Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Thorne didn’t grin, Martine saw as she turned to lift Ailith in her arms, deciding to carry her rather than wrestle with her. He wore just the hint of a smile as he stared after her. He stood very slowly, taking care, it seemed, not to disturb Freya.

  Martine hurried through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge with Ailith screaming “Naked! She sleeps naked!” and didn’t stop until she was well within the outer bailey.

  * * *

  Martine left Ailith in the cookhouse playing with one of the cook’s daughters, who had a collection of baked clay animals. In the daylight, the outer bailey resembled a small walled village of thatched stone and wood. People, dogs, chickens, and pigs crossed paths in the packed mud, all there to serve their baron’s various needs. The only truly idle creatures she could see were children Ailith’s age or younger, who gathered with balls and bats or small wooden soldiers, which they marched purposefully through the mud.

  As she recrossed the inner drawbridge, she noticed a putrid odor rising from the ditch below. Looking down, she saw several inches of stagnant, scum-covered water in the bottom of the long trench. A pinpoint of fire on the back of her hand caused her to wince. She slapped at it, crushing the tiny insect, a mosquito. The rainwater in the bottom of the ditch must be an excellent breeding ground for such pests.

  There were other indications that Harford was not a well-kept castle. The rushes in the great hall smelled of mold and were littered with bones and other debris. Those dogs ran wild, like unruly children who had never been taught discipline. The servants varied in their dedication to their work, but there was no one with a firm hand to oversee them and make sure castle business was properly attended to.

  This firm hand would normally have been that of the mistress of the house, but Beatrix, baroness of Harford, had died eleven years before. Lord Godfrey had evidently never felt the need to remarry, having two sons and a daughter as heirs. And he did not seem to be equal himself to the task of looking after his home, preoccupied as he was with drinking and hawking. According to Felda, he was incapable of controlling his own knights, who had split their loyalties between Thorne and Bernard.

  As she thought of Thorne, she heard him say her name. She stopped short just inside the inner bailey, frowning in puzzlement.

  “Lady Martine,” he repeated. She turned around. He stood leaning against a gatehouse turret, a different bird on his fist. Had he come back to wait for her? Why?

  “Sir Thorne.”

  He approached her and nodded at the bird, a small brown falcon with a white throat. “This merlin has a cold. I was wondering if you might have any stavesacre for her in that box of yours.”

  “Stavesacre? Yes, I do.”

  As she opened the brass box and reached into it, he said, “You haven’t got any cardamom as well, have you? ‘Tis good for their stomachs.”

  “I believe I do,” she answered, fumbling among the various packets and jars.

  He lifted the box right out of her hands and strode with it toward the hawk house. “You can set this down on my worktable.”

  Chapter 6

  Martine followed Sir Thorne, reflecting that she hadn’t much choice; he had taken her most valuable possession right out of her hands. Those herbs and spices had come from every obscure corner of the known world, and some were as rare as the most precious gems. She had no intention of letting them out of her sight, as he surely must know.

  The boys who had been changing the straw were gone. He led her through the door to the right, ducking as he entered. She ducked, too, although the doorway was tall enough for her. They were in a little living chamber. She saw the narrow bed and realized this must be where he slept, although it apparently served as a workshop as well. There was a table against one wall, on which were arranged various tools, jars, flasks, and boxes, as well as tangled piles of leashes and a row of little leather hoods with feather plumes, each on its own wooden stand.

  Thorne set the brass box on the table, then ducked through a leather-curtained doorway and disappeared into the other side of the hawk house. Martine took the opportunity to inspect the chamber further. A brazier, not in use at present, took up one corner, and above it hung a collection of leather gauntlets on hooks. In the opposite corner stood a beautifully carved armchair, and next to it a small table on which sat a book and a little bowl containing what looked like strips of raw meat. On top of the book lay a white feather.

