Peter said, “Aye, ‘twas all a diversion. We waited till nightfall to set the fire, you see, so we could execute our real plan under cover of darkness. While the Welshmen were all congregated on the battlements above the tunnel, pouring buckets of water over the side, Thorne, Guy, and I took a scaling ladder around to the part of the wall they’d left unguarded.”
Having divested Thorne of his mail, Brother Luke took a sharp little knife and proceeded to slice off his linen head-wrappings and blood-soaked quilted underclothes.
Peter shook his head, gazing sadly at the Saxon. “Thorne’s reasoning was that the castle was simply too well built to destroy. We had to find a weaker link in Neville’s defenses, and that weak link was his Welshmen. For all their strength and skill, they were only hired soldiers. They worked for Neville not out of loyalty, but because he paid them. Take away their silver and you take away their reason to fight. The plan was for the three of us to infiltrate the keep, find Neville, and take him hostage.”
“And be killed in the process,” Matthew said. “How could you possibly think you could go unnoticed in a castle full of Welsh mercenaries? ‘Twas suicide to even contemplate it. Didn’t you realize that?”
“Of course. We all made confession and were absolved this afternoon. We assumed we’d never come out alive. Thorne hadn’t intended for Guy and me to come along, but he couldn’t talk us out of it. When he raised the scaling ladder, he insisted on going first, to make sure the coast was clear on the battlements. But when he got to the top, he pulled the ladder up after him so we couldn’t follow.” Peter shook his head, his eyes glimmering. “And then he grinned at us, as if he’d gotten the better of us in a game of darts and not just sentenced himself to death.”
“And saved your lives,” Matthew said softly.
Peter expelled a long, ragged breath. “He turned and... was gone. The Welshmen put out the fire, and we waited. After a while we heard voices from the bailey and then a great commotion. Finally Neville’s flag was lowered from the high tower, and the Welshmen called down that they were prepared to surrender, providing they wouldn’t be hanged. Olivier agreed, and they raised the portcullis. We took their weapons and rounded them up into the tower. Neville was dead and Thorne was as you see him. Our chaplain gave him last rites immediately. The Welshman told us that he’d gotten into the keep, earning those two crossbow bolts in the process, and found Neville. Dragged him into the bailey at sword-point and made him tell the Welshmen he hadn’t enough silver to pay them.”
“Was that true?” Matthew asked.
“I wouldn’t think so. Neville wasn’t stupid enough to surround himself with a hundred bloodthirsty barbarians unless he could afford their asking price.”
“How did he die?”
“They set upon him and tore him into pieces. When we found him, he was... he’d been...” Peter glanced in Martine’s direction as she stirred her powder into a cup of brandy. “I fear I’ll never forget the sight. Thorne’s leg got broken in the melee, but that was unintentional. If they’d meant to kill him, I assure you he’d be most unmistakably dead. My guess if they were too much in awe of him at that point to want to do away with him—or maybe they’d just given up trying. They couldn’t believe he was still on his feet after taking two shots with a crossbow, or that he stood up to them the way he did. They invented a Welsh name for him that means something like ‘English Giant Who Won’t Die.”
Thorne, lying half-dead and semiconscious in his linen drawers, hardly looked like a formidable English giant. Martine found his unaccustomed vulnerability heart-wrenching.
“What will become of Blackburn?” the prior asked Peter.
The knight shrugged. “No one knows, but this time Olivier’s not taking any chances by leaving the castle empty again. He’s moving his own household there until he figures out what to do with it.”
Martine winced at the shudder that coursed through Thorne as Brother Luke gently touched his shin near the shaft of bone that protruded just below his knee.
“I think the leg might have to come off,” he told the Saxon. Martine followed Thorne’s gaze to the array of knives, probes, and bone saws on the table next to the bed. His expression never altered, but she saw him swallow hard.
Turning to Brother Matthew, the young monk whispered, “I’ll go wake up Brother Paul. We’ll also need at least four others to hold him down.” With a glance at the big Saxon, he added, “Strong ones.”
