by Falcons Fire
A shimmer of white caught her eye, and she made for it, her overtaxed arms and legs struggling against their confining garments to propel her, so slowly, forward. Please, God, she prayed, let it be Ailith.
It was. But at the sight of her, Martine’s heart lurched.
Her little body—senseless at best, and possibly lifeless as well—hung suspended in the cold gloom, her arms posed gracefully above her head, as if stilled in the act of dancing. Her eyes were closed; her mouth hung slackly open. She had a raw scrape on her chin and an open cut on her forehead, from which blood seeped, forming a pink cloud in the greenish water.
The dam had stopped her progress downstream, which was fortunate, but in the process, the bottom half of her kirtle had become entangled in the hawthornes’ spiky branches. With her lungs close to bursting, Martine grabbed the child under her arms and pulled, again and again, but she didn’t budge. Looking more closely, she saw the hundreds of needle-sharp thorns embedded in the thin ivory wool.
Quickly she swam toward the sunlight above, gasping for air as she broke the surface. People were gathered on the riverbank, including Thorne, close by, whipping his brown undertunic over his head. Beneath it, he wore a white linen shirt and brown chausses.
“Sir Thorne!” she called hoarsely.
“My lady! Thank God you’re all right! Did you find—”
She nodded impatiently. “Your sword! Bring it!”
As he slid the weapon from its scabbard, she filled her lungs with air and dove toward Ailith. The child was as she had left her, and with dismay, Marine saw how deathly pale she was, how still, how like a shell without a soul. Dear God, please don’t let her be dead, she begged, wrapping her arms around the little body and holding her tight.
The hand on her shoulder made her start, and she turned to find the Saxon, holding his sword. Martine pointed out the snagged kirtle and Thorne, with careful aim, swiftly cut the wool loose from the hawthornes’ grip. Dropping the sword, which floated to the river bottom, he took the child in his arms and swam with her to the surface. Martine set out to follow him, but her ascent was stopped short before it even began.
She couldn’t move! She pumped her arms and legs furiously, not comprehending, in her sudden alarm, what was wrong. When she looked down and saw her own garments held fast by the hawthornes’ tiny claws, her alarm turned to terror. Up above, Thorne swam away from her with swift, sure strokes.
She tugged at her tunic, then reached down to try to pry the thorns loose, but they pierced her fingers, drawing blood, and for every one she loosened, two more took its place. Below, on the river bottom, Thorne’s unreachable sword glowed dimly, tauntingly. Her lungs burned and her heart slammed painfully in her chest.
She knew. She had always known, always, that she would die by drowning—struggling in terror, waiting for the moment when her lungs would fill with water.
Trying to ignore the pain and pressure in her chest, she reached behind, groping for the knot that Estrude had tied. Useless. With both hands, she yanked at the neck of the tunic, but the heavy silver braid could not be torn. Mindlessly she thrashed, wrestling with her prison of silk and wool, as bubbles of air escaped from her nose and mouth. Her chest spasmed and her throat contracted as she resisted the instinct to inhale.
She closed her eyes. Don’t breathe don’t breathe don’t breathe don’t breathe. She let her body go limp... don’t breathe... let the water embrace her, suspend her... don’t breathe...
White light filled her vision. She lost all track of time, all sense of space, all fear... until a pair of large hands gripped her shoulders, breaking the spell, and she opened her eyes.
Thorne. His expression of dread gave way to relief as he took her face in his hands and, closing his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers. Then he released her, retrieved his sword, and swiftly set about cutting away the fur and braid-trimmed hems of her tunic and kirtle. The urge to breathe was all but irresistible, and Martine shook as she struggled for control.
Thorne freed her from the hawthornes’ clutches, and with an arm around her waist, swam with her to the surface. Gulping great lungfuls of air, they struggled to the shore. There, Rainulf and Albin waited, the rest of the guests having regrouped near the canopy. From their direction came a dreadful wail, like that of an animal in pain.
“Martine!” Rainulf exclaimed, running toward her. “Thank God!”