  She lifted the feather, but a sudden piercing scream startled her into dropping it. It was Freya, tethered to a perch nearby, and evidently displeased at having Martine so close. Sir Thorne emerged through the leather curtain, took up the feather, and trailed it gently over the young falcon’s wings, speaking softly to her in English.

  “Why English?” Martine asked.

  “They respond better to it than to French. ‘Tis a language simple and direct, much like themselves.”

  Although Martine couldn’t understand a word he said, his voice was so deep and sonorous, his tone so soothing, that she began to relax right along with Freya. The bird turned her head and stared at her master fixedly with one fierce, unnerving eye as he reached into the small bowl and brought forth a strip of meat. Martine expected him to hold it up to her beak, but instead, he drew it across her feet, whispering gently to her all the while. After several moments of this, she pecked at the tidbit, then grabbed it in her beak and flung it into the straw covering the floor.

  Thorne smiled as if at a mischievous child and repeated the gesture with a second piece of meat, then a third and a fourth, each time with the same result. Martine wondered at his patience. Finally Freya deigned to hold a piece of meat in her beak. When she swallowed it, Thorne rewarded her with animated words of praise, then fed two more slivers directly into her mouth.

  He retrieved the bits she had tossed about the room, returned them to the bowl, and crossed to the worktable. Martine followed him and began rummaging through her box in search of the herbs he wanted. She spread packets and jars over the table as she did so, and many of these Thorne opened and squinted into, sometimes tasting the contents. But when he uncorked the little blue glass vial and began to insert a finger, she immediately grabbed his wrist. “Hemlock.”

  “Hemlock!”

  Her slender fingers could not meet around his wrist. It felt as hard as oak to the touch, but warm. She released it abruptly, almost pushing him away, then took the vial, closed it, and returned it to the box, aware the whole time of him watching her, his gaze strangely intent.

  She cleared her throat. “‘Tis an ingredient in a surgical sleeping draft I know of. In a very tiny amount. More could kill you.” She handed him the little bag of stavesacre. “Take what you need. I’m curious to see how you use it.”

  He put a pinch in a stone mortar, then added three peppercorns from his own supplies and ground them quickly to dust. He poured something from a jug into the mortar—Martine smelled vinegar—and said, “I’ll let it sit for a while till it’s ready. Then I’ll put some on the merlin’s nostrils and palate. That and some warm hen flesh should cure her cold.”

  He took some extra stavesacre and a few cardamom seeds, storing them in little jars, then said, “Have you ever held a falcon?”

  “Nay.”

  “Never?” Of course her truthful answer would surprise him, she realized. Women who had grown up in noble households were used to handling birds of prey, if only the smaller varieties, like that merlin. Had he asked the question in a deliberate attempt to trip her up? Was he beginning to suspect, after Estrude’s interrogation regarding her family, that she was hiding something?

  He took a small gauntlet from a hook above the brazier and handed it to her. “Follow me.” He held the leather curtain aside for her. She hesitated, then stepped into the other room.

  Several of the birds cried out and flapped their wings as Martine and Thorne entered, but he calmed them with a few soothing words. There were about a dozen, of different species, on perches atop iron rods set into the
stone floor. It was dim and cool in the room, the only light coming from between the slats of the window shutters, although several unlit brass and horn lanterns hung on chains near the ceiling. The scent of fresh straw perfumed the atmosphere. It also smelled of the birds, but not offensively so.

  She attempted to put the gauntlet on her right hand, but he took it from her and pulled it onto her left, then placed a hand on her back. She tensed at the touch, at the heat from his palm that penetrated the thin fabric of her costume. But once he had guided her to an enormous gray gyrfalcon and removed his hand, the spot where it had been felt cold, and she wished he had left it there.

  “This is Azura,” he said. “Lord Godfrey’s favorite.” He threaded a leash through the little swivel on one of Azura’s jesses and wrapped it loosely around Martine’s gloved fingers.

  “This one?” Martine said. “But she’s so big!”

