Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “I’m not hungry,” she lied, remembering the stew.

  “Is all well at Hauekleah?” he asked.

  “Hardly.” Faithe told Dunstan about the discovery of the pin, Luke’s horrible confession, and his subsequent escape from the storeroom. The young reeve appeared deeply shaken by this news. “When I was here last,” she said, “you told me many things… but you kept some to yourself. I know you were trying to protect my feelings, but I need to know everything now.”

  “Nay, milady

  “Something happened while you and Caedmon and Orrik were waiting for William’s forces to cross the Channel. I think it had something to do with… a woman. A prostitute. You wouldn’t tell me then. You must tell me now.”

  “‘Twould tarnish his memory,” Dunstan said. “The man was… he was ill.”

  “Was he mad?”

  Dunstan stared into his ale. “Some diseases ravage the mind as well as the body. I’ve seen it with Audris. The things she says, when she manages to talk to me… most of the time, they make no sense. Caedmon… he was getting that way. Those headaches maddened him.”

  “I understand he suffered from seizures and double vision.”

  “Aye, but ‘twas more than that. He’d complain of the oddest things, like not being able to taste his food. He seemed drunk a lot of the time, even if he hadn’t had a drop.”

  Faithe leaned across the table. “Tell me. I appreciate that you want to safeguard Caedmon’s memory, but he’s dead, and Luke is alive. I need to understand what happened that night in Cottwyk, for his sake as well as my own. If what you’re keeping from me has a bearing on that—”

  “It may.” Dunstan took a deep, unsteady breath. “‘Twas about a fortnight before Hastings. King Harold and most of his men were in the north, fighting the Danes who invaded right before William, but he’d commanded some of us to remain in the south. We were spending the night at an inn in a tiny village—Ixbridge, I think it was. We all slept downstairs, but Lord Caedmon, because of his rank, got a private chamber upstairs. There was a woman there, a woman who… sold herself. Her name was Matfrid. He spent the night with her.” Dunstan looked at her inquiringly, as if asking whether she wanted him to go on.

  Faithe nodded. Hear this out. Don’t let him see how this affects you, or he’ll never tell you the rest.

  “During the night, we heard screams. Horrible …” He shook his head. “We went upstairs to Caedmon’s room, and…”

  “He was attacking her?” Faithe asked in a choked whisper.

  Dunstan nodded. “With a knife.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We got it away from him. He’d cut her face.”

  Faithe covered her mouth with a hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “We had to pay her two shillings and move on,” Dunstan said. “That was the only time he’d been like that. I mean, he’d been more hostile than usual before that, picking fights with us and all, but after Ixbridge… well, we knew then that something was very wrong with him.”

  “Orrik was there that night?”

  Dunstan nodded. “He ordered us to keep quiet about it. Caedmon was subdued after that. He didn’t call much attention to himself till he disappeared from Hastings.”

  Faithe let out a pent-up breath and rubbed her forehead.

  “‘Twas wrong to keep it a secret, I know that now. But you must understand, Orrik was only thinking of you, He loves you like a daughter. If he’s made mistakes, it’s been for that reason only.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s what makes all this so hard.”

  *

  ORRIK WAS WAITING for Faithe in the doorway of Hauekleah Hall upon her return that afternoon, a folded sheet of parchment in his hand. “Where have you been, milady? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “You worry about me far too much,” she said meaningfully. “I know about Ixbridge.”

  His eyes widened and then closed. “Faithe

  “You had no business keeping that from me, Orrik—especially in light of what Luke said about Caedmon. If he attacked a woman once, he could do it again. Luke was telling the truth about what happened in Cottwyk. You knew it, but you said nothing. Why, Orrik?”

  At length he opened his eyes. He looked more melancholy than she’d ever seen him. “I was only thinking of you, Faithe. De Périgueux means nothing to me, less than nothing. He’s the enemy. You’re…” He took a step toward her, arms outstretched; she stepped back. “You’re my little girl, Faithe. My wee lass. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Losing Luke would hurt me, Orrik—worse even than finding out… what Caedmon did. Caedmon was sick, and his illness drove him mad. Didn’t you think I could understand that?”

