Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  On the Ingrams A-List of Top 50 Requested Titles for three weeks.

  Available as an electronic book.

  “A marvelous love story from the queen of medieval romance....This is as good as it gets. If you read only one historical romance this year, it should be Secret Thunder!” The Literary Times

  May 1067: The Cambridgeshire manor of Hauekleah

  “Milady! Milady!”

  Faithe looked up from the daisies she was tying together to see young Edyth burst through the open doorway of Hauekleah Hall, red-faced and breathless. Ewes’ milk spilled from her two full buckets, soaking into the fresh rushes.

  “Edyth!” Faithe scolded. “Slow down. You’re getting the new rushes all—”

  “There’s two Normans headin’ up the road,” the dairymaid gasped. “One of ‘em must be him—the Black Dragon.”

  Silence fell over the great hall as the house servants turned apprehensive gazes on their young mistress. Faithe’s fingers grew cold, and she realized she had stopped breathing. She set down the daisy garland and rose from her bench, summoning all the composure at her disposal.

  “His name,” Faithe said quietly, “is Luke de Périgueux.”

  Edyth blinked. “But Master Orrik, he says they call him the Black—”

  “His name is Luke de Périgueux,” Faithe repeated, her gaze sweeping every member of her raptly attentive audience, “and as he’s to be your new master” —she drew in a steadying breath— “and my lord husband, you are to address him with respect or suffer the consequences. Am I understood?”

  Faithe’s famuli, unused to such threats or admonishments—for Faithe rarely found them necessary—exchanged uneasy glances.

  “Am I understood?” Her words were softly spoken, but clear.

  There came a chorus of murmured assents, accompanied by the occasional pitying look. They viewed her as a martyr, she realized—first widowed by the Normans, then forced to choose between marriage to one of their own or the loss of her ancestral home.

  Faithe tucked her hair behind her ears and smoothed her kirtle, hearing the crackle of parchment in the pocket of her skirt. The letter from Lord Alberic, the Norman sheriff to whom she now owed allegiance, had been treacherously courteous in that manner the Normans seemed to have perfected. He’d told her little about the husband he’d chosen for her, only that he was a knight named Luke de Périgueux and that he was famous for his soldiering skills. Skills used against her people... her husband.

  Know, my lady, his lordship—or, more likely, his lordship’s clerk—had written, that you would be fully within your rights to refuse this marriage. In such an event, I will endeavor to dispose of the estate by other means. In other words, she could marry the notorious Luke de Périgueux and remain at Hauekleah, or refuse to marry him and let the Normans seize it—in which case she’d no doubt spend the rest of her days languishing in some convent somewhere. Worse, the sprawling farmstead that had been her family’s for over eight hundred years would fall into the hands of strangers, enemy strangers.

  Better to give myself to some Norman devil and keep Hauekleah, she’d decided. Her grandmother, Hlynn, had done much the same, entering into a loveless marriage to a Danish warrior chief rather than relinquish Hauekleah to the Northmen. Finding farm life tiresome, Thorgeirr had stayed but a single summer—long enough to build a new manor house and plant the seed of Faithe’s father in Hlynn’s belly—and then moved on. Although it was rumored that he lived for many more years, Hlynn never saw him again, and counted herself lucky.

  Perhaps, Faithe told herself as she stepped out into the warm spring afternoon, she would be as fortunate. Her new husband, used to the ways of the sword and the crossbow, might be so bored here that he’d leave her in peace and she’d have Hauekleah all to herself again.

  All eyes were upon her as she walked slowly through the entry gate that provided passage through the stone wall surrounding Hauekleah Hall—a wall that had stood since Roman times. Shielding her eves against the sun, she squinted down the dirt path that connected her manor and the village it encompassed to Foxhyrst and the other great market towns to the west.

  Two men on horseback rode toward her on that path, one tall in the saddle, the other slumped over. Faithe’s mouth felt chalky. She wiped her damp palms on her plain wool kirtle. Field-workers abandoned their plows and livestock and ran to join her house staff in what felt like a defensive phalanx around her. As always, their loyalty and affection moved her immeasurably. If for their sakes only, she could never abandon Hauekleah to the Normans.

