Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  "Tomorrow morning!" Faithe exclaimed. "So soon?"

  "'Tis best that the matter be dispensed with quickly," Orrik said.

  "This is bad," Faithe murmured. "Alberic hates Luke. Did you notice the words he used? 'Crime.' 'Murder.' Luke will never get a fair trial from this man."

  Orrik stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A pity."

  Faithe shot him a look.

  "I mean it," he said, looking hurt. "All I want is justice. I know that must be difficult for you to believe, after everything that's happened. 'Tis my own fault." He looked at the ground. "I... reacted rashly when Sir Luke confessed to the killing. My concern was for you, but you're right. I was misguided. I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

  "It's too late for forgiveness, Orrik," she said quietly. "Too much has happened. And, no matter what you say now, I know you'll never find it in your heart to accept Luke as your master."

  "You're assuming he'll return to Hauekleah," Orrik said.

  "I intend to see that he does." She refolded Alberic's letter. "Do you know where Nyle is?"

  "Why?"

  "I can't be in Foxhyrst tomorrow morning. I'll be... somewhere else. But I need to get a message to Alberic."

  "I'll take it."

  "Nay."

  "You've truly lost all trust in me, haven't you?" he asked.

  "'Twas your doing, Orrik," she replied sadly. "I'd trust that snake, Baldric, before I'd trust you."

  Orrik shifted his gaze and cleared his throat. "Baldric is dead."

  "Dead! What happened?"

  "We found him hanging by his neck in the storehouse this morning."

  "Hanging! Like..."

  "Like Vance. Aye."

  "But... why?"

  "The only thing I can figure is he must have been consumed by guilt for having let de Périgueux escape. I told him not to open the door, not for any reason. Shame can drive a man to such an act."

  "My God," she whispered, not because she believed him, but because she didn't. Baldric was incapable of feeling shame. A wily little toad, he would never have taken his own life, for any reason. And, if Baldric didn't hang himself, she knew full well who did. She'd have to decide what to do about this, but right now her overriding concern was Luke; she would take care of Orrik later.

  "Nyle is beside himself over his brother's death," Orrik said, "and of course he's got to bury him. No one else can be spared. Except for me, of course."

  "I told you—no."

  "Faithe... I..." Orrik shook his head in evident frustration. "I'm sorry. Truly I am. For everything. I was wrong. I reacted angrily, and in haste. But I repent all that now—especially seeing the mistrust in your eyes. It cuts me to the quick, that it does. Give me a chance to prove myself. Let me take your message to Alberic."

  "I'll find someone else," she said. "In the meantime, you're to remain at Hauekleah. You're not to leave here until I return. I'll deal with you then. Do you understand?"

  Orrik executed one of his impudent little bows. "All too well, my lady."

  Chapter 24

  Luke tried not to flinch when Ham, the hangman, lifted the red-hot pincers from the brazier and held them in front of his face.

  "And this here," Ham said, turning the fiery instrument slowly as he examined it with deep-set rodent eyes, "is what I'm going to use to tear the flesh from your body, bit by bit."

  Luke breathed in the smell of superheated iron, felt its stinging heat—but he stood still, unwilling to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cringe. He did shift his wrists reflexively against the manacles that bound his hands behind his back, which made his shoulder wound burn with pain.

  Jerking his gaze away from the sinister device, Luke scanned the cavelike cellar of Foxhyrst Castle, refurbished by Lord Alberic into a proper Norman-style torture chamber. Chains hung from the ceiling; an iron chair fitted with restraints stood in a corner, and next to it a set of leg vises; a ladder for dislocating the limbs leaned at an angle against the damp stone wall next to the subterranean cell in which Luke had spent the night—another night with next to no sleep.

  "And when I get done with that," Ham said, his breath hot and foul on Luke's face, "I aim to chain you up and flog you till there ain't no skin left on your back."

  With his free hand, Ham reached into the pouch on his belt, withdrew some dried leaves—Luke smelled catnip—and tossed them into his mouth. He was a hulking creature with a hairless head that sprouted from his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. The lack of hair was evidently deliberate; Luke could make out a dusting of coppery stubble all over the milk-white scalp.

