Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Nan patted his hand. “I know you fancied Emeline. But I got a new girl to take her place, and you’ll like her just as well, I wager.” She turned and waved a girl over. “Wilona?”

  A young woman in a pink wrapper stepped forward, grinning. She was fairly pretty, with all her front teeth, and pale blond hair pinned up in two coiled braids. It was the blond hair that clinched it. “She’ll do,” he said.

  She led him upstairs to a curtained-off alcove he’d been in many times before, but always at night. It looked squalid in the muted daylight from the shuttered window, and smelled of sour rushes and quick sex.

  Wilona shrugged her wrapper off and lay down unceremoniously on a straw pallet covered with a stained blanket.

  “Take down your hair,” he said.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she sat up and did as he said. Her hair fell only to the middle of her back, and was thin and lank. “Do you like it?” she asked. “Does it look like hers?” Thorne just stared at her. “I can always tell. You can call me by her name if you want. I don’t mind.”

  Christ. He went to the window and opened the shutters. It was a cool day, and the air, although it reeked of sewage and ale, felt good on his face. Beyond this rank, narrow street, he could see Bulverhythe Harbor, crowded this afternoon with boats, its docks piled high with goods pouring in from northern France.

  He remembered how she had looked, half hidden on the deck of the Lady’s Slipper, smiling that shy, mysterious smile.

  From behind him, Wilona said, “Come on, what’s her name?”

  Her name is Martine, he thought, gazing at the distant horizon. Martine of Rouen. And her hair is nothing like yours, and she looks nothing like you. She’s nothing like any other woman in the world.

  And I can’t have her. I can never have her. She can never be mine.

  God help me to get through this day, he prayed. And then the next, and the next, and the next, without going mad from needing her, without dying a little inside every time I think about her, which is every moment of the day, or see her, which, God help me, makes me want to gather her up and ride off with her and...

  And what?

  Leaning his elbows on the windowsill, he buried his face in his hands. And what, indeed? Martine had avoided him utterly since that painful night in the hawk house. She clearly felt hurt and angry, but in his heart he knew she cared for him, knew their lovemaking had been more than the coldhearted exercise she claimed it was. A thousand times this past fortnight he had challenged himself to find a way to be with her, to keep her... and a thousand times he had realized, in despair, that it was impossible.

  It all came down to property, of course. Right now he had nothing: no home, no wealth, no land. Were he to marry Martine, Godfrey would dismiss him in disgrace, and he would have to abandon all that he had pursued with such single-minded determination for the past ten years—his falcons, his knighthood, and the holding Godfrey had promised him. Could he bring himself to give it up? That was a question he had trouble answering. For all that Martine meant to him, he couldn’t just casually dismiss a decade’s worth of struggle, sweat, and hope.

  The question was academic, anyway. Even if he did make that sacrifice for her, then what? Where would they go? What would they do? They would be poor, bitterly poor, and homeless. Perhaps he could make a living as a woodsman, but there was no guarantee of that, given the rate at which land was being claimed under Forest Law. He could hire himself out as a mercenary soldier, but then he would have to leave her, and there was hardly any point to that. And what of Martine? It was bad enough to give up his own hopes and dreams. How could he subject her to a life of deprivation when she could live in luxury as Edmond’s wife?

  Wilona sighed impatiently. “Come on, sir, let’s have us a bit of fun. Take off them things and come on over here.”

  Edmond’s wife. He rubbed his fists on his forehead. By now, the ceremony would be over, the vows spoken, the rings exchanged, and there would be feasting and rejoicing in the great hall. After the celebration, there would be the ritual blessing of the marriage bed at Edmond’s new home. And then Father Simon and the witnesses would leave, and Martine and Edmond would be alone...

  “God help me,” he muttered.

  “What’s that, love?” Wilona said, yawning.

  He shook his head. Don’t think about it, for God’s sake. She’s his wife by now. It’s done. You’ll get over it. You’ll get over her. Little by little, the pain will go away. You’ll care less and less as time goes on.

