Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  Turning, he gazed on her, asleep on her back with the sheet pushed down to her hips, as naked as he. No—not completely naked; last night, he'd told her he wouldn't object if she wanted to resume wearing her chatelaine's keys to bed, and she'd taken him at his word. Now, as he studied the golden chain looped securely around her neck, the keys nestled between her lush breasts, he regretted that magnanimous gesture.

  She'd locked up Alex's wolf pin in the little cabinet in which she kept her jewelry. In the morning she would retrieve it, and they would take it to Foxhyrst to be examined and speculated upon. Had her keys been lying on the little table next to the bed, it would be a simple matter to unlock the cabinet, take the pin, and hurl it into the river to rest alongside his. The theft would be investigated, but no one would ever suspect him—and the pin could not then be taken to Foxhyrst and shown to this Isaac Ben Ravid.

  Luke crossed to the bed and sat carefully, looking down upon his sleeping wife. Holding his breath, he reached out and gently slid his fingers beneath the keys clustered on the end of the chain. The back of his hand brushed the silken resilience of a breast. She sighed and arched her back; Luke closed his hand around the keys to silence them, even as his loins stirred.

  He shook his head ruefully, awed at her power to rouse him even in sleep. Tempted as he was to awaken her with a kiss, he forced himself to keep still until her breathing had become steady again. Gripping the keys with one hand, he slowly—so slowly—eased the chain upward, over her head. Could he disentangle it from her hair and slide it out from beneath her without disturbing her?

  The question became moot, for the chain grazed her ear and she stirred. "Luke?" she murmured in a sleepy rasp.

  "Aye." Distracting her with a kiss, he carefully lowered the keys to her chest. What had made him think he could take them without waking her up? A pointless attempt, born of desperation and tainted with guilt. He loathed this deception, especially in light of their newfound intimacy.

  "I dreamed you touched me," she whispered against his lips, then took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "Here."

  "I did."

  "Mmm." Her nipples puckered in response to his caresses. Leaning over, he took one in his mouth and suckled—an elemental act, both comforting and stimulating. His teeth grazed her, and she gasped.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, drawing away.

  She groaned. "You must stop asking me that."

  "Do I ask it so often?"

  "Far too often." She sat up and cupped his beard-roughened face. "Luke, I'm not the fragile creature you think I am. You must stop being so careful with me." She kissed him again, lightly. "You must stop holding back when we're making love. You're so... restrained, always keeping yourself in check. I hate it. The only time you give in to it is at the very end."

  "It's because I care for you. I love you. I can't just unleash my lust on you like some mindless beast."

  She made that kittenish little growl he loved so much. "I might like that."

  Luke thought about all those quick, violent couplings with coarse women whom he thought of as little more than receptacles. He touched a fingertip to her nose. "You mustn't encourage me to give vent to my animal nature. You might not appreciate the results as much as you seem to think."

  "You keep using those words—animal, beast... That's the problem, you know. You still think there's a savage creature curled up inside you, and that if you let down your guard for a moment, 'twill break free, and I'll run screaming from you."

  The image made Luke smile. Try as he might, he could not imagine Faithe running screaming from anything or anyone.

  "That creature is gone," she insisted. "'Twas a creation of those herbs, and now it's dead and buried. Is that so hard to believe?"

  "You have a way of making me want to believe it," he said, "and of making it sound like the truth."

  She nodded. "I think you believe in here" —she touched his forehead— "but not in here." She rested a hand over his heart and kissed him softly.

  Luke deepened the kiss, folding his arms around her and lowering her onto the rumpled sheets. He moved against her, growing harder with every slow thrust.

  She broke the kiss with a yawn. "We'll be setting out early tomorrow. We should really get some sleep."

  "You're absolutely right." Parting her legs, he glided into her with one long stroke, eliciting a soft exhalation of pleasure from her. "You go ahead and sleep. I'll join you when I'm done here."

  Faithe chuckled, and he felt the vibrations deep inside her. Somehow that seemed as intimate, and erotic, as feeling her climax. She wrapped her legs around his hips, forcing him deeper still into her damp heat.

