Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Of course, in contemplating a second marriage, he was obliged to confront the same irksome problem that had forced him to go all the way to Flanders for a bride the first time. Although a full twenty years had passed, he knew it didn’t matter how long ago it was, or that she was just a twopenny whore, or that she deserved what she got and more; the incident had plagued him ever since. It was his own damn fault for losing his head and doing her right there in the brothel, for making such a mess of it and leaving her on her pallet for them to find, knowing he’d been her last customer. His uncurbed rage had not only been unwise, it had been vulgar, uncivilized—and that shamed him, for he was, after all, a civilized man.

  “Kill me,” Estrude pleaded as she kicked and tore at her hair. “Kill me. Please!”

  It was a tempting notion, that of pressing a pillow to her face in the dead of night, but an ill-advised one. A keep was a place with no secrets. Were it not, he would have eased her passage from the world—and his sire’s as well—long before this. But the risk of being found out was too great, and, as far as Estrude was concerned, quite unnecessary, considering she’d be dead within days.

  Edmond’s voice rose from the courtyard below. Godfrey leaned out the window and called him inside.

  How proud his little brother had been of himself after cutting his teeth with that little whore of Nan’s, that Emeline. In truth, Bernard had found the incident somewhat flattering, for of course Edmond had only sought to emulate what he himself had done two decades before. But then the boy had tried the same business with the lady Martine, and that Bernard had found less than amusing. Edmond’s childish enthusiasm was ever unfettered by discretion, and that could be a dangerous thing; it led to sloppiness, and, as Bernard well knew, sloppiness led to getting caught. Had he wanted to be rid of his own wife, Edmond should have had the patience to plan the act in advance, make it look like an accident.

  “Kill me. Dear God, kill me...”

  He’d often been tempted to plan such an accident for Estrude, but fool that he was, he kept thinking his seed might eventually take root in the poor soil of her womb. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. At six and thirty, it was high time he had sons. If his next wife didn’t conceive within a year, he’d do what he should have done with Estrude long before this; he’d tell her to pack up a picnic hamper and take her on an outing to Weald Forest, just the two of them. Fingering his little jeweled eating knife through the pouch on his belt, he smiled as he imagined the exquisite punishments his imaginary bride’s infertility would earn her. He wouldn’t even have to bury her. He could, in fact, garner a certain measure of sympathy by claiming that she’d been tortured and raped by bandits before his very eyes.

  “Ah, Edmond,” Godfrey said.

  Bernard turned to find his brother in the doorway, gawking at Estrude with an expression of repugnance. “I’m not going in there.”

  The baron followed his younger son into the hallway. Bernard could just make out his sire’s words, thick with drink and muffled by the leather curtain that separated them. “She’s dying, son.”

  “Well, I wish she’d hurry up about it. Jesus!”

  “I’ve got a problem now, boy. No grandsons, and no good prospects for getting any. Geneva’s been cast aside, and Bernard will be a widower soon. That leaves you.”

  A moment of silence. “Oh, no,” Edmond moaned. “She’s a witch, Pa! She’s a fucking witch!”

  “You’ll ride to St. Dunstan’s tomorrow and bring her back.”

  Father Simon looked toward Bernard and raised his eyebrows.

  “I won’t do it,” Edmond said.

  “You will! You’re my vassal to command same as anyone else within my domain, and you’ll do as I say or I’ll put you in a monastery for the rest of your natural days. You hear me, boy?”

  It was an unusually vehement speech from the old man, considering how weak and ineffectual he’d become. But then, he’d always been passionate on the subject of grandsons. Another long pause, and then Edmond mumbled assent.

  “And you will live with her as man and wife until she bears a son. After that, you may do as you wish.”

  Christ, thought Bernard. At this rate, Edmond will end up with heirs before I do.

  * * *

  He’d thought he was well rid of her. He’d thought he’d never have to set eyes on the witch again, much less live with her.

  Squeezing some more wine down his throat, Edmond kicked his bay stallion simply for the need to kick something. It lurched forward, throwing him back hard, feet in the air. Only by grabbing the saddle quickly did he manage to regain his seat. He pulled back sharply on the reins, and the bay snorted testily.

