Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “The next course will suit you, I’m sure,” he said, nodding toward the cooking pits that had been dug into the field several yards away. A team of young men turned a long spit impaled with the boar that Edmond had killed for their betrothal dinner. Black, greasy smoke rose from the pits to stain the blue sky.

  Feeling the sting of bile in her throat, Martine quickly turned away and took a sip from the goblet of Rhenish wine that she shared with Edmond. She sat at the high table between Lord Godfrey and her betrothed, who had left her side some time ago to join some of his brother’s men for wrestling and foot-fighting in the meadow. Next to Godfrey, in a grand, high-backed, chair, sat the earl, Olivier. Martine was surprised to find him on such friendly terms with Bernard, but Godfrey explained that his elder son had been fostered out to the earl at an early age for knightly training, and the two had therefore grown quite close. Martine had never seen any man as fat as Olivier, nor as red in the face. His wife, plump and pink, was a female version of her husband. Several of the neighboring barons—all vassals of Olivier’s—sat with their families at tables lined up perpendicular to the high table.

  Rainulf settled next to Martine, in the chair vacated by Edmond. Pointing, he said, “Look at Ailith”

  The child had climbed on top of an empty bench and commenced to twirl around in circles, her arms out. “Mama!” she squealed. “Look at me! I’m a dancing girl! Mama!” Geneva disgustedly shook her head and looked away.

  “She’s so desperate for her mother’s attention,” Rainulf said. “‘Tis sad to see her try so hard, for naught.”

  Thorne had been watching as well, and now he crossed to Ailith, lifted her from the bench, and wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and squirmed, and Martine heard him say, “You might have fallen off the bench and ended up looking like me.” He lowered his head so that she could get a better view of the wound on his forehead, an ugly cut amid blue-black swelling. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Ailith ceased her struggles while she examined the injury, wide-eyed.

  Godfrey said, “She’s like a wild animal, that child. In a boy, one expects a bit of temper. ‘Tis only natural. My sons were always in one scrape or another. My Beatrix was the only one who could handle them.” He smiled wistfully, his rheumy eyes focused far back in time, then turned to face Martine, a sad and serious look on his face. “You see you make me some grandsons, my lady. I’ve already told Edmond I expect a boy within the year.”

  Martine blinked, speechless. Thorne, having evidently heard the baron’s statement, met her gaze briefly, his expression pensive.

  “A boy, do you hear?” the baron continued. “Someone to carry on the title. For every grandson you give me, I’ll deed you a choice piece of land. In a few years, you’ll have doubled your bride price.”

  Hardly a compelling offer, thought Martine, since whatever lands she owned, including her bride price, would be Edmond’s to dispose of as he pleased during his lifetime. Wives had no control over their property until their husbands died, and given Edmond’s youth and obvious good health, she did not expect widowhood to be soon in coming.

  Such considerations seemed to escape Estrude, however. Leaning forward on her elbows, she said, “‘Tis a handsome offer, my lord. Will I earn such bounty as well, if I produce a son?”

  Bernard, next to her, growled, “You don’t quite get the point, do you, my dear? You’re never going to produce a son, and everyone knows it by now. ‘Twas the only creative act you were ever called upon to perform—certainly the only thing I ever expected of you—and you just weren’t up to it.”

  Crimson-faced, Estrude sat back in her chair.

  Bernard absently twirled his jeweled eating knife between two long, slender fingers. “In desperation, my father is now using my own birthright to bribe the lady Martine into doing the job which I brought you all the way from Flanders fourteen years ago to do.” He chuckled humorlessly. “If she proves exceedingly fertile, I just may end up with no barony to inherit.”

  Thorne had taken Ailith out into the meadow as soon as Bernard began speaking, apparently sensing that his words would be unsuitable for the child’s ears. Eager to avert her gaze from Bernard’s ugly sneer, Martine watched the child and the falconer, hand in hand, he pointing out blossoms and she picking them. His tenderness with Ailith surprised her, considering his commanding and self-contained nature. It seemed he only let down his guard with the young girl who reminded him of—what was his sister’s name? Louise. Why had he been so reticent to talk about her?

