Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  He’d been too long without her. His mind told him to wait, but he was already on the verge of release. If he tried to hold off much longer, he’d spill his seed before he could even enter her—an ignoble way to initiate the promised marathon of passion. Claiming her mouth in another hungry kiss, he let his hands roam over her with abandon, caressing her through the liquid-smooth satin in all the ways and in all the places that he knew would most excite her—but she merely lay still beneath him, her face averted, a fistful of sheet in each hand.

  “Relax,” he softly urged. “Give it a chance.”

  “I feel trapped,” she said tightly, her voice quavering. “I have no choice in this. I’m powerless.”

  “Powerless!” He took her right hand, opened her fingers, and pressed it to his throbbing shaft. Her touch almost sent him over the edge, but he gritted his teeth and strained for control. “You have the power to do this to me.” She tried to wrest her hand from his, but he gripped it firmly, guiding her fingers up the length of him. “Feel me,” he said raggedly. “Feel what you do to me. Feel how ready I am for you. It hurts, I want you so much. And I know you want me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.” This time, when she pulled her hand away, he let her. Whipping up the skirt of her shift, he reached between her legs. She flailed at him, but he seized both of her wrists in one iron fist and held them above her head while his other hand sought and found the damp heat that betrayed her own arousal. “You’re body says you want me.”

  “That’s my body, not my heart. You make me feel worse than manipulated. I feel violated.”

  “Violated?”

  “Look at us!” she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. “How can I feel otherwise?”

  Christ, he thought, gazing down upon the trembling woman beneath him, her arms pinned above her head, struggling against the tears that filled her eyes. He had meant to be gentle, to ease her into his arms, to bring her closer to him. Instead, he had lost control—and driven her further away.

  He released her, stood, and grabbed his shirt. “I didn’t mean it to be this way, Martine. I meant to—”

  “You meant to seduce me.” She sat up, rubbing her wrists. “But you needn’t have gone to the trouble, and I wish you wouldn’t. By law I can’t deny you. ‘Twould be much simpler if you just tupped me quickly and got it over with.”

  “I didn’t want a quick tupping. I wanted to make love to you.”

  “Why me? Why not one of the kitchen girls? That’s the type you prefer, isn’t it?”

  “It has to be you, only you. Don’t you understand?”

  She met his gaze, her expression thoughtful, and he thought for a moment that perhaps she did, at last, understand... but presently her eyes narrowed a bit, and then widened slightly, as if she had suddenly figured something out.

  “You want to get me with child!” she said. “That’s been the whole point all along. Your little attentions, your kisses... ‘twas all a kind of slow seduction. Just more manipulation.”

  “Martine, what are you—”

  “You’re a baron now, and a baron needs sons, legitimate sons. Any woman can give you pleasure, but only your wife can give you heirs.”

  “Heirs?” He shook out the chausses he’d worn the day before. “Is that why you think I...” Shaking his head, he tunneled his legs into the woolen hose and tied them. “God, Martine, I’ve been too busy to give any thought to heirs. ‘Twas you I wanted.” He pulled on his boots and yesterday’s tunic.

  Wrapping her arms around her updrawn legs, she said, “Nay, not me. If it’s not heirs you seek, then it’s simple sexual release. Any woman would have done.”

  “If any woman would have done, I’d have spared myself some bother and paid a visit to Fat Nan.” She looked puzzled. “She runs a brothel in the harbor. No whore has ever accused me of manipulating her.”

  “Go, then,” she said with a tone of studied indifference, rising and reaching for her dressing gown. “I know you have... needs. If that’s the only reason you came to me this morning, because you’re frustrated, then by all means go to—”

  “I didn’t say that!” Christ, she was exasperating!

  “I know perfectly well what—”

  “You know nothing!” He took a step toward her and tried to pull her into his arms, but she flinched and shook him off. Something hot and unstoppable rose within him. Wheeling around, he sighted on the big, glazed window and, without thinking, hauled back and slammed his fist through one of the panes. The glass shattered. He heard her gasp as he withdrew his bloody hand. She ran to the dressing alcove and came back with the sleeve of one of her cotton chemises, which he took and wrapped around his throbbing fist. He felt suddenly light-headed and very weary, his mind as curiously numb as his lacerated hand.

