The growling came from near the fire pit. A thin, balding priest stood at one of the tables cutting fist-sized chunks off a half-eaten haunch of venison and tossing them to a pack of dogs at his heels. They were hunting dogs—wolfhounds, spaniels, and a mastiff—and although the mastiff still greedily snapped meat out of the air, the dogs had obviously caught Loki’s scent. They stood staring at the cat with hackles raised, quivering.
Lord Godfrey grinned and said, “Here it comes.” As if at his command, all the dogs, the mastiff included, came bounding with fierce howls across the enormous room, leaping benches and tables. They knocked one tabletop clean off its trestle, dumping a tureen of soup into the rushes covering the floor. The servants tackled three or four before they had gone very far, but one—a huge wolfhound—eluded capture and raced toward Martine fangs bared.
Thorne immediately grabbed Martine and shoved her back against the wall, shielding her with his body. The wolfhound leaped onto him, but he sent it flying with a well-placed kick. He looked back over his shoulder as the rest of dogs were subdued, but didn’t back away from Martine or loosen his iron grip on her arms.
Being as tall as most men, Martine didn’t often feel physically dominated by one, but Sir Thorne’s sheer size overwhelmed her. He was long of limb and powerfully built, his shoulders massive, his chest hard as rock beneath his tunics. As he pressed her to the wall, she could feel the solid muscles of his thighs flex against hers, causing a peculiar, shivery warmth to course through her. She had the most disconcerting instinct to put her arms around him, and she knew with appalling certainty that were she not holding Loki against her chest, she might have done just that.
She squirmed, trying to make space between them. He looked down at her for a moment, and then smiled slightly and slowly eased himself away, his big hands sliding down her arms before he released her. She quickly stepped away from him. The dogs, she saw, had all been rounded up. Lord Godfrey lay sprawled in the rushes, laughing uproariously at the spectacle.
The woman in purple had descended to the main floor of the hall and now strolled toward Martine, an odd silver-handled wooden stick swinging from her wrist by a leather loop. She was short, Martine now saw, and indeed skinny, but had about her the presence of a larger person.
Most of the dogs congregated near the fire pit, where they sat watching Martine and Loki with frustrated intensity. One of the wolfhounds stood just several yards away, however, right in this woman’s path. She regarded him with a wary revulsion, carrying the stick in a threatening posture as she passed. He responded with a snarl that made her jump and shake the stick menacingly over her head. He calmly turned and trotted away.
“Lady Martine,” Thorne said, “may I present Lady Estrude of Flanders, soon to be your sister by marriage. She’s the wife of Bernard, the brother of your betrothed.”
“My lady,” Martine said, as Estrude inspected her with unconcealed amusement.
Finally Estrude turned and announced to the assembled company, “She can’t very well be Edmond’s bride. From all appearances, she’s already the bride of Christ!” Lord Godfrey, the priest, and the young woman in pink all got a good chuckle from this, but Sir Thorne looked grim.
Estrude pouted. “What a sour face, Sir Thorne! Don’t worry. Didn’t I promise I’d be nice to her? I’ll treat her just like a real sister.” She extended her spindly arms, smiled with her too-pink mouth, and said, “Welcome to Harford Castle, Sister Martine!”
* * *
“Let their limbs be stretched till they pop from their sockets!” Godfrey bellowed down the length of the dinner table, his voice thick with drink. Thorne wondered how he could still be conscious. “Let their eyes be gouged from their heads!”
Shortly before their arrival at the castle, a messenger had stopped by with important news: The three bandits who had murdered Anseau and Aiglentine had been caught that morning, sleeping in an abandoned mill. They were now being held in a cell at the castle of Olivier, Godfrey’s earl and overlord. They would hang, of course, but not before preparatory torture to extract confessions and uncover accomplices.
“Let them be dunked in boiling water! Let their flesh be torn with red-hot pincers! Let their feet be soaked in salt water and goats lick them down to the bone!” Thorne had never heard that last one before. From the puzzled look Rainulf exchanged with him, neither had he.