Before Matthew could answer, Martine said, “Let me try first. I can set the break and correct the dislocation, I’m sure of it.”
“Have you done it before?” the prior asked.
“I’ve helped. More than once. Please. With a good strong splint and a poultice of knitbone, I’m sure we can save the leg.”
“What if the wound festers?” Matthew asked. “Then he’ll be worse off than if we had just amputated.”
“There are ways of keeping that from happening,” Martine said. “I can handle the crossbow bolts, too. Just let me try. Please.”
Matthew said, “You’ll need help setting the bone and pulling out those—”
“I’ll help her,” said Peter, unbuckling his hauberk.
Matthew leaned over Thorne. “Sir Thorne, will you allow the lady Martine to treat your injuries?”
Thorne looked toward Martine, and the trust in his eyes filled her with both pride and fear. I mustn’t let him down, she thought.
He nodded. “Aye,” he rasped. “She can treat me.”
Brother Luke said, “We’ll still need some of the stronger brothers to hold him down while she works.”
Martine held the cup of doctored brandy near Thorne’s mouth and slipped a hand around the back of his head to lift it, telling him, “Drink this and we won’t need them.”
He met her eyes. “What’s in it?”
“Besides hemlock?”
The young monk gasped. Thorne chuckled, then quickly drank the contents of the cup. As Martine released him, he reached up with his left hand—or rather, his fist, for she now saw that he had it tightly clenched around something—and with transfixing gentleness, trailed his knuckles over her cheek, down along the curve of her jaw, and across to her chin, his eyes watching his progress as if memorizing the topography of her face. For a short while she forgot their differences, and the pain of having been used by him, and felt only a stunning wholeness, a rightness that took her breath away.
Matthew cleared his throat, and she took Thorne’s hand and lowered it. Peter had thankfully been pulling his hauberk over his head and hadn’t seen anything amiss. Brother Matthew already knew that her relations with Thorne Falconer hadn’t always been entirely innocent. But the whole world needn’t know it.
She laid a hand on Thorne’s forehead, which was hot and damp. “Close your eyes,” she whispered.
A small shake of his head. “Not yet.” But his eyelids seemed heavy. “I want to look at you.”
She smiled. “You’re very stubborn.”
He smiled, too, his eyes never leaving hers, although they were beginning to lose their focus. “Aye, I am that,” he said, the words slightly slurred.
As he lost the battle to keep his eyes open, she murmured, “Sleep.”
He silently mouthed the word Nay, and then his head fell to the side, his left arm slipped off the bed, and something fell out of his hand and rolled onto the floor.
Peter reached down and picked it up.
Ah, he thought, cradling the beautiful little object in his palm. I might have known.
He had wondered what it was that Thorne had taken to carrying around with him these past months. The Saxon refused to let him see it, but Peter frequently saw him reach inside his tunic to touch it, sometimes taking it out to run his fingers over it before hiding it away from prying eyes. And he had been holding it tightly in his fist ever since they found him upon retaking Blackburn Castle.
“What is that? What was he holding?” asked Lady Martine as she dipped her hands in the basin of
water and soaped them up.
Peter hesitated. It was the white queen from the chess set that Lady Martine had given Edmond as a betrothal gift, the white queen carved in her own image—the piece that had turned up missing from the set shortly before the wedding. It was of little account, everyone agreed, since Edmond didn’t even play chess. Indeed, no one even mentioned the theft to him and he did not seem to notice it.
It was the image of Martine of Rouen that Thorne carried with him and cherished, stared at longingly and held close to his heart. A poor substitute for the lady herself, but one with which he’d had to make do. Did she know of his feelings? Perhaps not. And if not, it wasn’t Peter’s place to inform her.
Drying her hands, Martine said, “What was it? A rock?”
“Aye,” Peter said, secreting the white queen in the pocket of his undershirt. “Just a rock.”