  He never should have let himself care at all, of course. He had forgotten himself, lost all self-control, and his foolish, unchecked feelings had led to the madness at the riverbank. Ah, what sweet madness, though. I lived among madmen once, he had told her. Some of them were even happy. He’d never known such abandon, such ecstasy, never known that in uniting his body with a woman’s, he could join his very soul to hers. He’d been awestruck, rocked to the very core of his being. And yes, he’d been happy. For a brief time, in his sweet, unthinking madness, he’d even been happy.

  But that happiness had, of course, come with a price. And now, in his anguish, he was paying it.

  “Sir? It costs the same whether you do me or not, so you may as well do me. Your time will be up soon.”

  He turned around. She had her legs spread and her arms open. He went to her, reached into his tunic, and withdrew his purse. She sat up, the sting of rejection in her eyes. But when he shook out a far too generous handful of coins, the hurt turned to awe at the sight of all that silver.

  Taking her hand in his, he filled it with the coins and closed her fingers around them. “You’re very pretty,” he said. “And you have beautiful hair. The problem is mine, not yours.”

  As he left, he heard her pouring the money from one hand to the other. “No wonder you’re so popular with the girls!” she called out. “You can ask for me anytime!”

  * * *

  Kneeling beside Edmond, Martine stared out the window of the bedchamber as Simon mumbled his Latin and swung his censer over the big rosemary-strewn bed, trailing streams of aromatic smoke.

  Her new home was much like the prior’s lodge at St. Dunstan’s, a big stone house with a kitchen on the ground floor and living quarters above, although it had but one bedchamber; the rest was an open hall. It was a short ride from Harford Castle and surrounded on all sides by a flat lawn ringed with dense woods.

  The unusually large window afforded her a good view of the yard on that side. She studied the moonlit grass below, contemplating the best spot for her herb garden, the one she would spend the winter planning and the spring sowing. It was all she had thought about all day, even during the wedding, especially then, when she couldn’t bear to think about what she was doing, about the overwhelming, irrevocable step she was taking... about Thorne.

  She had pictured the garden in her mind—borage here, chamomile there, perhaps a border of silky wormwood—amending and rearranging the pattern over and over as she spoke her vows at the church door, scattered coins to the peasants, endured the wedding mass, and ducked beneath the shower of seeds that greeted her as she left the chapel hand in hand with Edmond: Edmond, in his long, elegant tunic with his dirty, ragged fingernails... Edmond, with his feral good looks and his breath like rancid meat... Edmond, now swaying drunkenly on his knees as this last tiresome rite of marriage concluded.

  Rainulf kissed her cheek, whispered “‘Twill be all right, you’ll see,” and left with Father Simon and Lord Godfrey. Felda led her into the hall, dressed her in a silken shift and wrapper, brushed out her hair, and dabbed her with fragrant oils.

  When Martine took a deep, shaky breath, Felda said, “You oughtn’t to be nervous, milady. Not with a bridegroom who’s as scared as that one in there.”

  “Scared?”

  “Why do you think he’s got himself so sotted? If you ask me, he’s terrified of you. I can see it in his eyes every time he looks your way.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”<
br />
  Felda shrugged. “I think it’s because you belong to a different world from him. You can read and play chess and talk about something other than hunting and whor—” She bit her lip and glanced sheepishly at her mistress. “I’d best getting to bed, milady.” She reached out with both fleshy hands and pinched Martine’s cheeks until they burned, nodding approvingly at the results. “And so should you,” she added with a wink as she turned and disappeared down the stairs.

  It was some time before Martine could work up the courage to return to the bedchamber. When she did, she found Edmond facedown in the rushes, snoring. With a silent prayer of gratitude, she swept the rosemary sprigs off the bed, climbed under the covers, wrapper and all, and gave herself up to the blessed numbness of sleep.

  * * *

  “Do you suppose he’s dead, milady?” Felda asked.

  The two women stood on either side of Edmond, still prone in the rushes, unaware of the late morning sun streaming in through the bedchamber window.

