Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

“Edmond adored Bernard. Looked up to him like he was the Lord God himself. Always copying him and trying to please him. I think Bernard needed that. I think it made him feel...”

  “Hmm?” Martine’s could barely keep her eyes open.

  “Never mind. You’re half asleep, and I’ve said too much, as usual. Let’s get you into bed.”

  Felda took Martine’s wrapper and tried to put a shift on her, but Martine hated nightclothes and refused. The linen sheets felt cool against her bare skin, the feather mattress soft.

  Felda tucked her in snugly, then moved about the chamber tidying things up and hanging clothes on hooks. Martine watched her with heavy eyes, enjoying her comforting presence, the freckles spattered over her plump arms and face, the coppery glow of her hair in the lamplight. As she worked, Felda hummed a peaceful, haunting melody; it was a familiar tune, a popular love canso that comprised part of every jongleur’s repertoire.

  Martine closed her eyes, and the melody danced slow, measured circles around her, like a bird... like a seagull seeking her out, coming to escort her to her beloved. As the gull spun and twirled in the blue sky of England, it grasped the sun in its claws and pulled it, trailing a glowing thread of light... a golden ribbon.

  It was the ribbon of omens... of good and bad fortunes... of fate. Around and around her it spun, in rhythm with the song of true love, until she was wrapped in a glowing cocoon... unmoving, unseeing, sinking, drifting, floating... bound by the ribbon of fate.

  Chapter 5

  There it was again, that sound. Like a little gasp.

  Martine opened her eyes. She had the sense of having slept for some time, and the faint aura of dawn glowed through the thin white curtains enclosing her bed. Where was Loki?

  Soft footsteps. Someone was in her room.

  Martine listened carefully. “Felda?”

  The movement stopped, replaced by silence. Martine sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. From the other side of the curtain, Loki mewed, and then came a sharp “Shh!”

  It had not been a man’s voice, more like a young woman or a child. Tentatively Martine parted the curtains and peeked through, then smiled.

  In the middle of the room stood a little girl, no more than five or six, holding Loki in her arms and staring, wide-eyed, at Martine. She was a dirty, unkempt little thing, barefoot and wearing a stained tan kirtle backward. Despite her tangled brown hair and the film of grime on her face, she was a pretty child, with large, dark eyes now wide with fear. Perhaps she was the daughter of one of the house servants, who had wandered upstairs to find the strange pet master Edmond’s betrothed had brought.

  “Good morning,” Martine said. The child just stared. Martine wished Rainulf were there. What would he say to her? Of course! “What’s your name?”

  Still no response. Perhaps she didn’t understand French. It seemed that many Saxons spoke little of their rulers’ tongue. Martine had heard Albin speak a kind of anglicized French to the stable hands. Martine tried to remember some of the Anglo-Saxon words she had heard Thorne speak to the peasants they had passed on their way to Harford yesterday.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in English. The girl looked bewildered.

  Martine rose and approached her, which caused her to shriek and back into a corner. Loki sprang out of her arms, and she crouched, hiding her face in her filthy hands.

  The leather curtain parted and Felda entered, bearing a tray of wine and bread. At first she didn’t see the child. “Good morning, milady. I forgot to ask you last night whether you broke your fast in the morning or preferred to wait till noon.”

  “I can wait,” Martine said, and pointed to the corner.

  “Lady Ailith!” Felda said. “What in heaven’s name are you up to?”

  Lady Ailith? The girl mumbled something into her hands.

  Felda leaned over her. “What’s that, dear?”

  “She’s naked!”

  Felda glanced at Martine and grinned. “Well, milady, when you sneak into someone’s bedchamber uninvited, you pretty much have to take what you find, don’t you?” A pause, and then the little head nodded.

  Martine donned her wrapper and said, “You can look now. I’m covered up.” Ailith peeked between her fingers, then sighed with relief and stood up. Felda introduced the little girl as Edmond and Bernard’s niece, the only child of their sister, Geneva, wife of the Earl of Kirkley. Geneva and Ailith had been guests at Harford Castle for some time.

  Martine said, “I see my lady knows how to dress herself!” Ailith looked down at her backward kirtle and patted it, grinning with pride. “Do you bathe yourself as well?”