  The other guests pretended not to hear Bernard’s public humiliation of his wife, although no one spoke. They all looked down at their meals except for Clare, who gazed at Bernard as if in a trance. When Estrude said, in a tremulous whisper, “It’s not too late, I’m only thirty,” Martine turned to look at her, as did everyone beneath the canopy.

  Stabbing the knife into the table, Bernard bellowed, “You’re only barren and useless! You should consider yourself lucky I’ve kept you on here out of pity instead of sending you back to Flanders. I’ve often been tempted, and may yet do so. Ask my sister how it feels to be sent packing. If bribery can produce a son, perhaps fear can, as well.”

  That he would stage such an outburst on such an occasion and in front of so many people shocked Martine, but seemed to surprise no one else. The rest of the company looked as if they had heard it all before, and no doubt they had.

  Estrude, still blushing in shame and frustration, sat staring into the distance beyond the river. Suddenly she looked puzzled and, squinting, said, “Who invited Lord Neville?”

  “Don’t tell me...” the baron groaned, as all heads turned toward the river. Crossing the small bridge on horseback was a tall, angular, opulently dressed man accompanied by a small woman in shimmering silks and barbette. They dismounted and came to pay their respects, first to Olivier, then to Godfrey.

  Neville’s gaze took in the canopy, the richly dressed guests, the lavishly appointed tables, abundant food, and dozens of servants. He looked perhaps forty, with a blond beard trained into a long point. On his head he wore a snug purple coif.

  With a slight nod toward Godfrey, he said, “Had I known you were entertaining, Sire, I’d have chosen another time to pay my call.” Behind him, eyes rolled.

  His wife was pale and jumpy. Her eyes darted back and forth between Godfrey and the earl, and her clasped hands were actually shaking. She wasn’t just embarrassed at having arrived uninvited; she was frightened. Martine wondered why.

  Godfrey mumbled something civil but meaningless and called for two fresh place settings. The cooks approached him, presenting for his approval the boar’s head on a platter. He nodded and yawned. The pages served the boar, although many of the guests, having eaten their fill, had left their seats.

  Thorne returned from the meadow and handed Rainulf a book. “Thank you for the loan. ‘Tis more pleasant to wake a falcon when one has a book for company during the long night.” He stood on the other side of the high table, directly opposite Martine, tall and elegant in a russet tunic bisected by a tooled black leather belt from which hung his sheathed sword, a symbol of his knighthood. As she appraised him discreetly, she saw him glance in her direction, then hurriedly look away.

  Father Simon appeared behind Thorne. He stood on his toes to peer over the Saxon’s big shoulder at the book. “Cicero’s De Amictia,” he announced with a smirk. “Greek philosophy. Tell me, Father Rainulf, don’t they frown on pagan writings at the University of Paris?”

  Rainulf sat back and crossed his legs. “‘Tis one of the reasons I’ve decided to teach at Oxford when I return from Jerusalem. And Cicero was Roman, not Greek.”

  Simon dismissed the distinction with a shrug. “We have a monk nearby who shares your unorthodox views, Father. Perhaps you know of him.”

  Rainulf nodded. “Brother Matthew, prior of St. Dunstan’s. I knew him well in Paris. We studied together under Abelard.”

  “Abelard?” Simon smiled knowingly. “I can’
t say I’m surprised.”

  “Brother Matthew has invited me to St. Dunstan’s for a long visit,” Rainulf said. “Thorne has agreed to accompany me.”

  Bernard leaned forward and frowned. “What of the lady Martine? Won’t she be going with you as well?”

  Rainulf shook his head. “We thought perhaps ‘twould be best if she remained at Harford. She’ll want to get to know Edmond, perhaps visit the house in which they’ll live and oversee the furnishing—”

  “Well, of course,” Bernard interjected, “she’s more than welcome, if that’s what she chooses. But I hardly think it’s what she would truly prefer. After all, you’ll be leaving on pilgrimage shortly after the wedding, and she won’t see you for years.”

  “Two at the most.” Martine saw Rainulf direct an uncomfortable glance toward her. Bernard was right, of course. She would have preferred to accompany her brother to the monastery, but he had insisted that the separation would be good for her.