Her legs were quaking so badly that they could barely support her, and she knew that she would collapse without Thorne to hold her up. “Ailith! Where is she?”
The knight and the priest exchanged a grim look. With a hand on Martine’s arm, Rainulf said, “She’s gone.”
At first Martine’s overwrought mind refused to accept her brother’s meaning. “Gone where? Back to the castle?”
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Thorne took her by the shoulders. “My lady...” he began, but seemed unable to finish. He didn’t have to. Martine could read the grief in his transparent eyes, and when he looked toward the group near the canopy, her gaze followed his.
They stood in a circle, gentlefolk and servants together, silent and still, their heads bowed. From within their midst came the wailing, as well as a man’s steady, low murmuring. Someone moved, creating a gap in the circle. Through it, Martine saw one of the white linen tablecloths spread out on the grass, and atop that, the ivory skirt of Ailith’s kirtle, sliced off raggedly at the hem, and, emerging from the kirtle, the two little bare feet, pale and still.
“No,” she choked, half running on her quivering legs, shaking off Thorne’s attempt to hold her back. He released her, but followed close behind.
“Martine,” Rainulf called, following as well, “you did everything you could. You risked your life for her. ‘Twas God’s will that she be taken—”
“To hell with God’s will!” she spat out, as the circle parted to admit her, some of the servants crossing themselves at her heretical words.
Ailith lay on her back with her arms crossed over her chest as Father Simon administered last rites. At the sight of her—her blue-gray skin and violet lips, the ugly wounds on her face—a moan of disbelief arose within Martine. She can’t be dead.
The wailing came from Geneva. She crouched over her daughter’s inert form, her face buried in her hands, rocking back and forth as she sobbed and shrieked her grief. “My baby, my baby! Please, God, give me back my baby! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Just give me back my baby!” Martine had never witnessed such uncurbed despair. Rainulf, kneeling next to the distracted woman, put his arms around her and spoke soft, insistent words into her ear, but she seemed unaware of his presence.
Martine’s legs gave out. Sinking to her knees next to the child, she laid a hand on her cold cheek. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “This can’t be.” She uncrossed the limp little arms and rested the other hand on her chest to check for breathing, but felt no movement of any kind.
Father Simon scowled at her as he mumbled his prayers, and she heard whispered comments about her hands from the onlookers. They were both covered, front and back, with myriad tiny lacerations, the result of her struggles with the hawthornes. They bled badly, but oddly enough, Martine felt no pain.
Ailith’s coloring clearly indicated that she had been starved for air. Her skin and lips looked like that of a baby boy Martine had helped deliver in Paris. He couldn’t breathe, but the physician, having found a heartbeat, saved him by breathing into his mouth.
Martine leaned over and put an ear to Ailith’s chest, but could hear nothing but her own ragged breathing and Geneva’s lamentations. Pressing two fingers against the side of Ailith’s throat, she closed her eyes and held her breath. Presently she felt a faint pressure beneath her fingertips, and then another. A pulse! Contrary to appearances, she wasn’t dead yet.
What now? The physician in Paris had covered both the baby’s mouth and nose with his own mouth and blown into them. But Ailith’s mouth and nose were too far apart for that, so she pinched the child’s n
ose closed, covered the little open mouth with her own, and blew. Ailith’s chest rose, and Martine felt encouraged. Her optimism waned, however, when she heard a faint gurgling sound, which suggested the presence of water in her lungs.
Father Simon ceased his praying. The whispered comments became a buzz of collective shock and bewilderment. Geneva began raining frenzied punches on Martine’s shoulders and back, screaming “Leave my baby alone! What are you doing to my baby?”
As Martine raised her head to take a breath, she saw Rainulf seize Geneva’s fists and draw her into his arms. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “She just needs to feel she’s done all she can.” Geneva collapsed in his embrace, sobbing, and he held her tightly, stroking her and whispering comforting words.
Martine forced breath after breath into the child’s lungs, commanding herself to think of nothing but the mechanics of what she did—not of what people might think of her for doing it, and not even whether she would succeed in making Ailith breathe again. Especially not that, because she couldn’t bear to think that she would fail.
