by Falcons Fire
There were now two shadows in the window of the hawk house, so close together that they looked like one.
Martine wrapped her arms around herself to ease the tremors that shook her. “I see.”
* * *
Thorne slid the long needle into the tethered hawk’s nostril. He worked slowly and carefully, his bandaged left hand holding the bird still while his right manipulated the needle. Even when Estrude let herself in and came around behind him, he kept his eyes on his work and his movements steady, lest he do the suffering creature more harm than good.
Estrude rested a hand on his shoulder, jarring him slightly. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Slowly he said, “Trying to keep my hand still.”
She let go and came around to face him, her attention riveted on the bird. “That’s quite the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Really, what in God’s name are you—”
He sighed. “I’m draining this hawk of a bad humor.”
She smiled. “Do you think you could do the same for Bernard?”
Clever bitch. “‘Twould take more than a needle. My new broadsword, perhaps.”
She chuckled and watched in silence as he continued the treatment. Nodding toward his bandaged hand, she said, “‘Twas a nasty cut you gave yourself at supper.”
“‘Twas a nasty surprise you gave me.” Christ, but he hated surprises.
He slowly drew the needle out, then looked her in the eye. “I’m curious. How did you know ‘twas Bernard who was barren, and not you?”
She turned away and began fussing with things on his worktable. Finally she said, “I suppose it’s safe to tell you. When I was fifteen, there was this man. My father’s overlord. I lived in his household, serving his wife.”
Thorne dabbed a bit of soothing oil on the hawk’s beak. “You became pregnant by him?”
“Aye.” She lifted the little wooden falcon head that he was carving in Freya’s image and on which he would keep her leather hood. “I was a fool. I adored him—much as that little idiot Clare adores Bernard,” Thorne glanced sharply at her, and she chuckled. “I’ve known all along how she feels about him. Of course, nothing will ever come of it. She’s much too plain for Bernard’s taste. I, on the other hand, was comely and... willing. My mistress’s husband found me easy prey. When he discovered I was with child, he talked a midwife into giving me a tonic that expelled the babe from my womb.”
“And then you married Bernard.” He pulled on a gauntlet.
“And no one ever knew,” she finished, turning around.
“Why did you pick me to father your child?”
“Simply put?”
“I’m a simple man.”
“You seemed like good breeding stock.”
“Christ,” he muttered, untethering the hawk and taking her on his fist.
“Big and tall and healthy,” she continued. “And, from what I’d heard, quite the eager stud bull. I must say, I was somewhat put out by the trouble I had to go through for a bit of Saxon seed.”
“I’m simple, not stupid.” Ignoring the anger that sparked in her eyes, he said, “There’s another reason you chose me. You were fairly sure I’d keep quiet. I take it you came here tonight to make certain of it.”
“Aye.”
“I hardly have any choice, do I? If I talk, I’ll be destroyed right along with you. You knew I’d be forced to keep silent. ‘Twas all part of your plan. You’re a cunning woman.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Nay? What choice do women have in life but to be cunning, to get their way by sly manipulation? If I’m good at it, I consider it a compliment.”
She was exasperating. But she was right. Straightforward reason would never work on Bernard. Her only hope lay in deceiving him.
Thorne was still troubled. “One thing bothers me greatly, though. I can stomach keeping quiet, and I can even stomach having a child who doesn’t know I’m his father. But the idea that my own flesh and blood will be brought up by Bernard, of all—”
“He won’t!” Estrude said fiercely. “Not while I’m alive to prevent it.”
Her outburst caused the hawk to pump her wings and strain against the leash wrapped around Thorne’s gauntlet. He placated her with some gentle strokes and a few soothing words. “You sound almost maternal,” he observed wryly.
“I feel maternal. I’m a woman, after all.” She pressed a hand to her belly, and Thorne saw how its roundness stretched the silk of her tightly laced kirtle even tighter. No, it was too soon for her to show. It was surely a hearty supper that distended her so, and not the babe.
