Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Later that day, one of the queen’s clerks delivered a written message to Thorne, formally summoning him, his lady wife, and Prior Matthew to Blackburn Castle the following evening for the anticipated supper in his honor.

  “But I have nothing suitable to wear,” Martine fretted.

  “Wear the blue tunic with the little pleats,” said Thorne. “The one you wore your second day at Harford.” He smiled. “The one that’s the same color as your eyes.”

  The next afternoon, as she pulled the indigo gown down over her head and adjusted its long, fluttering sleeves, she reflected on the strangeness of her relationship with her husband. Not once since their marriage a week before had he attempted to bed her. This was uncomfortably reminiscent of Edmond’s unwillingness to consummate their marriage, but she knew the reasons were different. Edmond’s reaction to her—in the beginning, that is—had been fear. In Thorne’s case, it was more likely indifference.

  He treated her kindly enough. And from time to time he would look at her or touch her in a way that seemed to indicate he wanted her—but then he’s turn away, seeming troubled and withdrawn. She supposed his disinclination to bed her had to do with her admonition that they were to be honest with each other and not pretend to feelings that didn’t exist between them. He’d taken her at her word. Caring little for her, he would have no particular interest in bedding her, Norman gentlewomen not being particularly to his taste. No doubt he would soon enough resume his liaisons with his whores and kitchen wenches.

  Her stomach burned with jealousy, and she mentally scolded herself. She ought not to care. This was a marriage of mutual convenience. He’d gotten all he wanted from her—her land—and now he would leave her alone. It was for the best. She knew that, yet had felt unaccountably sad when her courses came and she realized she didn’t carry Thorne’s babe in her belly, as she had half hoped ever since that night in the cottage. It wasn’t that she particularly wanted a child. It was that, inexplicably, she wanted Thorne’s child. She imagined telling him, pictured his rapturous response, his pride, the feelings that might grow in his heart for her if she were to give him an heir.

  She sighed and proceeded with the tedious business of plaiting her hair with golden ribbons. Little good it did to wish that things were different. Fate held her tightly in its silken bonds. It was pointless to struggle against it.

  * * *

  Martine’s mouth went dry as she rode across Blackburn Castle’s long drawbridge and through its massive curtain walls, flanked by Thorne and Brother Matthew. Above them rose the remarkable keep which she had, until now, only viewed from a distance. Having been whitewashed in honor of the queen’s visit, it glowed brilliantly against the dusky sky. It was really quite an extraordinary structure, perfectly round save for a rectangular forebuilding, two large turrets, and a tower, from which flew the royal flag. The tower had no roof and, here and there, a gap in the stonework reminded her that this extraordinary castle had been left unfinished when Neville had Baron Anseau and his pregnant wife killed.

  They were greeted in the courtyard by a pinch-faced clerk who led them up a stairway in the forebuilding, which opened onto the great hall. Martine stifled a gasp as she entered the enormous, brightly lit room, festooned with colorful silks and Saracen carpets, and swarming with courtiers, jugglers, acrobats, harpists, drummers, servants, and several small, darting children. What the great hall at Harford lacked in majesty, its counterpart at Blackburn more than made up for. It was entirely round, with a carved balcony that spanned its circumference halfway between the high, vaulted ceiling and the rush-strewn floor. Directly ahead of her, on the far side of the room, a fire blazed in a massive fireplace built right into the thick stone wall, the only one of its kind Martine had ever seen. To one side of the hearth stood a huge, canopied chair, and sitting in that chair, laughing at the antics of the baby on her lap, was the Queen of England.

  She looked different than Martine had expected, much younger than her eight and thirty years, and much prettier, with a round, soft face and glittering eyes. Her ivory damask tunic was sumptuous and fur-trimmed, and on her head she wore the expected barbette and veil. She locked eyes with Martine and smiled, then beckoned to Thorne, who, guiding his wife with a hand on her back, led her and Brother Matthew to the queen.