  As the riders drew closer, she saw that the upright man gripped a sword in one hand and the reins of both mounts in the other. The insensible one swayed in his saddle. The fellow with the sword dropped the reins and grasped the other man’s tunic to keep him from falling. Leaning over, he whispered something into his companion’s ear and gently patted his shoulder.

  “He’s hurt.” Faithe stepped forward.

  Her young reeve, his eyes full of worry, grabbed her arm. “Nay, milady...”

  “That man’s hurt.” Faithe shook Dunstan off and approached the two men, wondering which one was Luke de Périgueux. They were sizable men, both of them, with hair as black as ink. The injured man—she saw the blood on his tunic now, and a raw gash on his forehead—had his hair shorn in the Norman style, while the other wore his unusually long and bound in back.

  Faithe’s servants followed her, Dunstan and some of the burlier men flanking her protectively. The man with the sword pointed it at them as they approached. Faithe hesitated, along with the others. It wasn’t the weapon that gave her pause, for although he was armed, he was but one man and they were many; it was the way he looked at them.

  Some of his hair had come loose and hung over his broad forehead, enhancing his feral image. His eyes were deep-set and fierce against oddly swarthy skin. Black stubble darkened his grimly set jaw. He didn’t look like any Norman soldier Faithe had ever seen. He looked untamed... as menacing as a beast with its fangs bared.

  Faithe’s gaze traveled to the ornate pin holding his mantle closed—a golden disk inset with black stone in the shape of...

  A dragon. A black dragon.

  Merciful God.

  “That’s him,” someone whispered.

  Faithe stifled a sudden urge to cross herself. So this was the man to whom she would be wed within a matter of days, this dark, savage creature with murder in his eyes and a quivering broadsword in his hand.

  Forcing her fear beneath the surface, Faithe stepped forward, her escorts at her sides.

  “Stop right there,” de Périgueux ordered in French-accented English as he thrust the weapon toward them. “I’ll have none of your Saxon tricks.” His voice rumbled like thunder; his tone was that of a man accustomed to being obeyed. That he spoke English came as something of a shock. She’d never known a Norman to utter a word of her native tongue.

  Faithe clutched her skirt in both fists. “We mean you no harm.”

  “Tell that to my brother. We were ambushed in the woods not a mile back.”

  “Ambushed!”

  He scanned the faces behind her. “Where’s your mistress? My brother needs help. He’s badly wounded.”

  Faithe lifted her chin, consciously ignoring his sword, which was aimed directly at her. “I’m Faithe of Hauekleah. I’ll tend to your brother.”

  Those intense eyes of his pinned her with a look of astonishment, his gaze lighting on the handful of brass keys hanging from a long golden chain around her neck, which he evidently hadn’t noticed before. He surveyed her from head to toe, taking in the unbound hair that hung loose over her breasts, the humble kirtle she’d shortened for field work, and the patched slippers soiled from that morning’s gardening. As usual, she’d gotten too caught up in the day’s chores to bother overmuch with grooming, and as a result looked more like an untidy adolescent than a chatelaine.

  Even when she did bother to dress in her finest silks and adorn herself with jewels, Fa
ithe looked far younger than her four-and-twenty years. She’d learned to counteract her youthful appearance with displays of unflinching confidence, even when they had to be feigned. Therefore, when Luke de Périgueux’s attention returned to her face, she met his eyes steadfastly.

  He held her gaze. She saw his throat move as he swallowed; his penetrating eyes darkened from brown to black. So... it unnerved even the infamous Black Dragon to come face-to-face with his betrothed.

  Faithe nodded toward his sword, still aimed at her throat, and said quietly, “If you’ll lower that, my lord, I shall see to your brother.”

  * * *

  “Gently, now... gently,” Lady Faithe urged as six of her men, gripping the edges of Alex’s mantle, carried him through a gate in an old stone wall and over the threshold of the enormous timber manor house it surrounded. Alex was unconscious, his face drained of color. Luke muttered a quick prayer as he followed his brother into a vast whitewashed hall flooded with sunlight, its lofty roof supported by two rows of thick oak posts. Each post, he noticed, had a garland of flowers wound around it from top to bottom, and floral swags hung from the ceiling beams. The green rushes that crackled underfoot were likewise strewn with sweet blossoms whose scent perfumed the air.

