Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  He nodded stiffly, his mouth forming a smile that never reached his eyes.

  "Well done, boys," Faithe said, "but I think perhaps we'll keep this particular dragon here at Hauekleah with us. I've grown rather fond of him." From the corner of her eye she saw Luke look at her. "What do you think? Shall we keep him? Perhaps he'll scare away the bears."

  "I vote we keep him!" Felix exclaimed.

  "Aye! Let's keep him!"

  "But that's not to say we want to encourage other dragons to make their home here," Faithe said. "You'd best go make sure there are no more left in the area."

  "Aye, milady!"

  "We'll run them into the river, milady!"

  "Excellent!" she said.

  The boys raced away. Looking down, Faithe saw that she still had her hand resting lightly on Luke's arm. She could feel the ropy muscles beneath the soft linen of his shirt. He felt warm and solid and thoroughly masculine, and she wanted him unbearably. Her desire for him—his body, his heart—had swelled into a kind of exquisite anguish. She felt it all day, every day, from the moment she woke up in the morning and saw him, curled on his side in the rushes, his face softened from sleep, his lips parted, strands of raven hair falling over his forehead.

  Faithe lifted her hand to his scratchy cheek. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, pushing lightly against her caress, like a cat.

  Opening his eyes, he looked at her—looked directly into her eyes—for the first time in days. She felt dizzy from the effect and breathed his name.

  He looked at her mouth. She felt a flittering in her chest, as if a small bird were trapped there. Did she only imagine him moving infinitesimally closer?

  Raising his hand slowly—so slowly—to her mouth, he touched a tentative fingertip to her bottom lip.

  Steam hissed. They turned toward the sound to see the villagers extinguishing their torches and brands in the river. Felix and Alfrith filled buckets with water and ran up the hill with them, dousing the bonfire with great drama.

  Luke moved away from her, bending his head to rub at the back of his neck. "I take it the evening's festivities have come to an end."

  "Aye. Luke?"

  "Aye?"

  "What's wrong?"

  He took too long answering. "Nothing."

  "You've been so—"

  "Nothing's wrong," he said shortly. Standing, he held his hand out. "Shall we?"

  She took his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. He released it, and they walked back to Hauekleah Hall in silence.

  Chapter 12

  Faithe found Sunday Mass interminable, as usual. All she could think about during the lengthy service was the many outdoor chores she might be completing on this glorious morning, if only Mass didn't have to take quite so long.

  When it was finally over, she left Luke talking to Father Paul in the dark little church and stepped out, with the others, into the dazzling sunshine. In the center of the village green—an irregular patch of grass encircled by the church, smithy, fulling mill, and other public buildings—was the community well. Orrik sat on the edge of the well, talking to Baldric, who stood before him. When he saw her, he rose, dismissing Baldric with a wave of his hand, and came toward her.

  "Could I have a word with you, milady?"

  "Of course."

  Orrik glanced toward the church, and then all around them, as if to make sure they weren't being overheard. "It's come to my attention that... his lordship has taken to nosing around about matters that are none of his concern."

  Faithe just stared at him.

  A group of women drifted in their direction. He guided her by the arm several yards away.

  "I don't understand, Orrik. What are you saying?"

  The bailiff cleared his throat. "Your husband, he's been asking questions of late."

  "Questions about Caedmon," she said.

  He nodded. "Baldric told me you knew about it. It ain't right."

  "Luke is curious about his predecessor. I see nothing objectionable in that."

  Orrik grimaced and shook his head. "That man's a Norman soldier, milady. The enemy. We must never forget that."

  "That man is my husband and your master," she said icily, her temper rising. "Don't you forget that, Orrik."

  Spots of color rose on Orrik's cheeks. "He shouldn't go stirring things up."

  "What's there to stir up?"

  Normally a man who was never at a loss for words, Orrik appeared to be groping for them. "Nothing, nothing at all. It's just... it sits wrong with me, is all. I don't like the idea of him trying to dig around in Caedmon's life the way he's doing. If he starts asking you about him, I hope you'll tell him to go to the devil."

