“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.
Faithe stole a glance at her husband, grimly slicing into his roast stag with raisin sauce, and smiled. It wasn’t that long ago that he had called her people “sneaky” to her face, and meant it, yet now he had the temerity to take his overlord to task for making the very same observation.
Dessert was almond cream with loganberries and crystallized violets. As Faithe glanced surreptitiously around the table, trying to determine whether others were actually eating the flowers or pushing them to the side, as she was wont to do, the soldier called Griswold came over and slapped Luke on the back. “So, old friend. How are you adapting to farm life?”
Luke gazed steadily across the table toward Lord Alberic. “I’ve never been happier.”
A muscle jumped in Alberic’s jaw. Faithe knew that he and Luke couldn’t stand each other, although she wasn’t sure why. She also knew that Alberic had granted Hauekleah to Luke more out of spite then generosity, thinking a working farm an insultingly humble alternative to the grand estates that most of the Norman knights coveted. For Luke to proclaim his happiness with the grant amounted to rubbing Alberic’s nose in his own misjudgment; what he’d intended as a punishment had turned out to be a blessing.
“‘Tis an exceptionally fertile and productive farmstead,” Luke said, ostensibly to Griswold, but surely for Alberic’s benefit. “The people are hardworking and cooperative. Hauekleah Hall is sizable and in good repair. And my bride” —he smiled and took her hand— “is young and beautiful.”
Alberic’s gaze slid toward his rotund lady wife, tucking into her second bowl of almond cream, oblivious to the drama of wills being enacted at her dinner table. Faithe wondered whether it was such a good idea for Luke to goad his overlord this way. Alberic, after all, was a powerful man who had already proven himself inclined toward spitefulness. Not that she didn’t respect Luke for his unwillingness to defer to such a man. She just hoped that tendency didn’t come back to haunt him some day.
Chapter 16
Luke watched with interest as his lordship’s gaze shifted from his plump little pigeon of a wife to Faithe, captivating in emerald silk, and then back to him. Alberic’s eyes narrowed; his nostrils flared. Luke could have laughed out loud.
Instead, he turned toward Griswold, standing behind him, and said, “My brother mentioned you the other day.”
“Alexandre?” Griswold exclaimed. “Heard a dozen Saxons jumped you and him in the woods a while back.”
A dozen. Luke grinned. “There were only two, but they came out of nowhere. One of them had a spiked mallet, and he did a fairly thorough job of it on Alex.”
“How is the White—”
“Fine,” Luke said quickly, realizing how foolish it was to have brought up the subject of Alex,
under the circumstances. “He’s fine. Much improved. He’s walking without a cane now, and he can ride again. He’s planning on returning to the sheriff’s service in the fall.”
“So, what did he say about me?” Griswold asked.
“He said, ‘Can’t say as I miss Griswold. That fellow didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Never could stand to be around him.’”
Griswold brayed with laughter.
“Except,” Luke amended, “he didn’t say ‘fellow.’ I can’t repeat what he really called you, because there are ladies present.”
That produced a chuckle from everyone except Alberic, who appeared to be pointedly ignoring the conversation.
“I must say, Luke,” Griswold began, “you’re in remarkably good spirits. I never knew you to seem so... at ease.”
“Hauekleah suits me.” He gave Faithe’s hand a gentle squeeze, which elicited an engaging smile from her.
Griswold shook his head disbelievingly. “Well, now, that’s something I never thought to hear you say. Not that I’m disputing the truth of it, mind you. I’ve seen some strange things in my day, but few stranger than the Black Dragon exchanging his crossbow for a plow—and liking it.”
“I’ve always been partial to farming,” Luke said.
“And to beautiful woman, eh?” Griswold grinned. “‘Tis easy to see why you’re so content with your lot.”
From the corner of his eye, Luke saw Lady Bertrada whisper something in Alberic’s ear while pointing to his almond cream. Grimacing, he shoved the bowl at her, and she attacked it with zest.
“‘Twas a most agreeable match,” Luke said for his lordship’s benefit. “I’m grateful to Lord Alberic for arranging it.”
“Never thought to see the day when you’d settle down with one woman,” Griswold said. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the marrying type at all.” He caught Luke’s eye and winked.
A tickle of apprehension crawled up Luke’s scalp. Griswold, one of his fellow crossbowmen, had been famous for his zealous wenching. No matter where the corps was dispatched, he always seemed to find the whores. Whenever Luke was in need of their services—usually right after a battle, when the blood-thirst, fueled by those loathsome herbs, still hummed in his veins, and he craved release—he would ask Griswold where to go.
“I’ve been trying to remember when I last saw you,” Griswold said with a mischievous grin. “‘Twas four or five months ago, wasn’t it? Was it the day we took Cottwyk Castle?”
He knew very well that it was. Luke let go of Faithe’s hand and reached for his cup of brandy. “That’s right.”
Griswold scratched his scar. “Nasty siege, that. They set vats of tar on fire and poured it on us from the battlements, remember?”
Luke hadn’t remembered that—not until just now. Suddenly, his nostrils were filled with the stench of burning pitch, his ears with the screams of men writhing in agony. He’d gotten off some good shots and hit three of the Saxons on the battlements. One of them, though merely wounded in the arm, fell to the ground outside the curtain wall. He landed faceup; he was young, little more than a boy, and his eyes widened in terror as half a dozen Norman soldiers closed in on him. Luke’s comrades had eviscerated the youth as he lay helpless and shrieking, then left him alive to die slowly amid the mayhem of the siege. And then...
Enough! Luke drained his brandy in one gulp. He would remember no more. Damn Griswold for making him remember any of it.