  Lady Faithe gave orders for a pallet to be placed next to the central hearth, a stone slab on which a low fire crackled beneath a brass kettle. “Lay him down carefully,” she said, and her men obeyed, handling Alex as if he were a newborn pup. “Bring me some soap and my medicine box,” she told two maidservants as she ladled warm water from the kettle into a bowl. “And clean strips of linen and blankets.” Her soft, girlish voice seemed unsuited to command, yet her servants jumped to do her bidding.

  Odd, Luke thought as he divested himself of his mantle, for such authority to be invested in a girl of such unassuming appearance. Not that she was plain. Indeed, she was slender and fair, as Lord Alberic had promised in the letter in which he’d offered Luke her hand in marriage—and therefore her estate. Her light brown hair, fine as silk, framed a face as appealing as any he’d ever seen. She had those soft hazel eyes he’d only ever seen in England.

  Luke was grateful for his bride’s comeliness, although he’d expected someone more... polished. Saxon or no, she was a high-born lady, yet she wore no veil or fur or jewels, and her face was as sun-burnished as that of a common field laborer. The chatelaine’s keys hanging around her neck were the only indication of her rank.

  Kneeling beside Alex’s pallet, she unbuckled his swordbelt—empty, since Luke still held his brother’s sword in a fierce grip. Luke took the belt before she could hand it to the woman helping her, buckled it over his own tunic, and sheathed the sword. That he chose to keep the weapon close at hand was clearly not lost on Lady Faithe, who glanced warily in his direction, then proceeded to unlace Alex’s boots.

  Luke wished he didn’t feel the need to defend himself and his brother from these people. After all, he was their new lord. Yet they regarded him as the enemy. No doubt Lady Faithe found his presence here particularly loathsome. He was a victorious invader, she his war prize. Who knew what depths of bitterness might simmer beneath her seemingly harmless exterior. Saxons were tricky. It was in the nature of defeated people to use cunning to resist their conquerors—to put on a show of cooperation while fighting back in whatever sly way they could. He’d have to keep a close watch on her and those whom she commanded with such subtle skill. Hence the sword, although in truth Luke felt ill at ease bearing arms. In fact, this was the first he’d done so since entering the monastery after the incident in Cottwyk.

  Two months of prayer and seclusion had lulled the fury within him into an uneasy hibernation, yet it would be naive to think he was free of it forever—or to blame it on a handful of dried leaves. Those herbs had merely awakened a beast that lay curled up within him, waiting for the chance to kill and maim—a beast that was part and parcel of who he was, that had always been with him and would never leave him in peace.

  Squatting down, Luke lowered his head and rubbed his left arm below the painful knot near his shoulder, thankfully his only souvenir of the ambush. When he looked up, he saw Lady Faithe’s hand slip into the pouch of her girdle. Steel flashed as she withdrew a knife and brought it to Alex’s throat.

  Luke whipped out an arm and seized her wrist, jerking her hand—and the knife—away from Alex. She cried out and tried vainly to pull away from him. He grabbed her other hand and yanked her to her feet, clenching his teeth at the searing pain in his upper arm. The knife fell into the rushes.

  “None of your Saxon tricks,” he growled. “I told you.” She struggled. He tightened his grip on her wrists.

  She winced, but met his eyes squarely. “Let go of me,” she rasped, “or they’ll kill you.” He followed her gaze to see every man and woman in the huge room closing in on them, many wielding crude weapons—hatchets, shears, cleavers—that they’d produced with remarkable speed.

  Leaning down, Luke stared directly into her eyes. “If you harm my brother,” he said quietly, “I’ll kill you.” He squeezed her wrists to underscore the threat. She hitched in her breath.

  A young, fair-haired man advanced menacingly on Luke, but Lady Faithe shook her head. “Nay, Dunstan. It’s all right.” Dunstan stopped in his tracks, glowering at Luke, a dagger at the ready.

  “You’d kill your own wife?” she asked unsteadily.