She said, “The child will be fostered out to a noble family. A good family. Far away from here. Far away from Bernard.”
“Do you swear it?”
Her eyes were grim. “My own father was much like Bernard. I’d not submit a child of mine to his rages.”
The image of Estrude as a little girl, suffering abuse at the hands of her sire, filled Thorne with a swell of compassion that startled him. It must have shown on his face, because she said, “I don’t want your pity. Just your silence.”
Thorne nodded slowly. “You have it.”
* * *
Alone now in her chamber, Martine continued to watch the hawk house. Presently Lady Estrude emerged, pulled her hood up, and sprinted back to the keep. Martine waited until she heard her enter her own chamber down the hall. Then, taking a deep breath, she pinned her mantle over her knee-length chemise and, on bare, silent feet, traced Estrude’s path back to the hawk house.
Thorne opened the door on her first knock, scooped her inside, and pushed her back against the door. His mouth closed over hers, hot and demanding. With his bandaged hand he fumbled with the brooch that secured her mantle, while the other stole beneath it to glide over a silk-clad breast. He groaned and tore at the mantle; the brooch went flying, the mantle fell to the floor. Before she could stop him, he pulled her chemise up, lifted her by her hips, and wrapped her legs around him.
He kissed her throat, then raised her higher and suckled a tight nipple through the chemise. Arousal flashed through her like lightning. She arched back against the door as he thrust against her, hard as rock through his loose shirt and chausses.
Nay. Don’t let him do this, her inner voice cried. She pushed against his shoulders, and he lowered her to the floor, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her words were silenced with another searing kiss. He untied the front of her chemise with impatient fingers, and then she felt his hands on her bare breasts, squeezing, caressing, the bandage rough against her soft skin.
She wrested her mouth from his. “Thorne—”
He recaptured her mouth, then took one of her hands and pressed it between his legs. She felt the tautly stretched wool of his chausses, and the rigid shaft beneath. It jumped at her touch, and a growl rose in his throat. Molding her fingers around it, he guided her hand up and down its length. It felt hot and alive, frightening and wonderful.
Again she tore her mouth away. “Thorne, please!”
“I know we need to talk,” he murmured hoarsely. “But, God, I need you. All day I’ve needed you. I’m in pain.”
From needing me, or just needing a woman? wondered Martine, all too certain she knew the answer. With an appetite like his, Felda had said, I don’t suppose he’d be that fussy if no one else was available.
Those words gave her the strength to wrench her hand out of his grip. Instantly his long arms enclosed her in a shuddering embrace. “I know I’m going too fast,” he breathed. “But I’ve got to have you.” She felt him gather the skirt of her chemise in his fist. “I need you now. Now. We’ll talk later.”
Gripping his shoulders, Martine drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Is it your baby Lady Estrude is carrying?”
The whole world seemed to whirl to a stop. Thorne didn’t move at all except to tighten his fingers around the silk clutched in his fist. Beneath her hands, his big sho
ulders tensed.
Oh, God. Oh, God. She wrestled out of his grip and jerked away from him, clutching at her chemise to cover her chest. Thorne started to reach for her, but her expression stilled his arm. Closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw and dragged his hands through his unkempt hair.
Christ, why does he have to be so handsome?
She found her brooch in the straw, shook out her mantle, and wrapped it around herself with shaking hands. Did she have the right to be jealous of a woman he had lain with before her? Did it matter? The horrible truth was that he felt no more for her than for that awful Estrude, on whom he had carelessly sired a bastard. And he undoubtedly felt less for either one of them than he did for the whores and servings wenches he preferred. Thorne Falconer cared nothing for women, not in his heart. They existed in his world for one purpose only—to slake his lust.
No, that wasn’t quite true, for Martine herself served a secondary purpose—to marry Edmond of Harford and thereby earn for Sir Thorne the land he coveted. It was humiliating enough to be used in this manner alone, but to have allowed him to seduce her as well... Martine cringed to think of how he must have laughed at her gullibility, even as he took his pleasure with her.
