by Falcons Fire
“By all accounts?” interrupted Brother Matthew, rising and pointing to Lady Clare. “By one woman’s account! Let me ask Thorne Falconer himself whether he has any affection toward—”
“Nay, my lord bishop!” Simon interjected. “She could influence his testimony with her evil eye. It mustn’t be permitted.”
“Father Simon is right,” the bishop decreed. “We couldn’t credit his statement.”
Brother Matthew strode to the front of the room. “Then let me question the Lady Geneva, Countess of Kirkley.”
“Nay!” Father Simon exclaimed. “She knows nothing of these matters.”
“Perhaps,” Matthew smoothly suggested, “Bishop Lambert would prefer to be the judge of that.”
The bishop speared the priest with a poisonous look. “Perhaps he would.” Sighing heavily, he gestured toward the prior. “Make it quick.”
Geneva came forward.
“My lady countess,” Brother Matthew began, “were you present in the great hall of Harford Castle on an afternoon shortly after Lady Falconer’s arrest, when Lord Falconer came to discuss certain matters with your brother, Bernard?”
“I was.”
“Would you describe that conversation?”
“Lord Falconer offered my brother his barony in exchange for retracting his charges against Lady Falconer.”
The room filled with excited conversation. Stunned, Martine wheeled around on her stool. Thorne met her gaze, and she saw in his eyes that it was true—he had been willing to give up Blackburn for her. Then he grinned, and she realized her awestruck expression amused him.
“Silence!” Bishop Lambert commanded, adding, this time with a touch of weariness, “Lady Falconer, turn around.”
Brother Matthew glanced toward Martine, then asked Geneva, “Did Lord Falconer say why he was willing to sacrifice so much so that his wife’s life might be spared?”
Geneva nodded, her eyes shimmering. “He said he loved her.” She met Martine’s eyes. “With all his heart.”
Again the room erupted in conversation, but Martine was oblivious to it. In a daze, she turned again, and found Thorne looking at her, his eyes filled with the same intensity, the same yearning, that they had held in the dream. The bishop bellowed something. Hands grabbed her and pulled her to her feet.
“Is it—is it over?” Martine asked the guard as he led her out of the room and down the hall.
“All but the formal verdict, milady. The bishop wants everyone back here tomorrow morning. He’ll announce it then.” He smiled. “Don’t you worry none. From the looks of it, they ain’t got much of a case against you. You’ll be a free woman by noon tomorrow, mark my words.”
* * *
No sooner had Martine taken her seat on the little stool the next morning than Bishop Lambert cocked a chubby finger at her. “Lady Falconer, rise and approach me.” She walked on quaking legs to stand before the high throne.
The bishop looked displeased, and drained. She wondered whether this was good or bad. He cleared his throat; the clerk inked his pen. “As to the offenses of ligature, raising the dead, and murder by poison, I find evidence of demonic involvement to be inadequate, and I therefore declare you innocent of the charge of heresy.”
Martine closed her eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
Many of the onlookers cheered. She turned and saw Thorne grin at her as Matthew slapped him on the back.
One voice rose above the others. “My lord bishop!” It was Father Simon coming through the doorway, his black robes flapping as he sprinted to the front of the chamber. Bernard followed at a more relaxed pace. He caught Martine’s eye and nodded; a chill crept up her spine.
“If it please my lord bishop,” Simon implored breathlessly, “we have another witness!”
The bishop scowled. “‘Tis a bit late for this, Father. I’ve just declared her ladyship innocent of all charges.”
“But we have a new charge, and this witness—”
“This is outrageous!” Thorne declared.
“A new charge?” Matthew exclaimed, rising. “We had no notice that there would be—”
“Silence!” the bishop roared. “Monk, take your seat—and see that Lord Falconer keeps his counsel. Sir Bernard, Father Simon—you may approach me.”
The three men spoke in hushed tones for some time. Finally the bishop waved them away and announced, “It appears that God’s interests would be served by allowing this witness to speak.”
