“Wear this! This one! It’s beautiful! Dark blue is my favorite color. Is it yours?”
“Aye,” Martine replied distractedly.
“‘Tis the same color as your eyes, milady,” Felda pointed out.
That’s what Rainulf had said when he gave the tunic to Martine as a birthday gift—that he had chosen the fabric for its color, the product of a remarkable new dye from the East called indigo, because it was the precise blue of her eyes.
“I thought I’d save that tunic for the betrothal ceremony,” Martine said.
Felda said, “Lady Estrude’s having outfits made for the betrothal and the wedding, as gifts.”
Martine fingered the unusual blue fabric, remembering Estrude’s comments about her the night before. She wouldn’t look like a nun in this. “I’ll wear it.”
The silk stockings, garters, and soft kid slippers had been dyed to match the tunic. Ailith brought each item to her, supervising as Martine put them on, and commenting approvingly on the results. The kirtle was white with long sleeves lightly embroidered in gold and teal.
When Martine finally pulled the tunic down over her head, Ailith clapped her hands in delight, and Felda just stared. Although the garment was cut full, with no lacing in back to draw it in, the fine pleating had given the fabric a certain amount of stretch. It clung just enough to highlight the elegance of Martine’s statuesque frame, without revealing too much. The sleeves were tight until they reached the forearms, where they flared dramatically, falling in rippled folds to the floor.
Felda tied a golden, tasseled girdle over Martine’s slim hips, and then opened her mistress’s small jewelry box. “There’s not much here, milady, if you don’t mind my saying so. These are quite nice, though.” Martine took the dangling pearl earrings Felda offered and put them on, then reached in for a handful of little gold rings, which she slid onto her fingers and thumbs.
Martine sat on the stool and let Felda brush her hair into a glossy spill of silvery gold. Ailith sat on the floor and stared, transfixed. Then, armed with a mouthful of pins and using both strong arms as if she were wringing laundry, Felda twisted the thick hair into a massive coil at the nape of Martine’s long neck. Martine added a narrow circlet of hammered brass.
Felda nodded, smiling. “He’ll grow faint when he sees you.”
“Who?” Martine demanded, before she could stop herself.
“Sir Edmond, of course! Who else?”
Turning away, Martine shrugged as casually as she could. Leaving Felda to tidy up, she took Ailith in one hand and the brass box that contained her rarest herbs in the other, and left in search of the cookhouse. She had some rare new spices from the East that she wanted to give Lord Godfrey, but the cooks would have to be shown what to do with them.
Heads turned when she left her chamber. She paused in one of the gallery’s arched openings to glance down into the great hall, and every person there looked up and fastened his gaze upon her. The servants tried to be discreet, half turning their heads and sliding their eyes to look. Guy and Peter, playing chess, nodded toward her and smiled at each other. Estrude stood stock-still and looked her up and down with the narrowed eyes of someone who suspects she has been swindled. Albin dropped something, which shattered. Martine quickly pulled Ailith into the stairwell. Once outside, the child skipped behind Martine, holding one of her long sleeves in each hand, flapping them like the wings of a butterfly.
In the daylight, the inner bailey looked to be nothing more than a flat lawn of cropped grass surrounded by the huge stone walls. The hawk house, nestled against the south wall, was the only structure in the bailey besides the keep. They passed it at a distance on their way to the outer bailey, and Martine saw two boys–one in each of the two doors—sweeping straw from the hawk house onto the grass. Bundles of fresh straw leaned against the small building’s stone wall. In one window stood a tall figure in white, with a white bird on his fist—Thorne holding Freya.
He stared fixedly in her direction.
Martine turned toward the inner drawbridge and quickened her pace, suddenly very conscious of what he saw as he gazed upon her. He would see the distant figure of a tall young woman with a child bouncing behind her, waving the sleeves of her indigo gown back and forth, back and forth. He would see the knot of silver-blond hair like white fire in the morning sunshine... the glint of gold and brass, sparks that winked as she walked.