He had used her, just as Jourdain had used her mother, and she, fool that she was, had let it happen, had invited it, had willingly walked into the trap she had spent her life avoiding. He’d been so earnest, so convincing... so skilled. Just as Jourdain had undoubtedly been. The knowledge that he had manipulated her so easily was inexpressibly painful, and for the first time in her life she understood—really understood—the despair that drove her mother to take her life.
She could not undo what was done, could not erase the pain and humiliation. But perhaps she could mitigate it, could salvage a few shreds of dignity to walk away with.
Summoning a tone of weary disinterest, she said “Is there any woman in this castle you haven’t slept with?” then turned and began to pull the door open.
It closed with an explosive slam that made her ears ring. She found herself pinned facing the door, his hands on either side of her head, his heaving chest pressed to her back.
“Martine.” He spoke quietly, obviously straining for control. “About Lady Estrude and... and the baby. Don’t judge me without knowing how it happened.”
“Oh, I think I know how it happened.”
She grabbed the doorknob, but he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Hugging her mantle closed, she looked away from his intense blue eyes. He shut them for a moment and took a deep breath. “Does anyone else know about this?”
She kept her gaze averted. “Felda suspects.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to her. She mustn’t reveal this. Nor must you. If Bernard finds out—”
“He’ll kill you, I know.”
“I can take care of myself. But Estrude is helpless against him. God knows I’ve no affection for the woman, but—”
“That’s right,” she said coldly, looking him in the eye. “I understand you never waste affection on your bed partners. You care more for those birds of yours than the women you use and then toss aside.”
She turned her head again, but he took her by the chin and forced her to face him. He had the grace to look affronted. He was a good actor, but then he would have to be, to have the kind of success he had with women.
“Is that what you think I’ve done to you?” he asked, looking convincingly pained. “Used you and tossed you aside?”
“You deny it?” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a more pointed question. “What did you think would happen between us after... after this morning?”
“I didn’t think. It all happened so fast, and I felt so overwhelmed, so...” He dragged his hands through his hair. “When you went to the river and I thought you might kill yourself, I just panicked. Nothing mattered except finding you and—”
“And making sure I stayed alive long enough to marry Sir Edmond so that you could earn your precious—”
He seized her by the shoulders. “Martine, you can’t think that’s why I—”
“Enough of your lies!” she cried, shaking him off. “I’m sick to death of your lies. You needed me alive for your own purposes, and that’s why you followed me.”
“Then why did I make love to you?” he asked hoarsely.
“Because I was... convenient. You bed whomever is handy and spare naught a care for the damage you do to their lives. You’re no better than Jourdain.”
Gravely he said, “Martine, it’s not like you think. Your perceptions are tainted by memories of your father, but you mustn’t assign his sins to me. I have enough of my own.”
“God knows that’s true.”
He gently stroked her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut, reminding herself it was all an act, it meant nothing. “I know you feel used,” he said softly. “I know you feel hurt—”
Her eyes flew open and she flinched from his touch. “Not at all,” she lied. The less he knew of his power to hurt her, the better it would be for her. “You’re wrong when you say I wasn’t thinking when I... when we... I knew exactly what I was doing. I was using you the same as you were using me. I’d wanted to take a lover before my marriage, for the experience. You were available, and willing. That’s all it meant to me.”
He searched her eyes. She held his gaze for as long as possible before looking down.
“I don’t believe it,” he said quietly.
She raised her chin. “Believe what you like.” She turned and reached again for the doorknob, but he closed his hand over hers. “Is there some point to detaining me?”
Long moments passed before he slowly withdrew his hand.
“I thought not,” she said, and left.
Chapter 15
Thorne, on horseback, watched from far up the road as the wedding procession approached the barony chapel, cheered on by an enormous crowd of villeins. First came the hired musicians strumming their lutes and pounding their Spanish drums, their multicolored costumes exceptionally bright under the harsh noon sun...