  “We’re not married yet.”

  She was trembling, he realized, but to her credit she raised her chin and said, “You Normans think you’re so civilized, but I’ve never yet heard an Englishman threaten to kill a woman.”

  “I’ve never yet seen a woman—Norman or English—try to slit the throat of a wounded man entrusted to her care.”

  “You think so little of me?”

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “And I’m beginning to think I don’t want to. Much less be wed to you.”

  Her soft eyes frosted over. “‘Twould suit me well if you were to ride away from here and leave me in peace.”

  Luke allowed himself a grim smile. “And ‘twould suit me if this estate were simply appropriated and given to me outright... Sister Faithe.”

  Her golden face paled, and Luke knew he’d threatened her where it mattered this time. Hauekleah must be very dear to her heart. Indeed, why else would she have agreed to marry a strange Norman knight rather than lose it? That her stake in this union was as great as his was useful to know.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said tightly, glancing at her immobilized hands. “Let me go.”

  Luke released her. She let out a ragged breath and rubbed her wrists, now marred by livid marks where his fingers had dug into her. He bit back an apology, reminding himself that, just moments ago, this woman had been aiming a knife at his brother’s throat.

  “Go about your business,” she told her staff. They slowly dispersed, except for young Dunstan, who stayed close in an apparent effort to keep watch over his mistress. A plump, older woman brought her a wooden box with brass fittings and a bar of yellowish soap, which she set on a nearby bench. “Thank you, Moira.”

  “We could simply take Hauekleah from you,” Luke told Lady Faithe, only to see her face lose even more of its color, highlighting a constellation of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks. “But ‘twould be a brutal business. Regardless of what you may think, your new rulers are a civilized people. Why settle with the sword what we can settle with a marriage?”

  In point of fact, Lord Alberic would undoubtedly have seized Hauekleah by force, as was his inclination—provided he could observe the fighting from a safe distance, as usual—had not the alternative of granting it to Luke amused him more.

  Alberic was a petty and pampered creature, his one great weakness a paralyzing fear of battle—a rather inconvenient attribute in a military commander, which was what he’d been before he’d maneuvered William into naming him sheriff. He’d managed to hide this flaw from everyone but Luke, who’d seen him hunker down i
n a ditch at Hastings, blubbering and shrieking as the battle raged around him. The other witnesses to this shameful display had perished at the hands of the English, and no doubt Alberic wished Luke had succumbed to the same fate. From his lordship’s attitude toward Luke since then, it was clear that he despised his most celebrated knight for being privy to his cowardice. Not that he was outwardly hostile; fancying himself a diplomat, Alberic couched his maliciousness in a facade of remote disdain. For his part, Luke had never revealed what he’d seen to a living soul, except for Alex; it would be his word against that of Alberic, still very much a favorite of King William’s.

  For months, Lord Alberic had resisted the idea of granting a conquered estate to Luke. Finally, under pressure from William—who’d interpreted Luke’s seclusion at St. Albans as a form of protest for his lack of reward, and didn’t want to alienate one of his most renowned military heroes—the sheriff gave him Hauekleah by means of marriage to Lady Faithe. It was meant as a sort of mean-spirited jest, of course. Hauekleah was a humble farmstead, nothing like the grand estates he’d bestowed on his other knights. Little did Alberic know that the holding he’d intended as a subtle insult suited Luke perfectly. His fondest boyhood memories were of farm life. He could live contentedly at Hauekleah—provided he managed to keep his Saxon bride and her villeins under control.

  Another serving wench laid a pile of blankets and linen on the bench. Lady Faithe started to turn toward them, but Luke grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him. “Hauekleah is mine now, my lady, with or without you. Rest assured I’ll be keeping a close watch on you. If you even think about causing harm to my brother—if I but see it in your eyes—then I’ll refuse this marriage and let Lord Alberic take Hauekleah by force.”

  Lady Faithe twisted out of his grip. “You can’t honestly think I meant to cut your brother’s throat.”

  “I saw you with my own—”

  “I was trying to cut his tunic off.”

  Luke studied her seemingly guileless eyes, then looked at his brother, lying on his pallet in his blood-soaked clothes.