by Falcons Fire
It took a moment. When she understood, she began to burn with rage. It inflamed her, fueled by the humiliation of rejection. She looked at the stick, then at Thorne, his back still to her, running his hands through his damp hair.
She closed both fists around the silver handle and jumped down from the bed. The power of hate buzzed in her arms. She raised the stick high as he turned to face her, then slammed it down on his head in a blinding arc. The impact jolted her.
He doubled over. She saw blood.
From the corner came screeching and the beating of wings. Thorne knelt on the floor, gripping the bed with one hand while the other covered his forehead. Dark spots appeared in the straw beneath him. Estrude looked at the blood on the stick and felt the room twirl slowly.
He rose to his feet, his eyes grim, blood trailing down his face from the gash on his forehead. She took a step back.
He grabbed the stick and whipped it out of her hands in a blur. Estrude stumbled back against the bed, her mind racing in fear. This will hurt.
He braced one foot against the bed and raised the stick.
“No!” She collapsed in the straw, curled into a ball, wrapped her arms around her head. She heard the crack of splitting wood and yelped.
The moment passed. She was unhurt.
She looked up, still shielding her head. Thorne held half of the dog stick in each hand, having snapped it over his leg. She watched as he hurled the pieces into the empty brazier, where they clattered harmlessly. When he turned back and looked down at her, his eyes no longer held anger. To her dismay, he now looked upon her with pity.
He lifted her cloak from the bed and offered her his hand—an unexpectedly chivalrous gesture. She didn’t take it, but helped herself to her feet and snatched the cloak from him. She preferred his anger to his pity.
As she fastened the cloak, he took the rag from the washbowl and began wiping his bloody face with it. Confident now that she wouldn’t be beaten, Estrude said, “You deserved that.”
“Let’s say I did, and leave it at that. Just go. Don’t come back here again, and never speak of this to anyone, including me. Pretend it never happened.” She crossed to the door, her eyes on his back. Still holding the rag to his head, he dipped his cupped hand in the washbowl, walked over to the still-agitated falcon, and sprinkled her gently with water, which seemed to calm her. Estrude tried to think of one final remark, some scathing statement that would put him in his place and give her the last word.
Without turning to look at her, he said, “Leave.”
She did, closing the door behind her, and walked a few paces. Then, pausing long enough to pull her cloak closed, she broke into a run and didn’t stop until she was inside the keep.
Chapter 8
“And I will take you for my husband,” Martine said, her right hand resting on a small gold casket encrusted with emeralds, which held a finger bone of Saint Boniface. Sir Edmond then handed her a single white glove, symbolizing the bride price—some of his father’s most valuable holdings—that he would be obligated under the betrothal contract to pay her in six weeks, when they became man and wife. Finally the couple clasped hands while reciting the pledges that formalized their agreement to wed.
Martine had never understood the appeal of ritual. Her betrothal ceremony, held in the barony chapel and officiated by Father Simon, had been a meaningless recitation of prayers and vows. Thank God it was now over. Several times she had thought she might swoon, if not from boredom, then from her confining costume. She had been obliged to wear the outfit that Estrude had given her especially for the ceremony, and she thought she would suffocate in it.
The kirtle was of rose-colored silk lined with red wool and edged at the hem, throat, and wrists with red-dyed marten. Over this went a pearl-gray silken tunic woven through with silver threads and trimmed around the neck and trailing sleeves with heavy bands of silver braid. It laced tightly up the back, and felt so stiff and snug that Martine felt breathless and could scarcely bend over.
In fact, it so confined her that she had immediately resolved to wear something else instead. She’d reached behind to unlace it, but couldn’t manage, thus contorted, to loosen the knot that Estrude had so carefully tied. Felda refused to help her until she consented to look at herself in the mirror, and then she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to change, after all.
Granted, the costume was uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. But even Martine had to admit that it was beautiful. Or rather, that she was beautiful in it. She had thought that the gown would make her look as compressed as she felt, but it actually exaggerated rather than minimized her curves. She looked like a statue cast in a silver: a statue of a regal, straight-backed young woman with high breasts, a narrow waist, and slender, rounded hips.