  He’d not only have to live with her, he’d have to bed her—or try to. Who’s to say she wouldn’t use sorcery on him again, or sneak him another dose of poison? For all he knew, she had a spell to make his cock shrivel up and fall off! She might even kill him this time.

  He looked around blearily in an effort to confirm that he was still headed west, toward St. Dunstan’s. It was noon, so the sun was of no help. The snow-dusted terrain looked unfamiliar, and for the first time he noticed how steep it was. To his left, the rocky hillside dropped off precipitously, making his vision reel and his stomach turn over. The wineskin slipped out of his fingers and tumbled down the hill, bouncing over boulders for quite some time before disappearing in the woods below. No great loss, that. It was almost empty, and he had another.

  Aye, but ‘twould be better to be dead than to have to take that woman back, he thought, uncorking the second skin and filling his mouth. Everyone knew about her. Bernard even told him there was a rumor circulating in Hastings that she’d cast a spell on the pilot of the Lady’s Slipper after summoning a storm on his boat!

  He nudged his mount into a trot, drinking as he rode. He began to see double, but he didn’t mind. Being drunk kept him from feeling the cold, not to mention taking the edge off this distasteful errand. But for the wine, he didn’t think he could do it.

  If his wife didn’t kill him, more than likely the Saxon would. He’d sworn on the baby Jesus’ saddling clothes that he would do away with Edmond slowly and painfully if he laid a finger on the witch! But what right had that upstart woodsman’s son to order him away from her? She was his wife, damn it. His lord and sire had commanded him to get her with child, and he would, by God, if he had to tie her to the bed to do it!

  Again he kicked his mount, and again the stallion raced forward, its hooves skittering over the loose gravel that covered the narrow hillside track. Dropping the wineskin, he jerked back on the reins, whereupon the enraged bay bucked and squealed. In a panic over losing his seat, Edmond grabbed for the animal’s mane, but it was too late. Off he flew, sailing over the side of the hill and rolling roughly over boulders and fallen trees until he finally landed with bone-crushing force on an outcropping of rock.

  He looked up, squinting into the sun and listening to the receding hoofbeats of his mount. Christ, my head’s on backward, he thought. And then a veil of red obscured his vision, and his mouth filled with blood, and he could no longer feel his body.

  His last thoughts were, She’s a more powerful witch than I thought. She’s killed me before I even got there.

  * * *

  Standing at the window in the hall of the prior’s lodge, Martine withdrew the sheet of parchment from her tunic and began to reread it.

  5 March 1160

  From Bernard of Harford to his sister by marriage, Martine of Rouen.

  Know, my lady sister, that much has transpired recently of which I am obliged, with a great heaviness of heart, to inform you. It is with the utmost sorrow that I transmit herewith the news that your husband, my most beloved brother, Edmond, has passed from the world. Would that my melancholy account ended there, however, it appears that my dear wife, Estrude, gravely ill these many months, is destined to join him soon.

  “Martine.”

  She turned toward the voice, Thorne’s voice. He st
ood in the door of the stairway, dressed in homespun as he had been when she saw him in church a fortnight ago. This morning, however, he was again clean-shaven. He no longer wore the sling, but he had his crutch with him.

  “Sir Thorne.” She noticed in his eyes a flicker of disappointment at the formal address.

  “Brother Matthew told me about Edmond.”

  She nodded and looked down at the letter.

  He said, “I won’t pretend I’m sorry.”

  “Then neither will I.” They met each other’s eyes. He always knows what’s in my heart, she thought. That’s the source of his power over me. That’s why he can bend me to his will. I must try to be strong. I must close my heart to him and strip him of that power.

  Thorne frowned. “Matthew tells me you’re riding back to Harford today for Edmond’s funeral.”

  “Yes, I’ve just finished packing.” She nodded toward the satchel in which she’d stowed a change of clothes and a jug of claret mixed with sleeping draft, which she hoped might soothe Estrude’s torment. “I’ll only be gone for a day or two. I’m leaving Loki here.”

