“No!” Luke screamed.
Hauling back, Orrik whipped the hammer’s handle across Alex’s forehead. The impact jolted him; he slumped over unconscious, supported by the men who held onto him. Blood dripped from his head into the rushes.
Orrik caught Firdolf’s eye and pointed to Alex. “Get him out of here.”
Firdolf took Alex from the men who held him, hooking his hands beneath his shoulders to drag him away. Orrik grabbed him by the tunic and whispered something in his ear. Firdolf gaped at Orrik and then at Alex. “But, Master Orrik, if I leave him there, he’ll—”
“Just do it!” Orrik put his mouth near Firdolf’s ear and muttered something else. Luke thought he heard the word “Leola.” Most likely he was reminding the lovesick young man that, with Alex out of the way, he’d have the object of his desire all to himself.
Firdolf nodded slowly and, seeming to steel himself, continued dragging Alex out of the hall.
“Don’t do it!” Luke yelled at him, not knowing where he was taking Alex, but not liking Firdolf’s hesitation. “Alex has committed no crime. Orrik has no right to order this!”
Firdolf stubbornly refused to look up or react in any way to these desperate pleas, but Luke saw the consternation in his eyes.
“I’d save my breath if I were you,” Orrik snickered. “You’ll soon need all the breath you can get.”
“Alex was right,” Luke told the men gathered around. “Orrik is acting on his own in this. He’s going against Lady Faithe’s orders.”
There commenced a great deal of muttering and whispering.
“I’m avenging Caedmon!” Orrik insisted.
“Your vengeance is misplaced,” Luke said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What happened to Caedmon was a tragedy, but he was dying anyway. He was sick, very sick. I think he had a kind of growth in his brain. ‘Twas the same malady that killed my sister.”
“Lies!”
“It made him mad in the end. He’d have spells of uncontrollable violence. That’s why he attacked that woman. He was—”
“Damn you to hell!” Orrik swung the sledgehammer handle again.
A dull explosion went off in Luke’s head, and then nothingness swallowed him up.
Chapter 21
Faithe awoke in darkness to the familiar, comforting scent of straw. She sat up, and a wave of vertigo washed over her.
I fainted. That’s right. I came to the barn and fainted.
And then she remembered why she fainted—Luke’s terrible confession, and the things he’d said about Caedmon. He was hitting her... over and over again.
“Nay.” She pressed her hands to her forehead to make everything stop spinning. “Nay...”
As God is my witness, Orrik had told Luke, you’re going to swing from my noose this night.
“Christ.” Lurching to her feet, she staggered out of the barn. Smears of red and purple bruised the sky. How long had she been out? Had Orrik followed through on his threat? Had he gone against her order and hanged Luke? He’d never broken a promise to her before, but he was a changed man since Hastings, and she wasn’t sure what to expect of him anymore.
Clutching her skirts, she ran on jittery legs to the rear gate of the croft. Someone was standing just inside it, arms crossed, watching her approach.
Orrik.
“Whoa!” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Slow down, my lady! No need to—”
“Did you do it?” she gasped, her chest heaving, everything whirling. “Tell me you didn’t—”
“Steady, my dear. Do what? What do you think—”
“Hang him. You didn’t hang Luke. Tell me you didn’t—”
“Of course not!” His eyes widened in indignation, their pupils contracting to make them look even more silvery than usual in this eerie twilight. “Did you think I’d go back on my word to you?”
“I... I don’t...” Relief made her dizzy. He tried to gather her up for a fatherly embrace, but she backed away from him, murmuring, “I was so scared. I came to in the barn, and I remembered how you’d threatened to hang him—”
“And then I swore not to, didn’t I?” He reached out and tilted her chin up. “Didn’t I?”
“Aye, but... aye.”
“You ordered me not to, and that was good enough for me. Have I ever broken my word to you?”
Beyond Orrik’s shoulder Faithe could see Baldric standing a few paces away, outside the small storehouse. Even in the semidarkness, she could make out his slyly mysterious smile. She still felt light-headed from her fainting spell, and her thoughts were blurry and confused, but she had the sense that things were not quite as they seemed. Foreboding itched at her.
“Where is he, then?” she asked, wrapping her fist around her keys. “Where is Luke?”
“Right in there.” Orrik cocked his head toward the storehouse. “Where we keep all knaves and cutthroats until we can deal with them properly,” he added with a scowl.