She had almost gotten to the drawbridge when she heard his voice, fairly close behind her. “I barely recognized you. You look quite fetching today, my lady.”
She smiled, wondering how to answer him. But as she turned, she saw Ailith running toward him, squealing, “Thank you!” He had followed after them, and was now several yards away, squatting down to greet the young girl. She tried to throw herself into his arms, but he held her back, saying something about Freya, who still clung to the gauntlet on his left hand. He had been addressing the compliment to Ailith, of course. Martine commanded herself not to blush as she joined them.
Ailith said, “Your hair’s wet, just like mine!” His damp hair was combed back off his face. He wore a shirt of bleached linen over dark braies, and woolen hose bound by crisscrossed strips of linen. On his feet were short, worn leather boots. This was a workingman’s costume, unlike the fine tunics and chausses he had worn the day before.
“I’ve had a bath,” he answered. “Just as you have, it seems.”
“Sir Thorne bathes in the river,” Ailith told Martine. “He knows how to swim! He learned in Lisbon.” Martine had never known anyone other than herself who could swim. “When I grow up, I’m going to bathe in the river, too.”
“Perhaps in the summer, my lady,” said Thorne. “In the winter, you’ll prefer a nice warm bathtub, as I do.” He stroked Ailith’s hair, the honey-gold beauty of which became more and more evident as it dried.
He said, “What a good girl you were to have let Auntie Felda bathe you and fix your hair so nicely.”
“‘Twasn’t Felda,” Ailith protested. “‘Twas Auntie Martine.”
“Auntie Martine?” Thorne looked directly at Martine for the first time since she had joined them, his gaze lingering curiously, for some reason, on her forehead.
Ailith stroked her hair proudly. “Do you like it?”
He nodded, smiling warmly at her. “Very much.”
“‘Tis how her mama used to fix her hair. You know what?”
“What?”
“Auntie Martine doesn’t eat breakfast. And she knows English. At least ‘good afternoon.’ And she knows all about herbs. She keeps them in that box. And she wouldn’t trade me for all the sons in Christendom. And she doesn’t cry when she’s bitten!” Thorne scowled and looked inquiringly toward Martine, who smiled and held up her hand, displaying the purpling teeth marks. “She doesn’t even scold me!”
Thorne sighed. “Then I don’t suppose it’s my place to scold you for her. You seem to have learned a great deal about her in a short time.” With a glance in Martine’s direction, he added, “The rest of us haven’t been so fortunate.”
“Want to know what her favorite color is?” Ailith asked.
“If you’d like to tell me.”
“Dark blue, like her tunic. ‘Tis the same color as her eyes.”
“No wonder it’s her favorite, then.”
“Know what she calls her cat?”
Thorne smiled. “Loki. The shape-shifter. The changer.” His gaze traveled over Martine’s gown and hair. “Like his mistress.”
Ailith thrust out her lower lip and scowled. “You knew!” Suddenly she grinned. “Bet you don’t know what she wears to bed!”
Martine grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward the drawbridge. “Ailith...”
“Nothing!” Ailith squealed, struggling against Martine as she led her away. “She sleeps naked!” Two porters leaning against the turrets of the inner gatehouse looked from the child to the woman to each other, grinning.
Thorne didn’t grin, Martine s
aw as she turned to lift Ailith in her arms, deciding to carry her rather than wrestle with her. He wore just the hint of a smile as he stared after her. He stood very slowly, taking care, it seemed, not to disturb Freya.
Martine hurried through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge with Ailith screaming “Naked! She sleeps naked!” and didn’t stop until she was well within the outer bailey.
* * *
Martine left Ailith in the cookhouse playing with one of the cook’s daughters, who had a collection of baked clay animals. In the daylight, the outer bailey resembled a small walled village of thatched stone and wood. People, dogs, chickens, and pigs crossed paths in the packed mud, all there to serve their baron’s various needs. The only truly idle creatures she could see were children Ailith’s age or younger, who gathered with balls and bats or small wooden soldiers, which they marched purposefully through the mud.
