Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Boyce said, “Meaning no disrespect, Bernard, but I wouldn’t waste the effort. ‘Tis a moving target. Thorne Falconer’s the only man I know who could make that shot.”

  “I think too much is made of the woodsman’s talent with the bow,” Bernard said. “When was the last time he deigned to favor us with a display of it? Perhaps he’s lost his touch from letting his birds do the work his arrows once did. I, on the other hand, have stayed in practice.”

  He took careful aim and released the bolt, but it missed the stag completely and grazed Boyce’s upper arm before embedding in the wall, between two blocks of stone. The men burst out laughing as Boyce’s eyes rolled up, his face twisting into a grimace of pain.

  “Damned if you weren’t right, Boyce,” Bernard called out over the guffaws. “I shouldn’t have wasted the effort!”

  Boyce looked down at his wounded arm and then up at Bernard. Presently he began to chuckle and then roar with laughter, his face reddening and eyes tearing with the effort of it.

  “Damned right I was right,” he choked out, slapping his thighs. It astounded Martine that he could even speak, after having been shot by a crossbow. “Never try and show off with a moving target. Look.” He pointed with his good arm toward the stag, still upright on its wobbly legs, its head flailing back and forth. “It’s still moving. Damn thing just won’t give up.”

  Martine heard footsteps on the stairs behind her, and then a pair of strong hands took her by the shoulders and moved her aside so he could pass. It was Thorne.

  Bernard lost his smile as soon as the Saxon stepped into the guardroom. “Ah. The falconer. Just in time to join the merriment.”

  “Now we’ll see some shooting,” said Boyce.

  Bernard said, “Boyce thinks you can hit this stag in the nose. I say your reputation exceeds your skill.” He and Thorne regarded each other with ill-suppressed hostility. Presently Bernard’s humorless smile returned. “Care to prove me wrong, woodsman?”

  Thorne said, “Someone give me a shortbow.”

  “Dear God,” said Martine, stepping into the room. She looked on in dismay as Thorne caught the weapon that someone tossed him, and the arrow that followed. To her surprise, Rainulf seemed unperturbed by his friend’s participation in this nightmare. Could he really be that forgiving?

  Well, she wasn’t. As Thorne began to draw the bow, she reached out and grabbed the arrow from him, then struck it as hard as she could against the stone wall, snapping it in two.

  “You disgust me!” she said.

  The guardroom was frozen in silence for a brief moment, the only movement the thrashing of the deer. Then came the low whistles and disbelieving chuckles of Bernard’s men. She faced Thorne squarely, ready to tell him exactly what she thought of this cruel sport, and of him for accepting Bernard’s challenge. The way he looked at her disarmed her, though. Instead of the anger she had expected, she could swear she saw the briefest flicker of amusement, and something else—admiration?—in his eyes.

  Nevertheless, when he turned back to the guardroom, he said, “Another arrow.” As soon as he caught it, Martine reached for it, but this time he grabbed her wrist in a powerful grip, then looked to Rainulf for assistance. Her brother took her firmly by the arm and led her back toward the stairwell.

  The stag bolted in various directions, tottering on its legs like a jointed toy soldier. Thorne drew the bow, watching, waiting for the right moment.

  Bernard said, “Well, woodsman? Can you hit it in the nose?”

  As the animal swung around to face him, Thorne swiftly dropped to one knee, aimed, and took his shot. The stag’s head flew up and it lost its footing, crashing to the floor in a clatter of antlers. Its eyes rolled up and it emitted a ragged wheeze. Then it settled into the stillness of death, Thorne’s arrow protruding not from its nose, but from its breast.

  Thorne rose, his expression neutral in response to Bernard’s sullen glare. “Probably.”

  The arrow had clearly pierced the stag’s heart. It dawned on Martine as Rainulf released her arm that mercy for the tormented beast had been Thorne’s intent all along. Rainulf had realized this from the first, assumed it. Why had it not occurred to Martine? Her cheeks burned with shame for having presumed the worst, and she felt silently grateful to Thorne for not looking in her direction.

