind a broad oak, her heart pounding.

"By God's feet and bones!" The angry oath, spoken in a male voice, carried in the clear air. Emlyn set down her bow and cautiously peered out.

A few yards away on the path, a man in full chain mail armor sat upon a large black warhorse, angled away from her. The graceful curves of the man's voluminous blue cloak covered the animal's hindquarters. From the high saddle cantle hung a white shield with a painted design.

While the green and white device of a hawk and a branch was unfamiliar to her, Emlyn knew that such a shield, together with the fine horse trappings, could only belong to a knight of rank. He might be a king's man, she realized. Wat had warned her of such danger in the forest. She ducked out of sight.

The horse slowly circled on the path. Emlyn wondered why the knight seemed wary, his sword drawn and held ready. The forest silence was punctuated by the footfalls of the horse, the jingle of armor, and an occasional burst of curses.

Alarmed, thinking there were others nearby, she was anxious to retreat into deeper cover, and took a step back. Underfoot a dry branch snapped loudly.

Immediately, the knight turned his head and saw her between the trees. He spun the great black stallion and launched forward. "You there! Hold!" he roared.

Emlyn stopped. He reined in the huge horse at the path edge, a few paces in front of her. She looked up at the destrier's great dark head, then across the expanse of its powerful chest and shoulders, to the long mail-encased leg of the knight.

And saw her missing arrow protruding from his thigh.

She stared at the quivering shaft as it stuck out at an awkward angle from his upper leg. Sticky blood had painted a circle of deep carmine around the embedded point. Her eyes rose in slow agony to the knight's face.

Beneath dark, straight brows, his eyes blazed with the same steely glint as his armor. "Come out of the wood," he ordered, his deep voice reverberating in the crisp air.

Emlyn stared at the arrow in a panicked haze. Taking a breath, she stepped toward the horse, her heart racing. The knight towered above her as she stood there.

He shoved his sword back into its scabbard. "Maiden, I must remove this bolt from my leg. I will require your aid."

Aid, not reprimand? She looked up in surprise. Framed by his chain mail hood, his features were well shaped, though grim and hard beneath dark stubble. He lifted a brow expectantly.

"Aye," she said, "but I cannot reach it from down here."

"My armor is heavy," he replied sternly. "If I dismount I will not easily get up again with an injured leg. Remove the weapon you shall, girl, and now." He pointed to a wide tree stump. "Stand over there."

Emlyn obeyed, wondering if everyone did this man's bidding due to his manner. But it was true she had just shot him. She stood on the stump and waited as he guided the horse closer.

"Take hold of the arrow," he directed, and she curled her fingers around the shaft. Removing his gauntlet, he slid his hand beneath hers to press down on his leg. His touch was cool against her skin. "When I say, you shall pull fast and hard."

"But, I—" she faltered, biting her lip.

"I would have to do it myself, were you not here."

Nodding, she tightened her grip and heard the knight inhale, ready. She glanced up to find him watching her, a keen sharp light in his gray eyes.

"Pull!" he commanded. She did so, mightily. His long exhalation suppressed a groan as the arrowhead ripped backward through the fleshy hole it had made. Warm blood flowed.

Emlyn saw then that the wide point would not come through the chain mail and the legging cloth as easily as it had gone in. She carefully worked the barb free from the net of metal rings, aware of the knight's grim silence.

When she drew the arrow completely out, she pressed the heel of her hand against fresh bleeding with a linen square taken from inside her sleeve. Then the knight took it and began to staunch the flow himself. He frowned, his eyelashes sooty crescents, his lips tight with pain.

In her left hand, Emlyn held the bloodied arrow uncertainly. She could not very well wipe the point clean and drop it into the quiver concealed beneath her cloak.

Reaching down, the knight took the arrow from her grasp to examine the shaft. "There are no marks of ownership here. This is a hunting arrow, with a wide barb for small game." He looked at Emlyn. "Tell me what you know of this attack. Where is the knave who bowshot me?"

"Attack?" She bit nervously at her bottom lip.

"There was no follow to the bowshot, no brigands that I saw, nor poachers either." He leaned forward, his gray eyes cool as frost over stone. With his free hand, he took her shoulder in strong fingers. "Why are you alone in this greenwood, girl?"

Although her first impulse was to break free of his grasp and flee, reason—and years in a nunnery—advised her to confess. But when she opened her mouth, only an airy sound came out, as if a mouse squeaked. She was terrified of his reaction to the truth. Ruthless knights such as this one had seized Guy. This man might harm her and even kill her for the offense she had just committed.

Balancing the shaft lightly between two fingers, the knight held the reins loosely in the same hand. With the other hand he still grasped Emlyn's shoulder. "Speak! Did you come with your father or brother to shoot the king's deer?"

"Nay, sire. This is a timber wood belonging to Ashbourne Castle. A hedge and ditch keep the deer out."

He glanced where she gestured. Visible through the trees, a thick hedge rounded the outer part of the forest. When properly cared for, the barrier discouraged larger animals, especially deer, from entering the wood to eat tree sprouts and strip bark from trees grown for lumber.