  For a few long moments they stood in silence, and then he said quietly, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should go to Hastings. I’m not doing either of us any good here.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, and for a moment he thought, from the expression in her eyes, that she might beg him not to go. But she bit her lip and looked away, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

  He grabbed his mantle and sword belt off their hooks. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” She nodded, facing away from him.

  He swung the door open and collided with Clare, upsetting the tray of wine and bread in her hands.

  “Oh, my lord, I’m sorry!” she squealed, kneeling to clean it up. She was always underfoot, that one. Always lurking about with food and drink no one had asked for. Not trusting himself to utter a civil response, he turned and stalked away.

  * * *

  Martine awoke that night to a furious knocking at her bedchamber door. She turned to the other side of the bed before remembering that Thorne wasn’t there; he was in Hastings. It was surely well past midnight. Who would disturb her at such an hour?

  “Milady! Milady!” The door banged open and Felda rushed into the room, dressed, like Martine, in nothing but her shift, and carrying a lantern. “Milady, it’s Bernard! He’s here!”

  “Bernard?” Martine whipped aside the covers and leaped out of bed, following Felda to the window. She looked down and gasped. Dozens of mounted men in chain mail surrounded the keep, some leaping down from their horses and running inside with torches. She heard thunderous footsteps on the stairs, and a familiar voice shouting commands—Bernard.

  She ran to the door and locked it, then remembered the door that led to the chapel and secured that as well.

  “What’s happening?” Felda cried as the footsteps neared. “What does he want?”

  “Me, I think,” said Martine in a shaky whisper.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” Felda muttered. “I wish Thorne was here.”

  Martine heard Bernard’s voice on the other side of the door— “It’s this one” —and then the doorknob turned. “Open the door, my lady,” he bellowed.

  Felda crossed herself. “Milady, what are we going to—”

  “It’s me they want,” Martine said, feeling a cold calm descend upon her. “You can get away if you don’t draw attention to your—”

  “Nay!” Felda exclaimed as Bernard banged fiercely on the door. “I’ll not run away. You need me with you.”

  “I need you to go to Hastings and find Thorne.”

  Bernard ceased his pounding, but the blessed silence was short-lived, for presently there commenced a series of deafening blows that rattled the door on its hinges. He’d graduated from his fist to his foot, it seemed, and from the sound of it, he’d enlisted a few of his men to help.

  Martine grabbed Felda by the shoulders. “Saddle up and ride to Hastings as fast as you can,” she yelled over the explosive pounding. “Go to the harbor. There’s a person named... I think it’s Nan...”

  Felda’s mouth flew open. “Fat Nan?” Martine nodded. “He left you alone here so he could run off to—”

  Martine shook Felda hard as the wood of th
e door began to splinter. “Just find him, Felda. Find him! Tell him what happened.”

  Another deafening kick, and another, and finally the door crashed open and dark forms swarmed into the room.

  Chapter 23

  Martine screamed “Go!” to her maid as armored and helmeted men grabbed her and hurled her onto the bed. They flipped her facedown and held her there, kneeling on her back so hard she could barely breathe. Gloved hands yanked her arms behind her back while others encircled them with rope, pulling it so tightly that it bit into her skin. At the same time, someone else brought her ankles together, and they were similarly bound.

  This isn’t happening. Martine shivered violently, her eyes squeezed shut. This can’t be happening. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the odors of oiled steel, leather, and unwashed bodies. The feel of all those strange hands on her, of mail-clad knees and elbows digging into her, wrested a sob of helpless fury from her throat. Nay, don’t cry! she commanded herself. All you’ve got now is your dignity. Don’t give them the pleasure of seeing you cry.

  Two men jerked her roughly to her feet, whipped her around, and held her there.