  Martine sighed. “Probably not.”

  Felda shot her a curious look, then leaned over her mistress’s comatose husband. “Sir Edmond, wake up! We’re due back at the castle for the noon meal. They’re expecting us.” Edmond didn’t move. “Please, sir. Milady’s brother leaves on pilgrimage today. She’s wanting to say good-bye to him.”

  Shaking her head, Martine squatted next to him. “Give me a hand, Felda. Let’s roll him over.” With Martine pushing and Felda pulling, they managed to turn him faceup. He grunted but didn’t open his eyes. His normally swarthy complexion looked gray, his mouth gaped open, and rushes clung to one side of his face. Martine peeled one off, which left a dark mark like a fresh scar.

  “Let’s go.”

  “But, milady, we can’t go without—”

  “Do you propose to drag him behind us on a litter?”

  “Nay, milady, but—”

  “Then let’s go.”

  * * *

  Why do I always end up sitting across from Thorne? Martine wondered as she inspected the whole glazed rabbit on her trencher. She’d never eaten rabbit before and didn’t much feel like eating it now.

  Godfrey, at the head of the table, frowned. “I wish Edmond were here. Doesn’t seem right.”

  “She couldn’t wake him up,” Rainulf reminded him.

  Bernard’s men snickered, except for Boyce, who shook with laughter. “My lord, if I may say so, you’re the one who wanted grandsons. Most likely the boy’s exhausted himself from trying too hard to plant one.”

  Martine, her face scalding, saw Thorne suppress a scowl. So the Saxon didn’t like the idea of her sharing with Edmond the pleasures that he had taught her at the riverbank. But what right had he to disapprove? Edmond was her husband and Thorne Falconer was merely a selfish rogue who had used and discarded her.

  Still, she couldn’t bear to be the subject of those crude whispers and giggles. Glaring at the red-haired giant, and ignoring Rainulf’s look of warning, she said, “‘Twas trying too hard to empty the brandy jug that exhausted my husband, and nothing more.”

  Boyce laughed, of course, but the rest of the group exchanged the look of disapproval that had become so familiar to her. All except for Thorne, who looked directly at her for the first time since she’d sat down opposite him. Their eyes connected with stunning intimacy, and her heart betrayed her with a flutter of longing.

  “Here he is!” thundered Godfrey, beckoning someone over to the table.

  Everyone turned to see Edmond, uncombed and bedraggled, crossing the great hall.

  Boyce guffawed. “Look at those marks on his face. Damned if the boy didn’t spend the night in the rushes.” His comrades laughed appreciatively, but Edmond, his jaw thrust out, his pallid face gone pink, clearly did not share in the mirth he’d spawned.

  Oblivious to Edmond’s distress, Boyce said, “Your bride’s already told us you weren’t up to doing your husbandly duty last night. She didn’t tell us she made you sleep on the floor in punishment!”

  Edmond stopped dead in the middle of the hall, his dark eyes filled with shame and confusion. Martine, regretting her part in the derision, felt a moment of pity. But the moment passed when he turned those eyes on her, for she saw something in them that chilled her. She’d seen that look once as a child, in the eyes of a wild dog that paced back and forth furiously in too small a cage. Poor thing, she had thought, but when she reached through the bars to pet it, it growled and bit her.

  Glaring at Martine, Edmond turned and stalked away.

  An uncomfortable silence followed before Thorne changed the subject by asking Rainulf about his pilgrimage, and a more relaxed conversation ensued. However, Martine noticed that Bernard did not join in. He sliced and ate his meat in grim silence, pausing every now and then to study Martine with his snakelike eyes.

  * * *

  “I can’t bear it,” Martine rasped against Rainulf’s shoulder as they said good-bye on the outer drawbridge. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, yet she couldn’t stop her eyes from burning with tears. “I can’t bear not seeing you for two years.”

  “You’ll have—”

  “Nay, please!” She looked up. “Don’t tell me again that I’ll have Edmond to take care of me. He can’t even take care of himself.”