As she recrossed the inner drawbridge, she noticed a putrid odor rising from the ditch below. Looking down, she saw several inches of stagnant, scum-covered water in the bottom of the long trench. A pinpoint of fire on the back of her hand caused her to wince. She slapped at it, crushing the tiny insect, a mosquito. The rainwater in the bottom of the ditch must be an excellent breeding ground for such pests.
There were other indications that Harford was not a well-kept castle. The rushes in the great hall smelled of mold and were littered with bones and other debris. Those dogs ran wild, like unruly children who had never been taught discipline. The servants varied in their dedication to their work, but there was no one with a firm hand to oversee them and make sure castle business was properly attended to.
This firm hand would normally have been that of the mistress of the house, but Beatrix, baroness of Harford, had died eleven years before. Lord Godfrey had evidently never felt the need to remarry, having two sons and a daughter as heirs. And he did not seem to be equal himself to the task of looking after his home, preoccupied as he was with drinking and hawking. According to Felda, he was incapable of controlling his own knights, who had split their loyalties between Thorne and Bernard.
As she thought of Thorne, she heard him say her name. She stopped short just inside the inner bailey, frowning in puzzlement.
“Lady Martine,” he repeated. She turned around. He stood leaning against a gatehouse turret, a different bird on his fist. Had he come back to wait for her? Why?
“Sir Thorne.”
He approached her and nodded at the bird, a small brown falcon with a white throat. “This merlin has a cold. I was wondering if you might have any stavesacre for her in that box of yours.”
“Stavesacre? Yes, I do.”
As she opened the brass box and reached into it, he said, “You haven’t got any cardamom as well, have you? ‘Tis good for their stomachs.”
“I believe I do,” she answered, fumbling among the various packets and jars.
He lifted the box right out of her hands and strode with it toward the hawk house. “You can set this down on my worktable.”
Chapter 6
Martine followed Sir Thorne, reflecting that she hadn’t much choice; he had taken her most valuable possession right out of her hands. Those herbs and spices had come from every obscure corner of the known world, and some were as rare as the most precious gems. She had no intention of letting them out of her sight, as he surely must know.
The boys who had been changing the straw were gone. He led her through the door to the right, ducking as he entered. She ducked, too, although the doorway was tall enough for her. They were in a little living chamber. She saw the narrow bed and realized this must be where he slept, although it apparently served as a workshop as well. There was a table against one wall, on which were arranged various tools, jars, flasks, and boxes, as well as tangled piles of leashes and a row of little leather hoods with feather plumes, each on its own wooden stand.
Thorne set the brass box on the table, then ducked through a leather-curtained doorway and disappeared into the other side of the hawk house. Martine took the opportunity to inspect the chamber further. A brazier, not in use at present, took up one corner, and above it hung a collection of leather gauntlets on hooks. In the opposite corner stood a beautifully carved armchair, and next to it a small table on which sat a book and a little bowl containing what looked like strips of raw meat. On top of the book lay a white feather.
She lifted the feather, but a sudden piercing scream startled her into dropping it. It was Freya, tethered to a perch nearby, and evidently displeased at having Martine so close. Sir Thorne emerged through the leather curtain, took up the feather, and trailed it gently over the young falcon’s wings, speaking softly to her in English.
“Why English?” Martine asked.
“They respond better to it than to French. ‘Tis a language simple and direct, much like themselves.”
Although Martine couldn’t understand a word he said, his voice was so deep and sonorous, his tone so soothing, that she began to relax right along with Freya. The bird turned her head and stared at her master fixedly with one fierce, unnerving eye as he reached into the small bowl and brought forth a strip of meat. Martine expected him to hold it up to her beak, but instead, he drew it across her feet, whispering gently to her all the while. After several moments of this, she pecked at the tidbit, then grabbed it in her beak and flung it into the straw covering the floor.