  Bernard stood before her in the dim glow of the lantern, serene as usual amid the brutality he’d spawned. He alone wore no armor, but was clad instead in a tunic of black brocade embroidered in gold. He smiled that deathly smile that never reached his eyes, and then he said simply, “Lady Falconer.”

  “What do you want?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from quivering.

  “That should be fairly obvious, my lady. I want you.”

  “You’re too late,” she said. “I’m already married.”

  Bernard chuckled, and his men followed suit. “I’m hardly here to ask for your hand, my lady.” He gestured, and a figure emerged into the light—Father Simon, a sheet of parchment in his hand.

  “Read it,” Bernard ordered.

  The priest brought the document close to his face and intoned, “Unless proven otherwise, let it be known that the woman called Martine of Rouen, or Martine Falconer, Baroness of Blackburn, did, by charms, incantations, and potions, effect the acts of malefice which follow. Item: That she did breathe into the mouth of the deceased child Ailith of Kirkley, and by such means caused the corpse to regain its vitality and become reanimated.”

  “What?” Martine exclaimed.

  “Item:” Simon continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “That she did render impotent both her first and second husbands by poisoning and other means. Item: That she did likewise poison Lady Estrude of Flanders and thereby took her life.”

  “This is preposterous,” she said.

  The priest glared at her and cleared his throat. “And let it be further known that said maleficia were performed at the behest of he who is known as Satan, and also by the names Lucifer and Beelzebub. And that the sorceress Martine Falconer has bound herself in service to this prince of devils, and in her allegiance to him, has renounced God, Jesus Christ, the saints, the Roman Church, and all the sacraments.”

  Martine stared in incredulous horror at Father Simon, Bernard, and the men surrounding her. They all wore expressions of the utmost gravity. She began to tremble uncontrollably. “I want my husband.”

  Bernard snickered. “As I understand it, your husband departed this morning for Hastings, and is therefore unavailable.”

  “Of course,” she said, comprehension dawning. “You knew he wouldn’t be here. You never would have tried this otherwise. How did you—”

  “Oh, I’ve been kept exceedingly well informed of the Saxon’s comings and goings. My good lady Clare has seen to that.”

  Martine sighed disgustedly. “Clare. I should have known.” She nodded toward the sheet of parchment in Father Simon’s hand. “What does this mean? What will happen to me?”

  Father Simon folded up the document and slid it beneath his robe. “You’ll be encouraged to confess.”

  She swallowed hard. When she spoke, her voice was an unsteady rasp. “You mean tortured.”

  “Alas, no,” responded the priest. “The more effective methods, the ones they use on the Continent, well, they’re frowned upon in England. But you will be interrogated. Questioned. And then you will be tried and found guilty.”

  Tried and found guilty. Just like that. “Wh-what is the punishment for sorcery?” she asked.

  “Nothing much,” Father Simon said lightly. “A fine, a few lashes, perhaps... at the worst, banishment.”

  Relief overwhelmed her. “Thank God,” she breathed.

  “But of course,” Simon continued, “it’s not sorcery you’ve been accused of. It’s heretical sorcery. Sorcery in the service of the Devil. And the punishment for heresy of this magnitude is death.”

  “Then I’m to be hung,” she whispered.

  Simon took a step toward her and smiled; so did Bernard. Both men seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, like two cats toying with a trapped mouse.

  “Not necessarily,” said Bernard. “Oh, you might be lucky and get off with a hanging. But there are those in England, such as Father Simon here, who advocate that heretics be burned at the stake.”

  “As is the practice in the more civilized European realms,” Simon elaborated.

  Martine shook her head slowly. “No...”

  “Oh, yes,” Bernard said, stepping close to Martine and gripping her chin to force her to look at him. “So you didn’t much like the idea of marriage to me, did you? You thought you’d gotten the better of me, you and that damned woodsman. Well, now I’m in a position to return the favor, and I assure you I intend to take full advantage of it. I will petition Bishop Lambert to make an example of you. Make no mistake—you will be found guilty, and then you will die on the pyre, screaming and begging as the flames consume you. There’s no agony that can compare to death by fire.”

