Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  It was a boar. The huge, black-bristled creature lay limp and dead on the bloodstained blanket. From its gaping mouth, flanked by blood-spattered tusks, protruded a grotesque purple tongue swarming with insects. These same insects crawled over its open eyes and busied themselves among its many glistening wounds.

  Martine took a step back and felt the first stair step at her heels. Edmond nervously clenched and unclenched his blood-brown hands as he glanced from her to his brother and back, as if waiting for some response from her.

  The others still stared at her. Stared and stared, expecting... what? What should she say? Oh, thank you. Thank you for this dead boar. That dead stag. The dead dog. Dead dead dead.

  His hands were covered with blood—covered with it!—and everyone was staring, staring, staring

  She turned and ran up the stairs, her heart beating out a warning that her logical mind could not accept: that the bloodstained hands of her betrothed were an omen. An omen of evil. An omen of death.

  * * *

  “He’d been hunting,” Rainulf repeated. “That’s why there was blood on his hands. Pull yourself together.” He wished she would stop this incessant pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, as half a roast duckling grew cold on its trencher. She had insisted on taking her supper alone in her chamber, and now refused to join the others downstairs.

  “He’s had a bath,” Rainulf offered, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “It’s too late. I’ve seen him in his natural state. He can’t fool me.”

  “Martine, I wouldn’t have betrothed you to just anyone. Thorne watched Edmond grow up, and he assures me there’s never been any sign of bad character, or—”

  She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “He’d say anything he had to if it would get me to agree to this wedding. He as much as told me that he arranged this marriage to further his ambitions.”

  “He told me the same before supper. He was afraid I’d hate him for it, as you do.”

  Loki writhed against her legs, and she lifted him and held him to her chest. “Don’t you?”

  “Nay! He’s never claimed to be a saint, Martine—merely a man trying to make the best of his life. Thorne grew up with nothing. He’s seen the tragic consequences of poverty. ‘Tis no sin for him to want to better himself. In fact, I believe ‘tis a noble goal in God’s eyes.”

  “He told me he would do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. Those were his words. Whatever it takes. Suppose it takes some act of sin—stealing, or killing, or—”

  Rainulf laughed. “‘Twould have been a worthy subject for disputation with my students. Does a noble goal justify a sinful—”

  “Stop it, Rainulf.” Her quiet reproach stung more than if she had screamed invectives at him. Even the cat seemed to glare accusingly at him before leaping from her arms. “Don’t make light of my doubts and fears. You never have before. You’ve always understood. I’ve never even had to speak of the things that scared me. You always knew what they were.”

  She was right. He was failing her. He should soothe her fears, not mock them. Perhaps, as his faith waned, so did his ability to lend comfort to those in need, even to his beloved sister.

  Martine opened the window shutters and breathed deeply of the warm night air, then stared down into the bailey, her gaze fixed on something he couldn’t see.

  “Martine.” She turned away from the window. Her eyes were large and sad. “You don’t have to marry Edmond. We can leave here tomorrow morning, before the betrothal ceremony. I’ll pay Godfrey a small—”

  “I’ll marry him,” she said flatly.

  “Aye, but I know you have misgivings. I... I’ll put off my pilgrimage until you’re settled.”

  “‘Settled.’ That means marriage or the convent. We both know I wouldn’t make a very agreeable nun. I mean, they do still expect you to believe all that primitive, superstitious—”

  “Martine!” But he couldn’t help smiling.

  “So that leaves marriage. And since you went to a great deal of trouble to find Sir Edmond for me, I may as well marry him as anyone else. If I’m lucky, he’ll find me as unpleasant as most men do, and then I’m sure it won’t be long before he takes a mistress and leaves me in peace.”

  Rainulf stared at the grim young woman before him. “You won’t even give him a chance to earn your—”

  “I’ll give him nothing!” she snapped. “If I were to give him anything at all, any part of myself, he’d keep on taking and taking and taking, and leave me empty.” She crossed her arms and looked away.

  “Martine, look at me.” She did. “You’re very strong. You’re not Adela, as you’re fond of pointing out.”

  At the mention of her mother’s name, Martine returned to the window. “She was destroyed by love,” she said, her back to Rainulf, her gaze fixed as before. “She gave her heart completely to Jourdain, and he took it as if it were his due and gave nothing in return but grief.” She always referred to their father by his Christian name, Rainulf realized, as if trying to deny the very fact that he had sired her. Her hatred for him ran deep and strong, years after his death. “He used her. He consumed her as fire consumes straw.”

  Rainulf rose and joined his sister at the window, wondering what had so commanded her attention. He could see nothing of interest. The bailey was deserted and moonlit, the only bright spots the candlelit windows of the hawk house.

  “My lady?” came a woman’s voice from beyond the chamber’s leather curtain. Martine groaned inwardly. Estrude. What did she want?

  Rainulf met her gaze with an amused expression and mouthed, Behave yourself, then waited for Martine’s grudging nod before pulling back the curtain. “Good evening, my lady.”

  Estrude swept into the room in a purple silk wrapper, her hair unbound and loose. It was wet, a riot of auburn curls. Although she had evidently just taken a bath, for some reason she had reapplied her face paint. Martine wondered why someone would go to such trouble before retiring for the night. “Father... Lady Martine. Am I interrupting? I could come back later.”

  “Actually—” Martine began.

  “Actually, we’re delighted to see you,” Rainulf finished, with a carefully polite smile for Estrude and a swift censorious glance for Martine. “We’ve had so little time to get to know you.”