Estrude then produced a long sash of braided silver cords strung with pearls, which she looped around Martine’s waist and tied low in front, followed by a mantle of silver brocade. The vision was now complete, and Martine couldn’t bear to destroy it. She would put up with the discomfort for one day. For one day she would look like a gleaming goddess—a Valkyrie.
Estrude tried to get her to wear a barbette, but this Martine refused. Instead, she had Felda plait her hair into two long, heavy braids, over which she wore a sheer veil topped by a circlet of silver filigree. Martine could tell that her stubbornness angered Estrude. So be it. Although Estrude’s gifts were generous, Martine bristled at the woman’s condescension. She had dressed Martine as she would have a child, or a doll. Martine knew that Estrude cared for her not in the least; Martine existed as something to adorn for Estrude’s own amusement, and then ignore. Already Martine had learned that men alone commanded Estrude’s full attention. Other women were, like herself, ornamental vessels for men to fill or leave empty, as they chose.
From the chapel, the betrothal party proceeded on foot to the riverbank east of the castle, where they would celebrate with a midday feast and some hawking. Godfrey, Olivier, Thorne, Guy, and Peter all carried hooded birds of prey on their fists, even during the service. Martine knew that it was usual to take the birds almost everywhere one went; it accustomed them to the company of people. Still, she thought them a peculiar sight in church.
The entire household had turned out for the ceremony, even Geneva. She had a wan, irritated look about her, as if she had been bullied into participating. Of the women present, only she had taken no care with her appearance. Her hair was concealed in a muslin turban, and she wore a discolored white tunic. But she had left her chamber and shown up, and Ailith acted as if it were the most exciting event of her life. On the way to the river she danced and skipped around her mother, laughing and tugging at her, clearly thrilled to see her up and dressed. Geneva ignored her daughter until the child took up the long sleeves of her tunic and began flapping them back and forth, as she had Martine’s the day before. Far from being charmed, Geneva wheeled around and yanked them from Ailith’s grasp, hissing, “Stop that!”
The day was mild and clear. Puffball clouds made stately progress across the sky, propelled by a clover-scented breeze. The clover grew in sprawling blankets in the meadow east of Harford Castle, among myriad wildflowers and wind-borne grasses. This meadow was separated from the village and castle by the river, upon the rocky banks of which grew hawthorne in spiny bushes as tall as apple trees. Along the eastern bank Martine could see long trestle tables draped in white linen and shaded by a white silken canopy that flapped in the breeze.
In order to get to the eastern bank, one had to cross the river. It was spanned by a narrow wooden bridge, but Edmond chose not to use it. Instead, he trotted a few yards downstream to where an outcropping of boulders rose from the rushing waters, forming the apex of a craggy waterfall about twenty feet high. Lifting his ankle-length maroon tunic, he made powerful leaps from boulder to boulder, some of which were separated by a wide expanse of churning water. Oblivious to the risk, he sprang carelessly ahead, purple mantle and black hair flying, while Ailith clapped and
cheered.
Downstream from the waterfall, a natural dam had formed from fallen logs and uprooted hawthorne bushes. As a result of this dam, the part of the river into which the waterfall emptied had widened into a kind of pond, so deep that it looked like a bottomless, boiling cauldron. Martine cringed to think of what would happen to Edmond should a slip of the foot pitch him into the murky, roiling depths of that pond. Several times Martine thought he couldn’t possibly reach the next boulder, but he always landed with surefooted grace before springing quickly ahead.
He looked much less like an infidel today, Martine thought, watching him from the bridge. With his well-brushed hair and long, ceremonial tunic, he seemed quite civilized, and extremely handsome. Had he not fidgeted so during the betrothal ceremony, he might almost have appeared dignified. He had seemed to vibrate with suppressed energy; she could feel it when they held hands to pledge their intent. She had known other young men his age—students of Rainulf’s—but none had seemed quite so jumpy. Then again, they were scholars immersed in academia. Edmond was unschooled, a creature of nature, hunter and animal both.
