Silverhawk (5 page)

“You see,” she said, “Lord Osbert sent the child to her grandparents when Lady Alexi died. But those unnatural people bundled her back a sennight ago. All alone the mite was, too, with only a guard to deliver her, along with a note, mind you. They are too old to raise an infant, they say. And that baby three, if a day.”

Emelin’s gaze found Ortha’s. Her new companion nodded. A child, rejected by her family, ignored by her father. So familiar. Tenderness welled in Emelin; tears blurred her sight. Where was the little girl?

She glanced across the busy hall. Where had the servant—Tilda—disappeared? As if in answer to the question, the tall, thin woman shuffled into view. Toddling alongside, hand clamped on Tilda’s forefinger, was an angel with golden ringlets.

Coos from the ladies filled the air, sending the girl behind the servant’s skirts. Ortha stood to the side, her kind face sad. The child peered out, then ducked back. Tilda dragged her around to the front. The little girl stood motionless. She wore a plain dark smock, like that of a peasant child’s. Smudges spattered the front, likely from the same substance that smeared across her mouth and chin.

Tilda nudged her forward. “This be Margaret, milady. Curtsey to your new mama, missy.”

Big blue eyes darted among the four, then widened further at the sight of the thick wimple around Emelin’s face. The smeared mouth puckered, followed by a wail that could cut cold mutton. A tiny whirlwind launched at Ortha, buried the sticky face in her skirts and wept impressively.

Muffled giggles sounded as Lady Dulsie struggled to contain herself. Cleo the Cat didn’t bother to hide her mirth; her laughter echoed through the dingy hall.

Tilda stepped over, patted the weeping girl’s back. “Come, come, little Margaret. Let’s us go see if’n Cook has another treat for ye.” She separated the child from Ortha’s gown, gathered her up in a firm hold, and started to turn. Her gaze caught Emelin’s.

“She’ll be all right, don’t y’see, milady. Just a mite scared she is of that thing on yer head. Don’t fear. She’ll warm right up to ye.” With that daunting reassurance, Tilda sauntered across the hall.

Over the servant’s shoulder, the now-silent child stared at Emelin with giant, drenched eyes. In the moment before the maid disappeared into the kitchen corridor, Margaret wrinkled her nose and thrust out her tongue.

Emelin laughed. The sprite had spirit, the one thing Lord Osbert abhorred. The poor man must be appalled. For once, Dulsie and Cleo stared at her, speechless.

Lady Cleo sniffed. “I find nothing amusing at a child’s display of insolence.”

“Oh, no,” Emelin assured her. “She’s frightened, unsure of herself among new people. We will adapt famously, the three of us.” She smiled at the others, and for the first time since her arrival, she began to relax. God worked in mysterious ways, just as Mother Gertrude insisted.

He’d sent a child to lavish with affection, to fill Emelin’s days until her own children came. Emelin needed Margaret as much as the child needed a mother’s love.

With Tilda gone, Ortha showed Emelin to her chamber. Inside, she slipped the old wooden bar through the anchors at each side of the door and gazed around. A real bed hugged one wall. With a whispered moan, she lay down and closed her eyes.

For a moment, her mind remained blissfully blank. Then the image of a blonde-haired imp nudged in. Fear flooded the wide eyes, uncertainty hunched the fragile shoulders as the little one had stared at the strangers. Emelin could identify with every sentiment reflected in the child’s mobile face, even the spark of defiance in her parting gesture.

She knew just how to reach the girl, for she had experienced similar emotions. They would get along fine. Ortha, as well.

She sighed. She would have a daughter to raise, as soon as the wedding vows were exchanged. Lightness filled her, and she laughed into the dimness hovering above the bed. Just what she longed for. Children, a husband, her own home to manage. Perhaps they would be a family like Stephen’s, who cared for each other, not like her own, who cared only for themselves.

Tenderness welled at the thought of playing with little Margaret, of helping her grow, instructing her. She would be a good mother. With patience, Lord Osbert would come to appreciate his precious daughter.