Thorne smiled as if at a mischievous child and repeated the gesture with a second piece of meat, then a third and a fourth, each time with the same result. Martine wondered at his patience. Finally Freya deigned to hold a piece of meat in her beak. When she swallowed it, Thorne rewarded her with animated words of praise, then fed two more slivers directly into her mouth.
He retrieved the bits she had tossed about the room, returned them to the bowl, and crossed to the worktable. Martine followed him and began rummaging through her box in search of the herbs he wanted. She spread packets and jars over the table as she did so, and many of these Thorne opened and squinted into, sometimes tasting the contents. But when he uncorked the little blue glass vial and began to insert a finger, she immediately grabbed his wrist. “Hemlock.”
“Hemlock!”
Her slender fingers could not meet around his wrist. It felt as hard as oak to the touch, but warm. She released it abruptly, almost pushing him away, then took the vial, closed it, and returned it to the box, aware the whole time of him watching her, his gaze strangely intent.
She cleared her throat. “‘Tis an ingredient in a surgical sleeping draft I know of. In a very tiny amount. More could kill you.” She handed him the little bag of stavesacre. “Take what you need. I’m curious to see how you use it.”
He put a pinch in a stone mortar, then added three peppercorns from his own supplies and ground them quickly to dust. He poured something from a jug into the mortar—Martine smelled vinegar—and said, “I’ll let it sit for a while till it’s ready. Then I’ll put some on the merlin’s nostrils and palate. That and some warm hen flesh should cure her cold.”
He took some extra stavesacre and a few cardamom seeds, storing them in little jars, then said, “Have you ever held a falcon?”
“Nay.”
“Never?” Of course her truthful answer would surprise him, she realized. Women who had grown up in noble households were used to handling birds of prey, if only the smaller varieties, like that merlin. Had he asked the question in a deliberate attempt to trip her up? Was he beginning to suspect, after Estrude’s interrogation regarding her family, that she was hiding something?
He took a small gauntlet from a hook above the brazier and handed it to her. “Follow me.” He held the leather curtain aside for her. She hesitated, then stepped into the other room.
Several of the birds cried out and flapped their wings as Martine and Thorne entered, but he calmed them with a few soothing words. There were about a dozen, of different species, on perches atop iron rods set into the stone floor. It was dim and cool in the room, the o
nly light coming from between the slats of the window shutters, although several unlit brass and horn lanterns hung on chains near the ceiling. The scent of fresh straw perfumed the atmosphere. It also smelled of the birds, but not offensively so.
She attempted to put the gauntlet on her right hand, but he took it from her and pulled it onto her left, then placed a hand on her back. She tensed at the touch, at the heat from his palm that penetrated the thin fabric of her costume. But once he had guided her to an enormous gray gyrfalcon and removed his hand, the spot where it had been felt cold, and she wished he had left it there.
“This is Azura,” he said. “Lord Godfrey’s favorite.” He threaded a leash through the little swivel on one of Azura’s jesses and wrapped it loosely around Martine’s gloved fingers.
“This one?” Martine said. “But she’s so big!”
“She’s the tamest of them all. Here.” He took her gloved left hand in both of his and pressed it into a fist, then guided it toward the bird’s feet. “She’s well trained. She knows what to do. Don’t let her know that you don’t.”
Martine gasped as the huge bird stepped onto her fist, clinging tightly with her powerful claws.
Thorne said, “If you’re nervous, she’ll be nervous. A nervous falcon is a dangerous thing to be that close to.”
“You have a talent for placing me in dangerous situations, Sir Thorne.”
“You seem to handle yourself fairly well, my lady.” He met her eyes. Quickly she returned her attention to the bird.
“What’s the matter with her tail?” she asked, pointing to a spot that looked damaged.
“One of the feathers is broken. I had wanted to imp it today, because the baron is eager to fly her soon, but my assistant’s not here to help me.”
“Imp?”
“Sew a new one on.”
“You can do that?”
“Certainly.” A pause, as if weighing something. “Would you like to see?”
“But you said you couldn’t do it because your assistant’s—”
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