  “I didn’t want you to have to,” he said hollowly. “Only Dunstan and I knew what Caedmon had become. I didn’t want you to know, and I didn’t want it to become public knowledge, what Caedmon did in Ixbridge. I thought ‘twould be better than way.”

  “Ignorance is never better.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze on the sheet of parchment in his hand.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  He handed it to her. “A letter from Lord Alberic.”

  The seal was broken. She looked at Orrik.

  “You weren’t here,” he said reticently. “I thought it might be important.”

  She unfolded the letter. Alberic’s clerk always wrote to her in Latin rather than French, assuming, perhaps, that she couldn’t understand the vernacular of her new Norman masters.

  “It’s about de Périgueux,” Orrik said. “He turned himself in to Lord Alberic.”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning.”

  “You see? He wasn’t afraid of a fair trial!” Faithe scanned the letter as Orrik briefed her on its contents.

  “According to Alberic,” the bailiff said, “your lord husband showed up at Foxhyrst Castle shortly after dawn, demanding to be taken to London and tried in the curia Regis—William’s own court. However, Alberic seems to have other plans.”

  “Oh, no.” Faithe swiftly read through the letter. The king’s court, Alberic maintained, was overburdened with matters involving King William’s barons and knights. Such matters could just as properly be considered the responsibility of the king’s commissioners—his sheriffs and itinerant justices—who were authorized to dispense high justice in the king’s name. Since Alberic’s jurisdiction as sheriff encompassed Hauekleah, he would take it upon himself to pass judgment on the murder of Lord Caedmon. A panel of jurors was being assembled so that the matter could be adjudicated in Alberic’s shire court at Foxhyrst Castle beginning tomorrow morning. Lady Faithe was welcome to attend the proceedings, or to send a representative if she preferred.

  “Tomorrow morning!” Faithe exclaimed. “So soon?”

  “‘Tis best that the matter be dispensed with quickly,” Orrik said.

  “This is bad,” Faithe murmured. “Alberic hates Luke. Did you notice the words he used? ‘Crime.’ ‘Murder.’ Luke will never get a fair trial from this man.”

  Orrik stroked his beard thoughtfully. “A pity.”

  Faithe shot him a look.

  “I mean it,” he said, looking hurt. “All I want is justice. I know that must be difficult for you to believe, after everything that’s happened. ‘Tis my own fault.” He looked at the ground. “I… reacted rashly when Sir Luke confessed to the killing. My concern was for you, but you’re right. I was misguided. I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “It’s too late for forgiveness, Orrik,” she said quietly. “Too much has happened. And, no matter what you say now, I know you’ll never find it in your heart to accept Luke as your master.”

  “You’re assuming he’ll return to Hauekleah,” Orrik said.

  “I intend to see that he does.” She refolded Alberic’s letter. “Do you know where Nyle is?”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t be in Foxhyrst tomorrow morning. I’ll be… somewh
ere else. But I need to get a message to Alberic.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Nay.”

  “You’ve truly lost all trust in me, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “‘Twas your doing, Orrik,” she replied sadly. “I’d trust that snake, Baldric, before I’d trust you.”

  Orrik shifted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Baldric is dead.”

  “Dead! What happened?”

  “We found him hanging by his neck in the storehouse this morning.”

  “Hanging! Like…”

  “Like Vance. Aye.”

  “But… why?”

  “The only thing I can figure is he must have been consumed by guilt for having let de Périgueux escape. I told him not to open the door, not for any reason. Shame can drive a man to such an act.”

  “My God,” she whispered, not because she believed him, but because she didn’t. Baldric was incapable of feeling shame. A wily little toad, he would never have taken his own life, for any reason. And, if Baldric didn’t hang himself, she knew full well who did. She’d have to decide what to do about this, but right now her overriding concern was Luke; she would take care of Orrik later.

  “Nyle is beside himself over his brother’s death,” Orrik said, “and of course he’s got to bury him. No one else can be spared. Except for me, of course.”

