Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  "The Caedmon I knew," she said, "could never have done that. He never once struck me in the entire time we were together. He never even seemed tempted. He had no temper to speak of."

  "You see?" Orrik crossed his arms, his expression smug.

  "But he'd been ill."

  "According to whom?"

  "The people of Cottwyk."

  "Did they tell you this?"

  "Nay. Luke did."

  "Aye." He nodded, as if a point had been proven—and indeed, there was a certain heartless logic to his reasoning. "And after you left the hall this afternoon, he started humming a different melody. Claimed Caedmon was mad."

  "Mad!"

  "A raving lunatic, to hear your lord husband tell it."

  "Mad..." Faithe murmured. She had to speak to Luke; it was imperative that she sort through all the hearsay and find out what really happened, and why. Two weeks ago, after returning from that troubling visit to Cottwyk, she'd lost interest in the details of Caedmon's death; all she'd cared about was Luke and moving forward. Now she was forced to confront the ugly past again, and dig and dig until she found the truth.

  "Sickened me to hear our Caedmon maligned that way, in front of the men, yet." Orrik shook his head disgustedly. "The man's dead, by de Périgueux's own hand, and he still can't let him rest in peace! Has to sully his character for all to hear. But I'll tell you what'll really do some damage—that's if we let those Norman bastards try your precious Sir Luke, and he comes out and makes these claims publicly. Then we can just kiss Caedmon's good name good-bye and be done with it!"

  "What are you saying?" Faithe rose to her feet, suddenly suspicious. "Wasn't your intention to hand Luke over to the Normans for trial?"

  "Is that really what you want?"

  "Is there a choice?" A fair trial would resolve things once and for all. Matters that had been cloaked in secrecy for long months would be examined out in the open, and her heart told her that Luke would be found innocent of wrongdoing, regardless of Orrik's cold-blooded logic.

  "There is a choice," Orrik said, lowering his voice as he steered her by the arm past the door and out of earshot of Baldric. "There need never be a trial. This entire business could be over by tomorrow morning."

  "What do you mean?"

  He closed a hand over her shoulder. "I mean there's Norman justice, such as it is... and then there's Saxon justice."

  The only way to see justice served, Orrik had said after Luke confessed to the killing, is for us to hang the bastard ourselves, even if we have to do it in the dead of night and burn the body afterward.

  She twisted out of his grip. "You can't mean—"

  "You need have naught to do with it," he said, his voice reasonable, even gentle, like a father telling his little girl that Papa would take care of everything. "You'll know nothing about it."

  "I already know about it," she reminded him.

  "Put it out of your mind," he soothed. "Go to sleep tonight, and in the morning 'twill all be—"

  "For God's sake, Orrik, have you no decency left at all? I used to be able to trust you, and now—"

  "You can trust me!" He looked genuinely stung. "I'm the only one you can trust. I'm the only one who looks after you, who makes sure things are taken care of."

  He seized her arm; she shook him off. Baldric was staring at them. Orrik noticed this and glared at him; he hurriedly looked away.

  He rubbed his eyes. "Faithe," he said wearily. "I'm sorry, truly I am. I know I shouldn't talk of taking matters into my own hands. 'Tis just so vexing to see my little girl ill-used and be powerless to set things right. That Norman bastard" —he jabbed a finger toward the storehouse— "murdered Caedmon and then deceived you about it. I can't help but want to punish him. Perhaps I'm overzealous."

  She began to speak, but he cut her off. "I am overzealous. I'm half mad with outrage, if the truth be told, but only because of my concern for you. I hate to see you hurt."

  He chucked her under the chin, as he used to do when she was little. "You're my fair-haired lass, my wee Faithe. The child I never had. Perhaps I go too far at times, but it's only because I care for you. Please believe that."

  "I do." She did. Orrik had always been there for her, the most rock-solid presence in her life, especially after her father died. She would have been alone if not for him. He did take care of her, completely. He'd represented her interests with their overlord, arranging for her convent education and helping to negotiate her marriage to Caedmon. He'd kept Hauekleah productive and efficient during her years at St. Mary's, and relinquished control willingly when she returned. But it was the little things that had earned her undying affection. It was the time he'd taught her how to ride, leading her pony around by the reins for weeks until she felt confident enough for him to let go. It was the way he would put aside his work to play blindman's buff with her when she was bored. It was the tales of romance and adventure he'd spin for her when she was too wound up to get to sleep.

