by Falcons Fire
Bernard guided the tankard to his father’s mouth. The old man drank for a while, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared into the tankard, frowning his openmouthed frown, as if trying to puzzle the whole business out.
Don’t think, thought Bernard. Drink. Again he wrapped his hand around his sire’s and aimed the tankard for his mouth. He’s usually more malleable than this when he’s in his cups.
But Godfrey stilled the tankard as it touched his lips. “Why tomorrow?” he asked. “Why first thing in the morning? Estrude’s body is still warm, for God’s sake!”
That woman’s body was never warm, thought his son.
The baron shook his head in confusion. “I never knew a second wedding to take place the very day after the first wife—”
Oh, hell. “Look here,” Bernard growled, his patience stretched about as thin as it could get. “Do you want grandsons?”
Slowly Godfrey lowered the tankard to the table, his eyes moist and reddened. “More than anything. You must remarry. I want you to. But why the lady Martine? There are dozens of suitable girls—”
“In Sussex,” Bernard said tightly. “We’d have to go abroad, remember? Like we did the first time.” He emptied the pitcher into the tankard, which overflowed a bit. “We’d have to go to Brittany, or Aquitaine, or Flanders again. Somewhere far away, where they don’t know about... what happened. Remember?”
“Oh, yes,” the baron mumbled. “The girl. That poor girl.”
“Christ,” Bernard grumbled. ‘Tis a sin that a man that soft ever had control of a barony. “I don’t want to go abroad again,” he explained slowly to the witless fool who had sired him. “It takes time. It’s inconvenient. It’s annoying. And besides, with Edmond dead, the lady Martine now owns her bride price outright. Those lands have been in our family since the Conquest. Wouldn’t you rather they remained under our control than under that of an eighteen-year-old girl we never even saw until last summer?”
“I don’t care about that,” Godfrey said. “I want grandsons.”
Bernard leaned eagerly toward his father. “And I want to give them to you. The lady Martine is young and healthy. She could fill this keep with baby boys.”
The baron’s rheumy eyes glittered, and his mouth curved in a wistful smile. “Baby boys.”
“Aye. Lots and lots of baby boys. Say the word and Father Simon will marry us in the morning.”
“If it’s by your command, no one can question it,” the priest offered, cringing when Bernard shot him a look.
“Question it?” Godfrey muttered.
“No one will question it,” said Bernard. “Not if it’s by your order. And then will come the baby boys.” Christ, but this is a tiresome business. “Lots of them.”
Godfrey nodded slowly, smiling that pathetic smile.
“Do you order it?” Father Simon prompted.
The baron sighed. “Let it be so.” Bernard sighed, too. Finally. But as he rose from the table, his sire said, “I must admit, though, I’m rather surprised you’re agreeable to marrying her, even for the lands. You always say she’s so willful and insolent. And I know you blame her for Edmond’s death.”
“I was distraught,” Bernard said smoothly. “And as for her willfulness, all she really needs is a bit of discipline.” He turned to leave. “Don’t worry about all that. Just think about the baby boys.”
“But what if she’s barren, like Estrude?” Godfrey said to his back. “What if she can’t bear sons?”
Bernard’s hand unconsciously gravitated to the pouch on his belt, one finger slipping inside to stroke the knobby, jeweled handle of the little razor-sharp knife within. “Don’t worry about that, either. I’ll deal with that problem when it arises.”
* * *
“I don’t like that none of my men are here,” Thorne said after the funeral that evening as he and Martine stood warming their hands over the fire pit in the great hall. “Godfrey sent Peter, Guy, and Albin to France. King Henry is still embroiled in those territorial skirmishes, and Godfrey supposedly felt he owed him some men. I wouldn’t be suspicious, except that it was Bernard who put the idea in his head to send them.”
He rarely even looked at her anymore when he spoke to her, Martine noticed. Unable to seduce her again, he’d become completely indifferent to her. No doubt he regretted the oath that made him feel obligated to keep to her side this way. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said. “Perhaps, with you gone, your men simply had little to do.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured. And then he looked up, focusing on something over her shoulder, and his expression became grim. “Perhaps not.”