“My lady!” Father Simon exclaimed. “What are you doing? This is outrageous! Someone stop her!”
“Leave her alone,” Thorne commanded, standing between Martine and the horrified priest.
“Nay!” Simon cried, reaching toward Martine. He probably meant to push her away, but before he could, Thorne yanked him abruptly to his feet.
“Get away from here,” he ordered, roughly shoving the priest, who stumbled and fell. Raising her head to take a breath, Martine saw that Peter and Guy had emerged from the crowd, their swords drawn in automatic and unquestioning allegiance to Thorne.
“The child is dead!” Simon exclaimed, gaining his feet. He glanced toward Bernard as if for support, but the other man just looked on passively, smiling his humorless smile. “To attempt to bring her back is unholy. The devil’s work.”
Thorne said, “If the devil is here today, ‘tis you who act as his instrument, not the lady Martine.” His right hand contracted into a fist. “Now, leave.”
Simon’s lip curled. “You wouldn’t strike a man of the cloth.”
From the corner of her eye, as she blew into Ailith’s mouth, Martine saw the Saxon’s big fist whip through the air toward the priest’s astonished face. The punch connected with a dull crack, and suddenly Father Simon lay sprawled on his back, howling and shielding his face with his hands.
“Wrong again,” Thorne said dryly, returning to tower protectively over Martine and Ailith. Bernard and his men laughed uproariously as Father Simon writhed, blood from his nostrils spattering the white tablecloth.
Pausing to take a breath, Martine heard a new sound, a kind of liquid rattling, coming from Ailith. It sounded like a death rattle, which she had heard more than once in Paris. Alarmed, she put an ear to the little chest. The sound came again, and again. It had a strained quality, as if the result of great effort.
Thorne crouched next to her. “What is it?”
“I think she’s trying to breathe,” Martine whispered.
The child’s small body began to twitch convulsively. Vaguely aware of the onlookers’ startled gasps, Martine took hold of Ailith and, with Thorne’s help, turned her onto her side and held her there. Spasms shuddered through Ailith, and water poured from her mouth. Her indrawn breath grated raggedly, and then she coughed with a kind of hoarse croak, spewing water. Again she coughed, and again the water spilled from her mouth.
“Ailith!” Geneva cried. “Ailith! My baby! Ailith!” She strained toward her daughter, but Rainulf, his eyes wide with amazement, held her back. The gasps became a chorus of murmurs and exclamations.
Presently Ailith’s eyelids fluttered open. She blinked, as if the light hurt her eyes, and coughed once more, weakly.
“Thank God,” Rainulf said. He smiled at Martine, and it warmed her heart to see the joy and pride in his eyes. Releasing Geneva, who gathered her daughter in her arms and covered her face with tears and kisses, he executed a solemn sign of the cross.
Many of those watching did the same, but in their eyes Martine saw not joy but bewilderment and even fear. She heard whispered comments about sorcery, but paid them little mind.
Let them wallow in their ignorance, she thought exhaustedly. Ailith is alive, and that’s all that matters.
* * *
Thorne slammed the hawk house door behind him and stripped quickly, peeling off his sodden chausses and shirt and pulling on a pair of dark linen braies. The long trousers were threadbare, but they were loose and comfortable and, best of all, dry.
Shuttering the windows against the rain, he thought how late it seemed, although the sun had yet to set and supper was only now being served in the great hall—a supper that he had no appetite for. The rain clouds blocked the late afternoon sunlight, giving the illusion of a night sky. His overwhelming fatigue only fueled that sense of lateness. It had been an arduous day.
First, the betrothal ceremony. He recalled how his heart had twisted in his chest as he watched the lady Martine coolly accept the white glove from young Edmond, take his hand in hers, and speak the words that sealed their betrothal. He should have felt relief at being one step closer to earning his manor. Instead he felt only profound regret.