  Bernard eyed Thorne with cold antipathy. Boyce choked with laughter at what he evidently considered a fine joke, but the rest of Bernard’s men groaned in disappointment and muttered invectives under their breath.

  “I think the falconer disapproves of our little sport,” Bernard said tightly. “Spirits tend to run high toward the end of a long hunt, and the men welcome such diversions. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, woodsman? You take your lap birds out and come home a few hours later with your pathetic catch of small game that wouldn’t fill the belly of one of these dogs. I honestly don’t know how you can hold your head up. My little brother was bringing down boar before he had hair on his—” he glanced toward Martine, smirking, “chin.” His men snickered.

  Thorne scanned the room. “Did Edmond return with you from the hunt?” His eyes rested on Boyce, sitting against the wall with blood running down his arm. “Or did you accidentally shoot him, too?” Only Boyce laughed, although some of the others appeared to be biting their lips.

  “My brother has, indeed, returned safely. He’ll be in shortly, with a gift for his bride.” Bernard turned his hard eyes on Martine. “This is the lady Martine, is it not?”

  Thorne said, “Martine of Rouen and her brother, Father Rainulf... Bernard of Harford.”

  “So I gathered,” said Martine, her voice flat.

  A low murmuring arose from Bernard’s men. Martine heard whispers of “She’s a cold one” and “The boy’ll have his hands full.”

  The whispering abruptly ceased, and Martine followed the gazes of the others to the doorway. A young man stood there, looking upon her with grave interest. She knew immediately that this was Edmond.

  Chapter 7

  Her betrothed was comely, as had been promised, with dark eyes and skin brown from the sun. His lips were full, his neck ropy with muscle. Unlike his brother, he was plainly dressed, his hair stuffed into a threadbare blue woolen cap. He stood with his weight on one hip, both hands clutching a gray blanket tied around something enormous that rested on the floor beside him. She caught a whiff of gaminess and wondered about the contents of the blanket.

  Bernard stepped around the dead stag and plucked Edmond’s cap off his head. Black, curly hair, matted from its recent confinement, sprang forth. It was long, falling past his shoulders. With his swarthy features, that hair, and his layers of drab garments, he looked like a barbarian—or an infidel.

  “My dear Lady Martine,” Bernard said, “may I have the honor of introducing your betrothed... my brother, Sir Edmond of Harford.”

  The couple continued to stare at each other. Neither said a word, nor did they move. The tension proved too much for Bernard’s men, who soon commenced their whispering and snickering.

  Thorne said, “Edmond, your brother tells us you’ve brought a gift for Lady Martine.”

  Bernard nudged his brother forward. Edmond approached Martine, dragging the bundle with him. The blanket, she now saw, was spotted with dark patches. It was blood, she realized—blood that had soaked through from the inside. The closer he got, the more sickening became the stench that rose from the bundle, causing her nostrils to flare and bile to rise in her throat. She watched his hands as he untied the blanket. They were dark brown, but not from the sun; they were too dark for that. Dirt? No, more like something liquid that had dried. Blood. His hands were covered with dried blood.

  He flung the blanket open, releasing a wave of unspeakable foulness to which he seemed oblivious. “For our dinner tomorrow,” he said, straightening up. “Our betrothal dinner.”

  It was a boar. The huge, black-bristled creature lay limp and dead on the bloodstained blanket. From its gaping mouth, fl
anked by blood-spattered tusks, protruded a grotesque purple tongue swarming with insects. These same insects crawled over its open eyes and busied themselves among its many glistening wounds.

  Martine took a step back and felt the first stair step at her heels. Edmond nervously clenched and unclenched his blood-brown hands as he glanced from her to his brother and back, as if waiting for some response from her.

  The others still stared at her. Stared and stared, expecting... what? What should she say? Oh, thank you. Thank you for this dead boar. That dead stag. The dead dog. Dead dead dead.

  His hands were covered with blood—covered with it!—and everyone was staring, staring, staring

  She turned and ran up the stairs, her heart beating out a warning that her logical mind could not accept: that the bloodstained hands of her betrothed were an omen. An omen of evil. An omen of death.

