Felix shrieked, the horn slipping from his fingers to soak the ground with ale. Dunstan hissed an Anglo-Saxon oath. Baldric, seemingly unmoved, looked on with an expression of vague curiosity.
Sir Luke stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the interior of the storehouse. When she tried to squeeze around him, he grabbed her shoulders and spun her away from the open doorway. "Nay, my lady," he said gruffly.
"I want to see—"
"No, you don't."
"Let go of me," Faithe demanded in a furious whisper, but he only held her tighter. She glanced toward Orrik and the others, filing into the croft to see why Felix had screamed. "They mustn't see me like this. You'll make me look weak in their eyes. Now, let me go."
His gaze searched hers. She thought she detected a trace of admiration on his part, mingled with foreboding. He closed his eyes, his jaw set, then grudgingly released her.
Sidestepping him, Faithe filled her lungs with air and strode up to the doorway. She hesitated when she heard the droning—a low, almost inaudible insect murmur—but she summoned her nerve and stepped inside.
The breath left her in a gust, one hand automatically covering her mouth while the other groped for the door frame. Sir Luke's strong hands wrapped around her waist from behind, supporting her. If not for him, she doubted her legs would have held her up.
"Have you seen enough?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
Christ, yes. But try as she might, she couldn't avert her gaze from the gruesome sight.
Vance hung suspended in a haze of dust motes, rotating slowly at the end of a noose tied to a ceiling beam. A ribbon of glittering sunlight shot through the vent hole near the ceiling to play over his lifeless body. His face, when it came into view, was dark and bloated.
But it wasn't the sight of his corpse, or even the noxious odor, that undid her. It was the flies. She didn't see them until the beam of light hit his face, and then she quickly squeezed her eyes shut, but the image remained. God, there were hundreds of them, crawling over his filmy eyes, swarming in his gaping, toothless mouth.
Her insides felt as if they were being slowly pulled up through her throat. Thank God she hadn't eaten breakfast; if she had food in her stomach, she would surely have lost it by now, in front of everyone.
"Come, my lady." Sir Luke pulled her gently back from the doorway, one arm encircling her.
"Nay." Faithe wrested away from him and braced an arm on the outside wall of the storehouse. "Don't hold on to me. They mustn't see." She closed her eyes and felt everything sway sickeningly, as if she were standing in a rowboat.
"For God's sake. They know you're human."
"They depend on me to be strong." Faithe raised a shaky hand to her forehead as sweat sprang out on her face. She felt curiously cold all over, as if the life were draining swiftly from her body...
Or as if she were getting ready to faint. She knew the feeling. She was prone to fainting in reaction to strong upsets; a physician had explained it as an imbalance in the bodily humors.
"Nay," she gasped, lurching away from her husband, away from Dunstan and Felix. She hated to faint in front of her people—to make a humiliatingly public display of her frailty.
"Come sit down." Sir Luke took her arm and tried to lead her to one of the benches at the edge of the kitchen garden, but she batted him away. She started for the house, then stopped in her tracks. The house would be full of people. No one must see. Turning, she walked on quaking legs in the other direction, back up the flagstone path toward the gate at the rear of the croft.
Clutching her skirt in quivering fists, she willed herself to remain upright and conscious—at least until she'd gotten to the barn, where she could be alone.
Orrik said her name, but she ignored him. The crowd stood aside for her as she bolted between them, walking toward the barn as quickly as she could without attracting undue attention. Her lips went numb; cold sweat trickled between her breasts. She could barely resist the urge to stop and put her head between her knees.
The doors to the barn stood open, thank God. She stumbled inside and leaned against a supporting post, her head down, breathless and trembling. It was cool in here, and dark, and smelled comfortingly of straw and livestock.
"My lady."
She raised her head to see a dark silhouette in the open doorway.
The Black Dragon, she mused, light-headed. The Black Dragon has followed me here.
"Go away." She pushed away from the post and tried to stand on her own, but things whirled drunkenly.