How, in the space of two days, had this woman so thoroughly stolen into his every waking thought? It was a bewildering dilemma, and a troubling one, not only because his ambitions depended on her marriage to Edmond, but because it would be foolish indeed to allow himself to start caring so much for anyone. Caring made one vulnerable. He had cared for little Louise, cared deeply, and it had all but stripped him of his sanity when she left the world. Her death taught him a painful but valuable lesson: Love had a price. If one did not want to pay it, it was best to school one’s emotions, to keep strong feelings in check.
Yet he craved Martine, craved her as he had never craved another woman. There was, of course, no question of his ever having her, even once. All he could do was pray, with all his heart, that his desire for her would diminish over time. Perhaps when Lord Godfrey deeded him his land and he reaped the benefits of her union with Edmond, he would be able to rein in his unruly feelings.
First the betrothal ceremony and then the sobering news from Olivier’s messenger that Anseau and Aiglentine’s killers had implicated Lord Neville in their crime. Upon their return to the castle that afternoon, the earl and his barons conferred and decided to allow the murderous Neville his freedom for the time being, deeming it unseemly to incarcerate one of noble blood without proof of guilt. Neville would have to be summoned to King Henry’s royal council, and if his peers found him guilty, he would then be punished.
The best he could hope for would be a pilgrimage of penance to Jerusalem. His head would be shaved and he would be fitted with neck and wrist chains forged from his own armor, then forced to walk barefoot, alone, from one shrine to the next for years, possibly decades. The worst–if Henry felt not particularly disposed toward mercy—would be the same treatment accorded the bandits who had done his bidding: preparatory torture followed by a public hanging, a great disgrace both to himself and his family. The most likely sentence would be a swift beheading with an ax, a more humane and respectable form of execution than the noose.
Would Neville come willingly to Henry’s tribunal? Knowing him as he did, Thorne thought it unlikely. Had it been up to him, he would have organized a party that very afternoon to seek out the cur and arrest him. Unfortunately, the decision had not been his, although the consequences might; as Godfrey’s soldier, Thorne must needs also fight for his overlord, Olivier, and his king, Henry. Should Neville find some way to resist justice, Thorne would be among those called to enforce it, a prospect he did not fear, but also did not relish.
After tending to the needs of his falcons, he lay facedown on his narrow bed and closed his eyes.
Martine’s face floated before him, pale and terrified in the dark waters. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and studied the thatc
hed ceiling of his little hut, chilled by how close she had come to death. Her death would have meant Ailith’s death as well, for only she had detected the flickering spark of life in the little body. Everyone else, Thorne included, had assumed the child was already gone.
Someone began knocking at the door. Let them knock. He needn’t answer. He had no need of company and much need of sleep.
He covered his face with his hands. Could he have borne Ailith’s death? Losing her would have been like losing his sister all over again. In a way, Louise lived for him through Ailith, softening the hurt that lingered in his heart, the hurt that would never leave, but could at least be made bearable. Ailith had done that for him.
The knocking ceased. Rising, Thorne dipped a rag in the washbowl and bathed his face, arms, and chest. Exhaustion had overcome him, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into a dreamless sleep.
Rain pattered softly on the thatch and rattled the window shutters. A gust of wind blew one open and he went to close it, noticing as he did the dark form walking away from the hawk house toward the keep—his unwelcome caller. He wore a long, hooded mantle and walked with his head down against the wind and rain. Who would have crossed the bailey in this weather to see him? Perhaps it had been important business. Feeling a small tug of remorse, he squinted into the rain. Was it Rainulf? No, he wasn’t quite tall enough.
Another gust whipped the caller’s hood back off his head—her head, Thorne now realized, in the brief moment before she replaced the hood. A very brief moment indeed, but he had seen the pale blond hair—that extraordinary hair.
He was out the door before he knew it, sprinting, half clothed, in the rain toward Martine.
Chapter 10
Thorne grabbed Martine’s shoulder and she turned, startled, her hood flying off again. He pulled it back into place for her and, with a hand on her arm, guided her quickly back to the hawk house and through the door, shutting it firmly behind them.