  “She’s the tamest of them all. Here.” He took her gloved left hand in both of his and pressed it into a fist, then guided it toward the bird’s feet. “She’s well trained. She knows what to do. Don’t let her know that you don’t.”

  Martine gasped as the huge bird stepped onto her fist, clinging tightly with her powerful claws.

  Thorne said, “If you’re nervous, she’ll be nervous. A nervous falcon is a dangerous thing to be that close to.”

  “You have a talent for placing me in dangerous situations, Sir Thorne.”

  “You seem to handle yourself fairly well, my lady.” He met her eyes. Quickly she returned her attention to the bird.

  “What’s the matter with her tail?” she asked, pointing to a spot that looked damaged.

  “One of the feathers is broken. I had wanted to imp it today, because the baron is eager to fly her soon, but my assistant’s not here to help me.”

  “Imp?”

  “Sew a new one on.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Certainly.” A pause, as if weighing something. “Would you like to see?”

  “But you said you couldn’t do it because your assistant’s—”

  “You can help me,” he said, holding the curtain aside again and motioning her into his living chamber. He dragged the armchair close to, and facing, the bed.

  “What do I have to do?” The bird weighed her arm down so heavily that she had to use her right hand to support her left. She realized how strong Thorne must be to be able to hold them for hours while he and Godfrey hunted.

  He collected some items from the worktable and tossed them and his gauntlet on the bed. “Just sit in that chair.” She did. He draped a clean linen cloth across her lap and then gently took hold of Azura and placed her on the cloth with her back up and her tail toward the bed. Next, he laid a square of dark wool over her head to keep her calm, he explained. Taking a strip of leather from his worktable, he tied his hair back, then sat on the bed opposite Martine, one long leg on either side of her chair.

  She could not get used to this physical closeness that he seemed to take for granted. Although they were not touching, she felt surrounded by him, penned between his thighs in a most intimate way. She could feel the heat from his body, smell the Castile soap with which he had bathed that morning. Azura flinched, and she realized she had been gripping the bird too hard.

  “Just hold her lightly,” he said. “So she knows you’re there.” First he took a small sheet of parchment and slid it under the damaged feather. Then he reached into a little wooden box and withdrew a gray feather the exact color of Azura’s tail.

  “I save them when they molt,” he said. Using a small knife, he clipped the new feather to the proper length and trimmed the end of the old one. From another box he took a tiny needle, which he threaded with silk. Then he began sewing the feathers together.

  Martine had never seen a man sew. Needlework was the domain of women, and the sole creative pursuit of most noble ladies, although Martine had absolutely no patience for it herself. He hunched over the bird, frowning in concentration as he worked the little needle in and out of the feather’s shaft with his long fingers. His big hands were surprisingly precise in their movements; his stitches were small and neat.

  Martine said, “How did you come to learn about falcons?”

  “How did you come not to?” he answered, still intent upon his work. “I’ve never known a lady of your rank to be so unfamiliar with them.”

  She stared at the top of his head. His questions were becoming more direct. With this bird on her lap, she couldn’t just get up and leave, much as she would have liked to. Had he planned it this way?

  The silence grew heavy. Thorne paused to look up at Martine, his expression thoughtful.

  As he resumed sewing, he said, “I’ve kept birds of prey since I was a child. One afternoon when I was shooting small game, my arrow accidentally brought down a sparrow hawk. So I climbed the tree where she’d been nesting and took her young and raised them. After that, I trained other sparrow hawks, then goshawks and kestrels. ‘Twasn’t till I entered Lord Godfrey’s service that I was able to work with falcons.”

  “They say you’re an accomplished bowman. Is that because you grew up hunting?” If she asked the questions, she wouldn’t be the one obliged to answer them.

  He said, “If you do something often enough, you get good at it. When I was young, I hunted and chopped wood, and little else. We were poor, and I was the only surviving son.” He glanced at her, smiling. “I chop wood very skillfully as well, but it impresses no one.”