  "I thought you were sleepy," he murmured as they rocked together languidly.

  She smiled. "'Twould be rude not to stay awake and keep you company until you're done."

  "How thoughtful of you," he breathed, his mouth descending on hers.

  "Think nothing of it."

  * * *

  It was late in the morning by the time Faithe spied Foxhyrst Castle rising above the rolling meadows and cultivated fields through which she and Luke rode. A disquiet had settled over her husband, she noticed. He held himself stiff in his saddle, answering her attempts at conversation with cursory responses. Perhaps it discomforted him to return to the place that had been his home base while he'd served as a soldier under Lord Alberic's nominal command. Given his repentance of that service, such discomfort would be understandable.

  As they rode closer, Faithe could make out the oblong shape of the walled town, as large as a small city. The castle was nestled in the northwest corner, surrounded by its own curtain walls. Built up against the inside of those walls, Faithe knew, were dozens of barracks housing hundreds of soldiers. Surely one of those men would recognize the owner of the white wolf pin. After all, it had been found in Cottwyk, which wasn't far from here. The soldier who lost it might have been one of Lord Alberic's men-at-arms. For all she knew, he might be serving under the sheriff still.

  "Luke," she said as they rode through the town's south gate, "what if he's there? At the castle? What if we find him today?"

  "Who?" Luke asked distractedly.

  "The... the man who killed Caedmon. What if someone points him out and says, 'There's the fellow who lost that pin.' What will we do then?"

  "That won't happen." Luke stared stonily ahead as he led them up Butcher Lane, a narrow ribbon of packed earth on either side of which thatch-roofed timber dwellings leaned drunkenly toward each other. So grimly certain did he seem that Faithe questioned him no further.

  They rode north and then east through the crowded little streets, their progress toward the Jewish quarter slowed by a moving sea of pedestrians, horsemen, carts, dogs, pigs, goats, and chickens, all either dodging or dining on the many scattered piles of offal. It smelled like... a town—a place in which too many people and animals lived far too close together, with no proper way to dispose of their waste. Faithe always felt as if she could never quite get a full breath when she was in a town.

  Most of the mounted men they passed were Norman soldiers, Luke's former comrades. Some seemed to recognize Luke; several waved to him and called his name, but Luke pointedly ignored them.

  "Perhaps you should talk to them," Faithe said. "We could show them the pin and ask them if—"

  "Later," he said softly. "First let's deal with this goldsmith."

  As they rode east, the crowds thinned. The streets widened, and the houses that lined them were built of stone, not wood, and roofed with tile. A group of bearded men in dark robes and exotic, peaked hats passed them, glancing up curiously as they rode by; otherwise, not a soul was to be seen. It was always quieter in the Jewish quarter, but today it seemed as if the world had come to a halt. Faithe wondered why.

  "He lives here," Faithe said, pausing in front of a corner house with large, shuttered windows.

  They dismounted, and Luke knocked on the oaken door. After a few minutes he knocked again. "He'
s not home."

  Faithe peered through a window shutter and saw shadowy movement. "Someone is." She rapped on the door.

  "He won't answer," came a heavily accented voice from behind them. They turned to see a young man, beardless but wearing the peculiar hat, watching them from the street.

  "Why not?" Luke asked.

  "'Tis the sabbath. Old Isaac never comes to the door on the sabbath."

  Faithe and Luke exchanged a perplexed look. "'Tis Saturday," she said. "The sabbath is tomorrow."

  The youth started to smile, and then seemed to think better of it. He tucked his hands in his sleeves. "Our sabbath is today. Isaac can't see customers on the sabbath."

  "We're not customers," Faithe corrected. "We just want to ask him something."

  "He won't do business of any kind today."

  "'Tisn't really business."

  "If you're not family," he assured them, firmly but with an apologetic smile, "it's business. Come back tomorrow."