  He had been like a father to her, truly. But those years were over. She'd warned him many times not to force her to choose between loyalty to him and loyalty to Luke. He hadn't heeded her, though, and now the bond of affection they'd shared was irretrievably broken.

  "Where is Alex?" she asked. "Did you lock him up somewhere else?"

  Orrik's smile thinned out. "Nay."

  "Where is he, then?"

  Orrik pulled on his beard and avoided her gaze. "He saddled up and rode off."

  Faithe let go of the gate. "Rode off. Left? He just—"

  "Just left." Orrik cleared his throat. "Probably scared we'd lock him up, too, but he's not the one who did murder."

  "Did he say where he was going?"

  Orrik shook his head. "Just rode off into the woods to the west."

  "Oh." The idea of Alex abandoning his brother to his fate didn't sit right with Faithe. An uneasiness gnawed at her.

  "There, there." Orrik chucked her under the chin again. "You look exhausted. It's been a trying evening all around. Why don't you go to bed and get some sleep?"

  Her gaze stole to the storehouse, which Baldric was relocking. "I couldn't possibly sleep with him in there." Faithe wanted to stay here and watch over Luke, but she also felt an obligation to find out what really happened to Alex. She must saddle up and ride west as hard as she could. If he'd simply ridden away, as Orrik claimed, she might overtake him. But if she didn't, and if she could find no one in that direction who'd seen him pass, perhaps Orrik was lying to her and some other fate had befallen him.

  Faithe ordered Orrik and Baldric to go home and assigned Nyle the job of guarding the storehouse. "Put some straw in there," she told him. "I'll bring him a wineskin and something to eat when he's awake."

  "Yes, milady."

  * * *

  Come to me. Please, Faithe...

  Luke paced the storeroom like a caged beast. His head throbbed from the blow Orrik had dealt him, and his left eye was swollen shut, but otherwise he was unharmed. He'd been surprised to wake up in this place, and with no noose around his neck.

  Pride kept him from pounding on this door and screaming for Faithe. He didn't want to plead with her to talk to him if she didn't want to, and he certainly didn't want her to see him like this—held prisoner by the very men he had commanded that morning. But deep inside, in a dark and needy place where there was no room for dignity, he'd begged her. Please come to me, Faithe. Talk to me. Please.

  It was quite possible, even likely, that she hated him now. Not only had he admitted to killing her husband, but God knew what Orrik was telling her. And after the shock of Luke's confession, she'd be in a vulnerable state...

  "Christ."

  He had to explain things to her, had to make her understand. He never should have withheld the truth in the first place. She was strong; she could have handled it if he'd explained it right. After all, what happened to Caedmon wasn't a murder, but a tragedy. Luke had been the instrument of his death, but in a way he'd died of the thing growing insi
de his head, for that's what had driven him to attack that whore.

  But he hadn't trusted her to understand. He'd underestimated her, and by doing so made himself vulnerable to Orrik's vengeance. In a way, it was his own fault that he'd ended up in this storehouse, awaiting his uncertain fate.

  There wasn't much room for him to move around in here. The walls of the cool stone hut were lined with barrels and bundles and sacks: malt, flour, dried fish, salted pork, honey, wax, cheeses, ale... Just dim shapes against the walls, for the only light came from the vent hole—an opening on the back wall rather like an arrow slit on its side, up high near the raftered ceiling. And that light wasn't much, with night falling. Soon it would be black as pitch in here. There was straw to lie on, but sleeping would be out of the question.

  Stopping in his tracks, he turned and rammed a fist against the door. "Guard! Who's out there?"

  A pause, and then, "'Tis me, milord, Nyle."

  "Why am I not dead? Why didn't the bastard hang me when he had the chance?"