When Martine turned, she saw Bernard and a contingent of his men advancing toward them. Bernard wore his humorless smile, but his men had the shuttered expressions of soldiers doing their duty. Geneva, who’d been playing draughts with Ailith in the corner, quickly hustled the child out of the hall.
Martine looked back toward Thorne. His hand rested on his sword, she noticed, but it was his right hand, and she knew that arm was still very weak.
Bernard paused before her, inspecting her with his hard little eyes. “My lady.” He looked toward Thorne, his appraising gaze seeming to linger on his crutch. “Woodsman.”
“What do you want, Bernard?” said Thorne.
“I want to remarry,” he said. “As soon as possible.”
“Then I suggest you start making travel arrangements,” replied the Saxon. “Try Italy, or perhaps the Rhineland. They might not have heard about you there.”
Bernard’s eyes narrowed, and his hand closed over the hilt of his own sword. “It seems that won’t be necessary,” he said, turning again toward Martine and fixing her with a penetrating look that chilled her to the bone. “My sire has taken matters in hand, you see. He has already chosen a bride for me, and as it happens, she is conveniently close.”
Martine stood utterly still, paralyzed with incomprehension. Nay... he can’t mean...
She heard a metallic scrape as Thorne began to draw his sword from its scabbard; in a flash of steel, four other swords were aimed at his throat.
It’s true. Oh, God, Thorne was right. We walked right into a trap. Bernard lured me here so that he could... She couldn’t even form the words in her mind, couldn’t imagine the horror of being wed to this monster. If marriage to Edmond had been bad, marriage to Bernard would be a nightmare.
“Nay,” she said. “I won’t do it. I won’t marry you.”
“No one is asking for your permission,” Bernard said coolly. “Our overlord gave you to me. There the matter comes to an end.”
She swallowed down her outrage, her fear, and hid her hands in her skirts to conceal their trembling. From the corner of her eye she saw Thorne, still at swordpoint, frozen in watchful silence. “I’m going back to St. Dunstan’s,” she announced.
Bernard chuckled. “Aye, and if I gave you long enough to figure out a way to get back there, I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d do. That’s why I’ve arranged for the marriage to be solemnized in the morning.”
“In the morning! Tomorrow morning?” Still the Saxon simply watched and listened. She wheeled on him. “Sir Thorne, please! Do something!”
He glanced at the gleaming blades of the swords and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, What shall I do?
“Say something!” she demanded. “Anything! You’re supposed to protect me!”
“That’s right,” Bernard told Thorne. “I’ve heard about your oath to the good Father Rainulf. I daresay it must be a tedious business, following this viper-tongued wench about all day. I won’t pretend to any great affection for you. Still it grieves me to see a knight of your caliber reduced to such lowly service. A galling assignment, is it not?”
Thorne just stared at him for a moment, expressionless. “What if it is? ‘Tis no business of yours.”
His words squeezed Martine’s aching heart. She had known, of course, that he must begrudge his promise to Rainulf. Still, to hear th
e words from his own lips...
Bernard smiled. “Don’t be so sure. Mayhap I could offer you an alternative to playing the vixen’s faithful watchdog. Right now, you’re a bug in my helmet, which I must” —he gestured to his sword-wielding men— “eliminate, lest it drive me to distraction. However, I am always in need of good men. ‘Tis a shame to destroy so much strength and skill when I can make use of it myself.”
“What makes you think ‘twill be easy?” Thorne asked.
“Let’s not be coy. You want property. I” —he nodded toward Martine— “want my property back. If you renounce your oath to Father Rainulf and put in with me, I give you my word that I will deed you one of the holdings that comprised the lady Martine’s bride price, in return for your faithful service to me.”
To Martine’s horror, Thorne took his time answering. Could he actually be weighing the offer? “Nay,” he finally said. She breathed a sigh of relief. But then he added, “I want the land Lord Godfrey was going to grant me in the first place. ‘Tis a far goodlier holding than those others.”