Nodding, she indicated the basin. “If I could just trouble you to wash your hands...” She brushed a lock of hair off Thorne’s forehead, and then her gaze traveled down his long body, lingering on the bolt that pierced his shoulder and arm, the leg that had been all but destroyed. Taking a deep breath, and looking slightly overwhelmed, but very determined, she added, “Then we can get to work.”
Chapter 18
Thorne opened his eyes. It was the middle of the night. From beyond the curtains enclosing his bed came the steady breathing of his fellow patients. The only light in the infirmary was the golden glow of the fire pit on the other side of the curtain to his right. No, not quite the only light; something glimmered to the left. Knowing better than to try to sit up without help—his right arm and leg being strapped into splints—he merely turned his head in that direction, hoping to see her there and praying that she hadn’t stopped coming...
She was there, curled up on the big chair they’d dragged in for her, fast asleep. The glimmer came from the oil lamp that shared the little bedside table with her puzzling collection of vials and jars, a stack of fresh bandages, a ewer, and a cup. She had sat up with him, tending his injuries and keeping him company, every day and every night for... how long had it been?
He had no recollection of being brought to St. Dunstan’s, and only fitful, pain-blurred memories of the first day or two, but as near as he knew, this was his fifth night in this place. His fifth night, and she’d been here the whole time, only returning to the prior’s lodge for brief naps or to wash up. Brother Matthew had tried to make her stop coming, maintaining that a monastery infirmary was no place for a woman, but she had argued ceaselessly, claiming Thorne needed her.
And, of course, he did. Needed her in ways too numerous to count.
Right now he needed simply to look at her. In obedience of the dress code enforced on her, she wore a plain dark tunic and a heavy white veil that completely covered her hair. Her face and hands glowed softly in the warm firelight filtering through the curtain, her eyebrows and lashes black as soot against her ivory skin. Those generous lips of hers were slightly parted, revealing the edges of her perfect white teeth.
One of her hands rested on an open book. When he tried to lift his head for a better view of it, pain lanced his right shoulder, and he sank to the bed, sucking in air. As the pain subsided, he reached out his uninjured left arm and carefully slid the book from beneath her hand.
The movement awakened her with a jolt, whereupon the little volume slipped out of his hand and tumbled to the floor.
“What...” she murmured, blinking in confusion. “Thorne, are you all right?” She noticed his arm hanging off the bed and carefully took hold of it, replacing it at his side, then retrieved the book.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, speaking in low tones so as not to disturb the sleeping men beyond the curtains. “I wanted to see what you were reading.”
She showed him the cover. “Ovid’s Amores.”
“Would you read it to me?”
She glanced at the book, grinning self-consciously. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer his Heroides? There’s a copy in the library.”
Thorne chuckled. “Nay, tonight I believe I’m in the mood for Amores.”
Martine read page after page of the courtly poetry as Thorne watched her through half-closed lids, basking in her soft, melodious voice, her infinitely comforting presence. She finished reading, then poured herself a cup of water and drank it.
“Could I have some of that?” he asked.
“Of course.” She poured another cup, then sat on the edge of his bed and carefully slid her arm beneath his back, avoiding his bandages. He gripped her shoulder with his good left hand and held his breath. “Easy, now,” she coaxed as she urged him into a sitting position. He grimaced as pain coursed through him, realizing only after he’d sat up that his fingers had sunk deep into her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmured, shaking out his left arm. “You’ll be bruised tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I’m covered with bruises. ‘Tis one of the drawbacks of tending the ‘English Giant Who Won’t Die’.”
“One of the drawbacks? Are there many others?”
He saw her glance at his bare chest, for he wore nothing beneath his sheet, and quickly look away. “Nay.” She reached for the cup and brought it to his mouth. He steadied it by wrapping his big hand around her small one, wondering whether her slight trembling owed more to the late hour or his proximity. He’d noticed that she didn’t seem to much care about his state of undress when she changed his dressings or spooned elixirs into his mouth, but at other times, such as now, she appeared uncomfortably aware of it. It was when she saw him as a man, rather than as a helpless patient, that she found him most disturbing. But then, how could it be otherwise, given what had occurred between them?
He drained that cup and another. “Thank you.”