  Numb with panic throughout the introductions, Martine could barely manage a curtsy, thinking, I hope I’m doing this right. Thorne sank to one knee with surprising grace, considering his recent injuries, and kissed Eleanor’s offered hand. It occurred to Martine that her husband, despite his humble birth, was much more in his element here than she, as he had some experience of court life. He appeared properly respectful of the great lady, but not overwhelmed, and Martine could tell from Eleanor’s warm greeting that she remembered him fondly.

  He does remind one a bit of Charlemagne’s elephant, Martine thought, comparing the Saxon knight to the dozens of other men in the room. In stature alone he was unique, a colossus among all those slender, soft-spoken young men with their highly polished manners. And unlike them, he was dressed simply, in a blue tunic with no ornamentation, and black chausses.

  Eleanor handed her baby to a waiting nurse, then gave orders for the other children to be gathered and put to bed, the tables to be assembled, and dinner to be served. Rising, she reached a hand out to softly touch Martine’s cheek. “So you’re Jourdain’s little girl.” This open reference to her father startled Martine, considering her illegitimacy. But the queen, although she certainly knew the circumstances of her cousin’s birth, apparently did not choose to pass judgment. “I’m delighted to meet you at last, my dear.”

  “And I you, my lady queen,” Martine managed. Thorne patted her back, and she smiled at him, grateful for his support in spite of everything.

  The food served that evening was surprisingly ordinary, but it was nevertheless a unique experience. Martine, Thorne, and Matthew sat before the hearth at the high table, along with Eleanor, Olivier, the earl’s wife, and several of the more favored knights. The other tables were arranged not in rows, but around the edge of the hall, leaving a large central arena in which musicians, jongleurs, dancers, and mimes joined the jugglers and acrobats in providing suppertime entertainment.

  When dessert was served, Eleanor dismissed the entertainers and nodded to Olivier, who rose and made a fulsome speech extolling Thorne’s skill and bravery during the siege of Blackburn. Then the queen herself stood and led a toast in the Saxon’s honor. She praised not only his character and military talents, but his reputation as a falconer and scholar. “Birds of prey and learning are both particular interests of the king’s,” she said. “Many times he has told me that the rest of a born nobleman is whether he can train his own mind as well as he can train that of his hawk.”

  Thinking on it later, Martine came to realize that the queen’s purpose in repeating this statement of her husband’s was not merely to compliment Thorne. In setting him up as the king’s ideal of the true nobleman, she would forestall any objections, based on his humble origins, to the stunning announcement that followed.

  Indicating for the Saxon to rise, she said, “I had another purpose in bringing you here than simply to honor you with this supper. I daresay you deserve more reward than a bit of food and song for having single-handedly recovered Blackburn. Your courage saved countless lives, and for that King Henry and Lord Olivier are eternally grateful. Blackburn is an immensely valuable barony, but it is a barony without an heir. Its disposition being a matter of great concern to the realm, Lord Olivier wisely sought the counsel of the king, who in turn put the matter into my hands. Having given it the gravest of consideration, it is my pleasure to award this fief, along with the title of baron, to the man who liberated Blackburn Castle... Thorne Falconer.”

  A deafening roar filled the hall. Thorne looked toward Martine, who could merely gaze back in dumbfounded amazement. When the cheers died down, he simply said, “I’m most grateful, my liege.”

  She said,
“My clerks have already drawn up the deed of conveyance. If you will return here on the morrow at midday” —she nodded toward Martine— “with my dear cousin, your lady wife, we will attend to the necessary ceremonial matters, and perhaps indulge in a celebratory feast.”

  Thorne bowed his head briefly. “Of course. Thank you, my lady.” Meeting Martine’s eyes, he smiled. She returned the smile, wondering at the strange and mysterious workings of fate.

  * * *

  “Lord, I become your man,” Thorne said, kneeling in the tree-shaded courtyard of Blackburn Castle with his clasped hands between those of the earl. “I will be faithful to you and will maintain toward you my homage entirely against every man, saving the faith of my lord Henry, King of England, and his heirs.”

