“My lady—”
“You and Lord Alberic are in a much better position, I daresay, to attend to the details and make the decisions. I’ll refrain from involving myself in them any further.”
She set the cup on a bench, stalked to the open corner stairway, and climbed it. Opening the door to her private chamber, she looked down at him and said, “Might I inquire when and where the nuptials are to take place?”
“Nones, at the chapel door, followed by a Mass. My lady—”
“I’ll be there,” she said and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 4
*
FAITHE TWISTED HER wedding ring around and around on her finger as she glanced surreptitiously at her new husband, sitting next to her at dinner. He’d been subdued during the ceremony and Mass, and quiet all through the afternoon meal. Leola came up behind him with a jug of spiced wine, but he waved her away.
“More for you, my lady?”
“Aye.” Faithe intended to be as relaxed as possible when she retired to her marriage bed that night.
While Leola refilled the large goblet, Faithe watched her sister, Lynette, working her way down the opposite side of the table with a bowl of hazelnut crumble. The only way she could tell the twins apart was that Lynette wore her hair in two braids, Leola in one. When Lynette got to Alex, propped up with pillows directly across from Faithe in Hauekleah Hall’s most comfortable chair, his head still bandaged, she leaned in close and purred, “Something sweet, Sir Alex?”
Alex caught Lynette’s gaze and held it, smiling. “I’ll have whatever you’ve got.” To Leola he said, “I wouldn’t mind some of yours, too, just for balance.”
The twins graced him with slyly sweet smiles and continued down the table.
Dinner had been a relatively modest affair. If Lord Alberic and his wife had expected a lavish bride-ale under the circumstances, they’d been sorely mistaken. Faithe had resolved, after her testy exchange with Sir Luke the night before, to leave all the day’s arrangements to her betrothed and his overlord. Let them prepare a proper wedding feast, if they were so determined to manage all the details and make all the decisions. Of course, they hadn’t, and so it was dinner as usual, shared with her demesne staff and those villeins doing week work for her, at a row of trestle tables in the great hall.
Alberic had sputtered quietly upon entering the hall after the nuptial Mass and discovering no formal celebration—no musicians, no decorations, no high table. Sir Luke, on the other hand, hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, given the glint in his eye as he led her by the arm to her seat, he might even have been amused—just one hint among many that he and his overlord were not on the best of terms.
In truth, the house staff, in honor of the wedding, had prepared a more extravagant meal than usual—several courses, including her favorite carp in nettle broth—but it had undoubtedly been meager by Lord Alberic’s standards. He sat through the meal with a pinched expression, picking uninterestedly at his food. By contrast, his wife, the pink and fleshy Lady Bertrada, had talked nonstop during the entire meal, and eaten multiple servings of everything with gusto. Several times she had begged Faithe to visit her at Foxhyrst Castle, claiming to be starved for feminine companionship. It must be lonely, Faithe realized, to be the wife of an invader—particularly one as cold and foul-tempered as Lord Alberic.
Bored by the humble fare and lack of entertainment, the sheriff had insisted on departing early, to his wife’s disappointment and Faithe’s immense relief. She could tolerate Bertrada fairly well—mostly she felt sorry for her—but she couldn’t bear the lady’s husband; with any luck, he’d found her hospitality so lacking that he would avoid further visits.
Faithe sipped her wine, careful not to let any drip on her lap. Her one concession to the occasion had been to bathe and dress in her best kirtle, an elegantly simple gown of plum-colored silk ornamented by a golden sash draped low over her hips. A veil, secured by a floral chaplet, drifted over her two long braids, and garnets dangled from her earlobes.
She smiled inwardly, remembering her bridegroom’s expression—surprise followed by appreciation—when she had joined him at the chapel door at nones. Sometimes when she glanced his way, she found him looking at her with those dark, penetrating eyes. He always quickly looked away, which she found most interesting.
I’m doing it again … twisting and twisting that ring. Flattening her hand on her lap, she ran her thumb over the emeralds embedded in the thick gold band. It was an extraordinary piece of jewelry, the finest thing she’d ever worn. Where had he come by a ring like this on such short notice, she wondered.
