Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Thorne brushed aside the tangled hair that clung to her face. Her cheek was abraded, her lip split, her forehead bruised; thank God it wasn’t worse.

  “The other side,” the woman said, taking Martine’s head in her hands and gently rolling it faceup.

  Thorne sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus!” The flesh, puffy and discolored, was further marred by angry bruises and two open wounds. Emotion swelled within him, squeezing his heart until he thought it would burst... rage, compassion, guilt...

  Edmond did this to her, of that he had no doubt. The man he had given her to had ravaged her like a wild animal. From the marks on her throat, he’d actually tried to kill her. Surely he was strong enough to break her neck.

  Emeline got her neck broke, Nan had said. ‘Twas one of them Harford dogs. Thorne had thought it was Bernard, reverting to his old ways, but most likely it was Edmond, adopting them anew. He’d always revered Bernard, always tried to be like him. And Thorne, blinded by greed for his land, had paid no heed to the inherent danger of that. What happened to Martine was his fault, his responsibility; he should have known Edmond was capable of this, should have seen it coming. Had he ignored the warning signs because they interfered with his plans?

  “Christ,” he muttered, sinking his face in his hands. He had sworn an oath to Rainulf to protect this woman—this woman who had trusted him, had cared for him, had given herself to him. She haunted his dreams... she owned his heart. And he had failed her.

  She moaned. He uncovered his face and took her hand. “Martine,” he murmured, “I’m here.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “It is you,” she whispered hoarsely. “You came.”

  “Aye. I’ll take care of you. From now on.”

  She smiled weakly and then frowned. “My head hurts. What happened?”

  She doesn’t remember. He shook his head helplessly. What good would it do to tell her the truth—that her husband had savaged her, had taken her by brutal force, had very nearly killed her?

  She said, “I must have fallen out of bed.” He nodded, his throat tight. “Ask Mama to kiss it for me?”

  He gazed for a long, painful moment at her wounded face, the childlike pleading in her eyes. His voice a ragged whisper, he said, “I’ll kiss it for you.”

  Leaning close, he chose an uninjured spot on her forehead and gently pressed his lips to it.

  She squeezed his hand. “I knew you’d come, Papa. I knew you’d come for us.”

  Papa. Thorne watched as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “Sleep,” he softly urged. Nodding contentedly, she closed her eyes and went completely limp. If not for her quiet, steady breathing, he might have thought she had expired. Thankfully, her wounds, although cruel, were almost certainly not mortal. He opened her fingers, pressed her palm to his mouth, and kissed it.

  Closing his eyes, he saw Edmond... Edmond striking her... Edmond with his hands around her throat... Edmond on top of her.

  He couldn’t be allowed to get away with this—not this. By law and custom, she was under the rod of her husband. He was free to discipline her in whatever manner suited him, for any offense, with no threat of penalty. Such affairs were private. Any retribution must, likewise, be a private affair—Thorne’s affair.

  But right now Martine needed his help. He had to get her to a safe place and see to her injuries. He called Peter in from outside.

  When his friend saw Martine, he blanched. Meeting Thorne’s eyes, he said, “Edmond?”

  Thorne nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” Peter said, his right hand curled into a fist, which he cradled in his left. It was a seemingly casual gesture, but not one lost on Thorne. Peter’s prowess with his fists was legendary.

  He was a good friend, to be willing to exact Thorne’s revenge for him—revenge on the son of his overlord, no less. It was a generous offer, but one Thorne couldn’t accept. The revenge had to be his, otherwise he could never live with himself.

  He stood. “I’ll deal with Edmond. You go fetch Felda. Have her pack some of Lady Martine’s clothes, then bring her back to Harford. If Edmond’s at the house, stay out of his way. If he’s not there, find out where he went.”

  “Are you taking Lady Martine back to Harford?” Peter asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Do you think that’s safe, what with Bernard and his men—”

  “Not the castle. The hawk house, where I can keep an eye on her.”

  After Peter left, Thorne handed the woman some coins for her troubles, then wrapped Martine in his mantle and gently lifted her from the pallet. He gave her to the women’s husband to hold while he mounted up, then took her back and cradled her in his arms, letting the reins hang loose.