  * * *

  “He’d been hunting,” Rainulf repeated. “That’s why there was blood on his hands. Pull yourself together.” He wished she would stop this incessant pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, as half a roast duckling grew cold on its trencher. She had insisted on taking her supper alone in her chamber, and now refused to join the others downstairs.

  “He’s had a bath,” Rainulf offered, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “It’s too late. I’ve seen him in his natural state. He can’t fool me.”

  “Martine, I wouldn’t have betrothed you to just anyone. Thorne watched Edmond grow up, and he assures me there’s never been any sign of bad character, or—”

  She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “He’d say anything he had to if it would get me to agree to this wedding. He as much as told me that he arranged this marriage to further his ambitions.”

  “He told me the same before supper. He was afraid I’d hate him for it, as you do.”

  Loki writhed against her legs, and she lifted him and held him to her chest. “Don’t you?”

  “Nay! He’s never claimed to be a saint, Martine—merely a man trying to make the best of his life. Thorne grew up with nothing. He’s seen the tragic consequences of poverty. ‘Tis no sin for him to want to better himself. In fact, I believe ‘tis a noble goal in God’s eyes.”

  “He told me he would do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. Those were his words. Whatever it takes. Suppose it takes some act of sin—stealing, or killing, or—”

  Rainulf laughed. “‘Twould have been a worthy subject for disputation with my students. Does a noble goal justify a sinful—”

  “Stop it, Rainulf.” Her quiet reproach stung more than if she had screamed invectives at him. Even the cat seemed to glare accusingly at him before leaping from her arms. “Don’t make light of my doubts and fears. You never have before. You’ve always understood. I’ve never even had to speak of the things that scared me. You always knew what they were.”

  She was right. He was failing her. He should soothe her fears, not mock them. Perhaps, as his faith waned, so did his ability to lend comfort to those in need, even to his beloved sister.

  Martine opened the window shutters and breathed deeply of the warm night air, then stared down into the bailey, her gaze fixed on something he couldn’t see.

  “Martine.” She turned away from the window. Her eyes were large and sad. “You don’t have to marry Edmond. We can leave here tomorrow morning, before the betrothal ceremony. I’ll pay Godfrey a small—”

  “I’ll marry him,” she said flatly.

  “Aye, but I know you have misgivings. I... I’ll put off my pilgrimage until you’re settled.”

  “‘Settled.’ That means marriage or the convent. We both know I wouldn’t make a very agreeable nun. I mean, they do still expect you to believe all that primitive, superstitious—”

  “Martine!” But he couldn’t help smiling.

  “So that leaves marriage. And since you went to a great deal of trouble to find Sir Edmond for me, I may as well marry him as anyone else. If I’m lucky, he’ll find me as unpleasant as most men do, and then I’m sure it won’t be long before he takes a mistress and leaves me in peace.”

  Rainulf stared at the grim young woman before him. “You won’t even give him a chance to earn your—”

  “I’ll give him nothing!” she snapped. “If I were to give him anything at all, any part of myself, he’d keep on taking and taking and taking, and leave me empty.” She crossed her arms and looked away.

  “Martine, look at me.” She did. “You’re very strong. You’re not Adela, as you’re fond of pointing out.”

  At the mention of her mother’s name, Martine returned to the window. “She was destroyed by love,” she said, her back to Rainulf, her gaze fixed as before. “She gave her heart completely to Jourdain, and he took it as if it were his due and gave nothing in return but grief.” She always referred to their father by his Christian name, Rainulf realized, as if trying to deny the very fact that he had sired her. Her hatred for him ran deep and strong, years after his death. “He used her. He consumed her as fire consumes straw.”

  Rainulf rose and joined his sister at the window, wondering what had so commanded her attention. He could see nothing of interest. The bailey was deserted and moonlit, the only bright spots the candlelit windows of the hawk house.

  “My lady?” came a woman’s voice from beyond the chamber’s leather curtain. Martine groaned inwardly. Estrude. What did she want?