  "He wanted to, sire," Nyle replied. "After he knocked you out, he tried to get us to drag you out to the big oak outside the sheepfold. Only one sorry cur was willing to do it, and I'm ashamed to say 'twas my own crawlin' louse of a brother, Baldric."

  Luke grunted, unsurprised.

  "Anyways," Nyle continued, "the rest of us, we put a stop to it. We thought you deserved a fair trial, 'specially after what you said, about disobeying Lady Faithe, and Caedmon bein' out of his senses and all—"

  "Hold your tongue," came a muted voice, accompanied by footsteps—Orrik. "Didn't Lady Faithe warn you not to talk to him?"

  "N-nay, she didn't say nothin' about talkin'."

  Another voice, Baldric's: "You haven't got the sense of a squirrel, Nyle. Listenin' to his lies..."

  Luke swore softly, discouraged by the appearance of Orrik and his minion. This could only bode ill.

  "We don't know as they're lies," Nyle said defiantly. "We don't know nothin'. Lord Caedmon may well have gone mad. Folks do. We don't—"

  Baldric muttered something else; Luke thought he heard the words "... hang him anyways."

  "He's to stand trial," Nyle insisted. "Orrik promised."

  "Not if he turns up danglin' from them rafters in the mornin'." Baldric snickered.

  Luke looked up at the beams that supported the roof of the storehouse and remembered the morning they'd found Vance, dead and bloated and crawling with flies. He'd wondered at the time why Vance would hang himself when he'd been assured of a fair trial by his Saxon peers. I'll tell you everything, a grateful Vance had promised. I'll tell you why we done what we done.

  Suspicion tickled Luke's scalp. When Luke first threatened to hand Vance over to Alberic's hangman for torture, the bandit had asked for Orrik... He'll see things are done right.

  Was it possible the bandits had ambushed Luke and Alex on Orrik's orders—or more likely, in exchange for Orrik's silver? The Saxon bailiff had been outraged at the prospect of a Norman master, and Luke was certain he wouldn't stop short of murder to achieve his ends.

  If Orrik had arranged for the attack, he would want to keep his involvement a secret at all costs, knowing how the Normans would punish him if he were found out. Vance would have to have been eliminated before he could testify at the hallmoot.

  Luke hadn't suspected Orrik of killing Vance at the time, because he wasn't anywhere near Hauekleah that night... or was he? According to what the Widow Aefentid had told Faithe, Orrik often spent the night with her on the way home from his trips. Her inn was just on the other side of the woods. Baldric could easily have ridden there and reported Vance's capture to Orrik. Who was to say the bailiff hadn't sneaked back to Hauekleah in the dead of night, hanged Vance, and returned to the widow's inn, only to drive his new cart back in the morning as if he hadn't been here in days? Baldric might have helped him execute the ugly deed, or perhaps he'd merely stood guard; Orrik was strong enough and vicious enough to hang a man all by himself, especially if he knocked him unconscious first.

  Luke shook his head, disgusted with himself for not having figured it out sooner. Of course Vance's "suicide" was Orrik's doing; it was the only explanation that made all the pieces fall into place. Perhaps if he'd come to this conclusion sooner, he'd not be waiting here for Orrik to come back in the middle of the night and attempt the same thing with him.

  He brought his ear close to the door again. "I'm tellin' you, Sir Luke wouldn't take his own life!" Nyle was saying. "'Tis a mortal sin, and anyway, he ain't the type for it."

  Baldric just laughed, as if tickled by his brother's naiveté. Indeed, Nyle was good-hearted, but rather simple, and far too trusting.

  "Nyle, you go home," Orrik said. "Baldric will keep guard tonight."

  Damn. Nyle would have been far easier to manipulate than his brother.

  "But... Lady Faithe told me to—"

  "She's changed her mind," Orrik said smoothly. "She sent me to replace you with Baldric."

  Luke doubted that, but Nyle accepted it without question. He bid his brother and the bailiff good night, and then Luke heard his footsteps retreating up the garden walk.

  When it was quiet once more, Orrik said, "I'll be back around matins. With rope."

  Baldric chuckled.

  "He's a shrewd bastard," Orrik warned him. "Don't you talk to him, and don't open that door for any reason, do you hear me?"