  Martine wrested her head out of his grasp. “Except perhaps marriage to you.”

  Someone in back chuckled. Bernard, his jaw set in outrage, withdrew his sword from its scabbard and held its razor-sharp tip to her throat. “You seem to forget who has the upper hand here, Lady Woodsman. Perhaps you need reminding.” To the men supporting her, he said, “Hold her head still.”

  A hand seized her braid and tugged her head back, hard. She drew in a panicked breath as Bernard raised the sword high, its blade pointed upward. He paused briefly, a feral glint in his eye. She saw him aim the heavy, jeweled hilt toward her forehead—and then he grimaced and whipped it down with savage force.

  Red-hot pain burst within her. Her legs collapsed, and she heard herself groan. Bernard’s voice, strangely deep and muffled, said, “Let her go.” The hands released her and she fell facedown onto the carpeted floor.

  “Gag the bitch,” Bernard said. The last thing she felt was gloved fingers prying her mouth open and stuffing a rag in... and then a cold, empty darkness engulfed her.

  * * *

  “Wake up, milord.” It was a woman’s voice. She spoke the old tongue. Thorne felt himself being jiggled, which precipitated a wave of nausea.

  Groaning, he rolled over onto his stomach, squeezing his eyes against the pain that speared his head. He lay on a blanket-covered straw pallet, and there was something hard under his chest—a jug. He was fully dressed, including even his sword belt. “Go ‘way.” His sticky mouth tasted like the muck on the bottom of a wine barrel.

  He heard other women’s whispers, and then a dozen hands took hold of him and turned him faceup. Hot breath near his ear: “Milord, wake up. It’s Nan.”

  “Nan?” he moaned. Nan. Fat Nan. He must be at Fat Nan’s. That realization only compounded his misery. “Leave me alone.”

  Nan said, “Leave you alone? After the way you pleasured me last night? The girls always said you was the best, a real stallion, but I never knew it till—”

  “What?” he mumbled, squinting against the midday sun streaming in through the little window next to his pallet. He was in one of the brothel’s seedy little upstairs alcoves. Fat N
an and an audience of scantily clad wenches were hovering over him.

  Nan turned to her girls. “That woke him up!” They laughed appreciatively, and Thorne relaxed as it dawned on him that he hadn’t, after all, shared a pallet with Fat Nan last night. He sat up slowly, wincing at his headache, and scanned the lineup of whores, struggling to remember which one...

  Nan said, “You went through three of ‘em, milord.” The girls giggled at Thorne, who wasn’t quite sure whether to feel proud or ashamed of this feat. “‘Just keep ‘em coming,’ you said. You tried for a fourth—” she kicked the almost full brandy jug next to him, which rolled off the pallet, “but one sip out of it and you were out cold.”

  The whores laughed uproariously, which made the Saxon’s head pulsate with pain. “You mean all I did was—”

  “You don’t remember?” Nan said. “Small wonder. You showed up here yesterday, surly as a bear, ordering one jug of brandy after another. You drank yourself into a stupor, came to, drank some more, then passed out again. Over and over.”

  Befreckled Tilda curled up on the pallet and laid her head in his lap. “Just like a babe at his mum’s teat,” she said wistfully. “‘Twas quite sweet, really.”

  Another swell of sickness rose within him, and he swallowed it down, wondering how sweet Tilda would find it if he vomited up three jugs of brandy all over her.

  “Took seven of us to haul you upstairs last night,” Nan said. “I would have let you sleep it off a bit longer, only there’s someone showed up just now, asking for you. A woman.”

  The girls whistled and cooed. “He’s got them coming to whorehouses for him! Now, that’s love.”

  Martine? Here? Christ, no. He struggled to his feet, shaking off Tilda’s attempts to help, ran one hand over his needle-sharp morning beard, and tried to finger-comb his hair with the other, but it was still bandaged with Martine’s chemise sleeve. The whores parted for him and he stumbled down the stairs, wondering what he would say to her... why she had come here, of all places... why she had to see him like this...