  "Then maybe," Ham said as he chewed, "I'll gouge out one of your eyes, the one that's already swole up, and cut off one of your ears—just one each, so's you can still hear and see what's happenin' to you. Then I'll pour brandy on your hair and set it on fire." Ham swallowed and grinned, displaying a sparse mouthful of yellowing teeth. "So's you'll look like me. That'll begin to pay you back some for killin' my sister."

  "I didn't kill your—"

  Ham drove a giant fist into Luke's stomach, landing him on his back in the sawdust. He gasped for air as the pain and nausea receded.

  "Helig died runnin' away from you." Ham squatted over Luke, holding the pincers over his face. "You killed her just as dead as if you'd stuck a knife in her gut. And I aim to make you suffer for it."

  "I haven't even been tried yet, much less found guilty." Luke had come to Foxhyrst Castle yesterday and formally surrendered himself to Alberic, for transport to the king's court, only to be handed over to Ham for incarceration. At dawn the hangman had dragged him out of his dank oubliette and announced that he was to be tried in Alberic's shire court that very day—no doubt so that "justice" could be dispensed before William caught wind of it. Luke had expected to be taken upstairs immediately, but instead Ham had treated him to this little demonstration of the punishments in store for him once he was found guilty—punishments that would conclude with a public hanging.

  For the hundredth time since coming here, Luke chastised himself for ignoring Alex's advice and putting himself in Alberic's hands rather than riding directly to London. At first, he couldn't believe the sheriff was actually going to try him, a knight of the realm, in his own shire court. He had to know that William would be furious when he discovered his power being usurped this way. For a fawning little worm like Alberic to risk the king's wrath didn't make any sense. Alberic hated Luke because of the display of cowardice Luke had witnessed at Hastings, but Luke had never made public what he'd seen. He'd thought his discretion would protect him from Alberic's retribution, but clearly he'd been wrong about that. Most likely Alberic greatly feared Luke—or rather, what Luke knew about him and might someday reveal.

  "You will be found guilty," Ham said, with seemingly complete confidence. "And then you'll be handed over to me. Perhaps I should give you a little taste of what's in store for you tonight." He brought the pincers closer, until their glowing tips were poised a hairsbreadth from Luke's nose.

  "Easy, Ham," came a smooth-voiced command from the winding corner stairwell. Luke and the hangman both turned to find Alberic, in fur-trimmed silk, leaning carelessly against the wall, two guards towering over him. "There will be plenty of time for this sort of thing after the trial."

  Ham grabbed Luke by his tunic and yanked him to his feet. "I'll need plenty of time to do it right."

  Alberic chuckled. "Ham displays remarkable enthusiasm for the work, especially for one of his race. The English are a rather uninspired lot when it comes to such matters. When I arrived here, his idea of torture was forcing a prisoner to stay awake all night, or walking him around and around in circles. But he's caught on surprisingly well to our Norman methods... surprisingly well."

  "I don't doubt it," said Luke as he watched Ham withdraw another dose of catnip from his pouch.

  "Bring him upstairs," Alberic instructed the guards. "We're ready to begin."

  * * *

&nb
sp; By midday, any lingering hope for a fair trial that Luke might have entertained was long gone. For hours he'd stood in the center of Foxhyrst Castle's gloomy hall, flanked by the massive guards, his hands still shackled behind him, watching and listening as Alberic went through the motions of "trying" him. Seated at the high table on either side of the sheriff were a dozen soldiers unknown to Luke but owing allegiance to Alberic, his far from impartial jury. Alex, who'd accompanied Luke to Foxhyrst, was nowhere to be seen; presumably he'd been banned from the proceedings. Griswold and his other former mates were likewise absent. And as for Faithe... well, he wouldn't have expected her to come, and in a way he was glad she hadn't. Although he was desperate to see her, this travesty would be all the more humiliating if she were here to witness it.