  The Saxon rose and, delivering the kiss of homage to Olivier, was transformed from Sir Thorne, a knight of the realm, to Lord Falconer, Baron of Blackburn.

  Chapter 22

  Queen Eleanor and her entourage vacated Blackburn Castle a week later, closely followed by Olivier and his men. When, on the morning after Easter, Martine and Thorne arrived to claim their new home, they found a dozen house servants lined up in the courtyard to greet them. They were male and female, young and old. The only thing they all had in common, Martine thought, was that they seemed nervous, though none of them could have been more nervous than she. Here she was, an eighteen-year-old girl with very little experience of castle life, suddenly the mistress of one of the greatest baronies in England. She felt like a little girl all dressed up in her mother’s kirtle, playing princess.

  One of the servants, a rather dignified-looking man of advanced years, stepped forward. “My lord, my lady,” he said in English-accented French, “welcome to Castle Blackburn. My name is John Burgess. I was my lord Anseau’s steward. If it please your lordship, I will be yours.”

  Thorne nodded, and responded to the steward in English. Martine saw a flicker of wonder in the old man’s eyes, and most of the others exchanged looks. Surely someone had told them their new master was a Saxon, yet his use of their native tongue seemed to shock them. Doubtless they’d never thought to hear a man of his rank speak it.

  The amiable exchange between the two men seemed to relax the others. When Thorne smiled and clapped Burgess on the back, they all broke into relieved grins and beckoned for their lord and lady to follow them into the keep and up the wide staircase in the forebuilding. Thorne took Martine’s arm in his and, apparently sensing her tension, patted it comfortingly.

  He’d been increasingly affectionate of late, not in any overt way—he hadn’t tried to make love to her—but in small, almost tender ways, and only when they were alone. In truth, she craved these little gestures, savored them, even while it shamed her that he still had the power to disarm her this way.

  She couldn’t help but wonder why, after his initial disinterest following their wedding, he seemed so intent on renewing their intimacy, albeit gradually. Perhaps it was merely that he was a man, with a man’s appetites. Sometimes, late at night, as she lay in bed next to him, she sensed him watching her, felt his breath on her, felt his heat, his simmering need. Soon, she knew, he would tire of waiting. One of these nights, he would reach for her. By law, she couldn’t refuse him her body. She had to acquiesce, but she didn’t have to enjoy it. He liked to make her lose control, and three times he had succeeded. The memory of how she had writhed in his arms, had moaned and clutched at him in animal hunger, flooded her with shame. It would never happen again. Never. She would open her legs for him when he finally insisted, but she would feel no passion—nor would she feign it. He would know that she received him not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice.

  Or perhaps his gentle affections promoted some hidden scheme that she had yet to fathom. Whatever cause they served, she would do well to remember that they didn’t serve hers. She must close her heart to him. She must live for Martine, and only Martine.

  When they entered the great hall, she felt like a mouse in a cathedral. Devoid of the people and furnishings that had filled it during Eleanor’s stay, it seemed immense and hollow. Sunlight flooded the hall through the many large, arched windows, casting patches of gold onto the ornate Saracen carpets that still bedecked the walls.

  “I thought those were the queen’s carpets,” said Martine as she released Loki. “Why are they still here?” In French Burgess said, “Queen Eleanor left them here as a gift for the new Baron and Baroness of Blackburn, with her best wishes. Shall I leave them where they’re hung, or would you like them moved?”

  “Sweep the rushes up,” said Thorne, “and lay the carpets on the floor.”

  Martine turned to him, openmouthed. “On the floor? Are you mad?”

  Thorne smiled mischievously. “I’ve told you before—if I’m mad, so be it.”

  Her face grew warm at the memory of the two of them locked together on the mossy bank of River Blackburn. With a glance at Burgess, she said, “Really, Sir Th—”

  “It’s not ‘Sir Thorne’ anymore,” he corrected. “So just call me Th—”

  “‘My lord husband’ is correct, is it not?”