She set the cup down. He assumed that she would return to her chair then, but she surprised him pleasantly by bringing her hand to his face and stroking his five-day growth of beard. He closed his eyes, savoring the cool caress of her fingers. “You need to shave,” she said.
“I can’t do it with my left hand.” A rather agreeable thought occurred to him. “Perhaps you could do it for me.”
She dropped her hand to her lap and appeared to consider the possibility. With a small shrug, she said, “Very well. I’ll do it in the morning.” Thorne beamed in anticipation. For a few moments she stared at her hands, looking very prim indeed in her nunlike garb. He wished he could see more of her. That damn veil even hid her forehead. He smiled to himself, remembering the day they met. He’d been so sure that her headdress concealed pockmarks, patchy hair, and God knew what other defects. The next morning, when she glided across the bailey in her indigo gown, with her flawless face and her hair like spun gold, he’d felt as incredulously stunned as if the sun had just risen in the west.
“There’s a question I’d like to ask you,” she said. “I suppose it’s actually a rather personal one.”
He allowed himself a smile. “There’s a favor I’d like to ask of you. I’ll answer your question if you grant my favor.”
Her brows drew together. “What’s the favor?”
He shook his head, grinning. “You can’t know beforehand. Where’s the sport in that?”
She rolled her eyes. “All right. But first my question.”
“Of course,” he replied soberly.
She took a deep breath. “That night at Blackburn Castle, when you tricked Peter and Guy out of following you inside to find Lord Neville—” she shook her head, her expression troubled, “you knew you’d die. I mean, you knew it. It was a miracle you survived.”
He closed his hand over hers, clutched together in her lap. “‘Tis your doing that I survived—in one piece, at any rate.”
“Nevertheless,” she continued gravely, “you shouldn’t have lived. You knew you wouldn’t.”
He gently squeezed her hands. “What is your question, Martine?”
She shook her head in evident bewilderment. “Why? Why were you w
illing to do it? Why were you willing to die?”
“Someone had to—”
“Nay,” she said firmly, and met his gaze almost fiercely. “Why you? Why you alone, when ‘twould have been safer with Peter and Guy to help you? I think,” she added, her voice quavering with emotion, “perhaps you wanted to die.”
He let her statement hang heavily between them for a moment, and then said quietly, “There’s a difference between wanting to die and” —he shrugged— “not particularly caring whether you live.”
She frowned. “Everyone wants to live.”
He looked down at his hand caressing hers. “Not if you have nothing to live for. Not if what you most desire in the whole world is forever denied you.”
Their gazes locked in intimate communion for a wondrous moment. But the moment ended abruptly when Martine’s eyes registered a sudden realization and she turned away. “Your land,” she said.
Land? “Nay, I meant...” He meant what? What was he thinking, saying these things to her, preparing to deliver some sort of declaration of... of what? Love? Love was a liability he could ill afford.
That afternoon, when Peter had come to the infirmary to say good-bye before returning to Harford, he’d handed Thorne the little chess piece carved in Martine’s image. “You dropped this.”
Thorne had accepted it wordlessly, tucking it carefully beneath the straw mattress, where Martine wouldn’t find it.
“Do you love her?” his friend had asked.
“Nay,” Thorne had answered quickly. “I need her. It’s not the same.”
Peter had chuckled. “Isn’t it?”
It wasn’t, Thorne told himself, with more conviction than he felt.
“Don’t worry, you’ll earn a manor eventually,” Martine said now, her tone that of polite conversation.
Thorne looked away from her and nodded. “Aye.” Disengaging his hand from hers, he took her by the shoulder again. “Help me lie down?”
She wrapped her arms around him and eased him back onto the bed. He put the discomfort out of his mind, wanting to cherish the pleasure of her embrace, imagine it to be the embrace of a lover. His head sank into the feather pillow, and he closed his eyes, willing the last of the hurt to recede. When it did, and he opened his eyes, he found her looking down on him, her expression solemn, her sapphire eyes huge and glittering in the muted firelight.
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