  She stirred, murmuring anxiously. “Everything’s all right,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” She relaxed with a sigh. Using the pressure of his legs, he nudged his horse into a steady walk in the direction of Harford. First he would take care of Martine.

  Then he would take care of Edmond.

  * * *

  Images drifted in and out of Martine’s consciousness, like the shadows of passing clouds. The rhythm of a horse, strong arms, and warmth. She heard hoofbeats on the drawbridge, excited voices...

  Then she was at a quiet place, a feather mattress beneath her. A woman’s voice, familiar and reassuring, was saying, Let’s get you cleaned up, now, milady... A warm cloth on her face and chest and feet, a comb plucking at her hair, cool hands exchanging a fresh shift for the ruined one. Sit up just for a moment, now... that’s right... put your arm in the sleeve...

  Now sleep, milady. You need your sleep. Sir Thorne will take care of everything.

  * * *

  Martine moaned in her sleep, and Thorne instantly sat up in the chair he’d pushed next to her bed. Laying his sword down, he took the wet cloth from its bowl and wrung it out.

  He’d spent the morning with her in the hawk house, watching her, praying, and making plans. For most of that time she’d slept fairly peacefully, although from time to time she’d seemed anxious, as now—a nightmare, perhaps.

  When he pressed the cloth to her forehead, she started, whimpering in distress. He reached out to stroke her hair. “My lady—”

  “No!” she gasped, lashing out with wild punches and kicks. “No!”

  He rose and sat on the edge of her bed. “My lady... Martine!”

  Her fist caught him on the nose, the sudden pain blinding him for a moment. She bolted upright, arms flailing, crying, “No! Don’t touch me!”

  Seizing both of her wrists in one hand, he wrapped the other arm around her and held her tightly against him as she struggled. “Martine.” Her eyes were open but wide with terror. She moaned fearfully, clearly reliving Edmond’s attack, thinking it was he who held her immobile.

  “It’s Thorne,” he said. “Thorne.” Still she writhed and twisted in his arms. He kissed her hair, her temple. “It’s me,” he whispered in her ear, then kissed her cheek. “It’s Thorne. I won’t hurt you.” He continued to kiss her, murmuring reassurances as he did so, until presently she calmed and slumped against him, her eyes closed.

  “That’s right,” he said softly, laying her back down and smoothing her hair off her face. “Rest.”

  “Thorne,” she breathed, her eyelids fluttering open.

  He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out again, then gently stroked her face with it, avoiding the worst of the wounds. “I’m here to take care of you. No one will hurt you.”

  Her brow knit. “Edmond... oh, God.”

  Thorne brought his face close to Martine’s and looked deep into her eyes, filled with dread. “Edmond can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here.” He touched his lips to her forehead, and then softly kissed each eyelid. “Rest easy.”

  She nodded and mumbled something he couldn’t make out. He bathed her face and throat with the cool cloth and then untied her shift and opened it to examine the scratches on her chest. Claw marks; that’s
what they look like, he thought as he dabbed them gingerly with the cloth. It was as if she’d been attacked by an animal. She had, of course, for Edmond was but an untamed creature, savage and unpredictable. He saw that clearly now. But why had it taken this to make him see?

  Because his greed had blinded him, that’s why. It was only fitting that his scheme to barter her hand for a holding had crumbled to dust—for Lord Godfrey would never reward him for arranging this ill-fated marriage. If the truth be told, it was less punishment than he deserved for bringing this misery down on Martine. Filled with shame and remorse, Thorne vowed to make amends. He had promised Rainulf that he would protect and defend the lady Martine, and from now on, that’s exactly what he intended to do.

  * * *

  After the noon meal, Thorne, Peter, and Guy stood in a tight cluster outside the hawk house while Felda attended to her mistress. Each had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Peter said, “The stableboy told me Edmond saddled up and headed for Hastings early this morning.” Again he fisted his right hand and cupped it with his left. “Let me do it.”

  “Nay,” Thorne said. “‘Tis my responsibility. You two stay here and guard Lady Martine. She’s not to be left alone for a moment.”