“‘Twas my mother’s.”
She started at the sound of Sir Luke’s voice, deep but soft, like distant thunder. He leaned toward her slightly, his gaze on the ring. She breathed in his scent, warm and clean. Moira told her he’d been seen bathing in the river early that morning; he’d even washed his hair.
“How come you to have your mother’s ring?” she asked.
“They gave it to me when she died.”
“And… you’ve been carrying it with you?”
His response was a half shrug, half nod. He reached toward her lap, lightly rubbing the encrusted stones, as if trying to polish them with his fingertips. The gesture struck her as unexpectedly tender, and strangely sensual.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“You should wear beautiful things. You’re…” Clearly discomfited, he withdrew his hand and lifted his goblet, frowning to find it empty. “You’re the mistress of a great farmstead. You should wear silks and jewels every day.”
You’re a beautiful woman . That’s what she’d thought he was going to say. She wondered whether he’d intended to say that and changed his mind. Soothing her nerves with a sip from her own goblet, she said, “I need to wear clothes I can work in.”
“Why must you work so hard?” he asked. “You have villeins for that.”
She chuckled. “And what, pray, would you propose I do to keep busy?”
“My stepmother and sisters do needlework.”
A huff of laughter escaped from her before she could stop it. “I’m sorry.” She pressed on her lips in a futile attempt to dampen her smile. “I mean no disrespect to your stepmother and sisters. It’s just that I’d go mad passing a needle in and out of cloth all day. I couldn’t bear it.”
She thought he’d be miffed with her, for in essence she was belittling what seemed to be the primary occupation of the de Périgueux women. Instead, that half-amused little glint ignited in his eyes again. “So be it.” He lapsed into taciturn silence again.
Faithe stole another look at her husband as he gazed in an unfocused way across the great hall. He’d shaved for the occasion and pulled his hair back into a neat queue, making him look much less savage than he had the day before. His pitch black ceremonial tunic, snug across his broad shoulders, hung nearly to the floor, giving him an ascetic air. He might almost have passed for a man of God, were it not for his bearing—remote, guarded, and tightly coiled. Luke de Périgueux carried himself like a creature bred to shed blood.
Faithe made a little sound of disgust with herself when she realized she was twisting the ring again. With an uneven sigh, she picked up her goblet and took a generous swallow of wine. Tonight she would take the Black Dragon to her bed, and then she supposed she would find out how savage a beast he really was.
She drained the goblet in one tilt and gestured for more, but before Leola could pour it, the front door opened. Dunstan walked into the hall, spotted her, and opened his mouth to speak, but paused. His nonplussed gaze took in her luxurious dress, then shifted to Sir Luke and back again.
Faithe addressed him in their own language. “I’m sorry you had to miss my wedding, Dunstan.”
The young reeve’s mouth formed a solemn line. “All for a good cause, my lady,” he said tonelessly. “We’ve caught Vance. He was hiding out in a cotter’s shack in Upwood.”
Dunstan nodded to som
eone outside, and two men—Nyle Plowman and Firdolf—escorted Vance, his hands bound in back of him, into the hall. A collective murmur rose from the assembled villeins as the men half dragged the ragged bandit toward her table. His eyes darted wildly around the great hall, and for a moment Faithe almost felt sorry for him.
She was about to ask him about Hengist, but Sir Luke rose slowly to his feet, stilling her tongue. The murmuring tapered off as Hauekleah’s new lord regarded Vance in grim silence.
The bandit blinked nervously at the man he’d attempted to slay the day before.
“Where is your companion?” Sir Luke demanded in English.
Vance’s throat bobbed. “Dead.”
Dunstan nodded in concurrence. “Hengist bled to death in the woods, milord. We found the body.”
De Périgueux nodded. “Why did you attack us?”
Vance shrugged elaborately without meeting his accuser’s eyes. “Just out for a bit of silver, milord. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He stretched his lips into a nearly toothless grin, which dissolved in the face of Sir Luke’s unwavering glare.
Circling the table, Luke rested a hand on the back of the chair in which Alex sat surrounded by pillows, quietly observing this interrogation as he sipped his wine.