"Because the king recently ordered all hedges lowered," she said, "the hedge has just been trimmed. The rest has collapsed from winter storms. The deer will roam freely here soon, with naught to keep them out of the timber wood, thanks to King John. This path is an old one, hardly used, that leads to the castle."

"A timber wood," he said dryly. "And no other here but you."

Emlyn took a breath and decided to speak the truth. Her heart beat wildly as she rushed out a confession. "It was neither an outlaw nor poacher who shot you, my lord. It was my own arrow from my own hand." She tensed, ready to flee, but his grip on her shoulder was strong enough to hurt if she pulled away.

Silence, then his laugh sounded out. "What quarrel have you with me? Black Thorne the outlaw is long dead, they say, and no other dares attack my family." He leaned forward to speak emphatically. "Protect not your family, your heart's-beau, or your husband. Where is the knave who bowshot me!" His voice lowered threateningly. "Play not with me. I am short of temper with pain and my need to be elsewhere!"

Emlyn cringed at the force of his anger. The torsion of her movement opened her cloak, revealing the quiver. Four identical arrows rattled within.

He stared at that, then at her. "So."

"Aye, my lord," she said, miserable.

"Why attack me?" His tone was near a growl.

"I intended no injury, sir. It was an accident. I was just practicing the bow." He watched her in silence. "A wind took my arrow. I aimed at the bole of a beech tree," she added lamely. Still he said nothing, but his grip eased. "In sooth, my lord, I am no goodly archer."

He grunted, let go of her shoulder. "That you are not."

She nodded. "Alas, by Our Lady, I crave your pardon. It is not meet to injure a man so."

"Not meet indeed." The knight blew out a breath and his dark brows pinched in a frown. "Well, I give you pardon, and I promise not to spit and roast you. Though it crossed my mind, I assure you." He held her arrow. "Be gone from here."

Accepting the returned shaft, Emlyn stepped off the tree stump and glanced up at the knight. Above dark stubble, his eyes were gray steel. Even pain and anger did not mar his elegantly sculpted face. Remembering that he was bleeding and in pain, Emlyn wondered if he had far to ride.

"One thing else," he called. "I would know the name of my assassin."

Before she could reply, a shout rent the forest. The knight turned to call an answer, while hoofbeats thudded on the forest path. Emlyn felt eager to flee; she should never have strayed so far from home, alone and unprotected.

"Go, then," the knight said, as if sensing her urgency. "And leave the arrow shooting to others more capable from now on." Turning his mount, he rode toward the approaching horseman.

Earlier, she had felt remorseful. Now the knight's parting words filled her with anger. Making a face, she walked off to pick up her bow and headed back to Ashbourne. Once inside that enclosure, she would be safe from bowshot young knights. But she would not be safe from Tibbie's wrath unless she returned home soon.

* * *

Arriving breathlessly in the foyer of the great hall, Emlyn pulled aside the red curtain that covered the hall entrance and peered inside. By the Rood, she thought, I have missed supper and am surely caught.

Inside the hall, a few servants worked together to push back the planked tables and benches following the late afternoon meal. A girl swept at the rushes, while another stacked used bread trenchers to be distributed in the village for the poor. A long table, its oaken surface clean, had been placed near the huge stone hearth in the far wall, where flames crackled.

"Ah, Lady Emlyn, there ye be!" The husky, warm voice boomed across the length of the room. Emlyn winced. She had not noticed Tibbie in her hasty surveillance.

The short, squat woman crossed the room like a rolling thundercloud, skirts boiling around her legs. Resigned, Emlyn waited. "Aye, Tibbie?"

"Here, let me take yer cloak, m'lady—" Tibbie stretched out an arm while Emlyn fumbled with the bronze pin that secured her mantle.

Tugging, the nurse gasped. "Yer cape is soaked!"

Emlyn shrugged out of the garment. "It is barely damp."

"Damp and muddy, with leaf bits and suchlike." Tibbie picked out twigs and leaves and fixed a baleful eye on Emlyn. Ye've been outside the walls with no guard, nor even a dog to protect ye, I wot."

"Aye so," Emlyn sighed, knowing no secret survived for long around Tibbie.

Tossing the cloak over her arm, Tibbie folded her hands over her stomach and stared at Emlyn. Neither of them was tall, though while Emlyn was delicately built, Tibbie was twice as wide, tough as brass and oak.

"I had to get away for a while," Emlyn said. "And so I left. I only went to the timber wood."

"And what would happen if ye'd met the king's men there? Wat says they're always about now, and could come for us at any time, God save us." Tibbie sketched a hasty cross over her wide bosom.

A shiver of dread went through Emlyn as she remembered the knight in the forest. She recalled the look in his eyes when she had put her hand around the arrow embedded in his thigh. Now the fear came rushing back.

Tibbie and Wat, the castle's seneschal, were fiercely protective of Emlyn and the de Ashbourne children, especially following Guy's arrest while out hunting. The winter had been fraught with tension, which grew worse once the king demanded an exorbitant fee. A fine, his messenger had called it.