Bernard whooped his praise when Edmond reached the other side, and Edmond grinned back at his brother with pride, adoration in his eyes. He never once looked in her direction, yet Martine did feel someone’s curious eyes upon her.
It was Thorne, standing some distance away, watching her from beneath the canopy as she gazed at Edmond. She realized Thorne might misinterpret her gaze as one of admiration or tenderness—or even blossoming love. Ridiculous, of course. Edmond was beautiful to look upon, but so were many things and creatures for which Martine would never feel love. When he had held her hand during the ceremony, she had felt not the slightest thrill, only a vague cramp in her wrist and a desire for the whole spectacle to be over with.
* * *
“Don’t you care for venison, my dear?” Lord Godfrey asked.
Martine considered the untouched plateful of meat that Edmond had sliced for her. Whenever she looked at it, she saw the pain-crazed eyes of the stag that Bernard and his men had tormented for sport the day before. “I’ve lost my taste for it, Sire.”
“The next course will suit you, I’m sure,” he said, nodding toward the cooking pits that had been dug into the field several yards away. A team of young men turned a long spit impaled with the boar that Edmond had killed for their betrothal dinner. Black, greasy smoke rose from the pits to stain the blue sky.
Feeling the sting of bile in her throat, Martine quickly turned away and took a sip from the goblet of Rhenish wine that she shared with Edmond. She sat at the high table between Lord Godfrey and her betrothed, who had left her side some time ago to join some of his brother’s men for wrestling and foot-fighting in the meadow. Next to Godfrey, in a grand, high-backed, chair, sat the earl, Olivier. Martine was surprised to find him on such friendly terms with Bernard, but Godfrey explained that his elder son had been fostered out to the earl at an early age for knightly training, and the two had therefore grown quite close. Martine had never seen any man as fat as Olivier, nor as red in the face. His wife, plump and pink, was a female version of her husband. Several of the neighboring barons—all vassals of Olivier’s—sat with their families at tables lined up perpendicular to the high table.
Rainulf settled next to Martine, in the chair vacated by Edmond. Pointing, he said, “Look at Ailith”
The child had climbed on top of an empty bench and commenced to twirl around in circles, her arms out. “Mama!” she squealed. “Look at me! I’m a dancing girl! Mama!” Geneva disgustedly shook her head and looked away.
“She’s so desperate for her mother’s attention,” Rainulf said. “‘Tis sad to see her try so hard, for naught.”
Thorne had been watching as well, and now he crossed to Ailith, lifted her from the bench, and wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and squirmed, and Martine heard him say, “You might have fallen off the bench and ended up looking like me.” He lowered his head so that she could get a better view of the wound on his forehead, an ugly cut amid blue-black swelling. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Ailith ceased her struggles while she examined the injury, wide-eyed.
Godfrey said, “She’s like a wild animal, that child. In a boy, one expects a bit of temper. ‘Tis only natural. My sons were always in one scrape or another. My Beatrix was the only one who could handle them.” He smiled wistfully, his rheumy eyes focused far back in time, then turned to face Martine, a sad and serious look on his face. “You see you make me some grandsons, my lady. I’ve already told Edmond I expect a boy within the year.”
Martine blinked, speechless. Thorne, having evidently heard the baron’s statement, met her gaze briefly, his expression pensive.
“A boy, do you hear?” the baron continued. “Someone to carry on the title. For every grandson you give me, I’ll deed you a choice piece of land. In a few years, you’ll have doubled your bride price.”
Hardly a compelling offer, thought Martine, since whatever lands she owned, including her bride price, would be Edmond’s to dispose of as he pleased during his lifetime. Wives had no control over their property until their husbands died, and given Edmond’s youth and obvious good health, she did not expect widowhood to be soon in coming.
Such considerations seemed to escape Estrude, however. Leaning forward on her elbows, she said, “‘Tis a handsome offer, my lord. Will I earn such bounty as well, if I produce a son?”