  "But we're only here for the day," Faithe said. Luke had made it clear that he wished to be home by supper. He'd refused to consider staying overnight in an inn. Those in Foxhyrst, he'd said, were "not just inns anymore," given the influx of soldiers, and he'd never dream of letting her spend the night in one.

  The fellow shrugged elaborately. "You can knock all you like, but he won't answer." He turned and walked away.

  "That's that," Luke said. If Faithe hadn't known better, she would almost have thought he looked pleased. "No point in staying here." He remounted, and Faithe followed suit.

  "What shall we do?" she asked.

  "We'll go back to Hauekleah," he said. "I'll return by myself on Monday and speak to this goldsmith. And I can question the soldiers then, too."

  "If you're going to come back on Monday, I'll come with you," she said.

  He shook his head. "Let me handle this. You're needed at Hauekleah."

  "Luke, I thought you understood," she said quietly.

  "I do, I just..." Luke rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He looked away, and then he looked back. "Isn't there a holiday next week?"

  She nodded. "St. Swithun's Day—the fifteenth of July. There's to be a grand feast in the sheep meadow, with music and dancing. The abbot of Ramsey sent word that he might come."

  "Don't you have to supervise the preparations?" He was right. She bit her lip. "Perhaps Moira... or Orrik..."

  "You never leave this sort of thing to others. If you try to do it this time, you'll be fretting over it all the while you're gone. And with the abbot coming, don't you want to make sure—"

  "Perhaps we can come back to Foxhyrst next week, after the feast."

  "The soldiers might be dispatched on some engagement by then," he said, "and I'd lose the chance to question them. Nay, 'tis best that I return on Monday, alone." Leaning over, he took her hand. "I know you like to be involved in everything. But I promise I won't mishandle things."

  She squeezed his hand. "I trust you, Luke. Did you think I didn't?"

  Distress shadowed his eyes. Releasing her hand, he raked his fingers through his hair, which he wore loose that day.

  "Luke, what's the matter?"

  "I'm hungry, that's all," he said without looking at her.

  "So am I. My stomach's been growling like a bear."

  "Come." He flicked his reins, and Faithe followed him toward the center of town. "Let's find something to eat and drink, and then we can be on our way."

  Luke bought curd cheese pasties wrapped in parchment from a peddler on Butcher Lane, near the south gate. Pointing, he said, "There's a tavern. I'll get our flask refilled with ale, and then we can eat as we travel."

  Faithe waited on horseback outside the alehouse as Luke jumped down from his horse. He'd almost gotten to the door when a voice boomed out, "By the blood of Christ, if it isn't the Black Dragon!"

  Luke and Faithe both turned to find a mounted procession filing into town through the gate. Riding up front, surrounded by a cluster of soldiers—one of whom was the man who'd called out to Luke—was Lord Alberic, in his brocades and furs. A lady's maid rode behind, followed by a curtained litter suspended between a pair of creamy mares, which no doubt housed Alberic's wife. More soldiers leading unmounted horses brought up the rear.

  "My lady." Alberic inclined his head toward Faithe, who was glad she'd chosen a silk kirtle for the trip, and taken the time to braid and veil her hair, like a proper gentlewoman. "Sir Luke. What an unexpected pleasure." The sheriff's frigid gaze belied the empty courtesy.

  Faithe managed a smile, despite Alberic's chilly demeanor and her discomfort at being virtually surrounded by Normans; some instincts were hard to shake. "Good day, Lord Alberic."

  "My lord." Luke turned to the soldier who had called out to him. "Griswold, good to see you."

  "I didn't think I'd ever lay eyes on you again," Griswold bellowed. He was fair-haired and burly, with a great square face marred by a deep scar that ran from the outer edge of one eye to the cleft in his chin. He nodded toward Faithe. "'Tis little wonder you've got no use for your old mates, what with this pretty young wife to keep you company. This is your lady wife, is it not?"