And then came Martine, seated sidesaddle on a gaily decorated mule led by her brother. At the church door, Rainulf lifted her down from her mount and presented her to Father Simon. Edmond, his family, and all of the knights and retainers of Harford followed and dismounted, but Thorne spared them not a glance; his gaze was riveted on the bride.
She looked like a goddess of the North in ermine-trimmed gold brocade, her hair plaited in two long braids interwoven with gold threads. A veil of tissue-thin sendal silk floated around her, secured by a jeweled coronet. She was regal, ethereal... and haunting.
It was her eyes that made her so, eyes glazed with a kind of dreamlike melancholy, as if she had been drained of all of life’s pleasures and had resigned herself to its woes.
It wasn’t until Edmond joined Martine on the church steps and took her hand in his that Thorne was able to wrest his gaze from her. With an angry yank on the reins, he swung his mount around and galloped full speed away from Harford.
He’d go to Hastings, that’s what he’d do. He’d go to Hastings and make himself forget.
* * *
The whores all brightened when Thorne walked into the brothel. Those without customers, and even a few with, swarmed to him like bees to sweet balm, taking his mantle, bringing him mead, and vying noisily for his patronage.
Fat Nan soon took matters in hand, grabbing girls by their hair and yanking them aside to clear a path for her formidable girth. “Back off, you squawking hens!” she berated them in English. “He’ll make his choice in due time. Let the man breathe!”
Smiling sweetly, she offered Thorne her plump hand, and he kissed it. “Haven’t seen you in some time, Sir Falconer,” she said. “And I must say I’m surprised you picked this afternoon to pay us a visit. Ain’t there a wedding at Harford Castle today?”
He drained his cup. “Weddings bore me.”
Nan locked her arm with his. �
��Well, we ain’t boring. Are we, girls?”
“Nay! Nay!” they chorused, crowding around again to offer their services.
Freckle-faced Tilda, whom Thorne had tupped once last summer and avoided since, called to him from the lap of her customer. “What about me, Sir Falconer? I got rid of them bugs.”
“I liked them bugs,” said the customer, one of the regulars, a red-faced wool boiler. “They made you frisky! For once you didn’t just lie there like a bag of turnips.”
Tilda looked bored. “Did you ever stop to wonder why a girl’s gotta have a crotchful of insects before you can get her to squirm?”
A black-haired girl trailed her fingers through Thorne’s hair. “This one just looks at me and I squirm!”
Thorne saw that his cup had been refilled, and he quickly drank it down. “Where’s Emeline?” he asked.
There was instant silence in the brothel. Someone whispered, “He don’t know!”
“Nan?” said Thorne.
Nan crossed her massive arms. “Emeline got her neck broke.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Someone poured some more mead into his cup, and he swallowed it automatically. “What happened?”
More silence, uncomfortable silence, until Tilda spoke up. “‘Twas one of them Harford dogs.”
“Tilda!” Nan hissed.
“I ain’t telling him who.”
“Well, you better not,” Nan warned. “‘Twould be worth your life, and ours, as well you know.”
“You were threatened if you talked?” Thorne asked Tilda.
“Aye, we was told we’d get what Emeline got if we didn’t keep mum. And we got sixpence apiece from the cheap bastard.” She spat into the rushes.
It was Bernard himself, most likely. There were rumors that he’d killed a whore about twenty years ago, the crime having been hushed up through the influence of Lord Olivier, who had always been fond of his former squire. But although Bernard suffered no formal punishment for the murder, news of it gradually infiltrated every noble house in southern England. That was one of the reasons he’d had to go all the way to Flanders for a bride; there wasn’t a baron or knight in all of Sussex who would betroth his daughter to him after that. Yes, it was most likely Bernard, but why, after all these years of keeping his nose clean, had he done it again? He was vicious, but he wasn’t stupid.