  "You're too late, Orrik. I've already told him everything he wanted to know."

  Orrik's mouth went tight; something like alarm sparked in his eyes. "What? What did you tell him?"

  "What business is that of yours, and why does it matter? He's making some casual inquiries, out of curiosity."

  Orrik grunted derisively. "Those Norman bastards don't do anything casually. I don't like him poking around this way. Don't like it one little bit."

  Faithe lifted her chin and forced herself to gaze steadily into Orrik's white-hot eyes. "Your master's actions aren't subject to your approval or disapproval, Orrik. You'd best remember that."

  "Milady, I just don't like—"

  "'Tis not your place to like or dislike what he does." She moved a step closer, lowering her voice. "I've told you before, I've begged you not to force me to decide what to do with you if you can't manage to accept Luke as lord of Hauekleah."

  "But—"

  "I cannot align myself with you, Orrik, no matter how badly you want me to. Can you imagine what it would mean for Hauekleah to have a master and mistress who were at odds with each other?"

  That her motivation in all this was ultimately for the good of Hauekleah appeared to give him pause. He hesitated, frowning. "Aye, but—"

  "Don't put me in the position of choosing between loyalty to you or loyalty to Sir Luke. Because I will choose him every time. He's my husband and master of this estate. And he can question anyone at Hauekleah about anything he wishes. And you have naught to say on the matter."

  The spots of pink had blossomed and spread to encompass his entire face. With an insolent little bow, he growled, "I will obey your dictates, milady."

  "See that you do." She turned and stalked away.

  * * *

  "Where's your Uncle Dunstan?" Faithe asked Felix that afternoon as he helped her weed her kitchen garden. "I haven't seen him lately."

  Felix yanked a weed out of the earth and dropped it in the shallow basket held by Faithe, who stood over him. "Master Orrik sent him to Winstow to visit with my Aunt Audris and Uncle Synn."

  Faithe frowned at him. "When?"

  The boy screwed up his face as he thought about it. "Day before yesterday? My aunt's been sick."

  Faithe knew that Dunstan's sister, the wife of a Winstow oil merchant, had been ill of late, but Orrik hadn't wanted the young reeve to visit her, inasmuch as it would take him away from Hauekleah during the growing season. She wondered what had changed his mind.

  "How long will your uncle be in Winstow?" Faithe asked.

  "A month, perhaps two."

  The basket slipped out of Faithe's fingers, strewing their little heap of weeds all over the flagstone walk. She squatted down to gather them up. "Two months?" During the summer? Had Orrik taken leave of his senses?

  "My aunt's sick," the boy said, as if she hadn't heard him the first time.

  Yes, but she had a husband to take care of her. And why on earth Dunstan should have to spend two months there was beyond Faithe. Winstow was only half a day's ride from Hauekleah. If he absolutely had to see his sister, he could visit for a few days and come back.

  Faithe sat back on her heels, the scattered weeds forgotten. It didn't make sense, Orrik sending Dunstan away like this.

  Or perhaps it did.

  *
* *

  Early the next morning, Faithe saddled up Daisy and rode west. By noon she was in Winstow, a sizable town compared to the village of Hauekleah, but small enough so that she had no trouble locating its only oil merchant.

  She found Dunstan outside the oil shop, helping his brother-in-law unload barrels from a cart. It was a hot day, and their shirts were soaked through with perspiration.

  "Milady!" He finger-combed his damp hair, his expression one of blank surprise. "What brings you to Winstow?"

  "I came looking for you." She glanced at the other man. Dunstan introduced her to Synn, then invited her inside for a meal.

  He led her through the shop and up a narrow stairway to a little upstairs kitchen, where he invited her to sit. If it was hot outside, it was stifling here in this dark, close little chamber. Through an open doorway to another room, she saw an emaciated young woman sleeping on a pallet. Dunstan excused himself to dampen a cloth and lay it on her forehead, then closed the leather curtain that served as a door.

  "'Tis a wasting disease," he said softly, so as not to awaken his sister. "There's naught to be done for Audris but pray, I'm afraid."