  Ailith screwed up her face, and Felda said, “Her little ladyship don’t care for baths.”

  “I can see that,” Martine said. “One would think her mother would insist.”

  Ailith said, “Mama has a headache.”

  Martine looked to Felda, who said, “The countess has had a headache for some time now, milady. She pretty much keeps to her chamber.”

  “I see,” said Martine. “But one can’t go without baths forever. Fetch the tub, will you, Felda?”

  Felda said, “Oh, she won’t let you bathe her, milady. I’ve tried.”

  “I’m not asking her permission,” Martine said, grabbing the child as she tried to dart out of the room. Ailith shrieked, clawed, and kicked, but Martine held tight.

  “Fetch the tub,” she calmly repeated. To her astonishment, the child bit her right hand, hard. Martine clamped an arm around Ailith’s forehead, immobilizing her in a headlock. It was a skill she had perfected at St. Teresa’s, helping with the younger girls. “And do hurry.”

  By the time the sun had fully risen, her little ladyship had gotten as clean as she would ever be.

  “I don’t want to come out,” Ailith wailed, sliding deeper into the now cool water and gripping the sides of the tub with stubborn determination.

  “Please, milady,” Felda said, standing over her, linen at the ready. “Come out for Auntie Felda. Please?”

  Martine pushed up the sleeves of her wrapper, plunged her arms into the water, and hauled out the wet, flailing child.

  “You dry me off!” Ailith demanded.

  Martine said, “Is that the way you ask for something?” Ailith looked perplexed. “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  Martine shook her head. She took the linen from Felda, wrapped the child up, and lifted her in her arms, hugging her tight.

  “Hold me like a baby,” Ailith said. Martine shifted her in her arms, carrying her as she would a swaddled newborn. “Now make believe I’m your baby, and I’ve just been born, and you love me more than anything. Say, `Oh, my precious babe I think I’ll name you... Robert!’ “

  “But that’s a boy’s name.”

  “I’m a boy baby. Say it!”

  “I’d rather you were a girl.”

  “A girl? Do you want your husband to cast you aside? Call me Robert.” She kicked her legs. “Say it!”

  Martine looked at Felda, who nodded sadly. So that’s why Ailith and her mother were living at Harford Castle. The Earl of Kirkley had repudiated the marriage—cast Geneva aside—for her failure to bear a son.

  Martine sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing Ailith in her arms. “If you were my little girl, I wouldn’t trade you for all the sons in Christendom. And I’m sure your mama feels the same.”

  Ailith dug her face into Martine’s shoulder and mumbled, “No, she doesn’t.”

  Felda came up with a clean lavender kirtle for Ailith, and Martine painstakingly combed the tangles out of her damp hair. Then she tied a purple fillet around the child’s head, saying, “This is how my mama used to fix my hair.”

  “Look how pretty you are,” Felda said, holding Martine’s little looking glass while Ailith inspected the results.

  “Will Thorne think I’m pretty?” she asked.

  Felda winked at Martine in response to her look of surprise, saying, “Lady Ailith plans on marrying Sir Thorne w
hen she grows up.”

  “He should have his land by then,” Ailith explained.

  Felda rolled her eyes. “Don’t turn down any good offers while you’re waiting for that, milady.”

  “What do you mean?” Martine asked.

  “What I mean is, if Lord Godfrey intended to grant Thorne a manor, he would have granted it by now. Thorne’s getting impatient, he is. He’s been in Godfrey’s service for close to ten years now, and proved his worth many times over. The way he figures it, the baron don’t want to lose him as master falconer, and that’s why he won’t deed him a holding.”

  Martine said, “You seem to know an awful lot about Sir Thorne.”

  “Everyone needs someone they can talk to, even a man like Thorne. He tells me things he would never tell anyone else.”

  “Are you and he... Is he your...”

  Felda hooted, waving her hand in dismissal of the idea. “My Lord, no! We’re chums, is all. Known each other for ages. Nay, my sweetheart is Fitch, the village ironmonger. Whenever he can sneak away from his wife, that is.”

  “He’s married?”