  “I told you—no.”

  “Faithe… I…” Orrik shook his head in evident frustration. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. For everything. I was wrong. I reacted angrily, and in haste. But I repent all that now—especially seeing the mistrust in your eyes. It cuts me to the quick, that it does. Give me a chance to prove myself. Let me take your message to Alberic.”

  “I’ll find someone else,” she said. “In the meantime, you’re to remain at Hauekleah. You’re not to leave here until I return. I’ll deal with you then. Do you understand?”

  Orrik executed one of his impudent little bows. “All too well, my lady.”

  Chapter 24

  *

  LUKE TRIED NOT to flinch when Ham, the hangman, lifted the red-hot pincers from the brazier and held them in front of his face.

  “And this here,” Ham said, turning the fiery instrument slowly as he examined it with deep-set rodent eyes, “is what I’m going to use to tear the flesh from your body, bit by bit.”

  Luke breathed in the smell of superheated iron, felt its stinging heat—but he stood still, unwilling to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cringe. He did shift his wrists reflexively against the manacles that bound his hands behind his back, which made his shoulder wound burn with pain.

  Jerking his gaze away from the sinister device, Luke scanned the cavelike cellar of Foxhyrst Castle, refurbished by Lord Alberic into a proper Norman-style torture chamber. Chains hung from the ceiling; an iron chair fitted with restraints stood in a corner, and next to it a set of leg vises; a ladder for dislocating the limbs leaned at an angle against the damp stone wall next to the subterranean cell in which Luke had spent the night—another night with next to no sleep.

  “And when I get done with that,” Ham said, his breath hot and foul on Luke’s face, “I aim to chain you up and flog you till there ain’t no skin left on your back.”

  With his free hand, Ham reached into the pouch on his belt, withdrew some dried leaves—Luke smelled catnip—and tossed them into his mouth. He was a hulking creature with a hairless head that sprouted from his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. The lack of hair was evidently deliberate; Luke could make out a dusting of coppery stubble all over the milk-white scalp.

  “Then maybe,” Ham said as he chewed, “I’ll gouge out one of your eyes, the one that’s already swole up, and cut off one of your ears—just one each, so’s you can still hear and see what’s happenin’ to you. Then I’ll pour brandy on your hair and set it on fire.” Ham swallowed and grinned, displaying a sparse mouthful of yellowing teeth. “So’s you’ll look like me. That’ll begin to pay you back some for killin’ my sister.”

  “I didn’t kill your—”

  Ham drove a giant fist into Luke’s stomach, landing him on his back in the sawdust. He gasped for air as the pain and nausea receded.

  “Helig died runnin’ away from you.” Ham squatted over Luke, holding the pincers over his face. “You killed her just as dead as if you’d stuck a knife in her gut. And I aim to make you suffer for it.”

  “I haven’t even been tried yet, much less found guilty.” Luke had come to Foxhyrst Castle yesterday and formally surrendered himself to Alberic, for transport to the king’s court, only to be handed over to Ham for incarceration. At dawn the hangman had dragged him out of his dank oubliette and announced that he was to be tried in Alberic’s shire court that very day—no doubt so that “justice” could be dispensed before William caught wind of it. Luke had expected to be taken upstairs immediately, but instead Ham had treated him to this little demonstration of the punishments in store for him once he was found guilty—punishments that would conclude with a public hanging.

  For the hundredth time since coming here, Luke chastised himself for ignoring Alex’s advice and putting himself in Alberic’s hands rather than riding directly to London. At first, he couldn’t believe the sheriff was actually going to try him, a knight of the realm, in his own shire court. He had to know that William would be furious when he discovered his power being usurped this way. For a fawning little worm like Alberic to risk the king’s wrath didn’t make any sense. Alberic hated Luke because of the display of cowardice Luke had witnessed at Hastings, but Luke had never made public what he’d seen. He’d thought his discretion would protect him from Alberic’s retribution, but clearly he’d been wrong about that. Most likely Alberic greatly feared Luke—or rather, what Luke knew about him and might someday reveal.