  "I'm sorry," Faithe whispered, sincerely.

  Dunstan dished her out some stew and a tankard of ale. "Is anything amiss at Hauekleah? Do you need me to come back?"

  The stew looked badly overcooked; she wondered whether Dunstan had made it himself. "Nothing's wrong, precisely," she said carefully. "But there are some matters I'm curious about."

  "Aye?" He fetched some stew and ale for himself and sat across from her.

  She prodded the unidentifiable stew meat with her eating knife. "To begin with, I'm not quite sure why you felt the need for such a long visit to your sister. I understand she's very ill, and I'm sorry, truly I am. But Felix told me you were planning on being here for a month, possibly two. I don't know that we can do without you for that long at this time of year, Dunstan."

  Dunstan swallowed a bite of stew and shrugged. "That's exactly what I told Master Orrik, but he insisted. I confess, it didn't make much sense to me, either."

  Her mouth fell open. "Do you mean to say this trip was Orrik's idea?"

  "Aye. Nay. In a manner of speaking. I'd been asking for leave to visit Audris ever since she took ill. But what I had in mind was two or three days. All along, Orrik's been telling me I can't be spared. All right, I says. Let me know when I can go. All of a sudden, late last week, he tells me to pack my things. He's sending me to Winstow, and I needn't return till harvest time."

  Faithe choked on her ale. "Till harvest time! What was he thinking of?"

  Dunstan shook his head in evident bewilderment. "Can't rightly say, milady. He claimed I wasn't needed because of how well Sir Luke's been pitching in. Now, I know his lordship's been making himself right useful, and he's game to try anything, that he is. But..." He trailed off sheepishly.

  "But he can't take the place of an experienced reeve," Faithe supplied. Dunstan had served Orrik—and served him well—for years. He was irreplaceable, and indispensable. As Orrik well knew.

  Why had Orrik sent him to Winstow? What was so important to him that he was willing to jeopardize the welfare of Hauekleah to accomplish it?

  "Was there anything he asked you to do here?" she asked. "Any assignment, any task?" She nibbled experimentally at the grayish meat, washing it down with a quick swig of ale.

  "Nothing at all, milady," he said between mouthfuls. "I was to visit with my sister and put Hauekleah out of my mind."

  Then Orrik's purpose in sending Dunstan here was simply to remove him from Hauekleah. Why?

  Faithe gave up on the stew and drank her ale in silence. "Orrik's been acting strangely of late."

  "Aye?"

  "He's very put out by questions Sir Luke has been asking."

  "Questions?"

  "About Caedmon."

  Dunstan tensed, looking everywhere but at Faithe. She lifted her tankard to her mouth, watching him over the rim as he fidgeted. Never had she known a man who was easier to read. And she'd never known him to be able to keep a secret. Whenever there was gossip circulating at Hauekleah, she always went to Dunstan. She could invariably coax him into revealing what no one else would tell her. Was that why Orrik had sent him away? Because there was something he didn't trust Dunstan to keep his counsel about if pressed?

  "You and Orrik are the only men at Hauekleah who survived Hastings," she said speculatively.

  "Do you want some more ale?" he asked, rising.

  "Nay. I want you to tell me whatever it is Orrik doesn't want revealed."

  He sat back down slowly. "I... I don't know what you're—"

  "I think you do," she said quietly.

  "Milady... I can't. Master Orrik, he made me promise I wouldn't tell."

  "Wouldn't tell what? Something about Caedmon? Does it have to do with Hastings?"

  "Milady, please. He said it was for your own good, and it is. He said it would hurt you too much to know—"

  "Hurt me?" Faithe gripped the edge of the table. "You two have been keeping something from me? What?"

  "Milady—"

  "Hear me, Dunstan. Orrik was wrong to swear you to silence. I'm not a child, and I don't need protection from unpleasant truths."

  "Aye, but—"

  "And I assure you I don't appreciate such protection. I hate to make threats, but you must know that I can't have a reeve who withholds information from me."

  The color washed from Dunstan's face. "Milady..."