Thorne watched Martine, who was directly across the table, staring at the slabs of meat on her trencher—untouched except for the bits she had sliced off for her cat. The animal that had spawned so much mayhem just a short time ago now lay curled contentedly on his mistress’s lap, licking his paws and wiping his greasy face with them. The dogs sat gathered around Martine’s bench, watching this feline ritual with rapt fascination.
The spilled food and drink had been quickly cleared away. All but one trestle table, perpendicular to the rest and located next to the fire pit, had been disassembled and removed, and a second supper laid for the latecomers. Godfrey, Estrude, and the baron’s parish chaplain, Father Simon, had already eaten, but remained to keep their guests and knights company at table. The other members of the household were either hunting with Bernard or had retired early.
“Let hot pitch be—”
“Sire,” Thorne interrupted, nodding toward Martine. “Perhaps the lady would prefer a different subject of—”
“The Franks have the most ingenious methods,” said Godfrey. “Father Simon here traveled throughout France till just two years ago. He was describing some of the damnedest things in fascinating detail last night. Simon, tell them what you saw them do in Autun, with the leather boots and the molten lead.”
The priest pressed his thin lips together. “Sire, surely what I saw in Toulouse was more interesting.”
Godfrey frowned.
“Those two heretics who were tied to stakes and burned alive?” said Father Simon. “And then there was Arnold of Brescia four years ago. I saw him burned.”
“Alive?” Estrude exclaimed.
Father Simon shrugged. “They were guilty of heresy. The flames of the pyre were naught to what they’ll feel for eternity.”
The baron waved his tankard, spilling ale into the rushes. “Aye, but the stake is a form of execution, not torture.”
“That’s arguable,” Rainulf mumbled.
“Rainulf!” Godfrey exclaimed. “You’ve just come from Paris. Have you come across any new methods of... coaxing confessions?”
Rainulf took a slow sip of wine. “My lord, I’m afraid I’ve little interest in such things, except inasmuch as they may be eliminated.” Ignoring Simon’s smirk, he continued directing his comments toward the baron. “I agree with the first Pope Nicholas that a confession must be voluntary and not forced.”
“Father Rainulf is a very learned man,” Simon said, “renowned in Paris, Tours, and Laon for the breadth of his knowledge of logic and theology. ‘Tis an honor to sit at the same table as he.” The priest half bowed toward Rainulf. “But is it not true that in the three hundred years since Pope Nicholas wrote those words, the Church herself has come to accept and encourage such righteous torture in her own ecclesiastical courts?”
“The Church’s ways aren’t always what God would wish,” Rainulf said, reaching for his goblet.
Father Simon pounced eagerly. “It would seem a university education is all it takes to make one privy to the wishes of God.”
“Nay, but it does make one less susceptible to the baser wishes of man, such as the wish to inflict pain.”
Lacking a retort, Simon faked a yawn, and Thorne noticed Martine smile as she stroked her cat. Hers wasn’t such an awkward face after all, he decided. The features he had at first thought out of balance did, upon reflection, have a certain undeniable charm, a charm all the more compelling when she smiled. It seemed to give her pleasure to listen to her brother engage in this supper-table debate. She must have heard many such exchanges during the year she spent with him in Paris.
Rainulf
was a proponent of the controversial new movement called disputatio, in which argument between teacher and student replaced the traditional, dryly authoritative lectio. From his letters, Thorne knew that he had spent the past year tutoring Martine in this manner—just as he had once tutored Thorne—and Thorne speculated that perhaps this had been the origin of Martine’s contentious nature.
In general, he admired people who liked to argue. Contentiousness he viewed as a sign of intellect and an unwillingness to accept things as they were, which was often all for the good. And it was the opposite of meekness, which he despised in either sex as a badge of servitude.
This was the first time he had seen her smile since she had smiled timidly at him from the deck of the Lady’s Slipper. That was before she had withdrawn so inexplicably. Was it merely arrogant teasing on her part, or was there more to it? He couldn’t recall having said anything to offend her, but women of her class tended to be thin-skinned.