  He patted her hair. “I was going to say you’ll have Thorne.”

  Momentarily speechless, Martine glanced toward the Saxon, who, having already bid Rainulf good-bye, now stood by the inner gatehouse watching them. “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated. “Edmond is... young. I’m confident that he’ll mature in time, but while I’m gone, I’ll feel better if there’s someone more... capable... looking after you.”

  She stepped back and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “You asked Sir Thorne to look after me?”

  “Aye. Your hasty temper worries me now more than ever. You’ve been married barely a day, and already you’ve publicly humiliated your hus—”

  “‘Twas I who was humiliated,” she spat out. “I had every right to—”

  “I’m speaking of discretion, not rights. Bernard was also most displeased, in case it escaped your notice.”

  She shrugged. “I care naught what Bernard thinks of me.”

  “You care naught what anyone thinks of you,” he said. “But people have ways of making one care. They have ways of punishing outspokenness such as yours. ‘Tis why I made Thorne swear an oath on the relic in the hilt of his sword that he’d protect and defend you while I was gone, should you need it.”

  She laughed shortly. “He swore on that worthless scrap of linen? He doesn’t believe any more than I do that it ever swaddled the baby Jesus. A lot of good that oath is worth.”

  Rainulf looked cross. “Thorne is a man of honor. He’ll make sure no harm comes to you. But should you ever find yourself in need...” He drew a purse from his robe and pressed it into Martine’s hand. It was heavy, and when she pulled the drawstring and looked inside, she saw the glint of gold coins. “The Church has all my land,” he said, “but I retained a certain measure of... portable wealth.”

  She smiled knowingly. “Wealth you could hide, you mean.”

  He frowned. “Wealth I thought might someday be more useful to you than to the Church. But yes, it can and should be hidden.” Martine slipped it into the pouch on her girdle. He beckoned to the boy waiting by the stables with his mount. “No one must know about it, not even Edmond.”

  Especially not Edmond, thought Martine. She was no fool. The property given her when she married him was his until his death. The gold in that pouch represented her only real wealth, and she had no intention of letting it fall into his hands.

  Martine wept anew as her brother mounted up. It was so like that day eight years before, when he’d left her at St. Teresa’s. Remembering the pain of that parting and how dreadfully she had missed him afterward, only made this good-bye harder.

  She took his hand as he leaned down in his saddle to kiss her wet cheek. �
�You’re foolish and hardheaded, little sister, but I love you very much.”

  “I love you, too. Please, please be careful.”

  “I will.” With a wave to her, and another to Thorne, he turned and rode away. She stood and watched him, tears streaming down her face, until he ceased to be even a speck on the landscape.

  I’m really alone now, she thought. Completely alone.

  * * *

  Edmond did not come home until late that night, long after Martine had gone to bed, again wearing both her sleeping shift and wrapper, having abandoned her practice of sleeping in the nude. She awoke to the sound of him bumping into something, but lay still with her eyes closed, feigning sleep as he moved about the room. Her heart raced in panic as she waited for him to join her in bed, but the panic eased when she realized that, in his own clumsy way, he was endeavoring to be quiet.

  He lifted the covers and crawled in next to her. Even though her back was turned, her nostrils were filled with his distinctive, sweetly sour smell, like wine that had gone bad. He fell asleep almost instantly and, with a sigh of relief, she did the same.

  * * *

  Martine stood at the bedchamber window, combing her hair and watching Edmond in the yard below as he tossed a stick to the litter of bloodhound pups she had given him. It was dusk, and she had already changed into her sleeping shift, having fallen into a pattern of retiring early, so that she was fully asleep—or could appear so—by the time her husband came to bed.

  A week had passed since the wedding, but still Edmond had not, thank God, attempted to bed her. She would have to pretend to be a virgin, and she didn’t know whether she was a good enough actress. Also, he grew more repulsive with each passing day. He looked worse, acted worse, and God knew, he smelled worse.