  Luke introduced Faithe—rather stiffly—to Griswold and several other men, whose names she knew she would never recall. They all greeted her with genial respect, which surprised her at first, given that she was a Saxon and they were in the business of subduing her kind. The reason for their deference, she realized, was that she had married a Norman—not just any Norman, but the celebrated Black Dragon—so she'd essentially become Norman by default. Her chagrin at being welcomed into the ranks of a people she still considered her enemy was overwhelmed, however, by relief at not having to deal with their animosity on top of everything else.

  The litter's curtain parted, and Lady Bertrada peeked out. "Lady Faithe!" she exclaimed with seemingly genuine delight. "How very lovely to see you! And Sir Luke! Did you come to visit us? I am sorry we weren't home. We've been in Norfolk, buying horses. How unfortunate for you to ride all this way and find us not at home."

  "Ah, well..." Faithe darted a quick, helpless glance in Luke's direction.

  "We were most disappointed, my lady," Luke said with a small bow, "particularly because we missed seeing you."

  Lady Bertrada's face, a fleshy moon framed by an elaborately draped and twisted veil, reddened with gratification. Faithe suspected that she wasn't used to such kind remarks; no doubt they did not come frequently to her husband's lips. "You must accompany us back to the castle," her ladyship offered excitedly, "and join us for dinner. We've just gotten in a barrel of aromatic wine from the Rhineland, and it's exquisite. You've never tasted its equal, I assure you."

  "That's most kind of you," Luke said tightly. "But I'm afraid we were just on our way home."

  "But surely you can delay your return. You can stay the night with us and ride back in the morning, when you're fresh." She looked expectantly toward her husband in an obvious attempt to elicit support for her invitation.

  "Do come," said Lord Alberic, his tone devoid of inflection. It was more of a summons than a request.

  Luke dragged his hand through his hair.

  "Aye!" roared Griswold. "We can catch up on old times!"

  Faithe caught Luke's eye. "Wouldn't it be good to have this chance to talk to your old friends, my lord husband?" she asked pointedly.

  "Aye, but..."

  "And tomorrow we can go together to visit the other gentleman we were unable to see today." She tried to convey her eagerness in her expression; they could question the soldiers and Isaac Ben Ravid together, without Luke's having to make a second trip. "Her ladyship's invitation solves all of our problems!"

  Luke held her gaze for a long moment, and then closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they were filled with resignation. "In that case," he said, remounting his horse with an attitude of surrender, "how can we turn it down?"

  Foxhyrst Castle was much as Faithe remembered it from visits to the Saxon
lord and lady who had occupied it before William's invasion. One of the few stone keeps in this area of England, it was well-fortified behind thick walls, which was undoubtedly why it had been given over to Lord Alberic and his men. But despite its importance, it was a distinctly humble, even crude edifice, comprised of a single hall no larger than the great hall in her own home. One end of it was screened off, presumably to serve as a makeshift bedchamber for Foxhyrst's new lord and lady. The rest was one dark, damp, rush-strewn cavern with a fire pit in the middle. Faithe noticed the stack of straw pallets in the corner and realized they would spend the night sleeping on the floor amid strangers, never a welcome prospect.

  On their arrival, servants scrambled to erect a great many long trestle tables, which they draped with white linen cloths, an incongruously luxurious touch in the dank old hall. Soldiers and other retainers filed in and took their seats for the midday meal, and soon the hall was abuzz with conversation.

  Lady Bertrada apologized repeatedly for the modest accommodations, insisting that they would be tearing the keep down and constructing "a proper Norman one" as soon as King William granted permission. Foxhyrst would be vulnerable during the rebuilding, their liege had pointed out, and therefore they must wait until the locals could be trusted not to stage a sneak attack.

  "Don't know as that day will ever come," Lord Alberic grumbled as they took their seats at the high table. "Damn Saxons are a devious lot—sly, tricky. They'll turn on you in an instant."

  Luke stiffened next to her. "Have a care how you speak in the presence of my lady wife's, my lord," he murmured menacingly.

  Alberic, sitting across from them, paled. Nodding woodenly to Faithe, he muttered some cursory apology, and then avoided talking to them for the remainder of the meal; his loquacious wife made up for his silence.