  “You should see her, milady. Arms like hams, and legs like haunches of venison. Once in a while he likes to tup a wench he ain’t scared to death of.”

  “If I can’t marry Sir Thorne,” Ailith mused, oblivious to the conversation going on over her head, “then perhaps I’ll marry you, Auntie Felda.”

  “Thank you for thinking of me,” Felda said.

  “Now that I’m pretty, I can get married,” Ailith said. “If you’re not pretty, no one wants to marry you, and you have to become a nun.”

  Martine said, “Then you’d better help make me pretty. Your uncle Edmond comes home today.” She pictured Edmond riding up to Harford Castle on a white steed, such as the one her father used to ride—such as the one Sir Thorne rode. “Pick out something nice for me to wear. Something that won’t make me look like a nun.”

  Ailith scanned the garments hanging on the wall. They were all drab and plain, with one exception, to which she immediately gravitated. It was a tunic made of polished Egyptian cotton crinkled into tiny pleats, and the color was extraordinary—a rich, vivid blue with a hint of violet.

  “Wear this! This one! It’s beautiful! Dark blue is my favorite color. Is it yours?”

  “Aye,” Martine replied distractedly.

  “‘Tis the same color as your eyes, milady,” Felda pointed out.

  That’s what Rainulf had said when he gave the tunic to Martine as a birthday gift—that he had chosen the fabric for its color, the product of a remarkable new dye from the East called indigo, because it was the precise blue of her eyes.

  “I thought I’d save that tunic for the betrothal ceremony,” Martine said.

  Felda said, “Lady Estrude’s having outfits made for the betrothal and the wedding, as gifts.”

  Martine fingered the unusual blue fabric, remembering Estrude’s comments about her the night before. She wouldn’t look like a nun in this. “I’ll wear it.”

  The silk stockings, garters, and soft kid slippers had been dyed to match the tunic. Ailith brought each item to her, supervising as Martine put them on, and commenting approvingly on the results. The kirtle was white with long sleeves lightly embroidered in gold and teal.

  When Martine finally pulled the tunic down over her head, Ailith clapped her hands in delight, and Felda just stared. Although the garment was cut full, with no lacing in back to draw it in, the fine pleating had given the fabric a certain amount of stretch. It clung just enough to highlight the elegance of Martine’s statuesque frame, without revealing too much. The sleeves were tight until they reached the forearms, where they flared dramatically, falling in rippled folds to the floor.

  Felda tied a golden, tasseled girdle over Martine’s slim hips, and then opened her mistress’s small jewelry box. “There’s not much here, milady, if you don’t mind my saying so. These are quite nice, though.” Martine took the dangling pearl earrings Felda offered and put them on, then reached in for a handful of little gold rings, which she slid onto her fingers and thumbs.

  Martine sat on the stool and let Felda brush her hair into a glossy spill of silvery gold. Ailith sat on the floor and stared, transfixed. Then, armed with a mouthful of pins and using both strong arms as if she were wringing laundry, Felda twisted the thick hair into a massive coil at the nape of Martine’s long neck. Martine added a narrow circlet of hammered brass.

  Felda nodded, smiling. “He’ll grow faint when he sees you.”

  “Who?” Martine demanded, before she could stop herself.

  “Sir Edmond, of course! Who else?”

  Turning away, Martine shrugged as casually as she could. Leaving Felda to tidy up, she took Ailith in one hand and the brass box that contained her rarest herbs in the other, and left in search of the cookhouse. She had some rare new spices from the East that she wanted to give Lord Godfrey, but the cooks would have to be shown what to do with them.

  Heads turned when she left her chamber. She paused in one of the gallery’s arched openings to glance down into the great hall, and every person there looked up and fastened his gaze upon her. The servants tried to be discreet, half turning their heads and sliding their eyes to look. Guy and Peter, playing chess, nodded toward her and smiled at each other. Estrude stood stock-still and looked her up and down with the narrowed eyes of someone who suspects she has been swindled. Albin dropped something, which shattered. Martine quickly pulled Ailith into the stairwell. Once outside, the child skipped behind Martine, holding one of her long sleeves in each hand, flapping them like the wings of a butterfly.