Faithe expected to feel the hard-packed earth slamming into her, but she felt his arms instead, banding around to crush her to his broad chest. She felt her feet lift off the ground, felt herself cradled against him like a child.
The Black Dragon is carrying me away, she thought in the graying moment before oblivion claimed her.
* * *
Faithe felt a shivery tickle on the toes of one foot, and wriggled them. The tickle was replaced by a series of soft, small blows, as if she were being attacked by some miniature creature, like a fairy...
She opened her eyes, baffled to find herself lying on her side in straw, and peered down toward her feet. A tiny, smoke-colored kitten—one of that spring's barn litter—batted eagerly at her toes while a shyer litter mate watched from the relative safety of its box.
Faithe realized she was in the empty stall reserved for the cats. She'd fainted, and Sir Luke must have brought her here. An awareness dawned, she felt a solid mass beneath her head, and saw a pair of long legs stretched out from that mass, and realized she was lying with her head in his lap! He must be leaning back against the mound of straw in the corner. The wool of his tunic, scratchy-soft beneath her cheek, did not mask the rock-hard muscles of his thighs. She sensed great strength held in check, which only magnified the intimacy of their positions.
Nonplussed, she lay very still and watched the smoky little kitten abandon her toes for the more tempting lure of Sir Luke's boot ties. Pouncing, the novice mouser furiously swatted a loose cord with its paws.
A large hand appeared in her field of vision as Luke plucked up a piece of straw and tapped it on the knee of his chausses. The kitten stilled, then crouched behind the boot, staring at the jiggling straw with the fixed gaze of the natural-born hunter.
Smoky—for that's what she would name this kitten, she decided—crept stealthily onto Luke's legs, hunkered down, and finally leapt, attacking the piece of straw in a blur. Luke held it up, and Smoky rose on his hind legs to reach for it. This went on until the kitten managed to seize its quarry—or perhaps Luke simply let him have it—at which point it interested him no longer, inasmuch as it was defeated and obviously lifeless.
Reaching out slowly, Luke touched the tip of a finger to the little animal's throat and gently massaged it. Smoky settled down with an ecstatic purr, lifting his head to allow better access. Luke rubbed him between his eyes and behind his ears, his huge hand and long fingers surprisingly delicate in their movements. How, Faithe wondered, could the same hand that had dispatched God knew how many Saxons with his crossbow, handle a kitten so tenderly?
Eyes half closed, Smoky rubbed his head against Luke's hand, then lazily licked his fingertips. A deep, soft chuckle reverberated in Faithe's ear.
She turned and looked up at him. "Are you laughing?"
He marshaled his features. "You're awake. Good."
"Were you laughing?"
He regarded her solemnly. "I am capable of laughter, you know."
She raised an eyebrow at him. He raised one back at her, then stroked her cheek with a fingertip, just as he had stroked the kitten. "You're still pale. How do you feel?"
"Better. I think I'm fine now." She pushed herself up, squeezing her eyes shut against a surge of dizziness.
"I think not." Curling his arms around her, he drew her back against him, cupping her head with his enormous hand and pressing it to his shoulder. Not knowing what to do with her outside arm, she rested it on his che
st, and felt, beneath the dense wall of muscle, the steady beating of his heart. He was so large, so solid. She inhaled his scent, already familiar to her, and felt oddly protected in the arms of this savage warrior.
"I've never seen anyone lose as much color as you did and stay on her feet," he said, his voice rumbling softly in his chest.
"I had to get away from them. I couldn't let them see."
A little amused huff shook his chest, just one. "In truth, I would have done the same thing."
She looked up at him. "Really?"
His expression softened into something that might almost have been a smile. "When one is in command of others, there's the tendency to want to appear invincible."
She nodded, pleased that he viewed them as alike in this way. Perhaps she shouldn't want to have anything to do with the Black Dragon, but he was, after all, her husband. It couldn't hurt to acknowledge some common ground. "I make it a point never to let them see that I'm tired or ill," she said. "Or out of sorts. They've never seen me upset about anything. They've never seen me cry. Not since I was a child, anyway."