  She leaned toward him, fixing him with a resolute look. "Just tell me what it is that's been kept from me, and all will be forgiven."

  His head sank into his hands. Presently, he rose from the table and stood facing the tiny opening that served as the room's only window. She heard him draw in a breath, and then let it out in a gust. He wrapped his arms around himself. "After we left here last summer, me and Orrik and Caedmon and them other fellows, to join King Harold... well, your husband, he wasn't himself, milady."

  "I know."

  "He was... ah, there's no point in going into all that."

  "Did something happen while you were waiting for the Normans? Something I should know about?"

  Dunstan stood very still for a few moments, as if contemplating what to tell her. "The important thing, the thing Orrik told me not to tell you, is what happened once the battle started."

  Faithe knew he was withholding something—something that had occurred during those long months of waiting for William to lead his army across the Channel. Perhaps it was something that would reflect badly on Caedmon, and that was why Dunstan hesitated to share it. Swiftly surveying the possibilities, she voiced the one that rose to the surface. "Was there... a woman?"

  Dunstan spun around. "How did you know?"

  She gritted her teeth. She hated this. She would have hated it worse, she knew, if she'd had stronger feelings for Caedmon, but she hated it anyway. Her marriage might have been passionless in most respects, but they'd both enjoyed the sex—so much so that it never occurred to her that he'd want to seek more of it elsewhere. Disillusionment, flavored with betrayal, burned in her stomach.

  At the same time, she felt a sense of relief that she'd uncovered at least one of the secrets being withheld from her. Not wanting Dunstan to see how shaken she was, she gathered herself together and said, "I didn't know for sure, but it stands to reason there would have been—" Her voice snagged; she took a sip of ale, trying to ignore Dunstan's expression of compassion. "We'd never been separated for that long. Caedmon was... well, he was a man, with a man's needs. And he was anxious about the fighting. I'm not surprised." She forced herself to ask, "Was he in love with her?"

  "Oh, nay, milady, 'twas nothing like that. They were, well..."

  "They?"

  "Aye, well, you know. They were... common women."

  Prostitutes. Of course. She shouldn't care. She really shouldn't. Such liaisons were quick and impersonal. But then she pictured Caedmon in some strange bed som
ewhere, doing with some faceless whore what she'd thought he only did with her, and it seemed very personal, indeed.

  "I gather he just wanted a bit of comfort," Dunstan assured her. "Except that once, well..."

  "What?"

  He chewed his lip, then wheeled back around and leaned on the windowsill. "Nothing, milady. 'Tis of no importance."

  She closed a hand over her keys, willing confidence from them. "Tell me. Tell me everything."

  "I'll tell you what happened when the battle started." He was still keeping something from her, she knew, something about some prostitute, but before she could demand the rest of that story, he said, "Your husband wasn't taken prisoner, like you were told, milady."

  Faithe stood slowly. "What do you mean? Was he killed during the battle? Then why—"

  "He disappeared," Dunstan said, "just as the fighting started."

  "What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"

  Dunstan shook his head, expelling a ragged breath. "I was the last to see him. I've never told anybody this, not even Orrik. As far as he knows, Caedmon just vanished. But I saw him, right as the horns sounded and the war cries were raised. He was crouching at the edge of the woods, howling and rocking back and forth with his arms over his head."

  Faithe was speechless. She clutched her keys so hard that they bit into her palm.

  Dunstan turned to face her, his eyes glimmering in the dark little room. "I'm not sure what happened, milady. I think he finally just..." He raised his shoulders slightly. "Orrik called me and asked me if I'd seen Caedmon. When I looked back, he was gone. I lied. I told him I hadn't seen him. Maybe 'twas wrong, but I just couldn't... I couldn't tell Orrik how he'd been, like a terrified animal. I just couldn't."

  Faithe swallowed down the anguish in her throat. "He deserted, then."

  Dunstan looked down. That was answer enough.

  Her head felt numb, wobbly. "That's what Orrik didn't want me to know."

  He nodded. "Orrik searched for him till Christmastide, and then he'd use any excuse he could to get away and look for him some more."