  "Of course not." Baldric sounded genuinely offended.

  Orrik lowered his voice ominously, so that Luke had to strain to hear it. "Because if he isn't here when I get back at matins, 'tis you they'll find hanging from that ceiling in the morning. And don't doubt that I'll do it."

  "I won't open the door, I swear it!" Baldric promised. "And I won't listen to a word he says. He'll be here."

  "See that he is."

  Orrik's footsteps faded away.

  Chapter 22

  Luke took advantage of the last few moments of light to survey his surroundings. He kicked sacks and rolled barrels aside, looking for anything heavy or sharp, anything to use as a weapon. No doubt Orrik had searched the storehouse before they'd left him here; nothing of any use was left behind.

  He stamped a foot against the earthen floor. It was packed almost as hard as stone from decades of having heavy goods piled atop it, but he might be able to dig beneath the wall... that is, if he had a tool to dig with, and a day or more to accomplish the task.

  He went up to the door. "Baldric!"

  No answer.

  "I'm thirsty. There wasn't enough wine in that skin. My throat's parched."

  Silence.

  "Be a good fellow and bring me some water."

  Nothing. Baldric was having none of it. He was smart to be cautious, for Luke had no interest in assuaging his thirst; it was freedom he sought. And he had every confidence that he could take Baldric easily. Clearly, Baldric knew this, too, for his entreaties were met with stony silence.

  "I understand," Luke called through the door. "Orrik doesn't want you opening this door. But I really am desperately thirsty. I'll tell you what. I've got a purse full of silver in my tunic. You can have it if only you bring me a cup of water."

  A long pause, then: "How much silver?"

  "My purse is bulging with it," Luke lied; he had naught but a few pennies on his person. "You should take it now, before Orrik comes back. That way you won't have to split it with him. You'll have it all to yourself. And all I ask is a bit of water."

  Luke wasn't under the illusion that Baldric would actually bring him any water, but the opportunity to steal a purseful of silver might be worth the risk of opening the door. The knave would probably arm himself first, but Luke had disarmed his share of men.

  "Nay," Baldric finally said. "Ain't worth Orrik's wrath if something goes wrong."

  Luke continued in this vein for a while longer, despite the silence from the other side of the door. He finally gave up when it became apparent that Baldric had no intention of responding to him anymor
e.

  Time passed slowly. Night fell, plunging Luke's makeshift prison into complete darkness save for a ribbon of moonlight filtering in from the vent hole. As Luke paced restlessly, he wondered about Alex. Where had Firdolf taken him, and why had he been so hesitant to do so? Unless Luke could get out of this storehouse, he strongly suspected that neither he nor his brother would see another dawn.

  He'd never hold Faithe again, never smell her enigmatic almond-thyme scent, never feel her laugh while he was inside her, never explain any of this. He'd never have the chance to make her understand, to make her love him again. All that would remain of him would be a tragic memory of the man who'd slain her husband then deceived her.

  Somehow that tormented him even more than the notion of dying. As a soldier, he'd come to grips a long time ago with his own mortality. In fact, at one time he might have been able to give himself up to death and feel as if there was a certain justice in it, given the Black Dragon's many sins. But he wasn't the Black Dragon anymore. Through Faithe, he'd discovered that he could be like other men; he could live a normal life, could love and be loved. No longer did he feel a murderous monster clawing from within, trying to get out. He didn't deserve to die, not this way, and not without reconciling with Faithe.

  A faint sound drew his attention to the back wall. He stood beneath the vent hole and listened. There it was again, a kind of scraping from outside, a soft grunt...

  Whispering?

  Yes, someone was whispering. It was a high-pitched voice; Luke's heart seized up. "Faithe?" he called softly.

  "Nay, milord." A little face appeared in the vent hole. "'Tis I!"

  "Felix? How did you get up there? Do you have a ladder?"

  "Nay, milord. I'm standing on Alfrith's shoulders, and Alfrith's standing on Bram's shoulders."

  "What if Baldric finds you here?"

  "We sneaked around back. He didn't see us. I mean to get you out of there. The other boys said they'd help."

  "Nay, 'tis too dangerous. Go home, all of you."