Silverhawk Read Online Free PDF Page A

She didn’t even know his name.
    She felt as if he had deserted her, and that was foolish. He was a stranger. They had shared a chance meeting only. It meant nothing. Now she must get on with her life. She only wished…
    “Lady? My lady?” The rough, insistent voice of her betrothed caught her attention.
    Only a child had time for useless wishes. Emelin had never been that child. The sides of her throat tingling with unshed tears, she turned to face her future.
    “Plan to stand here all day, do you?” If anyone could speak and growl at the same time, it was this man. “Past time for the midday meal, what with all this commotion. Held it when I saw you coming.”
    Emelin conjured a smile and lifted her chin. There was still spark left in her spirit. “Not at all, my lord. I am simply overcome by the magnificence of my welcome.”
    His lower lip thrust forward in a puzzled jab. Had he recognized her gentle disdain?
    Perhaps not so gentle. Mother Gertrude was right. Sometimes Emelin needed to knot her tongue.
    Lord Osbert waved his arm toward a thin woman who stood expressionless among the onlookers. “This is Tilda. She’ll get you settled and show you the brat. And Tilda, tell Cook to ready the meal.” With that loving sendoff, her betrothed headed toward the practice yard where the clatter of training resounded.
    His parting words rang in her ears. She could swear he said, “Show her the brat.”
    Exhaustion must have fuzzed her hearing.
    The servant woman avoided Emelin’s gaze but muttered, “M’lady,” then turned to trudge toward the keep.
    At the top of the stairs to the great hall stood a trio of ladies, their gowns blots of color against the shadow of the open doorway. Clustered in a bud they whispered, ignoring Emelin until she reached them. She paused, expecting Tilda to introduce her, but the servant ambled into the hall without a backward glance.
    The nearest of the three fluttered her hands. The woman wore a saffron-colored gown embroidered with green vines at the neckline and along the sleeves. She cast an eager look into the bailey, then glanced at Emelin.
    “Will your lady be along soon, girl?” Plump cheeks reddened with excitement. “I confess I want to see this paragon who has caught our Lord Osbert’s fancy.”
    “You mean whose brother has met Langley’s price,” sniped a dark-eyed beauty, younger than the two others. Her ruthlessly curled black hair was barely covered by a loose white veil. The deep-russet colored gown reminded Emelin of dried blood.
    “Dear Cleo,” the lady in yellow chided. “You must not say such things. The poor little bride has been freed from her convent home to marry our dear lord.”
    Lady Cleo’s smile looked as hard as her eyes. “Dulsie, if you were not my sister, I would positively hate you for such good humor. Let’s wait inside for the future mother-of-the-heir.”
    “Come along, my dear.” The third member of the group gestured to Emelin, her voice timid. “If your mistress sent you ahead, you must wait for her in the hall.”
    The three retreated to one end of the cavernous chamber where servants were busy assembling tables for the delayed meal. As she followed, Emelin glanced around, appalled. A darker, more depressing place she’d never seen. What few openings for light and air were high in the stone, mere arrow loops if anyone could climb that distance to shoot a crossbow.
    The walls bore residue of what once must have been whitewash, but smoke and dirt had turned them dingy gray. Several tapestries might be beautiful beneath encrusted grime. Some lady placed them there, but how long ago? She was wife three; had it been wife one or wife two?
    “Well, girl,” the yellow lady called, not unkindly, as she sat and arranged her skirts at the edge of a bench. “What is keeping your mistress?”
    “Yes,” murmured Lady Cleo, her voice dry, “where is the bride and new mother?” By now the ladies had clustered together, their shoulders