She heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open. It was dark in her chamber, lit as it was by a single oil lamp, but the hall was bright with torchlight. Silhouetted against it were the stocky guard and a tall man in a cleric’s robe, its cowl drooping down over his face. Curiously, the priest withdrew a purse and shook some coins into the guard’s outstretched hand. She saw the glint of gold. A fortune had just changed hands!
“Remember,” the guard hissed as he pocketed the coins. “One hour, that’s all this buys you.” The door slammed shut and she heard the snick of the key.
The priest lowered the cowl and she saw the face of her husband, his eyes incandescent in the dim room. She tried to say his name, but instead there rose from her an inarticulate cry of joy. Her hands abandoned their attitude of prayer and reached out to him as he crossed to her, knelt, and gathered her in his arms.
“Thorne! Thorne!” she gasped, her words muffled against his shoulder. He crushed her to him, kissing her hair, whispering her name. “Thorne... thank God you’re here. Thank God! I can tell you... I needed to tell you...”
“Nay. I know what’s in your heart. You needn’t—”
“I do need to.” She pulled her head back and looked him in the eye. “I need to tell you. This is my last chance to tell you, and I should have told you before, but... I love you. I love you so much, and I’ve always loved you, but I’ve been such a fool. Please forgive me.”
“I’m the one who needs forgiveness. I left you that morning. If I hadn’t left you, they wouldn’t have taken you.”
“I drove you away. I was so cold, so... I drove you to that... that place.”
He smiled slightly. “I slept with nothing warmer than a brandy jug that night. I haven’t been with another woman since I was first with you. I never wanted anyone else after that. I never will.”
He leaned down and kissed her. It was a kiss of great tenderness and passion, and Martine returned it spontaneously, her hands reaching up to pull his head closer. I want to be a part of him, she thought. I am a part of him. When they drew apart, they were breathless.
“I don’t mind dying so much now,” she said. “I can face it, knowing I’ve told you—”
“You’re not going to die,” he said huskily. “I won’t let it happen. I can’t lose you now. I love you too much to lose you.”
Hope ignited in her breast. “Is there some way out of here? Have you come to help me get out?”
Grimly he shook his head. “The corridors are lined with armed guards. Bernard told them about your escape from Harford Castle, so they’ve made certain you can’t get out of here.”
“Then it’s hopeless,” she said. “Please thank Brother Matthew for helping me. If only he could have questioned those two sailors.”
“They did seem rather reluctant witnesses.”
“More than reluctant. There was something they wanted to say, but the bishop wouldn’t allow it. They know something, something that would have pointed to my innocence. I’m certain of it.”
“I sensed that, too,” Thorne said thoughtfully. “But unfortunately, so did the bishop. You heard him—he threatened to have their tongues cut out if they talked.”
“And their silence means that tomorrow I’ll burn.”
He gripped her shoulders hard. “Nay! You mustn’t think that. I will save you.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow at dawn, when they take you out of here, to transport you to...”
“To the pyre,” she supplied.
He nodded. “Then you’ll be in the open. Then ‘twill be easier.”
“But what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see what route they take you by, how many guards—”
“Nay,” she said. “I’ll be surrounded by guards, you know that. You can’t save me, Thorne. Don’t risk your life trying to. Get out of England now, tonight, before they arrest you, too—”
“You can’t think I’d flee in the middle of the night and leave you to—”
“Go to the harbor. Get in a boat. There’s no way to help me now. I can’t be saved. But you can. Please—”
He stifled her objections with another kiss, this one harder, more desperate. “Nay!” he said when he broke away. “I’ll not leave you.” She opened her mouth to object, but he pressed his fingers to her lips. “Nay, love. I’ll not leave you, and there’s nothing more to be said.” He kissed her forehead.
“Do something for me, then,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow, when they... when they tie me to the stake and—” He started to speak, but she said, “Please, Thorne. Let me ask this of you.” He nodded. “I’m a coward,” she said. “I don’t want to die... that way. Not that way, not by fire.”
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and she knew he was thinking of Louise, his cherished little sister, lost to the flames.
“Don’t let me burn, that’s all I ask. You can make it quick.” He looked puzzled. “With an arrow.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh, Martine...” He shook his head.
“Please,” she begged, holding his face in her hands. “Do for me what you did for the deer. That stag that Bernard and his men ran into the guardroom? Do for me what you did for it. Kill me quickly before I feel the flames. ‘Twill be an act of mercy.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“But if it does. Promise me, please.”
“Martine, I love you! I can’t—”
“If you love me, have mercy on me. Be strong. For me. Please! Promise me! Promise me you won’t let me burn.”
He lowered his head and closed his eyes. Presently he whispered, “I promise.” Looking up, he added, “But I won’t need to. I’ll save you before it comes to that. I wish I could do it sooner. I wish I could take you away from here right now.”
“You can,” she murmured, then lifted her face to his and kissed him. “For a little while, anyway.” She lay back on the pallet and drew him down on top of her, then kissed him again, lingeringly, ardently. He seemed momentarily stunned, but then he returned the kiss with a deep, almost anguished moan.