“My brother,” Luke said with quiet menace, “was somewhat more than inconvenienced.”
“Aye, well…” Vance licked his lips, his gaze leaping everywhere. “Hengist, he got carried away.”
“I seem to recall you wielding that sling with enthusiasm.”
The bandit nodded jerkily. “Heat of the moment, sire. ‘Twill never happen again.”
“I intend to ensure that it doesn’t.”
Faithe cleared her throat; her husband turned to look at her. “I can call a… that is, you can call a hallmoot.”
“Hallmoot?”
“A manorial court. Orrik normally presides over them.”
“Or I could hand this dog over to Lord Alberic for a taste of Norman justice.”
Alex’s expression suddenly sobered, and he aimed a pointed glance at his brother. Norman justice, Faithe knew, would involve a fair measure of torture before execution. Not that her own people wouldn’t punish Vance, perhaps even hang him—he and his cousin had preyed on them for years—but it wasn’t their custom to engage in the cruel preliminaries the Franks seemed to relish. She wished Orrik were here, instead of dawdling in Foxhyrst. Or perhaps he’d combined the marketing trip with one of those mysterious errands of his—if they were errands, and not simply visits to the Widow Aefentid. Orrik could gather a dozen men together and try Vance this very evening, which might satisfy Sir Luke enough that he wouldn’t bother getting Lord Alberic involved.
Panic widened Vance’s eyes. “Nay, milord, you can’t give me over to his lordship.”
Sir Luke folded his arms. “The sheriff is better equipped than I to deal with this matter. He’s got a cell beneath his castle, and a hangman on staff—a hangman who’s got ways of coaxing the truth out of lying mongrels like you before sending you to the Devil. I mean to find out why you attacked us, and if that’s what it takes, so be it.”
Faithe had heard about the things Norman executioners did to men to get them to talk. Visions of bubbling oil and red-hot irons and gruesome instruments made her shiver. She drew in a breath to beg mercy of her husband, but Alex caught her eye and shook his head fractionally, so she bit her lip and waited. Vance deserved to die, of that there was no question, but it made her ill to think about what would happen to him first.
“Where’s Master Orrik?” Vance asked, his gaze skipping frantically over every face in the hall until it lit on Nyle’s brother, Baldric, a compact but sturdy fellow with wiry black hair and a nose misshapen from a badly healed break.
“What’s it to you?” Baldric snarled. “And how the devil should I know, anyways?” He didn’t—Faithe had already questioned him herself about her bailiff’s whereabouts—but it was reasonable to think he might. Baldric, as everyone knew—even, it seemed, this sorry bandit—was Orrik’s most trusted underling. Dunstan, as reeve, assisted the bailiff in managing Hauekleah, and did a fine job of it, but it was Baldric who acted as Orrik’s devoted right hand. When Faithe had questioned Orrik’s wisdom in relying so on the foul-tempered and secretive Baldric, he’d pointed out that such men, if they were truly loyal, had their uses.
“My bailiff is elsewhere,” Faithe told Vance, “attending to estate business. Why?”
“He’ll see things are done right,” Vance said, his gaze shifting. “He’ll make sure I get tried in the hallmoot.”
“I wouldn’t rely on that if I were you,” Baldric muttered menacingly.
Sir Luke unfolded his arms and took a step toward Vance, his hands curled at his sides. “I’m master of Hauekleah now. I could have your eyes gouged out this very instant if it suited me. I could have your hands and feet crushed between rocks. I could have your arms and legs pulled until they—”
“Sire, no!” Vance wailed. “I beg of you! Hang me quick, but don’t—”
“Silence!” Luke barked.
“Please, sire. I’ll tell you everything.”
“You heard him,” Baldric snarled. “Shut up!”
“I’ll tell you why we done what we done, but don’t—”
“Save it for the hallmoot,” Luke said.
A rush of silence enveloped the great hall, followed by gasps and whispers.
“You’ll be tried tomorrow afternoon at compline,” he added. “If you cooperate with the questioning, I may be disposed toward mercy—a flogging, perhaps. If not, you can expect a swift hanging.”