To Faithe, Griswold said, “Your husband was the fiercest warrior I ever knew, my lady. A legend, and that’s the truth. The enemy trembled when they heard his war cries.”
“So I understand,” Faithe said quietly. Luke gritted his teeth.
“Aye, ‘twas a bloody siege, that,” Griswold continued. “And afterward, you were desperately in need of a good—”
Luke shot him a look.
“—stiff brandy, as I recall,” Griswold finished with a grin.
I need a good tupping, Luke had told him, still buckled into his blood-spattered chain mail and quivering from head to toe.
I know a place, Griswold had said. ‘Tis as close to a brothel as you’re going to find in these parts. About half a mile into the woods, that way. There’s just the one wench, and she’s not much, but she’ll spread her legs for anyone with tuppence and a hard cock—even a hard Norman cock. Most of these Saxon bitches run and hide when they see us coming.
“Do you remember?” Griswold asked him laughingly, with sly glances at Faithe.
“Nay,” Luke lied. In truth, he hadn’t remembered any of it clearly—until now. Although Griswold was just having a bit of fun at his expense, Luke found himself unamused. He didn’t want to be reminded of the events of that bloody awful day, especially in the presence of Faithe.
Eager to put an end to this conversation, Luke said, “Do you lazy curs still spend your afternoons playing ninepins outside the barracks?”
The garrulous soldier laughed. “That we do. Why? You in the mood to lose some silver?”
Luke rose. “Nay, I was thinking ‘twould amuse me to empty your purse.” To Faithe he added, “If my lady doesn’t mind, that is.”
She smiled up at him. “Of course not.”
The hot sun was a blessed relief from the chill and gloom of that hall. Griswold slapped Luke on the back as they strode across the bailey toward the soldiers’ barracks. “‘Tis good to see you, Luke. I missed you after you disappeared the day of the Cottwyk siege. Somebody told me you became a monk, but I never did credit that. Can’t quite see you taking a vow of chastity, that’s for sure.”
It struck Luke that the subject of sex must comprise a goodly portion of Griswold’s waking thoughts.
“Luke!” He turned to find Faithe walking briskly toward him from the keep.
He rested a hand on her arm when she joined him. “Is everything all right?”
Nodding, she glanced at Griswold and then reached into the little pouch on her girdle. Too late, Luke realized what she was retrieving—Alex’s mantle pin.
Luke snatched it from her, but not before Griswold saw it. “Say! Isn’t that—”
“We have no idea who it belongs to,” Luke said, spearing Griswold with a look of warning while he squeezed the golden disk in his fist.
Griswold blinked at them both. “But isn’t that...” He reached toward Luke. “Let me see it. I think it’s—”
“If you know who it belongs to, we’d be most interested,” Luke said slowly, fixing Griswold in his gaze and not letting him go. “We don’t know whose it is.”
“The man who owns that pin,” Faithe explained to the mystified soldier, “is a murderer. We’re searching for him.”
Griswold looked back and forth between them. “A murderer.”
“So it would appear,” Luke said carefully.
“Luke.” Faithe touched his tightly clenched fist. “Show him the pin. Perhaps he knows who it belongs to.”
Luke stared unblinkingly at Griswold. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”
Griswold arched an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “How do you know unless you let me see it?” He held his hand open. “Come. What are you afraid of?”
The bastard’s eyes glinted with mischief. Luke’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth together. After holding Griswold’s gaze for several more long moments, Luke dropped the pin into his palm.
Griswold examined the pin from all angles as the sun glinted off it. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Luke cursed inwardly.
Faithe clasped her hands together. “Do you recognize it?”
“I should say so!”
Her eyes grew wide. Luke closed his eyes.
“Well?” Faithe prodded.
“‘Tis a wolf!” Griswold said.
Luke opened his eyes.
“Yes, of course it’s a wolf,” Faithe said. “But—”
“Very clever.” Griswold brought the pin close to his face and squinted at it. “Up close, you can’t really make out the s
hape. But from a distance” —he held it out and peered at it— “it couldn’t be anything else.”
Faithe wrung her hands. “But who—”
“And it’s all done with those tiny little pearls. There must be over a hundred of them.”
“Yes,” Faithe said impatiently, “but who does it belong to?”
“Who does it belong to?” Griswold echoed.
“Aye.”
Luke held his breath.
“Can’t say I know.” Griswold handed the pin back to her. “Sorry.” He grinned at Luke.
Luke let his breath out in a rush. “Let me have that.” He reached for the pin. Faithe handed it to him with a look of melancholy that sent a little dagger of shame into his chest. “I’ll show it to the other men.” The bald lie only shoved the dagger deeper.
“All right,” Faithe said. “Thank you, Luke.” Faithe gave his arm a grateful squeeze, then turned and walked away. Luke followed her with his eyes until she entered the keep.
Griswold studied him as he stared at the door through which she’d disappeared. “Ready for that game of ninepins?”
“Indeed I am,” Luke said, grateful that his old friend knew better than to demand explanations. They continued their stroll toward the barracks.
“Care to triple our usual bet?” Griswold asked.
“Have you got that much on you?”
“Nay, but you probably do.” He flashed a cocky grin. “And you’re going to let me win.”
Luke couldn’t suppress a grin. It was a small enough price to pay.
* * *
The whore screamed as thunder roared in his ears. Why was she screaming?
Luke struggled to his feet, the dark little cottage whirling drunkenly. He climbed the ladder as the wench’s screams grew louder and louder.
Why is she screaming?
It was dark in the loft—until lightning pulsed through the window, and he saw the young Saxon in the straw. He was little more than a boy, and his guts had been torn right out of his belly to lie strewn about him like purple serpents. It was he who’d been screaming.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 92