  In the daylight, the inner bailey looked to be nothing more than a flat lawn of cropped grass surrounded by the huge stone walls. The hawk house, nestled against the south wall, was the only structure in the bailey besides the keep. They passed it at a distance on their way to the outer bailey, and Martine saw two boys–one in each of the two doors—sweeping straw from the hawk house onto the grass. Bundles of fresh straw leaned against the small building’s stone wall. In one window stood a tall figure in white, with a white bird on his fist—Thorne holding Freya.

  He stared fixedly in her direction.

  Martine turned toward the inner drawbridge and quickened her pace, suddenly very conscious of what he saw as he gazed upon her. He would see the distant figure of a tall young woman with a child bouncing behind her, waving the sleeves of her indigo gown back and forth, back and forth. He would see the knot of silver-blond hair like white fire in the morning sunshine... the glint of gold and brass, sparks that winked as she walked.

  She had almost gotten to the drawbridge when she heard his voice, fairly close behind her. “I barely recognized you. You look quite fetching today, my lady.”

  She smiled, wondering how to answer him. But as she turned, she saw Ailith running toward him, squealing, “Thank you!” He had followed after them, and was now several yards away, squatting down to greet the young girl. She tried to throw herself into his arms, but he held her back, saying something about Freya, who still clung to the gauntlet on his left hand. He had been addressing the compliment to Ailith, of course. Martine commanded herself not to blush as she joined them.

  Ailith said, “Your hair’s wet, just like mine!” His damp hair was combed back off his face. He wore a shirt of bleached linen over dark braies, and woolen hose bound by crisscrossed strips of linen. On his feet were short, worn leather boots. This was a workingman’s costume, unlike the fine tunics and chausses he had worn the day before.

  “I’ve had a bath,” he answered. “Just as you have, it seems.”

  “Sir Thorne bathes in the river,” Ailith told Martine. “He knows how to swim! He learned in Lisbon.” Martine had never known anyone other than herself who could swim. “When I grow up, I’m going to bathe in the river, too.”

  “Perhaps in the summer, my lady,” said Thorne. “In the winter, you’ll prefer a nice warm bathtub, as I do.” He stroked Ailith’s hair,
the honey-gold beauty of which became more and more evident as it dried.

  He said, “What a good girl you were to have let Auntie Felda bathe you and fix your hair so nicely.”

  “‘Twasn’t Felda,” Ailith protested. “‘Twas Auntie Martine.”

  “Auntie Martine?” Thorne looked directly at Martine for the first time since she had joined them, his gaze lingering curiously, for some reason, on her forehead.

  Ailith stroked her hair proudly. “Do you like it?”

  He nodded, smiling warmly at her. “Very much.”

  “‘Tis how her mama used to fix her hair. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Auntie Martine doesn’t eat breakfast. And she knows English. At least ‘good afternoon.’ And she knows all about herbs. She keeps them in that box. And she wouldn’t trade me for all the sons in Christendom. And she doesn’t cry when she’s bitten!” Thorne scowled and looked inquiringly toward Martine, who smiled and held up her hand, displaying the purpling teeth marks. “She doesn’t even scold me!”

  Thorne sighed. “Then I don’t suppose it’s my place to scold you for her. You seem to have learned a great deal about her in a short time.” With a glance in Martine’s direction, he added, “The rest of us haven’t been so fortunate.”

  “Want to know what her favorite color is?” Ailith asked.

  “If you’d like to tell me.”

  “Dark blue, like her tunic. ‘Tis the same color as her eyes.”

  “No wonder it’s her favorite, then.”

  “Know what she calls her cat?”

  Thorne smiled. “Loki. The shape-shifter. The changer.” His gaze traveled over Martine’s gown and hair. “Like his mistress.”

  Ailith thrust out her lower lip and scowled. “You knew!” Suddenly she grinned. “Bet you don’t know what she wears to bed!”

  Martine grabbed her hand and began pulling her toward the drawbridge. “Ailith...”

  “Nothing!” Ailith squealed, struggling against Martine as she led her away. “She sleeps naked!” Two porters leaning against the turrets of the inner gatehouse looked from the child to the woman to each other, grinning.