That saffron veil enhanced her air of mystery. Unmarried women usually wore them only to hide some unattractive feature. Perhaps she had thin, patchy hair. More likely she had been afflicted with some form of pox as a child, and now hid the marks on her forehead with it. It was a common enough disfigurement. When Thorne undressed a woman for the first time, the question was not whether she would have pockmarks, but where and how many.
Aye. It must have been the pox. What a shame for such a face to be so scarred. Perhaps Edmond would find the flaw so objectionable that he would want to call off the betrothal. Thorne felt a fleeting pleasure at the thought, and frowned in self-reproach. Was he mad? That should be the last thing he wanted.
Apparently Lady Estrude, seated to his left, had noticed the frown. As Father Simon launched into a description of the burning of the two heretics, she leaned toward him and said, just loudly enough for his ears alone, “Why so melancholy, Sir Thorne?”
Thorne realized she must have been watching him gaze across the table at Martine, lost in thought. He tore a crust off his trencher and dipped it in his ale. “Do I appear so, my lady?”
“Indeed.” Quietly she added, “Or else under a spell of some sort.” She took a sip of wine, glancing at Martine and then back at Thorne. “Is that it? Are you bewitched?” She chuckled. “Curious. I thought your taste ran more to little Saxon goosegirls and Hastings whores.”
Insufferable woman. Thorne calmly ate the ale-soaked bread.
“I suggest you take care,” she murmured. From the corner of his eye, Thorne saw her painted lips curve into a sly smile. “That peach has been promised to Edmond. He might not take kindly to your tasting it before he’s had the chance.”
Thorne automatically glanced across the table toward Lady Martine, only to find her looking directly at him. Her eyes widened slightly as he met her gaze, then she abruptly looked away, two spots of pink blossoming on her cheeks.
Estrude smiled knowingly as she studied Martine’s discomfort. “‘Twould appear the lady is also under some spell of enchantment. Fascinating.” Leaning close to Thorne, she whispered, “Don’t you think so, Sir Thorne?”
He did, indeed, but it wouldn’t do to let her know that. Feigning disinterest, he took his eating knife to the stag. One of the spaniels saw him lifting the piece of meat to his mouth with his fingers and dashed around the table, eager for a handout. They were stupid creatures, but still one would think they would have grown wary of Estrude’s dog stick by now. The spaniel jumped onto the bench and squeezed between them, panting in anticipation and slapping her with its tail. She raised the stick, but before she could lower it, Thorne grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck and tossed it away from the table.
Estrude looked disappointed. So did the spaniel, until Thorne issued a short whistle from between his teeth. The dog’s ears perked up and its mouth flew open, ready to catch the piece of meat the knight threw his way.
Estrude glowered at him. “I didn’t know you cared for Bernard’s dogs. Or is that spaniel one of yours?”
“I keep mine kenneled, where they belong,” Thorne answered. “As for Bernard’s, I’d like to feed them to the falcons. But I’d like to feed that stick of yours to the fire.”
Estrude pushed her trencher back and folded her arms on the table, leaning toward Martine. “My lady, I can’t help asking just where in the name of God you got that cat.”
Martine’s aloof expression revealed no hint of irritation at Estrude’s tone. Thorne admired her composure. “In the convent where I was brought up. Cats were the only pets the nuns were allowed to keep.”
“Ah, yes,” Estrude said. “I forgot you’d gone to a convent school. St. Teresa’s, wasn’t it?”
Martine nodded.
“I myself didn’t go to school.” Estrude nodded toward the girl in pink. “Like Clare here, I spent several years in the household of a neighboring baron, serving the lady of the house. My parents wisely felt that such an education would serve me best when I became a baroness myself.”
Thorne said, “Perhaps my lady Estrude will someday have a chance to test that theory, when her father-in-law’s time on earth is done and she actually becomes a baroness.” Martine smiled at his subtle rebuke, which he found absurdly pleasing. He said, “My lord Godfrey is a man of great health and vigor. God willing, that time won’t come for many more years.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Estrude look grimly down the table toward Godfrey, asleep with his face on the tablecloth, his mouth open, snoring loudly.
Returning her attention to Martine, she asked, “How long were you at Saint Teresa’s?”