  She couldn’t help smiling back. “Were there any sisters?”

  He took two stitches before answering. “One. Louise.”

  “Do you ever see her anymore?”

  Two more stitches. “Every time I look at Ailith.” Leaning over, he bit the silk thread and tied it off, his warm hands brushing hers.

  “No, I mean—”

  “There.” He pulled on his gauntlet, lifted Azura, and took her on his fist. Pointing at the bruised teeth marks on Martine’s hand, he said, “I should lend you that gauntlet the next time you propose to give her little ladyship a bath.” His changing the subject, as if she had been asking things that were none of her business, rankled in light of his own prying questions.

  “She won’t bite me next time,” Martine said.

  As he walked Azura through the leather-curtained doorway, he said, “Where did an only child like yourself learn to handle children so well?”

  An only child? That was surely no slip of the tongue. She waited until he had reappeared, and said, “I have two brothers.”

  Thorne hung the gauntlet back on its hook. “But they’re much older, are they not? And you spent seven years in a convent. It must have been rather like being an only child.”

  She removed her gauntlet and handed it to him. With icy restraint she said, “You know I have two brothers. You know perfectly well I’m not an only child.”

  He looked at her searchingly, and took his time answering. When he did, his words were measured, as if he were choosing them carefully. “My lady, I know almost nothing about you. Only that Rainulf calls you his half-sister, and that you panic when questioned about your family. ‘Twas I who recommended you to the baron as a suitable bride for his son. Your betrothal will be finalized tomorrow. Do you blame me for trying to find out before then whether I’ve misled him somehow?”

  He had been laying a trap for her. Prying into her secrets under the guise of pleasant conversation. Why, if he intended to unearth the truth about her, had he saved her last night from Estrude’s nosy interrogation? The answer came to her in his own words. It was he who had recommended her as a suitable bride for Edmond, presumably for his own advancement. It would serve him ill for her to be found out by everyone before he had the chance to do so himself. He could then, of course, decide whether to expose her or keep her secret, and he would undoubtedly do whatever best served his purposes.

  Suddenly she mistrusted him intensely. If she was not as she seemed, neither was he.

 
Walking toward the door, she said, “Rainulf thinks you’ve arranged my marriage out of friendship. I told him it was out of ambition, but he doesn’t believe me. He likes to think that everyone is as good as he is.”

  “I don’t deny or apologize for my ambition. I’ll do whatever it takes to rise above the circumstances of my birth. If I should someday have children, I don’t ever want them to suffer the cruelties of poverty that your kind thinks nothing of imposing on mine. Your marriage does serve my ambition, but it also serves my friendship with your brother, which means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  “‘Tis a very touching speech,” Martine said, standing in the doorway. “You’ve obviously given a great deal of thought to how my marriage serves your purposes. I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you to consider whether it serves mine.”

  She slammed the door and walked back to the keep.

  * * *

  Sausage pie and peas with bacon water constituted the midday meal. Lord Godfrey, Sir Thorne, and Albin were absent from the table. They were flying the falcons, and had taken their dinner with them to eat as they hunted. Lady Geneva, Ailith’s mother, chose not to dine with them, either, but no one offered an explanation for this.

  Martine passed the afternoon exploring the lower levels of the keep with Ailith.

  The first floor was the guardroom, nearly as large as the great hall, but with arrow slits instead of windows, and no place for a fire. There had been no attempt to make this room comfortable or attractive. The wooden floor was bare of rushes, and the walls displayed not hunting trophies, but a dizzying array of weaponry: gleaming broadswords and axes on one wall, and on another, rows of slender spears, javelins, and lances. There were dozens of graceful longbows and even a few of the outlawed crossbows, as well as thousands of arrows and bolts bound into bundles like kindling. To Martine’s way of thinking, the most menacing objects there were the brutally simple maces and throwing clubs, whose destructive power depended on mass and weight rather than finesse.