the grim expression on Lord Osbert’s face when he stormed toward the keep, she knew the answer to that question boded ill.
****
“Looks like half the castle has turned out,” Giles grumbled to Henry as he kneed the black into a trot. “But for what?” A veritable mass of people overflowed into the open space before Langley’s gates. His glance swept half the crowd before he realized for whom he unconsciously searched. No sign of that pertly tilted chin. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t returned because of her.
Not entirely.
The two men rode ahead of Lady Evie’s cart and its guard, following the same trail Giles traveled earlier when he occupied a cart. A lifetime had passed in those few hours.
Henry reined in beside him. “Something has their attention.”
Giles stood in the stirrups. “Dust. In the distance. Someone just left.”
“At this hour?” Henry shook his head. “What could be so important to send a troop off with night so near? Surely the wedding isn’t over.”
“I hope we haven’t missed the ceremony,” Lady Evie called as her cart rattled up to them. Her maid held fast to the wooden side, frowning anew at each bump.
The words sent an unexpected chill through Giles. His little warrior-nun wed so soon? Not possible. He had yet to tell her… What? God’s blood. Nothing . There was nothing to tell. Still that knowledge couldn’t stop his desire to look on her one last time.
Giles maneuvered to the rear of Chauvere’s party while it threaded its way through the narrow passage between towers. Lord Osbert, alerted to their arrival, strode forward.
“Yes, yes, you’re here at last,” he shouted to Henry. “Come now.”
The crowd’s attention focused on the cart where Henry rode beside a laughing Evie, but when Giles broke from the passage, it shifted. Many more soldiers and villagers congregated in the bailey than had been present when he left hours earlier.
Murmurs spiked among them, and several women pressed forward. The monks’ salve had done its job. Bruising and swelling had already begun to fade, leaving his features clearly visible.
As he rode, his mouth clenched in a grim line. One brow lifted as he straightened in the saddle, clasped his hands on the pommel, and rolled his shoulders. A village maid threw him a smile and arched her back, displaying a fine pair of breasts. He marked them and her saucy wink in his memory. Tonight he would look her up. He could use a little of what she offered. Especially if the wedding was over.
Then from the murmurs at his right rose a word. “Silverhawk.”
The name leaped from group to group as he urged Nuit forward. A few of the villagers shrank away, eyes rounded in fear. Giles tensed; the muscles in his arms and back bunched.
The recognition caught him by surprise. Perhaps one or two knights might know him—he’d been a warrior for ten years—but English peasants? What did they know of the war with France?
“Mercenary.” Whispers swept across the bailey. “Murderer.”
His jaw hardened. Some stories knew no boundaries.
Emptiness yawned inside Giles, a burning darkness. For an instant he felt isolated, an island in a sea of nothingness. Beyond the vacuum rose the hum of the crowd, like bees swarming a hive.
The old urge swamped him. He had to get out of England, back to his men in Normandy. Back to Mercadier, who had rescued him from the streets, taught him how to deaden the pain of being abandoned. Of being alone.
Ruthlessly, Giles squelched the feeling. He left that solitary youth in the fetid gutters of Cambrai years ago. His jaw hardened, his hands fisted at the unexpected wash of uncertainty.
Nuit sensed the sudden tension. The mount danced to one side; its hindquarters dropped and squared. People skittered back in alarm, leaving Giles alone in an empty circle. He patted the horse’s neck, sucked in a breath, and willed the tightness from his body.
He had work to do here. And by God, he’d see to it. Only one part
****
“Looks like half the castle has turned out,” Giles grumbled to Henry as he kneed the black into a trot. “But for what?” A veritable mass of people overflowed into the open space before Langley’s gates. His glance swept half the crowd before he realized for whom he unconsciously searched. No sign of that pertly tilted chin. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t returned because of her.
Not entirely.
The two men rode ahead of Lady Evie’s cart and its guard, following the same trail Giles traveled earlier when he occupied a cart. A lifetime had passed in those few hours.
Henry reined in beside him. “Something has their attention.”
Giles stood in the stirrups. “Dust. In the distance. Someone just left.”
“At this hour?” Henry shook his head. “What could be so important to send a troop off with night so near? Surely the wedding isn’t over.”
“I hope we haven’t missed the ceremony,” Lady Evie called as her cart rattled up to them. Her maid held fast to the wooden side, frowning anew at each bump.
The words sent an unexpected chill through Giles. His little warrior-nun wed so soon? Not possible. He had yet to tell her… What? God’s blood. Nothing . There was nothing to tell. Still that knowledge couldn’t stop his desire to look on her one last time.
Giles maneuvered to the rear of Chauvere’s party while it threaded its way through the narrow passage between towers. Lord Osbert, alerted to their arrival, strode forward.
“Yes, yes, you’re here at last,” he shouted to Henry. “Come now.”
The crowd’s attention focused on the cart where Henry rode beside a laughing Evie, but when Giles broke from the passage, it shifted. Many more soldiers and villagers congregated in the bailey than had been present when he left hours earlier.
Murmurs spiked among them, and several women pressed forward. The monks’ salve had done its job. Bruising and swelling had already begun to fade, leaving his features clearly visible.
As he rode, his mouth clenched in a grim line. One brow lifted as he straightened in the saddle, clasped his hands on the pommel, and rolled his shoulders. A village maid threw him a smile and arched her back, displaying a fine pair of breasts. He marked them and her saucy wink in his memory. Tonight he would look her up. He could use a little of what she offered. Especially if the wedding was over.
Then from the murmurs at his right rose a word. “Silverhawk.”
The name leaped from group to group as he urged Nuit forward. A few of the villagers shrank away, eyes rounded in fear. Giles tensed; the muscles in his arms and back bunched.
The recognition caught him by surprise. Perhaps one or two knights might know him—he’d been a warrior for ten years—but English peasants? What did they know of the war with France?
“Mercenary.” Whispers swept across the bailey. “Murderer.”
His jaw hardened. Some stories knew no boundaries.
Emptiness yawned inside Giles, a burning darkness. For an instant he felt isolated, an island in a sea of nothingness. Beyond the vacuum rose the hum of the crowd, like bees swarming a hive.
The old urge swamped him. He had to get out of England, back to his men in Normandy. Back to Mercadier, who had rescued him from the streets, taught him how to deaden the pain of being abandoned. Of being alone.
Ruthlessly, Giles squelched the feeling. He left that solitary youth in the fetid gutters of Cambrai years ago. His jaw hardened, his hands fisted at the unexpected wash of uncertainty.
Nuit sensed the sudden tension. The mount danced to one side; its hindquarters dropped and squared. People skittered back in alarm, leaving Giles alone in an empty circle. He patted the horse’s neck, sucked in a breath, and willed the tightness from his body.
He had work to do here. And by God, he’d see to it. Only one part
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