  Both men nodded, but as he turned to leave, Peter stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Why not?” Thorne said. “He—”

  “He deserves to die, without question. But if you kill him, Bernard will kill you.”

  “I can take—”

  “Care of yourself, I know. But Lady Martine can’t, not in her present condition, anyway. You swore an oath to protect her. If you intend to keep it, you must stay alive, and to ensure that, Edmond must stay alive as well.”

  It was brutally simple logic, and Thorne had to acknowledge the sense of it. Grimly he said, “Just make sure no harm comes to Martine. And I’ll make sure just the right amount comes to Edmond.”

  * * *

  Upon his arrival in Hastings early that afternoon, Thorne headed directly for Bulverhythe Harbor. In the fourth tavern he visited, he met someone—one of the harbor’s omnipresent human water rats—who had shared a pint with Edmond around midday.

  “Did he say where he was going when he left here?” Thorne asked, pressing some pennies into the knave’s hand—his only hand, the other having been severed at the wrist some time ago, from the looks of it.

  The man nodded, rubbing his thumb over the coins as if to shine them. “Says he needs a good tumble, but the harbor whores is all turning up their noses at him lately.”

  Word travels, thought Thorne.

  His informant grinned, showing the blackened stubs of what used to be teeth. “Says there’s a wench over to Fishmonger’s Row he’s been using. The eel man’s daughter.”

  * * *

  Fishmonger’s Row was a dark, crooked lane no wider than a man was tall. Pedestrians pressing perfumed cloths to their noses peered into the open shopfronts to inspect the day’s fly-studded catch, while fishwives shrieked their prices.

  Thorne watched as a bald, thickset man hauled a keg out to the street. He paused to kick a foraging milch goat who stood in his way, then upended the keg over the central sewage channel. Glistening black serpents spilled out in a writhing mass, overflowing the channel and scattering across the mud.

  He noticed Thorne. “Most of them’s dead,” he said in awkward French. “I got fresh ones. You want eels?”

  “I want Edmond of Harford,” Thorne replied in English.

  The eel man paused just a bit too long before saying, also in English, “Never heard of him.”

  The Saxon knight strode past him, into his rank little shop.

  “Hey!” The man dropped the keg and ran after him. In the back of the shop stood a burly adolescent boy up to his elbows in a barrel of squirming merchandise.

  “Where is Edmond of Harford?” Thorne asked.

  The eel man looked pointedly at the boy. “I told him we ain’t never heard of the gentleman.”

  The boy looked disgusted. “He’s upstairs, with Udele,” he said, cocking his head toward a narrow staircase.

  Thorne leaped up the stairs, but the eel man clutched the sleeve of his tunic, holding him back. “Don’t you go disturbing Sir Edmond. He pays good coin for her.”

  The boy seized him and pulled him off Thorne. “Leave off, Pa. You shouldn’t be selling her like that.”

  Thorne took the last six steps in two strides and whipped aside the curtain at the top of the stairs. The second floor was all one dim, shabby room scattered with straw pallets and household items. On one of the pallets, on her hands and knees, was a plump girl with a tearstained face and a bloody nose. Edmond knelt behind her, lifting her skirt.

  “What—” Edmond managed as Thorne crossed the room, grabbed him by his tunic, and yanked him to his feet. “Hey!”

  Thorne hurled him against the wall, and he crumpled like a rag doll, yelling, “Udele! Get help! Get your father!”

  Udele leaped to her feet, screaming at Edmond in anglicized French, “I hope he kills you, you pig! I can’t stand the sight of you anymore—you and your nasty ways! I hope you burn in hell!”

  “I’ll show you nasty!” Edmond growled, struggling to his feet. “You don’t know what nasty is!” He lunged at the girl, but Thorne grabbed him and pinned him to the wall.

  Emboldened by Thorne’s presence, Udele came right up to Edmond and said, “Big talk from a little man.”