She arched against him, and he pulled away, rasping, “Are you sure?”
“Please. Make me forget where I am. Make me forget everything but us. Just for a little while.”
He was gentle, very gentle. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, caressing her through her kirtle as he breathed words of love into her ear. He untied the string from her braid and pulled his fingers through her hair. They undressed each other in silence, then lay side by side, just touching, their eyes locked in wordless but intimate communication. His fingertips brushed her face, her throat, her breasts; hers traveled the width of his shoulders, grazed his chest. She felt his heart pulsing within him, felt the love flowing from him into her, coursing through them, uniting them.
When she reached down and cautiously closed her fingers around him, his breath caught. She lightly stroked him, awed at how he swelled in her hand. He touched her as well, smiling into her eyes when he felt how ready she was for him.
Still lying on his side, he slid his hand down her thigh, raised her knee, and guided her leg up, over his hip. His eyes never strayed from hers as he positioned himself, reached around her hips to hold her still, and entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. She moaned at the sweet invasion. He withdrew and reentered her, capturing her second moan—and third, and fourth, and all that followed—in his mouth. They moved together in perfect unity, intuitively matching each other’s rhythm, like a single being.
He broke the kiss. “Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, love, look at me.” She did. His eyes glittered like those of a man consumed by fever. He’s inside me, she thought. He’s a part of me.
She writhed on the edge of release until she thought she’d scream. As her pleasure crested, he rolled her onto her back, his large hands cupping her bottom, tilting her toward him. The thrusts that followed sank deep, filling not just her womb, it seemed, but her entire body, her ver
y soul.
We are one now. On the verge of climax, she tightened her arms around him, pulling him hard against her, her head thrown back. A desperate sob rose within her; hot tears spilled from her eyes.
He trembled. “I love you,” he gasped as they both tumbled over the edge, their breathless, inarticulate cries mingling in the little chamber.
As their convulsive pleasure subsided, he sank on her, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. It was wet. His big shoulders shook, but not a sound came from him.
* * *
When he left Battle Abbey that night, Thorne headed directly for Bulverhythe Harbor, tossing his black cleric’s robe in an abandoned well on the way. Beneath, he wore a plain dark tunic. That was good. Better to look like a common man tonight than a baron. If he was lucky, no one would know who he was.
Leaving Martine in her little chamber when the guard came for him was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But saving her would be even harder.
He tried the largest tavern first. Ordering a pint, he sat at a table in back and scanned the patrons—fishermen mostly, a few merchant sailors, and the standard assortment of cutpurses and knaves. Leaving his tankard full, he got up and went to the alehouse next door. The same sort of crowd, a little heavier on the criminal element perhaps. He counted three missing hands and as many absent eyes.
By the eighth tavern he grew impatient, and increasingly discouraged. This time he actually drank the ale he ordered, swallowing it all in one tilt and gesturing for another. There were only three or four more public houses in the harbor besides the ones he’d already been to. When he’d visited them all, should he start over at the first, or would he be wiser to move on to the brothels?... He emptied the second pint down his throat and slammed it on the table... Or should he just get stinking drunk and tear this place apart—upturn the tables, kick over the benches, punch out the shutters, and perhaps one or two of the patrons?
It was then that he saw the two sailors, one enormous, the other short and thin, who walked in from the street and took a table near the door. Thank you, God, Thorne whispered under his breath as he slowly rose and walked over to them. They looked up as he approached, and he could see from their expressions that they didn’t recognize him. He greeted them in the old tongue, and they responded in kind, a bit warily. Then he held up three fingers to the alewife, who poured three fresh pints and brought them over.
“Many thanks, friend,” said the bigger man, hoisting his tankard. “But if there’s something you want from us, you’d best come out with it now.”
Thorne shrugged casually and took a seat. “I recognized you from Lady Falconer’s heresy trial this afternoon.”
The little one reached into his pocket and withdrew a mouse, which he held cupped in one hand while he petted it with the other. “You were there?”
He nodded. “Aye. Didn’t think much of the way you were treated, though. Felt sorry for you.”
The big one belched. “The one I feel sorry for is that young baroness they’re going to burn tomorrow.” The other one grunted and nodded his head. He brought the mouse to his lips and gave it a kiss, then dipped his finger in his tankard and let the creature lick the ale from it.
“But... if she’s a heretic...” Thorne began carefully.
The small man rubbed the mouse on his cheek. “She’s no more a heretic than my little Rosamund. She never done what they say she done.”
Thorne watched them drain their pints. Careful, now, he cautioned himself. Don’t act too eager, or they won’t trust you. Trust will loosen their tongues. That, and enough ale.
“Really?” he said, catching the alewife’s eye and holding up two fingers. He took a deep breath and made his tone nonchalant. “And why do you say that?”
Chapter 25
“Are you ready, milady?” asked the guard, standing in the doorway of her chamber with a length of rope in his hand.
Ready? thought Martine as she adjusted the linen coif on her head. How can anyone be “ready” to burn to death? But she simply nodded and held out her trembling hands.