No... Martine just stared at Thorne, who, unsurprisingly, refused to meet her eyes.
Bernard nodded slowly. “You’re a greedy man. I admire that. Done, then. ‘Twill be yours on the morrow.” He nodded to his men, who lowered their swords. To Thorne he said, “And now, as a gesture of fealty, you will escort the lady upstairs to her chamber. Boyce will stand guard over her tonight, and in the morning,” —he took Martine’s fingertips and lifted them— “we shall be joined in holy matrimony.”
She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “I’ll kill myself before I marry you.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Bernard drawled. He glanced at the pouch in which she carried her eating knife. With snakelike speed, he whipped his hand out, snatched it, and ripped it roughly from her girdle. “Boyce, search the chamber for anything she might use against herself... knives, rope—”
Thorne said, “Wouldn’t it be safer just to lock her in the cell downstairs?”
Rage struck Martine speechless. Bernard turned toward the Saxon, looking pleased, even impressed. “What an excellent idea. I had my doubts about you, woodsman. I’m glad to see you know where your interests lie.”
Struggling to control her voice, Martine said, “Sir Thorne has never had any trouble discerning where his interests lie. Have you, Thorne?”
“Not generally, my lady.” He took her arm, but she pulled away as he tried to lead her toward the stairwell, accompanied by Boyce. Quietly but firmly he said, “Don’t make me hold a sword to you. I will if I have to.” He closed a hand—the hand of his bad arm—around her wrist, but she punched it with her free hand. Wincing, he released her with a raw oath. He moved behind her and she heard his sword being withdrawn, then felt the pressure of its sharp tip through the back of her tunic. Urged forward by that pressure, she headed for the stairwell.
Chapter 20
For the first hour of her imprisonment, Martine stood in the middle of the tiny, fetid cell with her eyes closed, holding her skirts off the floor lest the vermin beneath the rotted straw crawl up them. At first she tried to pray, but she’d never been much good at that, and soon gave it up in favor of envisioning her imaginary herb garden, the one she’d planned in her head on her wedding day, and on parchment during her long winter’s exile at St. Dunstan’s.
Thinking of the herb garden calmed her, and presently she turned her mind toward her predicament. Once she thought about it, she realized that Thorne’s cooperation with Bernard had been a foregone conclusion. He’d had but two choices: death if he defended her, or a valuable holding if he gave her up. What would Martine have done in his place? No, she mustn’t make excuses for him. He’d sworn an oath to keep her from harm. He was supposed to be so resourceful, so brave. He might have thought of something. As it was, his betrayal was overwhelmingly painful, and coldly sobering. She was on her own now. If she was to be saved, she would have to save herself.
Outside, Boyce sat on a stool against the cellar wall, humming drinking songs. He was an odd sort, a fellow who, under different circumstances, she might almost have liked. She heard a creaking, accompanied by a kind of musical jangle, and knew the big man was shifting his weight on the stool, jarring the ring of keys on his belt—one of which would fit the lock on the cell’s iron door.
After a few moments’ thought, she approached the door and looked out through the peephole. “Sir Boyce?”
He stood, and suddenly his big face filled the little square opening. “It’s just Boyce, my lady. I’m not a knight, just a huntsman. But I must say it’s rather nice to be called ‘Sir.’ I’m flattered.”
As she’d thought he would be. “I’m terribly thirsty, Boyce. Do you suppose you could fetch me some wine?”
He frowned. “Nay, my lady, I can’t leave my post.”
She licked her lips and touched a hand to her throat, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.
He pulled at his beard. “But I could call for it to be sent down.”
“Would you?”
“Aye, I’m a bit thirsty myself, if the truth be told.”
She had, of course, counted on that, never having seen him without a cup in his hand. “I brought back a lovely claret from St. Dunstan’s. Felda knows where it is.”
And so the red-haired giant lumbered to the stairwell and called up for Felda to fetch down some of Lady Martine’s claret.
“And two goblets,” she prompted.
“And two goblets!” he roared.