  He grimaced. “The carpets, my lady wife, will go on the floor. I grew quite fond of carpeted floors when I was in Spain and Portugal on my way to the Holy Land. We can get other hangings for the walls, if you’re concerned about drafts.”

  Frowning, Burgess said, “Do the rushes go on top of the carpets?”

  “There will be no rushes,” said Thorne patiently. “Just the carpets.”

  The older man hesitated, as if weighing his new master’s sanity, and then half bowed. “As you wish, my lord baron.” He withdrew a sheaf of parchment. “I keep the barony accounts from Michaelmas to Michaelmas. I am prepared to review them with you at your convenience.”

  “Thank you, Burgess, but for now I believe we’d prefer a tour of our new home.”

  “Of course, my lord. If you’ll but follow me...”

  Blackburn Castle, Martine soon discovered, was much larger and more complex than Harford, representing the latest in castle engineering. Running water was available on each level through a system of pipes that led from a cistern on the roof, and the architecture was wonderfully complex. Besides the great hall, the keep contained a dizzying network of large chambers connected by passages and stairwells. There was a two-story chapel in the forebuilding, with entrances both from the great hall and the huge master bedchamber off the balcony. It was actually more of a suite than a bedchamber, with three anterooms, one of which was tiled and contained a privy, a shallow trough with brass spigots and a drain, and a permanently affixed bathtub! Like almost every other chamber in the castle, it boasted its own fireplace and a heavy wooden door. There were many other bedchambers and storerooms, a lesser hall below the great hall, a guardroom, and various chambers for the servants’ use. Martine was in awe of it all. The fact that she could actually get lost in a castle of which she was mistress both thrilled and unnerved her.

  From the keep, Burgess led them on a survey of the grounds. The inner bailey had been walled off for gardens, which had never been planted. In the center of the outer bailey, surrounded by a cookhouse, granary, stable, kennels, and barracks, was a large and well-stocked fish pond. Crossing the outer drawbridge, Burgess pointed out St. Dunstan’s, nestled in the valley below, as well as the vineyards, orchards, and grazing pastures that immediately surrounded the castle.

  The manors and villages that comprised Lord Falconer’s fief were numerous and vast, he explained, and yielded massive revenues. Since Lord Anseau’s passing, he had continued without interruption to collect the taxes, fees, rents, and tolls that provided his lordship’s baronial income, an income that normally amounted to thousands of pounds annually.

  “Thousands?” Thorne asked.

  Burgess withdrew a sheet of parchment, held it toward the young baron, and pointed. “This is the sum I’ve amassed since Lord Anseau’s death, which I am prepared to turn over to you immediately. An
d this is the sum I expect the barony to have earned by the end of September.”

  Martine watched as Thorne calmly inspected the numbers. “This money will come in handy. There’s much work to be done on the castle and grounds.” He handed the parchment back to his steward. “That’s all for now, Burgess. Thank you.”

  Burgess recrossed the drawbridge, but when Martine made as if to follow, Thorne held her back. “Walk with me.”

  He took her hand and led her away from the castle and across a rolling pasture to a pear orchard planted in tidy rows. The orchard, like everything else at Blackburn, appeared to have been well tended despite the barony’s recent upheaval.

  “Are you very rich, then?” she asked as he guided her into the cool, green corridor between two rows of trees.

  “Nay.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “We’re very rich.”

  She couldn’t help but return the smile. They strolled in silence down the shadowy lane, hand in hand, listening to the birds chatter in the trees, savoring the breeze that rattled the new spring leaves.

  Gradually Martine began to relax, to actually feel comfortable walking with him like this. ‘Tis as if we’re lovers, she thought. Or truly man and wife, not two people bound in a travesty of a marriage.

  He was clever, she realized, to have maneuvered her into this situation—alone with him in a dark and private place, her hand in his. Their companionable silence began to strike her as insidious. Wanting to end it, she said, “Must you speak English to the servants? I can’t understand a word of it.”

  He chuckled. “I can see I’m going to have to teach you the language of my fathers.”

  “Can’t you just speak French instead? It’s what everyone else speaks.”