  Rainulf met her gaze with an amused expression and mouthed, Behave yourself, then waited for Martine’s grudging nod before pulling back the curtain. “Good evening, my lady.”

  Estrude swept into the room in a purple silk wrapper, her hair unbound and loose. It was wet, a riot of auburn curls. Although she had evidently just taken a bath, for some reason she had reapplied her face paint. Martine wondered why someone would go to such trouble before retiring for the night. “Father... Lady Martine. Am I interrupting? I could come back later.”

  “Actually—” Martine began.

  “Actually, we’re delighted to see you,” Rainulf finished, with a carefully polite smile for Estrude and a swift censorious glance for Martine. “We’ve had so little time to get to know you.”

  “You’re very kind,” Estrude replied. “In truth, I only stopped by to ask a favor of your sister.” She turned to Martine. “I confess that I’ve been most curious about that perfume of yours, the one made from lavender and... sweet cicely, was it?”

  “Sweet woodruff,” Martine corrected.

  “Thorne certainly seemed taken with it,” Rainulf said.

  Estrude’s face went blank, and she turned away from them to glance curiously around the chamber. “Did he? I didn’t notice.”

  Liar, thought Martine, suddenly on guard. You noticed, all right. Nothing slips by women like you. “Is that so?”

  Estrude met her gaze unblinkingly. “Yes, my dear, it is. And, as I say, I’ve been most curious about it ever since last night. Do you suppose you might consent to let me try some on?”

  “You want to wear my perfume?” The notion appalled Martine. It was a fragrance she had created, and which was hers and hers alone. For this awful woman to wear it—to smell like her—made Martine cringe.

  “Just tonight,” Estrude said. “To see what it’s like.”

  Martine started to shake her head, but Rainulf stabbed her with a glare of warning and walked over to the little chest on which her toiletries were set out. “‘Tis something of a compliment, is it not, sister?” He located the little vial of perfume and handed it to Lady Estrude. “If you like it, Fin sure Martine will be happy to share the recipe with you.”

  Estrude chuckled as she pulled out the stopper. “I’m not very clever with herbs, but thank you for the offer.” She sniffed the vial and frowned. “It is different.” Shrugging, she proceeded to apply liberal splashes of the scent to her throat and arms.

  “That’s... rather a lot,” Martine said. “It’s stronger than it seems.”

  “I like my scent strong,” said
Estrude, closing the vial and handing it back to Rainulf, who replaced it on the chest. She lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled. Martine noticed the silver-handled dog stick looped around her wrist; apparently she never left her chamber without it. “I’m afraid this isn’t quite to my taste after all. But,” she added dryly, “I’m ever so moved by your generosity in sharing it with me.”

  After Estrude had bid them good night and left, Martine turned to her brother. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

  Rainulf’s brows drew together. “She simply wanted to—”

  “Nothing about that woman is simple.”

  Rainulf shook his head. “Your nerves are affecting your temper—as usual. You must learn to be civil even when you’re distraught.”

  Martine groaned and covered her ears with her hands. “No more lectures tonight, Rainulf—please.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. This is a difficult time for you, and I’m not helping.”

  “Nothing can help,” she replied sullenly.

  “Sleep can help,” he said. “You’re still fatigued from the journey, and you need to be rested for the betrothal ceremony tomorrow. I’ll leave you now, but you must promise to go to bed right away. No staying awake and fretting. And no dreams of floating gowns or lakes filled with blood. If the nightmare comes back, come and wake me up and we’ll talk—”

  “It comes almost every night lately. I can’t wake you every night.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  She smiled gently, grateful for his offer, although she had no intention of accepting it. She burdened her brother enough without ruining his sleep. He would be gracious about it, as about everything, and attempt to ease her mind with soothing words, but it really wasn’t fair to him. Besides, in truth his mild words eased only her mildest woes. At times like this, when her heart ached and she shivered with nameless dread, she needed comforting arms, not comforting words.

  “Sleep well, Martine,” he said, and left her chamber.

  She crossed to the window and opened the shutters.