Father Simon left the chamber and returned with three men, two of whom he directed to a bench; the third, he led to the front of the room. He was large and hulking, his face disfigured by boils, his gaping mouth revealing many absent teeth. Martine recognized him immediately.
“This man is named Gyrth, my lord bishop,” said the priest. “He’s the pilot of a merchant longship called the Lady’s Slipper. ‘Twas his craft that brought the Lady Falconer and her brother from Normandy last August.”
The bishop nodded. “Proceed with your questioning.”
“I’m afraid he can’t answer my questions, my lord bishop, except by nodding or shaking his head.”
“Very well. Get on with it.”
Simon turned to the pilot. “You are mute, are you not?” Gyrth nodded. “Were you always so?” He shook his head. “Is it not a fact that you were struck dumb shortly after transporting Lady Falconer across the Channel last summer?” Another nod. “Is it not also true that, during the crossing, the lady hexed you when you objected to the tempest she had raised? That she claimed she would use her powers to silence your tongue forever?” Again the pilot nodded.
Simon summoned the two other men, one very large, the other very small. It took Martine a moment to recognize them as the two sailors who had been wide-eyed witnesses to her unfortunate outburst on the deck of the Lady’s Slipper. The priest asked first one, and then the other, “Were you present when Lady Falconer cursed this man’s tongue?” Both seemed hesitant, but finally said that they were.
The big one glanced toward Martine, exchanged a quick look with the other, and then said, “Father, if I may, there’s something—”
“You may not!” shouted the bishop. “You may answer questions put to you, and that is all.”
“But I just—”
“Disrespect for these proceedings carries punishments of its own. If you want to keep your tongue, I suggest you hold it.”
The witness bowed his head and mumbled, “Yes, my lord bishop.”
Matthew stood as Gyrth and the two sailors were led away. “My lord bishop, I’d like to ask them some—”
“I’m sure you would, brother Matthew, but this trial is now concluded.”
“Concluded!”
“I’ve reached my decision. Take your seat. You, too, Father Simon.” The two clerics sat down. “Lady Falconer...” He gestured her to stand before him, and she obeyed.
The bishop sighed heavily and nodded to his clerk, who commenced to record his words. “It is my judgment that the man known as Gyrth was rendered mute through the workings of sorcery, that you are responsible for such sorcery, and furthermore that such sorcery savors of heresy. Inasmuch as it is written in Exodus, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ and in Leviticus, ‘A man or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death,’ and inasmuch as death by fire most suits the heretic, who will, after all, spend eternity in flames, I therefore sentence you to death by burning at dawn tomorrow, the fourth day of June, the year of our Lord...”
The roar of blood in Martine’s ears was echoed by a roar or disbelief and shock from the onlookers, who rose and began to press in on her. Guards surrounded her, turned her around, and swiftly guided her to the door. Dazed, she couldn’t feel the floor beneath her feet or the guards’ hands as they gripped her arms. Other guards cleared a path through the crowd for them. Matthew stood on a bench, shouting, “This is unconscionable! You can’t do this! She must be allowed to appeal to Pope Alexander!”
She heard her name being yelled. Thorne! She looked and saw him being wrestled from the room, his long arms reaching toward her through those of the guards who had overpowered him. “Martine!” he screamed. “Martine!”
Someone stepped in front of her, halting her progress through the throng: Bernard stood perfectly still in the midst of the mayhem surrounding them. He said, “They built the pyre already, you know, outside the city near the marshes. Our clever Father Simon made certain the wood was green.” His mouth smiled; his eyes remained dead. “Green wood makes for a slow fire. It could take all morning for you to die. Think on that tonight while you’re trying to sleep.”
From inner reserves Martine had never known she possessed came the strength to lift her chin, look Bernard in the eye, and say, “Whatever agony I may suffer will last at most a few hours, and then I’ll die and my suffering will end. You’ll die someday, too, but ‘tis then your suffering will truly begin, for you’ll burn not for a few hours, but for eternity.” She even managed a smile, to Bernard’s evident amazement. “Think on that while you’re trying to sleep tonight.”