  He closed in on her. “I don’t think you should go.”

  She backed up. “Edmond is dead. I needn’t hide behind St. Dunstan’s walls anymore. Felda and I are riding back today.”

  “Without an escort?”

  “No harm will come to us.”

  He sighed. “If you insist on going, I’m going with you.”

  She straightened her back. “You’re in no condition to ride. And there’s certainly no need.”

  “It matters not what condition I’m in, and there certainly is a need.”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “You don’t understand. I don’t want you to come.”

  “But I do understand,” he said soberly. “I know you’d rather I left you alone. I know you find my company... distressing, and that’s Matthew’s urged you to stay away from me. But the fact remains that the journey to Harford isn’t safe for you, and neither, necessarily, is Harford Castle itself.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I swore an oath to your brother to take care of you, and whether you like it or not, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  * * *

  He’s a good actor, thought Thorne as Bernard, looking suitably grave, greeted him in the courtyard of Harford Castle. Martine dismissed Felda and asked to see Lady Estrude, whereupon Bernard turned and led his sister by marriage and the Saxon knight up the circular stairwell. Thorne, in agony from the long ride, immediately fell behind and was soon forced to stop and rest. Hunched over his crutch, he closed his eyes and tried to transcend the red-hot pain that coursed through his right leg.

  In the privacy of the stairwell, the Saxon withdrew the chess piece and squeezed it, willing the hurt to disappear. As it receded, he ran his thumb over the little whalebone face, the high cheekbones, the full lips. He hadn’t lain with another woman since that morning on the riverbank; it was the longest he’d gone without sex since he first started wenching. It wasn’t that his need was diminished. It was, in fact, more overwhelming than ever. But it was a need that his whores and serving girls could no longer hope to satisfy. It was a need with a name, and that name was Martine of Rouen.

  God, give me the strength to keep my distance from her, he prayed. She wanted that distance, needed it—that was clear enough. She had her reasons, some of which were actually rather good ones, and he knew that nothing he could say or do at this point would change her mind. But the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him must not be allowed to interfere with his pledge to Rainulf to protect her; truly, he would do so even had he not sworn an oath. Now that she had abandoned the safety of St. Dunstan’s, he must be her shadow, her personal soldier, but he must never presume to renew the intimacy they had once known. She felt threatened by his desire for her, and he wanted above all things for her to feel safe when she was with him, which now had to be constantly. And so he had resolved to be polite but cool toward her, a resolution that pained his soul as fiercely as his unhealed wounds pained his body.

  When he finally entered Lady Estrude’s chamber, Martine was readjusting the ailing woman’s bedclothes and pulling up the blankets, having concluded her examination.

  Martine—and Bernard, standing in the corner with his arms crossed—met Thorne’s eyes and then lowered theirs to Estrude. Following their gaze, he automatically crossed himself. He hadn’t seen the lady for four months, and although she’d looked sickly when he left Harford to lay siege to Blackburn, she hadn’t looked anything like this. Never had he seen anyone so debilitated, so ravaged by disease. From her moans, and the way she clutched at her bedclothes, she was clearly in agony. Her distended belly added to his sense of horror. It was his babe in that enfeebled body, a babe that would die when Estrude succumbed.

  Martine dipped a cloth in water, wrung it out, and bathed Estrude’s face with it, then opened her satchel and withdrew a stoppered jug. The dying woman’s eyes struggled to focus on her benefactress; she seemed unaware that Bernard and Thorne were in the room. “What is that?” she rasped.

  “Some claret I brought back from St. Dunstan’s, my lady,” said Martine, pausing to sit on the edge of the narrow bed and take Estrude’s clawlike hand in hers. “‘Twill help you to sleep.” Martine’s willingness to comfort a woman who had always treated her with contempt, to set aside whatever anger and jealousy she might feel and offer simple, unconditional solace, filled Thorne with awe.

  With a seemingly great effort, Estrude shook her head. “I don’t deserve it. God wants me to suffer. He’s punishing me.”

  Leaning closer, Martine said, “That can’t be true, my lady.”