Felda appeared with the claret, fussed and clucked over her mistress’s captivity, exchanged a knowing look with her, then poured a small goblet for her and a rather larger one for her guard. Boyce drank his down quickly while Martine pretended to sip hers.
“Isn’t that good?” Martine asked.
He looked a bit baffled. “It’s... different.”
“That would be the spices,” she quickly offered. “It’s spiced claret, didn’t I mention that?”
“Oh. Perhaps you did. But what kind of spices would make it taste so—”
“Take a guess,” she said, indicating that Felda should give him a refill. “You tell me what you think they are.”
Again he drained the goblet quickly. “Ain’t cinnamon,” he said, yawning. He took his seat on the stool again. “Ain’t cloves.” He inspected the empty vessel in his hand as he nodded sleepily, his expression of dazed puzzlement giving way to one of sudden illumination. He tired to focus on Martine’s face through the peephole. “Wait a minute.”
He stood, pawing at the wall for support, the goblet slipping from his fingers and rolling on the floor. “You’re a crafty wench,” he slurred, then lurched toward the door, shoving his face in the peephole; Martine jumped back. Presently he grinned, and then a deep, rumbly chuckle rose from him. “Damn crafty!” He laughed uproariously, his eyes watering. “That’s a good joke on me,” he choked out, pushing himself away from the door and stumbling toward Felda, who backed up swiftly. His roared with laughter. Tears streamed from his reddened face.
Suddenly he quieted, his eyes rolled up, and he toppled over like a felled tree, landing facedown with a whump.
The two women looked at each other in wonderment. Felda glanced toward the stairwell, then nudged the unconscious man with the toe of her slipper.
“The keys,” Martine whispered. Her maid slipped the key ring off Boyce’s belt. The third one she tried unlocked the door. Martine darted from the little cell and embraced her. “Oh, thank you, Felda. I knew I could count on you.”
“What now, milady?”
“Ailith once told me there’s a secret passageway down here.”
Felda rolled her eyes, and Martine’s heart sank. “It’s hardly a secret, milady. Everyone knows about it—all the household staff, anyways.”
Oh, thank God. “Where is it?”
It took longer than Martine would have liked to move aside the pyramid of barrels that concealed a small wooden door in the stone wall. “‘Tis
a tunnel leading to the church,” Felda explained, pulling open the door. “For use in the event of a siege. Lots of castles have them.” She plucked a torch from its bracket on the wall, lifted her skirts, and ducked. “Follow me.”
It was but a narrow passage burrowed into the earth and shored up with wooden posts. They had to hunch over as they made their way through it, and after a while Martine began to wonder if the church was, indeed, this far away. But presently the tunnel sloped upward, ending in a series of rough-hewn stones that served as a kind of stairway. Above the stairs, in a ceiling of oak planks, was a wooden panel. Felda forced open the panel’s rusted latch and the two women pushed upward on it until it swung aside.
They found themselves behind the altar of the barony church. Once outside, Felda extinguished the torch in the snow. “‘Tis a good thing we’re having a long, cold winter,” she said. “With all this snow, and that full moon, ‘tis as bright as day.”
It was true, Martine realized as she looked toward Harford Castle looming above the little village, its windows dark. She could see it as clearly as if it were late afternoon, and not the dead of night. It was so cold, though. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. “I won’t get far without a horse,” she said. “And I could use a mantle.”
Felda nodded. “Fitch Ironmonger’s got a horse. And I’ll wager his wife’s got a mantle she could spare.”
“His wife! Does she know about you?”
“Of course not,” said Felda, leading the way. “And if Fitch don’t want her finding out, he’ll hand over the horse and the mantle.”
Martine stood in the shadows while Felda hissed “Fitch!” through the back window of a little cottage. The ironmonger emerged, groggy with sleep, and they engaged in a brief and animated conversation, all in whispered English. Fitch growled and shook his head. He repeatedly called Felda a name that Martine knew meant a female dog. But finally, when Felda shrugged and made as if she were going to enter the cottage—undoubtedly to wake up the wife—he grudgingly saddled up his fat old palfrey and produced a threadbare woolen mantle lined with squirrel.