Vance broke down in tears, blubbering his thanks and promising to tell everything. Alex smiled and winked at Faithe.
“My lady,” said Sir Luke, “is there some secure place where this knave could spend the night?”
Faithe nodded. “We have two storehouses out back, near the cookhouse and granary. The smaller one is nearly empty, and it locks. Dunstan knows where Orrik keeps the key.”
“Put him there,” Sir Luke told the reeve. “Give him bread and ale and some straw to sleep on, but don’t let him out for any reason.”
“Yes, milord.”
Yes, milord . It came so easily from Dunstan’s lips, and sounded so respectful, free of any underlying rancor. Her husband had earned that respect this afternoon. He’d chosen Saxon justice over Norman brutality, and she doubted her people would soon forget it.
*
“LET US PRAY,” intoned Father Paul, Hauekleah’s elderly parish chaplain, as he concluded the blessing of the candlelit marriage chamber. “The Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost bless you” —he crossed himself with a quavering hand— “triune in number, and one in name.”
“Amen,” muttered Luke, flinching under an abrupt spattering of holy water—the final blessing of the bridal couple. At last the old priest bid them good night and shuffled away through the herb-strewn rushes. The witnesses followed him down the stairs into the main hall, except for her ladyship’s personal maid, who lingered uncertainly.
“You may go, Moira,” said Lady Faithe. “I can get ready for bed by myself.”
“Yes, milady.” Looking relieved, Moira closed the door behind her.
Luke and his bride stood in pensive silence for a few moments, listening to Moira’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. He watched her discreetly as she twisted his mother’s emerald ring around and around on her finger. She’d buffed her nails for the occasion, he noticed. That purplish gown turned her hazel eyes cat green and heated up the pink in her cheeks—or perhaps she was blushing.
“‘Tis a handsome chamber,” Luke said—in French, mindful that he needed to reinforce his authority even here, in the privacy of his bedchamber. She stiffened slightly, but murmured her thanks in the same language.
He’d said it just for something to say, but it was true. His bride’s bedchamber—and now his—was surprisingly spacious and airy, with enormous windows on the back wall.
The side walls, being part of the roof of Hauekleah Hall, slanted up to the raftered ceiling, and embroidered tapestries were affixed to these. The furniture, heavy pieces carved of dark woods, included a bed draped with a blanket of silvery wolfskins.
Apparently noticing the direction of his gaze, Lady Faithe turned awkwardly away, plucking out her earrings and storing them in a cabinet that she opened and closed with one of her keys. Reaching up, she lifted off her chaplet of wildflowers and unpinned her veil. She placed both in a big carved chest at the foot of the bed, removing from it a folded linen garment. When she shook it out, he saw that it was a night shift.
She looked down at the dainty gown for a long moment, then reached behind her to fumble for the golden cord that laced up the back of her kirtle. No doubt Moira normally did this for her; it looked to be a challenging maneuver.
“Here,” he said, a bit too gruffly. Coming around behind her, he untied the cord and slid it through the first set of eyelets, and then the next and the next, gradually loosening the kirtle—just as he’d imagined doing yesterday. To his disappointment, the gaping silk revealed, not the bare skin of her back, but a white undershift.
Luke wasn’t used to finding underclothes on the women he undressed. For the most part his bed partners had been whores; the few who didn’t charge outright for their services generally bartered them for gifts of some sort. Such women rarely wore anything beneath their kirtles.
Never in the twelve years he’d been wenching had a woman of rank granted him her favors. Now that one was presumably ready to, he wasn’t quite sure what was expected of him—or what to expect from her. There was an unaffected sensuality to her, it was true, yet she was convent-bred, and from all accounts a lady of virtue.
Gently bred women, Luke’s father had taught him, were repelled by matters of the flesh. When bedding one’s lady wife, the considerate husband should endeavor to spare her tender feelings in every respect. He should be gentle and quick, raising her night clothes only far enough to do what was needed and not touching her more than strictly necessary. Moreover, the act should be performed in darkness, to avoid exposing her eyes to the instrument of her ravishment. Ladies had been known to swoon from the sight.
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