  “What’s that supposed to—”

  “A wee little tiny—”

  Edmond took a swing at her, but she ducked and spat in his face. Then she hauled back and swung, but Thorne seized her fist just before it connected. He told her, in English, “If you finish him off, there’ll be nothing left for me. Why don’t you wait downstairs?”

  “You promise to do a proper job of it?”

  “I promise.”

  He saw her frank appraisal as she took in his height, the width of his shoulders, the size of his fists. She nodded and turned away. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  Thorne released Edmond and tossed aside his mantle, then unfastened his sword belt and threw it into the corner where Edmond’s sword lay.

  “This is about that witch you made me marry, isn’t it?” Edmond asked.

  “Witch?” Thorne tossed his dagger into the corner as well.

  “She put a spell on me.”

  Just as it occurred to Thorne to wonder where Edmond’s own dagger was, it appeared in his hand, a flash of silver streaking toward Thorne’s eyes. He dodged the blade, grabbed Edmond’s wrist, and slammed it against the wall. The dagger fell to the floor, and Thorne kicked it away.

  From the edge of his vision, he saw Edmond’s knee come up, and he moved aside just in time to take the blow in his thigh rather than its intended target. Thorne rammed his fist into Edmond’s stomach, then backed off and rubbed his thigh as the younger man doubled over, groaning.

  “I’m surprised at you, boy,” Thorne said. “You’re fighting like a wench. Is it true you have a wee little tiny—”

  With an enraged bellow, Edmond rose and charged. Stepping aside, Thorne grabbed him and used his momentum to fling him across the room, into the opposite wall. He collapsed with a grunt, cupping his nose with both hands. Blood seeped from between his fingers.

  “You broke my nose, you Saxon bastard!” he wailed nasally. “I did nothing to deserve this!”

  “You brutalized an innocent woman.”

  “Innocent?” Edmond stood unsteadily, his eyes wild. “She put a spell on me. I told you! She unmanned me!”

  “You were never a man to begin with. Don’t blame it on her.”

  “She put a spell on me so I couldn’t... couldn’t service her as a husband ought. Couldn’t bring myself to do it to her. Everybody laughed at me, but it wasn’t my fault. It was the witch that done it.”

  Thorne envisioned Martine’s face, torn and bruised, the scratches, the marks from where
he had choked her. Every muscle in his body tensed in fury. “So you forced yourself on her.”

  Edmond wiped his nose on his sleeve, staining it with blood. “I tried to,” he said matter-of-factly, clearly seeing nothing wrong with that. “‘Twas about time, I reckoned. But she has her ways, that one does. Next thing I knew, it was morning, and she was gone.”

  “What are you saying? You never consummated the marriage?”

  Edmond frowned. “If that means I never fucked the bitch, aye. But like I said, it’s not my fault. I tried... What’s so funny?”

  He never consummated the marriage. Thorne couldn’t suppress a smile of relief at this revelation. She hadn’t slept with him. In that way, she was still his and his alone.

  Edmond slammed his fist into the wall. “What’s so damn funny? I told you, she’s a witch! She should hang for what she did to me! It’s not my fault!”

  He charged again, but this time Thorne met him with his fists, raining punches on his head and chest. Edmond stumbled back, then lurched forward, swinging. Thorne took a hit in the face, but blocked the rest, delivering blow after punishing blow. Edmond fought back, but he lacked focus, punching and kicking like a huge child having a tantrum. He had his bulk and strength, but Thorne was bigger and stronger... and he knew how to use his fists to do the most damage.

  In his mind’s eye, Thorne saw Martine, battered and insensible, and sought to do to Edmond what Edmond had done to her. Something fierce and vengeful possessed him. Sport fighting was nothing like this, nor was hand-to-hand combat. This was revenge, this was justice, this was hate.

  Don’t kill him, Peter had said. Thorne closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to remember why he shouldn’t kill Edmond. It was for Martine’s sake. He had to protect Martine.

  Edmond crouched on the floor, heaving and gasping, his arms wrapped around his midsection. Thorne remembered having felt at least one rib crack, and he’d deliberately pummeled the kidneys. With any luck, the bastard would piss blood for a week. Every time he relieved himself, it would be a reminder of the lesson he’d learned this day.