Martine hesitated. “For seven years, my lady. From the age of ten until I joined my brother in Paris last year.”
“Did you see much of your family during those years?”
She glanced warily toward her brother. What was this?
Rainulf, looking uncomfortable himself, said, “Nay, my lady, she did not. ‘Twas too great a distance for easy travel.”
Estrude’s eyes widened, and she made a show of gazing in astonishment around the table. “You mean to say she had no contact with her family for seven years? Didn’t she miss them?”
Smoothly Rainulf said, “Much as I’m sure my lady Estrude misses her own family in Flanders. How long has it been since you came to England to live, my lady? Ten or fifteen years? It must be very hard on you being away from them like this.”
No wonder Martine relied so on her brother. He was her rescuer, her protector. But why had he felt she needed protection from Estrude’s harmless prying? Perhaps his enigmatic sister was hiding more than pockmarks.
Thorne sighed. He had never liked surprises, but they could be especially troublesome when one had a great deal at stake. And his stake in Lady Martine’s marriage to Edmond was great indeed, considering the land it would likely earn him. If the lady had secrets, he had best unearth them himself, before others had the chance, and soon, before the betrothal ceremony. Perhaps tomorrow he could contrive to get her alone for a while. Without Rainulf to protect her, she might be coaxed into revealing whatever it was the two of them seemed so intent on hiding.
He rose and went to the head of the table. “I’m going to help his lordship to bed,” he said, hauling the inebriated baron to his feet and guiding him in the direction of his chamber at the far end of the great hall.
Estrude rose as well. “I’ll go with you.”
He was not in the mood for this. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lady. I’m fully capable of handling—”
“I didn’t mean I’d help you put him to bed. You’ve had enough practice at that, God knows. I only meant I’d light the way.” She lifted a candelabra from the table and came to stand very close to him, out of earshot of the rest of the diners. Gazing up with half-closed eyes, she purred, “I would dearly love to show you the way, Sir Thorne. I wish you’d let me.”
Her face looked unnaturally white in the flickering candlelight, her lips dark as plums. Her large brown eyes, encircled by black powder, glittered seduc
tively. She had applied her paint with a heavier hand than usual this evening—for him?—yet he could still make out, on her left jaw and cheek, the faint shadows of bruises almost healed, testament to her husband’s most recent rage.
Was it to spite Bernard that she had embarked on her recent campaign to seduce him? Thorne knew better than to think she had suddenly taken a fancy to him after all these years of mutual animosity. Nay, she wanted something from him. He didn’t know what, nor did he care to find out. Let her play out her tiresome little intrigue on a more gullible victim.
“If I wanted someone to show me the way,” he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’d use a little Saxon goosegirl or Hastings whore, wouldn’t I?” Now it was her turn to blush, a mottled pink stain creeping up her throat and disappearing beneath her pale face powder.
“As I said,” he added, turning away, “don’t trouble yourself.”
* * *
Martine watched the tall Saxon surreptitiously as he emerged from Lord Godfrey’s chamber and strode toward them across the great hall with his graceful, long-legged gait. He wore an unadorned knee-length tunic of a deep, warm red. The longer undertunic was black, like his chausses and shoes. Despite the simplicity of his garments and his humble origins, he was the noblest-looking man Martine had ever seen.
As Thorne took his seat across from her, Rainulf rose, saying, “Excuse me. I want to check on our baggage, and those puppies.”
“Puppies?” said Lady Estrude.
“Aye. One of Lady Martine’s betrothal gifts to Sir Edmond is a litter of fine bloodhound pups.”
Estrude daintily lifted a cheese-filled wafer to her mouth. “More dogs. How thoughtful.” She took a tiny bite and chewed it slowly as she watched Rainulf walk away and then said, “Tell me, Lady Martine, will your family be here for the wedding? I don’t suppose they’d want to make the crossing just for the betrothal ceremony, but surely they’ll want to see you married.”
Martine looked toward the doorway in the corner, but Rainulf was gone. Summoning a casual tone, she replied, “I’m afraid not, my lady.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 141