  Charges were read, questions asked, "witnesses" trotted forth. The man who'd found Caedmon's body testified that Caedmon had been beaten to death "over the whore." Other Cottwyk citizens upheld his account and described how they'd come across Helig's body after she'd "run for her life" from the murderer. They all glanced uncomfortably toward Luke, as if they couldn't believe he was the man responsible. Alberic's clerk, who sat next to him and understood the Anglo-Saxon tongue, translated their testimony for his lordship and the jury.

  At nones, a guard came into the hall, bowed to Alberic, and murmured something. "Indeed," Alberic said. "Show him in."

  Luke turned with the others to find Orrik being led forward, a sealed letter in his hand. The bailiff spared a smug glance for Luke as he approached the high table and handed the missive to Alberic. "A message from my lady Faithe of Hauekleah," he said, without bowing.

  A message from Faithe? Suddenly alert, Luke watched with interest as Alberic broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, then handed it to the clerk, a diminutive, tonsured fellow in black robes. He read it with an expression of intense concentration, then leaned over to whisper into Alberic's ear.

  The sheriff's frown transformed gradually into a sly smile. Luke felt chilly.

  "It seems," Alberic began, glancing around the table, "that Sir Luke's lady wife feels compelled to add certain comments to the proceedings." Meeting Luke's gaze, he said, "'Twould appear that Lady Faithe shares the general consensus regarding her husband's temperament and inclinations. She characterizes him as 'savage,' 'vicious,' and" —he leaned toward the little clerk— "what was that part about being capable of—"

  "Capable," the clerk said, reading directly from the letter as he traced the words with a finger, "of acts of the most irredeemable brutality. There is no doubt in my mind that Luke de Périgueux murdered my husband, Caedmon of Hauekleah, with no provocation save his own evil nature. I implore your lordship to find him guilty of the crime of murder, and to punish him as befits such an offense."

  Luke shook his head. "Nay..."

  "I'm afraid so." Alberic snatched the letter from his clerk and held it up. "His own wife condemns him as a murderer. Can we do less?"

  The soldiers whispered among themselves.

  "Let me see that letter!" Luke said.

  Alberic glowered at him. "You are in no position to make demands of this court, Luke de Périgueux."

  Luke stepped forward. The guards seized him and yanked him back. "I insist on seeing that letter!"

  "Remove him from the hall," Alberic told the guards. "We'll reconvene after dinner."

  Luke had no idea what the sheriff and his guests dined on. His midday meal, which he didn't eat, consisted of porridge heavily laced with salt and wine that had long since turned to vinegar.

  He contemplated the letter from Faithe. Could she have written such things—denounced him so unconditionally? Forcing himself to view the situation from her perspective, he had to concede that it was possible. He'd admitted to killing Caedmon, and never had a chance to explain the circumstances to her. He'd always admired her strength of will. In all likelihood she was calling on that strength now to put him out of her life for good. It made his soul ache to know that she'd so thoroughly abandoned him.

  When the trial resumed in the early afternoon, Luke was asked for his version of the killing, and gave it, after which Alberic described it as "the fabrication of a desperate man." Orrik was called upon to give his predictable account of the Black Dragon's many character flaws—his "infinite capacity for violence." He scoffed at the notion that Caedmon had been mad, or even ill, and insisted that he was incapable of attacking a woman. Other Hauekleah servants were called up, all of whom commended their former master for his agreeable nature and peaceful ways. Through translations by his clerk, Alberic encouraged this praise for Caedmon, which Luke found ironic, considering the sheriff's unreasoning hatred of Saxons. He must be very determined to see Luke hang if he was willing to set that hatred aside, even for a moment.

  When all the testimony had been delivered, Alberic asked Luke if he felt any remorse at all for having murdered Caedmon.

  "I committed no murder," Luke said.

  "That's not a proper answer to my question," Alberic said.

  "'Tis the only answer I can give."

  Alberic sighed disgustedly. "Take him back to the cellar so I may consult with the jury in private."

  Ham took this opportunity to taunt his prisoner with yet more descriptions of the agonies in store for him. Luke tried to be unmoved, reminding himself that escape was impossible now, that all he had left was his dignity. He'd endured pain before, and he'd long ago gotten used to the idea of death. In truth, it was the knowledge that his fragile bond of love with Faithe had been destroyed that truly tormented him. He would go to his death less than whole for having lost that.