* * *
She did not smile as she knelt on the straw pallet in her little cell that evening, praying as best she could while waiting for the priest she had summoned.
“Any priest in particular?” the guard had asked.
“Anyone but Father Simon,” she had said.
She felt proud of her performance before Bernard that afternoon, a performance that, quite satisfyingly, had left the son of a bitch speechless. Of course, it had all been false bravado. She felt far from calm and not remotely brave. She was, in fact, terrified through and through. The only way she’d been able to keep her senses was to put her situation out of her mind, not to dwell on her fate, as Bernard had hoped she would do, but to think of other things... of her beloved Rainulf, thousands of miles away, seeking faith among the infidels. God, don’t let him grieve too much when he discovers what became of me, she prayed. Make him strong; temper his pain. She thought of her home, the first home she had ever truly considered her own, the home she had loved and would never see again. And she thought of Thorne, whose arms would never more embrace her, whose ears would never hear the words that she should have said long ago, and now would never have the chance to.
She heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open. It was dark in her chamber, lit as it was by a single oil lamp, but the hall was bright with torchlight. Silhouetted against it were the stocky guard and a tall man in a cleric’s robe, its cowl drooping down over his face. Curiously, the priest withdrew a purse and shook some coins into the guard’s outstretched hand. She saw the glint of gold. A fortune had just changed hands!
“Remember,” the guard hissed as he pocketed the coins. “One hour, that’s all this buys you.” The door slammed shut and she heard the snick of the key.
The priest lowered the cowl and she saw the face of her husband, his eyes incandescent in the dim room. She tried to say his name, but instead there rose from her an inarticulate cry of joy. Her hands abandoned their attitude of prayer and reached out to him as he crossed to her, knelt, and gathered her in his arms.
“Thorne! Thorne!” she gasped, her words muffled against his shoulder. He crushed her to him, kissing her hair, whispering her name. “Thorne... thank God you’re here. Thank God! I can tell you... I needed to tell you...”
“Nay. I know what’s in your heart. You needn’t—”
“I do need to.” She pulled her head back and looked him in the eye. “I need to tell you. This is my last chance to tell you, and I should have told you before, but... I love you. I love you so much, and I’ve always loved you, but I’ve been such a fool. Please forgive me.”
“I’m the one who needs forgiveness. I left you that morning. If I hadn’t left you, they wouldn’t have taken you.”
“I drove you away. I was so cold, so... I drove you to that... that place.”
He smiled slightly. “I slept with nothing warmer than a brandy jug that night. I haven’t been with another woman since I was first with you. I never wanted anyone else after that. I never will.”
He leaned down and kissed her. It was a kiss of great tenderness and passion, and Martine returned it spontaneously, her hands reaching up to pull his head closer. I want to be a part of him, she thought. I am a part of him. When they drew apart, they were breathless.
“I don’t mind dying so much now,” she said. “I can face it, knowing I’ve told you—”
“You’re not going to die,” he said huskily. “I won’t let it happen. I can’t lose you now. I love you too much to lose you.”
Hope ignited in her breast. “Is there some way out of here? Have you come to help me get out?”
Grimly he shook his head. “The corridors are lined with armed guards. Bernard told them about your escape from Harford Castle, so they’ve made certain you can’t get out of here.”
“Then it’s hopeless,” she said. “Please thank Brother Matthew for helping me. If only he could have questioned those two sailors.”
“They did seem rather reluctant witnesses.”
“More than reluctant. There was something they wanted to say, but the bishop wouldn’t allow it. They know something, something that would have pointed to my innocence. I’m certain of it.”
“I sensed that, too,” Thorne said thoughtfully. “But unfortunately, so did the bishop. You heard him—he threatened to have their tongues cut out if they talked.”
