Silverhawk
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Silverhawk
by
Barbara Bettis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Silverhawk
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Barbara Huddleston
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
R.J. Morris
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Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-985-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-986-5
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Thanks to all those who have walked this particular path with me: the Tuesday Writers—Diana Locke and Kaye Calkins for your encouragement and insight always, Jean Rosenow for your early support, and Cecily White for yours now; the Lantern Wavers—Jennifer Jakes and Sara Ann Denson for the crazy weekend writing retreats, Marci McGuire Jefferson for great on-line crits, and Lisa Wells for the travel plotting sessions; the NYT Writer Babes—Abigail, Bernadette, Heidi, Lisa, and Suzan for every tweak throughout the week on Margie’s mountain.
~
Diana—Hugs for always feeding us so well when we gather around your table every Tuesday.
~
Jennifer—Thanks for always loving Giles and never letting me give up on him.
~
And Helen—I wish you could have been here for it all.
Chapter One
Lincolnshire, England
Autumn 1197
His pillow smelled like horse dung.
Squinting through swollen eyelids, Giles of Cambrai saw why. He lay a scant arm’s length from a fresh pile. Pebbles poked his neck. Clods of dirt and a small stick gritted into his rapidly numbing cheek.
Why did he lie face down in the dirt?
Sounds fumbled at the edge of his consciousness. Curses. Reins jingling. Boots thunking. Then memory flared. He’d been surrounded, attacked by a mere half-dozen puling, stinking outlaws. The spawns of hell had sprung out of nowhere to surprise him.
No one surprised Silverhawk.
A rumble began deep in his chest, and he exploded to his feet. Sword clutched in hand, he rounded on the assailants. They prowled toward him, brandishing swords, daggers, a mace.
With a roar that could stop King Philip’s knights cold, Giles leaped forward. “
À mort
!”
They paused, shock slapped on their faces, before they advanced again.
They’d best think twice.
He was in no mood to be generous.
He’d been an unobservant fool, falling to an ambush, thinking himself safe at last on English soil. Even as a runny-nosed alley urchin a score of years past, he’d not been so heedless.
He parried a blow, then plunged his sword into a soft middle.
Five to go
.
They must be mighty sure of themselves. No mail. No markings on their tunics. But damned fine weapons. Too fine for mere outlaws.
“Hey, ho! À’ Langley!”
Jesu
! More voices?
Shouts echoed, accompanied by the thud of hooves against the autumn-parched earth. All but one of the attackers turned to meet a handful of knights that burst through the trees. Not their reinforcements then, praise St. Jude.
He swung to face his remaining opponent, who waved a sword in one hand, mace in the other. Giles ducked to make a thrust, and barbed metal glanced off his head. He saw red sparks. Then he saw nothing.
****
“Does he live?” Lady Emelin called to the captain of her escort. She stopped short at the edge of the clearing and gasped at the bodies scattered there. So many outlaws against one poor man.
A light breeze carried the sick-sweet odor of blood mingled with dust. Bile burned a trail up her throat as a shiver clawed her spine. This was no time for weakness. With a gulp of resolve, she ran toward the figure in the road. And tripped.
“Fires of Hell,” she muttered, then “Forgive me, Lord.” She leaped up, thankful her betrothed’s men hadn’t observed her belly down in the dirt. She brushed off her brown wool gown, tucked up a curl that had escaped her heavy wimple.
And sighed as she caught sight of the motionless knight. “Was the rescue too late?”
Sir Humphrey bent over the man. He didn’t bother to answer. At last he turned, jaw clenched, brow lowered. “My lady, I told you to stay in the cart with your maid,” he said, in his
you’re-a-useless-female
tone. “There may still be danger.” He nodded toward the path where three mounted knights had chased the fleeing attackers. Two of the downed men lay nearby. Another sagged against a tree, blood coating his hands where he pressed them against his belly.
Emelin’s breath stuttered at the sight. She glanced at the captain. “You and your men have everything under control. I’m perfectly safe.” Thank heavens her voice remained steady. She stepped over a sword in the road and strode forward, hems swishing against her ankles. “I have some knowledge of healing. I can help.”
Her expertise didn’t match that of the nuns at the convent, but she wasn’t useless, in spite of what this scowling knight might think. Although the gore turned her stomach, she refused to quail.
Sir Humphrey poked a toe at the limp form and gave a dismissive grunt. “Alive but unconscious,” he grumbled. “Blow to the head, looks like. Bloody arm.”
The horsemen clattered back, empty-handed. The captain mumbled beneath his breath and signaled one of the men-at-arms. “See to the outlaws,” he ordered, then started toward her.