  “Two years is a long time,” Bernard persisted. “Surely she’d be happier with you than here among virtual strangers.”

  Why, Martine wondered, did Bernard insist so strenuously that she spend the next month away from Harford? It was almost as if there were something he wanted to keep from her. She looked toward the meadow, where Edmond and another man exchanged kicks and punches while a group of Harford’s “dogs” cheered rowdily. Her betrothed had discarded his tunic, and fought in his shirt and chausses. His hair hung in his face as he circled and ducked and kicked, his expression one of savage and single-minded determination. Was it Edmond that Bernard wanted to keep her from? Perhaps he thought it best that she not get to know her betrothed too well before the wedding, lest she be tempted to break the marriage contract.

  Even if that were so, it didn’t matter. Martine already knew she could never care for Edmond, and that was as it should be. Were she to have feelings for him, he would someday use them against her, turning their marriage into a union of sorrow for her and power for him. Martine would marry, but she would marry on her own terms. Hers would not be the jongleur’s bond of love, nor Thorne’s of property. She married for duty. She married for Rainulf. Eight years ago, he had given her—a terrified and lonely child—her future. And now she would return the favor.

  “When are you going to St. Dunstan’s?” Olivier asked Rainulf.

  `Tomorrow, Sire.”

  Lord Neville had joined the group at the high table, and now he said, “Tomorrow? St. Dunstan’s is a day’s ride, Father, most of it through dense woods. Are you sure it’s wise to set out on a trip like that while the bandits who murdered Anseau and Aiglentine are still at large?”

  After a moment of perplexed silence, Olivier said, “Haven’t you heard? Those men were captured. My hangman’s spent the last two days giving them a taste of what they’ll find in hell once he’s stretched their filthy necks.”

  As Martine watched, the color drained from Neville’s face. His wife’s hand immediately clutched his sleeve, but he shook her off testily and said, “Captured? Nay, no one told me. Someone might have sent a messenger.” He paused dramatically, preparing his audience for his next statement: “After all, I am Anseau’s only living relative.”

  There was complete silence beneath the canopy. Martine knew that Anseau was believed to have left no family at all—at least, none in England. Olivier and Godfrey, frowning, consulted with each other in a whisper. Finally Godfrey shrugged, and Olivier, looking a bit taken aback, said, “I am informed that there may be a distant connection.”

  “Distant, perhaps,” Neville conceded. “Nevertheless, I am his heir. I thought that was widely known.”

  The silence gave way to excited murmuring. So this was Neville’s purpose in arriving uninvited at Martine and Edmond’s betrothal feast—to present himself as Anseau’s heir and, presumably, set the stage for his inheritance of Anseau’s barony.

  After a thoughtful pause, Olivier said, “This is not the time or place in which to discuss these matters, Lord Neville. You may or may not be Anseau’s legitimate heir.” Neville made as if to speak, but Olivier silenced him with a sharply raised hand. “Understand that the barony in question is the largest and wealthiest within my fief. Its inheritance is not a matter to be decided lightly. Assuming you are, as you claim, Anseau’s only survivor and heir, rest assured that what is yours will come to you in due course. For now, I will discuss the matter no further.”

  Again Neville tried to speak, but Olivier turned to Godfrey and said, “Are there not betrothal gifts to be exchanged? This would be a good time, since everyone is gathered about.”

  Eagerly taking the cue, Godfrey called for Edmond to be summoned from the meadow and the gifts to be presented. Edmond presented Martine with a great heap of ermine skins, white with black-tipped tails, all of superb quality—a generous gift, and much admired. Estrude seemed particularly impressed, and Martine consented to allow her to trim her wedding costume with them.

  Martine’s gift to her betrothed, in addition to the bloodhound pups, was a chess set that Rainulf had commissioned from a renowned Danish artisan. The white pieces had been carved of whalebone; the black of ebony. What made the set so distinctive was that the kings and queens, rather than being represented by tiny figures, were small sculpted heads—miniature busts on short pedestals. The black king wore a regal crown over his short hair, his queen a barbette and veil beneath an elaborate coronet. Olivier noted that they resembled Henry and Eleanor, and Rainulf acknowledged that the resemblance had been deliberate. The earl passed the pieces around, and there were many compliments on the cleverness of the idea and the skill of the artisan.