Emelin’s smile faded as she thought of him. He was a respected lord; would he be a considerate husband? She caught the side of her lower lip between her teeth as she recalled his behavior. Perhaps his bluntness hid tenderness, rather than cruelty. All through the trip from the convent, she had wondered about the man to whom Garley had bartered her.

If he were the man she dreamed of during long, cold nights on her narrow bed, he would be… The image of a square chin and dark hair flashed in her mind. Shivers coursed her skin at the memory of strong, sword-roughened fingers that clasped her hand and cupped her head, soft lips that brushed hers. Her breath hitched.

I must not remember.

With a sharp shake of her head, she banished thoughts of the injured warrior who personified her dreams. She would forget the handsome, silver-eyed stranger. Langley was her future. No matter how dishonorably her brother acted to secure it, she
would
be content. And if doubts about her betrothed occasionally threatened, a moment of prayer and reflection would calm her.

That and a sound tree branch applied to Garley’s skull.

There. Now she felt better.

Chapter Four

Giles rode well away from Langley before he stopped by a stream to unwrap his jar of ointment. Bless the good monks at St. Anselm Priory for their healing concoction. He winced when he splashed cold water on his face. Damned cuts and scrapes stung.

After patting away the moisture, he applied the cream. Sparingly. Just a little performed miracles, although the monks disliked anyone saying so. Only God performed miracles, they adjured.

And only God knew what the monks used in the mixture—they damn well guarded its secrets from everyone else.

The liquefied balm warmed, tingled like hundreds of tiny fingernails massaging the skin. Giles settled back on his heels and closed his eyes. Muscles eased, face to the sky, he relaxed. An afternoon breeze rose, laden with an earthy tang of the stream’s damp bank, the forest’s dried leaves. He inhaled. Tranquility.

No smoke of burning villages and cremating bodies. No odor of blood or rotting animal carcasses. No desiccated garbage moistened by human misery in city streets.

He smelled peace. He smelled his dreams.

For Giles, peace was only that—a dream. He knew one way of life. Fighting. A knight who sold his sword boasted no stability, no manor to call home. If he occasionally wondered what a real family would be like, the mood passed. Wife and children were not for a mercenary. His men were his family. They depended on him.

In his mind he saw snapping green eyes. A soft mouth that moved—briefly—beneath his. An irrepressible spirit. A woman like that could manage a home anywhere. For an instant, he glimpsed that life—Emelin following him on campaign; Emelin waiting for his return from perilous missions.

Emelin weeping at the mission from which he never returned.

The musings slammed to a halt. None of it would ever happen. She was a lady. He could never expose her to his dark life. His stomach coiled as he thought of her scorn, her ridicule, if she discovered half the things he’d done.

No. That dream was best left alone. But Lady Emelin would have the chance to find an admirable man to make her happy, once she was free again. He could at least guarantee she’d be free again. He wished he might guarantee her happiness.

Enough. It wasn’t like his thoughts to wander. Perhaps the blow to his head had scattered his wits.

He sucked in another breath and rose. Time to travel.

He’d secured the pack behind Nuit’s saddle, when the gelding gave a soft “whuffle” and swung its head toward the path they’d left earlier. Tilting his head, Giles listened. There. A sound. A mere trace in the distance.

He brushed his hand across the mount’s nose, the signal for silence. Nuit nodded, flipping his mane. Giles led him into the shadows thrown by a tangle of bushes and saplings close to the creek.

Not a good cover. He hoped none of the oncoming riders chanced to look closely. The black he trusted to be quiet. He didn’t know how the other horses would react.

Sure enough, when the forward mounts broke past, the closest tossed its head and whinnied. The one behind sidestepped as the slight breeze carried the scents of unknown human and horse.

Cursing, the leader roweled his spur across his gray’s flank. Giles spotted dark blotches along the side of the mount. Blood. Damn the cruel bastard for mistreatment of his animal.

The figure twisted around to shout, “What the hell? Rollins, Bailey, did you scout ahead as I ordered?”

Through a break in the bush, Giles caught a glimpse of the knight. The man’s face had a vicious set.