  “You will be found guilty,” Ham said, with seemingly complete confidence. “And then you’ll be handed over to me. Perhaps I should give you a little taste of what’s in store for you tonight.” He brought the pincers closer, until their glowing tips were poised a hairsbreadth from Luke’s nose.

  “Easy, Ham,” came a smooth-voiced command from the winding corner stairwell. Luke and the hangman both turned to find Alberic, in fur-trimmed silk, leaning carelessly against the wall, two guards towering over him. “There will be plenty of time for this sort of thing after the trial.”

  Ham grabbed Luke by his tunic and yanked him to his feet. “I’ll need plenty of time to do it right.”

  Alberic chuckled. “Ham displays remarkable enthusiasm for the work, especially for one of his race. The English are a rather uninspired lot when it comes to such matters. When I arrived here, his idea of torture was forcing a prisoner to stay awake all night, or walking him around and around in circles. But he’s caught on surprisingly well to our Norman methods… surprisingly well.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Luke as he watched Ham withdraw another dose of catnip from his pouch.

  “Bring him upstairs,” Alberic instructed the guards. “We’re ready to begin.”

  *

  BY MIDDAY, ANY lingering hope for a fair trial that Luke might have entertained was long gone. For hours he’d stood in the center of Foxhyrst Castle’s gloomy hall, flanked by the massive guards, his hands still shackled behind him, watching and listening as Alberic went through the motions of “trying” him. Seated at the high table on either side of the sheriff were a dozen soldiers unknown to Luke but owing allegiance to Alberic, his far from impartial jury. Alex, who’d accompanied Luke to Foxhyrst, was nowhere to be seen; presumably he’d been banned from the proceedings. Griswold and his other former mates were likewise absent. And as for Faithe… well, he wouldn’t have expected her to come, and in a way he was glad she hadn’t. Although he was desperate to see her, this travesty would be all the more humiliating if she were here to witness it.

  Charges were read, questions asked, “witnesses” trotted forth. The man who’d found Caedmon’s body testified that Caedmon had been b
eaten to death “over the whore.” Other Cottwyk citizens upheld his account and described how they’d come across Helig’s body after she’d “run for her life” from the murderer. They all glanced uncomfortably toward Luke, as if they couldn’t believe he was the man responsible. Alberic’s clerk, who sat next to him and understood the Anglo-Saxon tongue, translated their testimony for his lordship and the jury.

  At nones, a guard came into the hall, bowed to Alberic, and murmured something. “Indeed,” Alberic said. “Show him in.”

  Luke turned with the others to find Orrik being led forward, a sealed letter in his hand. The bailiff spared a smug glance for Luke as he approached the high table and handed the missive to Alberic. “A message from my lady Faithe of Hauekleah,” he said, without bowing.

  A message from Faithe? Suddenly alert, Luke watched with interest as Alberic broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, then handed it to the clerk, a diminutive, tonsured fellow in black robes. He read it with an expression of intense concentration, then leaned over to whisper into Alberic’s ear.

  The sheriff’s frown transformed gradually into a sly smile. Luke felt chilly.

  “It seems,” Alberic began, glancing around the table, “that Sir Luke’s lady wife feels compelled to add certain comments to the proceedings.” Meeting Luke’s gaze, he said, “‘Twould appear that Lady Faithe shares the general consensus regarding her husband’s temperament and inclinations. She characterizes him as ‘savage,’ ‘vicious,’ and” —he leaned toward the little clerk— “what was that part about being capable of—”

  “Capable,” the clerk said, reading directly from the letter as he traced the words with a finger, “of acts of the most irredeemable brutality. There is no doubt in my mind that Luke de Périgueux murdered my husband, Caedmon of Hauekleah, with no provocation save his own evil nature. I implore your lordship to find him guilty of the crime of murder, and to punish him as befits such an offense.”

  Luke shook his head. “Nay…”

  “I’m afraid so.” Alberic snatched the letter from his clerk and held it up. “His own wife condemns him as a murderer. Can we do less?”