“We’ll send someone for that one.” He didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Into to the cart, my lady. We got to be off. Lord Osbert’s expecting us today. He won’t like it if we’re late.”
Emelin shook her head. Sir Humphrey couldn’t be so heartless. “We can’t leave the poor creature lying there,” she insisted. “He needs help. We can stop long enough to tend his injuries.”
The captain paused but didn’t meet her eyes. “We don’t know nothin’ about him, now. He might be an outlaw himself. Best we let someone else see to him.”
She ignored the condescending tone. The fallen man was not an outlaw, she just knew it. She marched toward the still figure.
The guard rummaging among the bodies announced, “All dead.”
“Search ’em,” Sir Humphrey ordered as Emelin reached the wounded man.
Blood and dirt streaked his face, matted his dark hair, but something about him drew her. She knelt to place a hand on his chest. It rose and fell in shallow breaths. Heat sparked into her palm like brazier coals, and she jerked it away. An odd breathlessness made her gulp for air. It tingled through her chest.
She forced her attention back to the fallen warrior. He wore an odd, metal link-studded jacket of boiled leather, like those of her father’s older soldiers. It sat over rather than under a dark blue tunic that appeared serviceable but well made. The scuffed boots were plain but, again, of good quality. And the sword he still held—what a beauty of workmanship. Scarcely a scratch after such a fight. No matter the common clothing, this man was a knight. Even if he were not, she couldn’t leave him to die in the dust.
“We’ll take him with us,” she announced as she rose. “Sir Humphrey, have the men load him into the cart.”
“Can’t do that, my lady. Lord Osbert don’t want outlaws attacking people on his land, but neither does he want strangers dumped on him when he’s planning a wedding.”
“The wedding is mine as well,” Emelin reminded him. Steel threaded her voice. “I will not refuse aid. Surely my betrothed would expect me to help.” For all she knew of her future husband, he might well
not
expect it.
Married to a stranger. She sucked in a breath to quell her jittery stomach. Not the first bride to face such a future. Still, it was one she had never expected. Blast her greedy brother.
The captain’s shoulders lifted in the way of a denial. Before he could speak, she leveled her most imperious Mother Gertrude look. Best to remind him where he’d collected her the day before. St. Ursula Convent. In fact, she still wore the confining wimple and simple gown of those who lived with the nuns. However, if he—or his master, for that matter—thought she was as meek as the pious nuns, they were in for a surprise.
At the last moment, his shoulders twitched into a surly shrug of acceptance. Muttering—Emelin caught the word
stubborn—
he gestured to his men. They carried the unconscious knight to a cart that had rumbled into the clearing. The maid sent to accompany Emelin jumped out to scowl at the proceedings.
“Ye can’t put that dirty, bloody thing in there, my lady,” she wailed. “Where will we ride? Yer not thinking.”
Emelin frowned at the impertinence. “You may ride on the seat with the driver. I’ll ride in back.” She climbed into the cart and reached for her lone bag brought from the convent. Out of it she wrestled a cloak, which she folded and slid under the unconscious man’s head.
Using a corner of her coarse wool skirt, she smoothed clods of dirt and blood from his face. The backs of her fingers brushed a scar at his temple, and a sharp prick of heat singed her again. Jaw set against the sensation, she turned her hand to rub away a string of blood. Dried. She’d need water.
He was so still. Perhaps nothing would help. But when the cart lurched into motion, a small groan broke past his clenched lips. She jerked her hand away, curled it into her chest, watched… He didn’t move. Emelin gusted out a breath she hadn’t known she held.
The cart rumbled along. Sunbeams danced through golden brown leaves that clung to baring trees. Shadow and light winked across the still figure like a child’s game of “hide and find.” She reached over to ease a leaf from his bloody forehead and toss it over the wagon’s side.
Swollen eyelids, a puffy cheek, and bloody scrapes couldn’t hide the knight’s handsome features. Waves of midnight hair fell across his wide forehead to brush one side of his square, stubble-darkened jaw. Grit clustered on the high bridge of his nose.
What shame such a strong, rugged man should be cut down. Her pulse fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Ashamed of such reaction, she squeezed shut her eyes.
Would Stephen have been so handsome, had he lived through the crusade? She hardly recalled what her youthful first betrothed looked like when he left, a hopeful squire at nineteen, to follow his foster father on King Richard’s journey. If only he’d returned from Outremer, she’d be wed now, with the family she craved.
She sighed, reached for her patient’s cheek—and found herself staring into the palest gray eyes she had ever seen. His mouth moved, and she leaned forward.
“What is it?” she murmured.
“Before…I…die…” came the hoarse whisper.
“Yes? What would you like before you die?” If it were in her power, she would provide the poor man with his wish. Drink? Food?