Ah. So that was it. Baldric was standing guard over his own master, imprisoned like a common bandit in the same place where Vance had inexplicably hanged himself. He nodded in her direction. She wondered what he knew that she didn’t. She could demand the full truth from Orrik, but she knew from experience he was too smart and too obdurate to reveal more than he cared to about any matter of importance to him. And Baldric would be no more forthcoming; he was entirely Orrik’s creature.
But there was someone who might speak frankly to her, someone she wanted to talk to anyway, needed to talk to.
“I’d like to speak to my husband,” she said. “Who has the key to the storehouse?”
Baldric heard her; he withdrew the key from his tunic, but Orrik held up a restraining hand before he could insert it in the lock.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Orrik said, “but that’s a damned foolish notion, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Actually,” she informed him coolly, straining for composure despite her wooziness, “I do. I mind it very much. He’d my husband, and I’m going to speak to him.”
She tried to brush past him toward the storehouse, but he seized her arm; his grip was surprisingly steely for a man his age.
“He’s a vicious murderer,” Orrik said. “A man of ungovernable rages—no better than a mad dog. And now that he’s been caught and locked up, he may have snapped completely.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Orrik.” She tried to push past him, but he held her tight.
“I’d hate to have it on my conscience if anything happened to you.”
“I absolve you from responsibility,” she said. “Now, get out of my way.”
“He’ll poison your mind,” Orrik warned. “Twist the truth.”
“You ought to know a thing or two about that,” she replied archly.
Orrik glowered. “If you insist on going in there, I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not some child who needs—”
“I’ll brook no argument about it, Faithe.” His hand tightened painfully on her arm; his metallic gaze bored into hers. He only used her Christian name when he was really upset about something. “You’re my responsibility, whether you realize it or not. Always have been, always will be. I will not allow you to go in there alone.”
She swallowed hard. “Your fingers are digging into my arm.”
He looked down at his hand and blinked, then released her abruptly. “I mean it. I’m not letting you go in there by yourself, Faithe.”
Faithe willed calm into her voice. “‘Tisn’t your place to let me or not let me do anything, Orrik. Now, stand aside.”
They held each other’s gaze for a charged moment, and then he abruptly turned away. “Do as you please.”
Clutching her skirt, she stalked up to Baldric. “Give me the key.”
Baldric looked toward Orrik, who nodded sullenly, then handed over the key. She twisted it in the lock and pushed the door open. No sound came from within the storehouse.
Faithe took a hesitant step
inside. “Luke?” Looking down, she saw him lying on his side on the earthen floor, his back to her, his hands tied together with rope. “Luke.” Kneeling, she touched his shoulder; he didn’t respond. She shook him. “Luke!”
“He’s not dead,” Orrik assured her from the doorway.
Faithe untied the ropes that bound Luke’s hands.
Orrik made a sound of disgust. “I’ll just have to find some more and tie him up again when you leave.”
“You won’t be here when I leave. I’m relieving you of all responsibility in this matter.”
“What?”
“You’re to go home and go to bed. You and Baldric both. Neither of you is permitted anywhere near the storehouse or Luke.”
“Who’s to stand guard then?”
“He doesn’t need a guard. Look at him.” He still hadn’t moved or responded in any way to her touch.
“He’ll come to eventually. I can’t let you leave the man unguarded, Faithe.”
Faithe sighed, knowing Orrik would just sneak back here unless she posted a man. “I’ll have Nyle stand watch. I can trust him.”
“You can’t trust me?”
“After you tried to hang Luke?” Gently turning her husband onto his back, she saw that one of his eyes was badly swollen and that he had an ugly wound on his forehead. “Look what you did to him. You had no right to do this.”
Orrik snorted contemptuously. “‘Twas less than he deserved. How can you bring yourself to ask after him? How can you want to speak to him? The man butchered your husband in a jealous rage.”
She peeled strands of hair from the dried blood on Luke’s forehead. “That’s not the way Luke tells it.”
Orrik rolled his eyes. “All that blather about how Caedmon was attacking that woman—beating her savagely? Think about it, Faithe. No one knew Caedmon better than you did. Search your soul. Was he capable of that kind of viciousness toward a woman?”
“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 inside his head, for that’s what had driven him to attack that whore.
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