"Even... when your husband died?" he asked quietly.
A slight pause. "I came here. I always come here when I need to be alone."
"What if there's already someone here?"
"They almost always leave right away. They know this is my refuge."
He seemed thoughtful for a moment. "A woman shouldn't feel the need to be so... sewn up inside herself."
"Should a man?"
He didn't answer that, and they sat in silence. From this new vantage point, Faithe could see into the rough wooden box tucked into a corner of the stall. Clover, the slate gray mother cat, reclined in heavy-lidded contentment while most of her litter suckled energetically. Faithe wondered how it would feel to have a baby at her breast, drawing sustenance from her very body. How complete mothers must feel, how indispensable, how satisfied with their lot.
A pang of wanting burned through Faithe's belly. The greatest regret of her first marriage was that it had produced no children. Although she'd never said as much to Caedmon, she suspected the fault for their barrenness lay with him. He'd had several mistresses and numerous brief liaisons before wedding her, and yet no bastards had resulted from those unions.
Sir Luke began stroking her hair, his hand caressing her back as it glided downward again and again. The effect was hypnotic, and she nestled against him, wanting it to go on and on. Beneath her palm as it rested on his chest, she felt the quickening of his heart. It did not surprise her.
Something unspoken had coursed between them since the beginning, hiding behind their eyes, whispering softly in the background as they talked—knowledge, a sexual awareness, a hot pulsing beneath the cool surface. When he looked at her with those penetrating eyes, she felt as if he were looking for something, searching inside her. For what? Her feelings? Why should he care how she felt, about him or anything? He was the triumphant invader—her lord and master, her husband. All that was hers—her home, her lands, her livestock... herself—belonged to him now. He'd taken it all and mastered it. All except for her. He'd not claimed her body, not used her as was his right.
He wanted her, but hadn't taken her. Why not, when he had every right to do so? It didn't make sense, and that made her uneasy. Edging away from him, she said, "I need to return to my chores."
He tried to tug her back. "Nay, you're still white as a—"
"Please, my lord."
His eyes darkened at her use of the formal title. His jaw tightened. He looked as if there were something he wanted to say, but in the end he merely released her, his gaze remote and shadowed with melancholy.
She rose slowly on wobbly legs and quickly made her way out of the barn.
* * *
"A pity about Vance, but not exactly a surprise." Orrik paused midway through the apple orchard to run his hand over a scarred trunk while Lady Faithe inspected the tree's buds.
Luke regarded the bailiff and his young mistress thoughtfully as he rubbed his still sore arm. During the noon meal, when he'd ordered Orrik to give him a tour of Hauekleah, she had insisted on accompanying them, probably to make sure they didn't end up coming to blows. She needn't have worried—Luke had vowed to be civil to the man—but he let her come along anyway, after she'd managed to convince him that she'd recovered from this morning's fainting spell.
In truth, he relished her company. That she hardly relished his—as evidenced by her abrupt departure from the barn when his touch became too familiar—was sobering but understandable. It would take time for her to lose her innate fear of him and come of her own free will to their marriage bed. In the meantime, he must strive for patience. Tempting though it might be to simply throw her on her back and have his way with her, such lack of restraint would only reinforce his savagery in her eyes. He wanted her willing, not resigned—and certainly not fearful.
Luke asked the question Orrik clearly wanted him to ask. "Why is it not surprising that Vance took his own life?"
Orrik straightened slowly and continued down the tree-lined corridor without looking at Luke. "Might you not hang yourself, if the alternative was days of unrelenting torture, and you knew you'd still die by the noose?"
"But he wasn't going to be tortured," said Lady Faithe, hurrying to catch up to him. Luke followed them, his long legs quickly making up the distance.
Orrik snorted derisively. "The Normans torture all their prisoners before they execute them, my lady. 'Tis their way."
"But Sir Luke was going to try Vance in the hallmoot."
Orrik stopped at the east edge of the orchard and turned to Luke, his expression bemused. "Is that so?"