  Boyce, one bandaged arm in a sling, the other hoisting the pitcher of ale from which he drank, said, “Young Edmond’s going to have to learn how to play chess now! And he hasn’t even mastered draughts!”

  Bernard’s men laughed uproariously. Edmond laughed, too, but Martine sensed his discomfort, as if he didn’t know whether to shrug off Boyce’s comment as good-natured teasing, or take offense.

  So, thought Martine. He can’t even play chess. Can’t read and can’t play chess. No wonder all he does is hunt.

  Apparently unnoticed, except by Martine, Thorne lifted the white king and queen to examine more closely. The uncrowned king, young and long-haired, he inspected briefly and put down. Cradling the queen in the palm of his large hand, he gently rubbed his thumb over its small, smoothly sculpted features—the prominent cheekbones, wide mouth, and straight, aristocratic nose. The hair was hidden beneath a tucked and twisted veil, as Martine had worn it when she had posed for the sculptor. Thorne smiled with secret pleasure at his discovery, and Peter, next to him, said, “You seem quite taken with that piece.”

  Thorne’s eyes met Martine’s and held them for a brief moment. He seemed slightly embarrassed to find that she had been watching him. Handing the chess piece to the other knight, he said, “I am quite taken with the workmanship. Don’t you recognize her?”

  Frowning, Peter examined the piece and then passed it around. Several people ventured guesses as to the lady’s identity. Most thought it to represent the Virgin Mary.

  Thorne laughed. “‘Tis another lady of great beauty and virtue. Our Martine of Rouen!”

  There were gasps of delight and many apologies to Martine for not having recognized her image. It was curious, Martine reflected, that only Thorne had seen her face in the whalebone.

  * * *

  As the afternoon wore on, the clouds began to darken and fill up the sky like smoke. Martine, strolling along the edge of the river, saw, far away, the tiny figure of a horseman on the road to the castle, but paid him little mind. Bending her head, she continued to search the wildflowers for blossoms to add to the half-finished chaplet in her hand, which she wanted to finish before it began to rain. She was making it for Ailith, who followed along behind, collecting a bouquet for her mother.

  Martine heard Thorne’s faraway voice and squinted to make him out from the group of
men hawking some distance away, where the meadow met the woods. It wasn’t hard; he was by far the tallest one. A spaniel scented quarry and danced excitedly around some low bushes. The master falconer had brought not Freya, who had yet to be taught to hunt, but an experienced peregrine. He unhooded the bird, rewarding the dog with words of praise.

  All afternoon, in addition to picking flowers and weaving them together, Martine had watched Thorne and his companions fly their falcons, unnoticed from her discreet vantage point at the river’s edge. She wanted to know something of hawking—it would be expected of her—and found that she had already learned a great deal from this covert observation.

  After giving the unhooded peregrine a few moments to get her bearings on his gauntleted fist, Thorne cast her off with a twist of his arm. She circled above the dog in graceful, ascending spirals, attaining a remarkable altitude. When she had gotten almost out of sight, the well-trained spaniel rushed the bushes, flushing a covey of grouse into the air while Thorne alerted the peregrine by means of a loud, singsong cry.

  Martine’s eyes, like those of the men in the meadow, immediately sought out the peregrine. Her flight ceased, and in the brief moment that followed, Martine held her breath in anticipation of the kill. Like something dropped from a great height, the peregrine dove with blinding speed, talons outstretched, toward her prey. From the distance at which Martine watched, it looked as if the two birds—falcon and grouse—collided in midair, the grouse dropping to the ground and the falcon soaring sharply upward.

  In reality, Martine knew that the event had been nothing as random as a collision. It had been a carefully planned, flawlessly executed attack by a creature born to the purpose and trained to perfection by southern England’s greatest falconer. The men in the meadow cheered as much in appreciation of Sir Thorne’s mastery over the falcon as for the falcon’s mastery over the grouse.