  Estrude nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis because I was too greedy for a baby. I sinned, and now He’s punishing me.”

  Warning bells tolled in Thorne’s brain. He glanced toward Bernard, who was frowning in the corner, and then at Martine, who met his eyes with a knowing look. “Sir Bernard,” she said, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to fetch Father Simon.”

  “She’s already had last rites,” he said.

  “Ah. Well, then, perhaps you wouldn’t mind bringing me a goblet for the wine.”

  Bernard, clearly unused to being asked to fetch anyone or anything, hesitated a moment. Then, as if deciding that his role of grieving husband might include a measure of compliance in such matters, he nodded and left the chamber. Thorne drew a steadying breath and directed a small smile of thanks toward Martine.

  “God isn’t punishing you,” Martine told the suffering woman.

  “He is,” she insisted. “Because of what I did to get this babe. It... it’s not Bernard’s child. I sinned to get pregnant, so God gave me a babe who’s sucking the life from my body. The babe grows huge while I waste away. Soon I’ll be dead, and then I’ll roast in hell for eternity. I’m doomed.” The speech seemed to have exhausted her, for she closed her eyes and struggled to take in ragged lungfuls of air.

  “God is merciful,” Martine said. “He wouldn’t punish you like this for adultery.”

  “Not just adultery,” Estrude whispered, not having even the strength to open her eyes. “I used trickery. Sir Thorne didn’t want me, so I tricked him.”

  Martine directed a puzzled look toward Thorne, who gave a small nod of his head.

  “I wore your perfume. I went to him in the middle of the night and let him think I was you.” Martine gaped at Thorne, wide-eyed. Estrude tossed her head, grimacing. “He was furious afterward. I forced myself on him. ‘Twas wrong. ‘Twas a very great sin. God let Sir Thorne’s babe grow within me only in order to kill me with it, to send me to hell.” Her weakened voice rendered the last few words almost unintelligible.

  Martine placed her hands very gently on either side of Estrude’s face and said, “My lady, open your eyes. Look at me. That’s right. Listen carefully to me. You’re not pregnant.”

  Estrude’s eyes searched Martine’s as if to divine the truth in her words. Could it be possible? Thorne
wondered.

  “But my belly,” Estrude groaned, her words echoing Thorne’s thoughts.

  “I examined you,” Martine reminded her. “And I assure you, you’re not with child. You never have been. You suffer from an illness I’ve seen before, in Paris. ‘Tis a ball of disease that grows and grows and never stops. You’ve probably been ill for a year or more, but didn’t realize it.”

  “My courses... they had almost stopped, even before...”

  “You see?” said Martine. “You’re ill, that’s all.”

  “Am I dying?”

  Martine hesitated. Then, “Aye.”

  Estrude nodded. “Will it be soon?”

  Another pause. “Aye.”

  “Thank God,”

  “And then you’ll be with the angels,” Martine assured her.

  “With the angels,” Estrude whispered, smiling. Thorne saw a sheen of tears in her half-closed eyes. “I’ll be with the angels.”

  Bernard returned with the goblet, into which Martine poured the claret. She raised her sister-in-law’s head so she could sip it, and then whispered, “Sleep if you can.”

  Within moments, Estrude’s whole body seemed to relax. Her fingers uncurled; her limbs lost their rigidity, her face its rictus of agony. Her eyes closed and her breathing became calm and regular. An hour later, as the sun touched the horizon, the steady rise and fall of her chest quietly ceased. Death, which had waited so patiently for Estrude of Flanders, took her at last.

  * * *

  An hour after that, Bernard, Godfrey, and Father Simon sat huddled around a small table in the baron’s chamber.

  “But she’s his sister by marriage,” Godfrey pointed out to the priest as Bernard refilled his tankard, thinking, Just agree to it before you pass out, that’s all I ask.

  Father Simon steepled his fingers and said, “Yes, well, that’s not quite like being a blood relation. It’s only affinity, not consanguinity. A small donation to Bishop Lambert” —he shrugged— “and there will be no objection from the Church, I assure you.”