Then from nowhere, a coney dashed across the road.

“There’s the culprit, Sir Garley,” cried one of the men. “By God, if I’d been faster, we’d have us a meal.” Laughter rippled through the riders.

Even the leader unscrewed his cruel mouth for a sour smile. “We’ll eat well enough when we arrive, never fear. My soon-to-be brother sets a heavy table.”

“I hope he can provide something to warm my bed, as well,” called another of the troop. Others roared agreement, and in the creak of leather and clop of hooves, the group rode on.

What had the leader been called? Sir Garley. So this must be the little warrior-nun’s brother. A muscle in Giles’ jaw twitched. He’d seen plenty like the petty lord—greedy, selfish, out for all he could grab. No doubt such a man could ruthlessly sell his own sister. But after the wedding, the brother’s claim ended. And when she became a widow…

Then the obvious hit him like a club to the belly.

The brother would never let her survive alone. He’d move on her holding, take everything she had, all in the name of brotherly protection. Oh, he’d pay coin for the privilege, no doubt. But with Richard desperate for funds to fight King Philip of France, there’d be little argument.

What could he, Giles, do about it when the time came?

Nothing. She was nothing to him. And nothing he did changed that fact. The thought left a taste of gall in his mouth.

When all sound of the riders disappeared, Giles led Nuit to the road, mounted, and set out. The mission to Lord Henry weighed heavier with each step away from Lady Emelin. He had no choice. But once the message was in the hands of the king’s friend, Giles planned to return to Langley. With luck, soon.

The afternoon advanced with no further problems. Giles halted at the site of the attack, hoping to examine the bodies. They’d disappeared. All that remained were dark splotches where blood had soaked into parched earth.

If the surviving outlaws had returned to remove the dead, they might still lurk nearby. Yet a quick search turned up nothing. No way to distinguish tracks of the outlaws’ mounts from those of the Langley guards. He followed one short trail until it connected with another path where signs of several horsemen littered the ground. Useless to waste time there.

Much as he wanted to locate the other three, Giles realized he hadn’t the time. He’d traveled another league or so along his original route when figures came into view. On the chance these might be the brigands he sought, Giles took to the trees alongside the road. As the travelers came closer, he identified six riders accompanying a cart.

He drew Nuit to a halt. This must have been much how his own journey appeared earlier in the day. Had this party been subject to attack, as well? Then he recognized the knight wearing a green surcoat over chain mail. Lord Henry of Chauvere.

Except for a helmet, the lord rode armed to a neighbor’s wedding? No fool he.

Giles emerged onto the road and waited. He held the reins loosely in his left hand; his right relaxed on his thigh, ready to grab his sword if need be. He doubted the other man remembered their meeting some years earlier.

Henry and a pair of his men galloped forward. The others surrounded the cart, which contained a lady. His wife? When they neared, the lord raised a hand to stop the other two, then urged his horse forward.

“You ride alone. Are you well? Can I be of service?” Henry asked.

“We both can be of service to the king, my lord Henry.”

At the words, Henry stilled, muscles gathered, like a wolf in the instant before attack. A fire kindled in his eyes, and his chest expanded. This had been one of Richard’s most trusted captains. He was the man who nearly died defending the king three years ago.

The corners of his eyes gathered in a squint. “Is that you behind the injuries, Giles of Cambrai? You are mighty far from Normandy. What are you doing here?”

So Henry recognized him. Giles nodded toward the other two knights. “That’s a tale best told in private, and quickly.” Before the other man could speak, he added, “I’ve just come from Langley. You’re expected for the wedding, but this must come first.”

Henry nodded at once. “Come with me. I’ll tell the others we’ll be delayed a few minutes. My sister will be glad to walk for a bit.”

Ah. Not a wife, then.

They stopped at the cart, where Henry spoke to the young woman gowned in rich blue, her hair covered by a white wimple. Sparkling eyes the blue-green color of her brother’s turned toward Giles as she listened, then nodded. He could see the mischievous dimples flash in a smile.