The guard looked sheepish. “Behind your back today, milady.” He shrugged. “That’s what they said.”
Martine hesitated, then clasped her hands behind her and turned around. I will be dignified, she silently promised herself as the guard secured her wrists with the rope. I will not cry or beg for mercy. I will not make a spectacle of myself.
More guards converged on her as she left the chamber. By the time she stepped into the open air, she had quite an escort. It was barely light out, and many among the considerable crowd carried torches. The guards lifted her into a cart, and several of them got in with her. The sheriff and his men rode in front, with a dozen more armed men behind. A few priests, including Father Simon, brought up the rear. It was only the second time in her life she had ever ridden in a wheeled vehicle, the first being her abduction from Blackburn Castle. The cart rattled and bounced vigorously over mud that had dried in ruts on the roadbeds of Hastings. She couldn’t have remained standing had the guards not held her up.
Despite the early hour, the streets were lined with people who’d awakened early to come out and watch her being transported to the pyre. Martine had expected this. Executions always drew a crowd. But in the past, whenever she’d seen people gathered for this purpose, they had been noisy, almost festive—taunting the condemned and even tossing garbage at him. Curiously, not a soul among the hundreds of people she passed spoke a word, except for one who shouted, “God be with you, Lady Falconer!” Instead, they silently crossed themselves; some were crying. Clearly the people of Hastings were unconvinced of her guilt, and most likely shocked at the form of execution. Hangings were common, as were beheadings for those of noble blood. But burning...
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it, she repeated over and over to herself. Perhaps Thorne would save her, unlikely though that seemed. And if he couldn’t, he had promised to end her life with a merciful arrow before she could feel the flames. She had to believe he would. It was the only way she could maintain her composure.
On the outskirts of the city, near the surrounding marshlands, the ground rose slightly. At the highest point, the stake had been driven and the pyre built. A large audience had gathered, but they were, like those who had watched her pass through the city, completely silent. The cart pulled up in back of the crowd, and Martine scanned the faces of those who turned to look up at her. With a sinking heart she noted that Thorne’s was not among them.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. But if he didn’t come in time, if they tied her to the stake and lit the pyre... Don’t think about it!
The guards lifted her down from the cart and led her through the throng, who parted for her, crossing themselves and murmuring blessings. Felda was there, sobbing. She reached toward her mistress, but a guard pushed her roughly back. Brother Matthew emerged from the crowd. When the guards went for him, he held up a little wooden crucifix, which stilled them. They even had the grace to back off for a moment while the prior tucked the crucifix into one of Martine’s bound hands and kissed her on the cheek, whispering, “God is with you.”
The sheriff stood before the pyre and read a document prepared by the bishop, which stated that the Church had condemned her to death for the crime of heresy and had given her into the hands of the secular authorities for execution. He glanced briefly at Martine, and she thought he looked sad, even remorseful. Nevertheless, he nodded to the burly hangman, who took her by the arms and led her to the place of execution, her hands still tied behind her. A barrel stood in the midst of the pile of green branches surrounding the stake, and this he lifted her onto. She smelled tar. Looking down, she saw it oozing from a crack in the barrel. To the side were two bushels of coal and several loads of peat. Clearly they expected to be feeding the slow-burning fire for a long time.
It could take all morning for you to die... Bernard had said.
Chills coursed through her. A surge o
f nausea gripped her stomach, and she sucked in great lungfuls of air to dampen it. Don’t think about it, for God’s sake!
Someone threw the hangman a coil of rope. Reaching up, he looped it around Martine’s neck and lashed it firmly to the stake. The pressure drew her head back; the rope tightened around her throat. Tremors seized her instantly. It hadn’t occurred to her that they would tie her by her neck, and for some reason she found it inexpressibly terrifying. She couldn’t move. She could barely swallow the sour bile in her mouth.
“N-not my neck. Please,” she said hoarsely.
“I’m sorry, milady,” the hangman whispered. “Truly I am. But I’ve no choice in the matter. These were Father Simon’s instructions.”
Her heart slammed painfully in her chest. Where was Thorne? Her eyes darted among the onlookers. Thorne! Where are you? Please, Thorne, don’t let them do this to me!
Passing the rope around her chest and hips and legs, the hangman secured her entire body to the stake. Her breath raced and a whimper rose in her throat as she watched Father Simon approach with a torch in his hand, flanked by Bernard and Gyrth. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but then she opened them and again searched for Thorne. God, please! Send Thorne to me!
The hangman tried to take the torch from Simon, but the priest held it aside, saying, “‘Tis the judgment of Bishop Lambert that the honor of lighting the pyre should go to the victim of this heretic’s evil sorcery.” He handed the torch to Gyrth.
The hangman looked to the sheriff, who said, “‘Tis my judgment that the Church would do well not to meddle so in secular affairs, Father. Lady Falconer is not the bishop’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine, and she’ll be executed by the public hangman same as anyone else.”
Father Simon glared at him. “The bishop’s responsibility encompasses everyone’s affairs. Most notably in the matter of excommunication—a punishment he rarely hesitates to pronounce when he is displeased.”
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