Bernard, next to her, growled, “You don’t quite get the point, do you, my dear? You’re never going to produce a son, and everyone knows it by now. ‘Twas the only creative act you were ever called upon to perform—certainly the only thing I ever expected of you—and you just weren’t up to it.”
Crimson-faced, Estrude sat back in her chair.
Bernard absently twirled his jeweled eating knife between two long, slender fingers. “In desperation, my father is now using my own birthright to bribe the lady Martine into doing the job which I brought you all the way from Flanders fourteen years ago to do.” He chuckled humorlessly. “If she proves exceedingly fertile, I just may end up with no barony to inherit.”
Thorne had taken Ailith out into the meadow as soon as Bernard began speaking, apparently sensing that his words would be unsuitable for the child’s ears. Eager to avert her gaze from Bernard’s ugly sneer, Martine watched the child and the falconer, hand in hand, he pointing out blossoms and she picking them. His tenderness with Ailith surprised her, considering his commanding and self-contained nature. It seemed he only let down his guard with the young girl who reminded him of—what was his sister’s name? Louise. Why had he been so reticent to talk about her?
The other guests pretended not to hear Bernard’s public humiliation of his wife, although no one spoke. They all looked down at their meals except for Clare, who gazed at Bernard as if in a trance. When Estrude said, in a tremulous whisper, “It’s not too late, I’m only thirty,” Martine turned to look at her, as did everyone beneath the canopy.
Stabbing the knife into the table, Bernard bellowed, “You’re only barren and useless! You should consider yourself lucky I’ve kept you on here out of pity instead of sending you back to Flanders. I’ve often been tempted, and may yet do so. Ask my sister how it feels to be sent packing. If bribery can produce a son, perhaps fear can, as well.”
That he would stage such an outburst on such an occasion and in front of so many people shocked Martine, but seemed to surprise no one else. The rest of the company looked as if they had heard it all before, and no doubt they had.
Estrude, still blushing in shame and frustration, sat staring into the distance beyond the river. Suddenly she looked puzzled and, squinting, said, “Who invited Lord Neville?”
“Don’t tell me...” the baron groaned, as all heads turned toward the river. Crossing the small bridge on horseback was a tall, angular, opulently dressed man accompanied by a small woman in shimmering silks and barbette. They dismounted and came to pay their respects, first
to Olivier, then to Godfrey.
Neville’s gaze took in the canopy, the richly dressed guests, the lavishly appointed tables, abundant food, and dozens of servants. He looked perhaps forty, with a blond beard trained into a long point. On his head he wore a snug purple coif.
With a slight nod toward Godfrey, he said, “Had I known you were entertaining, Sire, I’d have chosen another time to pay my call.” Behind him, eyes rolled.
His wife was pale and jumpy. Her eyes darted back and forth between Godfrey and the earl, and her clasped hands were actually shaking. She wasn’t just embarrassed at having arrived uninvited; she was frightened. Martine wondered why.
Godfrey mumbled something civil but meaningless and called for two fresh place settings. The cooks approached him, presenting for his approval the boar’s head on a platter. He nodded and yawned. The pages served the boar, although many of the guests, having eaten their fill, had left their seats.
Thorne returned from the meadow and handed Rainulf a book. “Thank you for the loan. ‘Tis more pleasant to wake a falcon when one has a book for company during the long night.” He stood on the other side of the high table, directly opposite Martine, tall and elegant in a russet tunic bisected by a tooled black leather belt from which hung his sheathed sword, a symbol of his knighthood. As she appraised him discreetly, she saw him glance in her direction, then hurriedly look away.
Father Simon appeared behind Thorne. He stood on his toes to peer over the Saxon’s big shoulder at the book. “Cicero’s De Amictia,” he announced with a smirk. “Greek philosophy. Tell me, Father Rainulf, don’t they frown on pagan writings at the University of Paris?”
Rainulf sat back and crossed his legs. “‘Tis one of the reasons I’ve decided to teach at Oxford when I return from Jerusalem. And Cicero was Roman, not Greek.”
Simon dismissed the distinction with a shrug. “We have a monk nearby who shares your unorthodox views, Father. Perhaps you know of him.”