“And their silence means that tomorrow I’ll burn.”
He gripped her shoulders hard. “Nay! You mustn’t think that. I will save you.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow at dawn, when they take you out of here, to transport you to...”
“To the pyre,” she supplied.
He nodded. “Then you’ll be in the open. Then ‘twill be easier.”
“But what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see what route they take you by, how many guards—”
“Nay,” she said. “I’ll be surrounded by guards, you know that. You can’t save me, Thorne. Don’t risk your life trying to. Get out of England now, tonight, before they arrest you, too—”
“You can’t think I’d flee in the middle of the night and leave you to—”
“Go to the harbor. Get in a boat. There’s no way to help me now. I can’t be saved. But you can. Please—”
He stifled her objections with another kiss, this one harder, more desperate. “Nay!” he said when he broke away. “I’ll not leave you.” She opened her mouth to object, but he pressed his fingers to her lips. “Nay, love. I’ll not leave you, and there’s nothing more to be said.” He kissed her forehead.
“Do something for me, then,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow, when they... when they tie me to the stake and—” He started to speak, but she said, “Please, Thorne. Let me ask this of you.” He nodded. “I’m a coward,” she said. “I don’t want to die... that way. Not that way, not by fire.”
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and she knew he was thinking of Louise, his cherished little sister, lost to the flames.
“Don’t let me burn, that’s all I ask. You can make it quick.” He looked puzzled. “With an arrow.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh, Martine...” He shook his head.
“Please,” she begged, holding his face in her hands. “Do for me what you did for the deer. That stag that Bernard and his men ran into the guardroom? Do for me what you did for it. Kill me quickly before I feel the flames. ‘Twill be an act of mercy.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“But if it does. Promise me, please.”
“Martine, I love you! I can’t—”
“If you love me, have mercy on me. Be strong. For me. Please! Promise me! Promise me you won’t let me burn.”
He lowered his head and closed his eyes. Presently he whispered, “I promise.” Looking up, he added, “But I won’t need to. I’ll sa
ve you before it comes to that. I wish I could do it sooner. I wish I could take you away from here right now.”
“You can,” she murmured, then lifted her face to his and kissed him. “For a little while, anyway.” She lay back on the pallet and drew him down on top of her, then kissed him again, lingeringly, ardently. He seemed momentarily stunned, but then he returned the kiss with a deep, almost anguished moan.
She arched against him, and he pulled away, rasping, “Are you sure?”
“Please. Make me forget where I am. Make me forget everything but us. Just for a little while.”
He was gentle, very gentle. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, caressing her through her kirtle as he breathed words of love into her ear. He untied the string from her braid and pulled his fingers through her hair. They undressed each other in silence, then lay side by side, just touching, their eyes locked in wordless but intimate communication. His fingertips brushed her face, her throat, her breasts; hers traveled the width of his shoulders, grazed his chest. She felt his heart pulsing within him, felt the love flowing from him into her, coursing through them, uniting them.
When she reached down and cautiously closed her fingers around him, his breath caught. She lightly stroked him, awed at how he swelled in her hand. He touched her as well, smiling into her eyes when he felt how ready she was for him.
Still lying on his side, he slid his hand down her thigh, raised her knee, and guided her leg up, over his hip. His eyes never strayed from hers as he positioned himself, reached around her hips to hold her still, and entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. She moaned at the sweet invasion. He withdrew and reentered her, capturing her second moan—and third, and fourth, and all that followed—in his mouth. They moved together in perfect unity, intuitively matching each other’s rhythm, like a single being.
He broke the kiss. “Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, love, look at me.” She did. His eyes glittered like those of a man consumed by fever. He’s inside me, she thought. He’s a part of me.
She writhed on the edge of release until she thought she’d scream. As her pleasure crested, he rolled her onto her back, his large hands cupping her bottom, tilting her toward him. The thrusts that followed sank deep, filling not just her womb, it seemed, but her entire body, her very soul.