  The guards came downstairs. "His lordship says they're ready." They escorted Luke back to the hall, where he was made to stand where he'd stood all day, facing the high table. Alberic half hid his smile behind steepled fingers. Orrik, standing off to the side, wore a look of immense self-satisfaction.

  Alberic rose. "It is found by the jurors of the shire court of Foxhyrst," he intoned as the clerk took notes, "that the accused Luke de Périgueux did, wrongfully and with malicious intent, slay one Caedmon of Hauekleah in the village of Cottwyk. It is also determined that he did assail the woman known as Helig, who thereupon fled her home and perished most cruelly by lightning. Therefore the said Luke de Périgueux is condemned to death by hanging at dawn tomorrow, after first suffering such varied punishments as the hangman may see fit, in retribution for his impenitence."

  "What cause has he for penitence?" came a woman's breathless cry from behind. Faithe? Luke wheeled around to find her standing in the doorway. "He's done nothing wrong!"

  "Guards, eject that woman!" Alberic ordered.

  A man grabbed for her arm. "Let go of her!" Luke roared; the guard recoiled and held his hands up placatingly.

  "You invited me here, Lord Alberic." Faithe withdrew a letter from beneath her mantle. Her face was flushed, her hair wild, her clothes in disarray; she had never looked more beautiful to him. "You told me I could attend my husband's trial."

  "Or send a representative," Alberic said. "You sent your bailiff, bearing your letter to the court."

  "My bailiff! I sent another man with that letter." She frowned at Orrik. "What did you do to him?"

  "He was needed elsewhere," Orrik said.

  "It matters not," Alberic said. "Your letter was delivered. If you now have cause to regret it, 'tis too late. The trial is concluded, and your husband has been convicted of murder."

  "My husband," Faithe said, "is innocent of murder." She met Luke's gaze with a brief look of reassurance, then motioned to someone outside, who followed her into the hall—a woman, humbly dressed and wearing a hooded cloak that cast her face in shadow. "This woman can prove it. She's the woman from Ixbridge whom I referred to in my letter."

  "Your letter made no mention of a woman," Alberic sputtered.

  "Of course it did. I wrote of the woman Matfrid, from Ixbridge." Faithe nodded toward her companion, who reached up slowly and lowered her hood. She
was young and black-haired, and might have been pretty were it not for a knife scar along one cheek and another across her forehead. They looked like the kind of scars that might all but disappear in time; but for now, they were still angry and disfiguring slashes.

  Luke saw Orrik's eyes light with recognition when he got a good look at her face. He grimaced, clearly displeased to see her here.

  "Matfrid," Faithe said, guiding the young woman by her arm into the hall, "is the woman who... who Caedmon attacked in Ixbridge while he was awaiting battle. I described the incident in my letter."

  Alberic addressed his clerk. "Brother Damian, was there anything in that letter about a woman from—"

  "Nay, milord!" The little man produced the letter in question. "I swear it!"

  "Aye, 'tis all there," Faithe insisted.

  "What Saxon trickery is this?" Alberic muttered.

  "Watch your tongue when you speak to my wife," Luke growled. He swore Alberic shrank back, despite the fact that Luke was in manacles and surrounded by guards.

  "Matfrid," Faithe said in English, urging the girl forward, "tell his lordship what happened. Go ahead, it's all right."

  Matfrid stared into the rushes and spoke—so softly that a great quiet descended over the hall. Every man there strained to hear her halting words, although most of them could understand only the clerk's French translation. "'Twas last autumn. September, it was. They came to the inn where I worked—the one they called Caedmon, and that one" —she nodded hesitantly toward Orrik— "and three or four others. Lord Caedmon, he" —she twisted her skirt in her hands— "he paid me tuppence to... well... he had a room upstairs, and..."

  "Yes, go on," Alberic said shortly.

  "Well, we... he done what he paid me for." Some of the soldiers snickered, but fell silent when Alberic glared at them.

  Faithe lifted her chin gamely. "Tell him about... the knife," she prompted gently.