"It is."
"A ploy to ingratiate yourself with your villeins?"
"An attempt to see justice done," Luke said, "nothing more, nothing less."
"I wonder why he did kill himself, then," Lady Faithe said. "He'd been assured of mercy if he talked, and it seemed as if he had every intention of doing just that. Now we'll never find out why he and Hengist turned so murderous."
Orrik grunted and continued on, pointing out the beehives at the edge of a patch of woods to the north and the dovecote directly ahead.
"Straight through those woods to the east," Orrik said, "is Middeltun, the demesne field. It's worked partly by demesne staff and partly by bondmen owing week work to her ladyship. Middeltun's right in the elbow of the river. Within that horseshoe, you've also got Hauekleah Hall and the village proper. Then there's Norfeld and Surfeld."
Luke must have looked puzzled, because Lady Faithe said, "Those are the two fields that the villagers share. They're both on the other side of the river, accessible by bridges. One is north of the horseshoe, one south."
"Surfeld's right over here." Orrik led them to the edge of the river. On the south side lay a great expanse of unplowed earth.
"Why has this field not been planted?" Luke asked.
Orrik rolled his eyes.
"For the same reason half of Middeltun lies fallow," Lady Faithe explained. "'Tis how the soil is kept fertile. Each season, one field is given a rest, while the other is divided up into furlongs and cultivated by the villagers."
Luke couldn't imagine his father having granted so much autonomy to his serfs. "And they cooperate in this with no supervision?"
Orrik grumbled something about soldiers playing farmer without learning the role properly.
"I oversee things to some extent," said Lady Faithe with a warning scowl in Orrik's direction. "But for the most part, they handle it all themselves. It works out rather well, actually. Last year we produced eighteen hundred bushels of barley—"
"And nine hundred of wheat," Luke interrupted, "plus a goodly harvest of oats, peas, and beans. I know. And I know prices were high last year. You got a shilling for a bushel of wheat, if I'm not mistaken."
Lady Faithe blinked at him. Orrik's poleaxed expression evolved into a grimace, and he looked away.
"The dairy produces about two h
undred cheeses annually," Luke continued, "and a good deal of butter for the market. Fifty piglets, thirty goslings, and eighty chicks are born in the average year."
His wife was unnerved, but impressed; he could see it in her eyes and in the smile that kept tugging at her lush mouth. He liked to see her smile; he especially liked to make her smile. "How many eggs?" she challenged.
"Four hundred. And you collect annual cash rents of twenty-six pounds."
"I take it Lord Alberic gave you this accounting when he offered you my hand in marriage," she said.
"Nay, I had to ask for it. He assumed I wouldn't care, but I do. This is my home now. Hauekleah is mine," he said pointedly, taking in both of them with his gaze, "and I want to find out everything I can about it."
Lady Faithe pressed her lips into a thin line and wrapped her arms around herself. So—she didn't like him referring to Hauekleah as his. Yet, by law and custom, it belonged to him now. Didn't she want him to show an interest in it? Would she prefer he governed her estate in ignorance?
"It's getting late, my lord," she said. "Orrik and I both have things to attend to before nightfall, if you've seen enough..."
My lord. "Enough for now," Luke said tightly. "I'm going to saddle up my mount and do a little exploring on my own. I'll be back in time for supper."
"As you wish, my lord."
* * *
Faithe picked at her supper of rabbit stew and toyed with the rim of her goblet, her husband's words from this afternoon echoing in her head: Hauekleah is mine.
She glanced at him as he distractedly sipped his wine.
He's too interested in Hauekleah, Orrik had said as they'd watched him walk away this afternoon. I don't like it.
She'd reminded Orrik that Caedmon had never been interested enough, and he hadn't liked that, either.
This is worse, he'd said. Luke de Périgueux is a Norman, and they're a sly breed. It doesn't sit well, him coming in here like this and telling us how many eggs we produce, and what we got for wheat last year. Why does he need to know all that, if he's got you to keep running things for him?
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