  “You’re very kind,” Estrude replied. “In truth, I only stopped by to ask a favor of your sister.” She turned to Martine. “I confess that I’ve been most curious about that perfume of yours, the one made from lavender and... sweet cicely, was it?”

  “Sweet woodruff,” Martine corrected.

  “Thorne certainly seemed taken with it,” Rainulf said.

  Estrude’s face went blank, and she turned away from them to glance curiously around the chamber. “Did he? I didn’t notice.”

  Liar, thought Martine, suddenly on guard. You noticed, all right. Nothing slips by women like you. “Is that so?”

  Estrude met her gaze unblinkingly. “Yes, my dear, it is. And, as I say, I’ve been most curious about it ever since last night. Do you suppose you might consent to let me try some on?”

  “You want to wear my perfume?” The notion appalled Martine. It was a fragrance she had created, and which was hers and hers alone. For this awful woman to wear it—to smell like her—made Martine cringe.

  “Just tonight,” Estrude said. “To see what it’s like.”

  Martine started to shake her head, but Rainulf stabbed her with a glare of warning and walked over to the little chest on which her toiletries were set out. “‘Tis something of a compliment, is it not, sister?” He located the little vial of perfume and handed it to Lady Estrude. “If you like it, Fin sure Martine will be happy to share the recipe with you.”

  Estrude chuckled as she pulled out the stopper. “I’m not very clever with herbs, but thank you for the offer.” She sniffed the vial and frowned. “It is different.” Shrugging, she proceeded to apply liberal splashes of the scent to her throat and arms.

&nb
sp; “That’s... rather a lot,” Martine said. “It’s stronger than it seems.”

  “I like my scent strong,” said Estrude, closing the vial and handing it back to Rainulf, who replaced it on the chest. She lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled. Martine noticed the silver-handled dog stick looped around her wrist; apparently she never left her chamber without it. “I’m afraid this isn’t quite to my taste after all. But,” she added dryly, “I’m ever so moved by your generosity in sharing it with me.”

  After Estrude had bid them good night and left, Martine turned to her brother. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

  Rainulf’s brows drew together. “She simply wanted to—”

  “Nothing about that woman is simple.”

  Rainulf shook his head. “Your nerves are affecting your temper—as usual. You must learn to be civil even when you’re distraught.”

  Martine groaned and covered her ears with her hands. “No more lectures tonight, Rainulf—please.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. This is a difficult time for you, and I’m not helping.”

  “Nothing can help,” she replied sullenly.

  “Sleep can help,” he said. “You’re still fatigued from the journey, and you need to be rested for the betrothal ceremony tomorrow. I’ll leave you now, but you must promise to go to bed right away. No staying awake and fretting. And no dreams of floating gowns or lakes filled with blood. If the nightmare comes back, come and wake me up and we’ll talk—”

  “It comes almost every night lately. I can’t wake you every night.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  She smiled gently, grateful for his offer, although she had no intention of accepting it. She burdened her brother enough without ruining his sleep. He would be gracious about it, as about everything, and attempt to ease her mind with soothing words, but it really wasn’t fair to him. Besides, in truth his mild words eased only her mildest woes. At times like this, when her heart ached and she shivered with nameless dread, she needed comforting arms, not comforting words.

  “Sleep well, Martine,” he said, and left her chamber.

  She crossed to the window and opened the shutters.

  The hawk house still glowed from within with warm yellow candlelight.

  He touched her. Casually, comfortably, as if he had every right in the world.

  A dark form passed across one of the hawk house windows. How would he soothe her fears, if it were his place to do so? He was no saint, as her brother had pointed out, nor did he pretend to be.

  The dark form appeared again and paused, framed within the little golden square of light. She could make him out clearly now. He wore no shirt, and Freya clung to his fist. As he looked toward the keep, she quickly reached out and pulled the shutters closed.

  * * *

  Thorne twitched in his sleep as the candle’s flame leaped and danced in the breeze. A despairing moan rose within him when the flame fluttered toward the straw thatch hanging down from the ceiling of the dismal little hovel. Closer, closer...

  No...

  The thatch ignited, bursting into flame, generating a firestorm that swept through the village in a matter of minutes.

  Above the roar and crackle of the blaze rose a little girl’s scream: “Thorne! Help me! Please, Thorne!”

  Louise. He panted as he ran through the narrow streets, searching in vain for his sister while flames engulfed everything in sight. “Where are you?” he gasped. “Where are you?”

  “Here I am,” came the whispered reply—but not from Louise.

  Cool fingertips stroked his sweat-dampened brow. He stopped thrashing and lay still, breathing in a subtle and mysterious scent...

  Sweet woodruff and lavender.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, and gradually she materialized in the moonlit semidarkness of the hawk house. He saw her leaning over him in his narrow bed, saw her midnight eyes, her cascade of silver-blond hair. “You were having a bad dream,” she murmured.

  Oh, God. Martine. She’d come to him. She was here.

  He tried to reach for her, but his arms were curiously heavy and wouldn’t move. He struggled, but she took his face between her hands and whispered, “Shh. Just lie still.”

  Her mouth, warm and sweet, closed over his. He wanted to kiss her in return, but he couldn’t. He inhaled her intoxicating fragrance, his breath coming faster and faster, his heart thundering in his chest.

  She untangled the sheet from around him and stripped it off. He felt the cool night air on his unclothed body and saw that she, too, wore nothing. Arousal consumed him with an urgency he’d never felt before.

  Her hand closed over him, and he moaned. Oh, God. Martine... Martine. He tried to move, to respond to the rhythm of her caress, but his body, although rampant with need, felt leaden, immobile. He felt his fingers curl into fists, and realized he had grasped handfuls of linen sheeting.

  She straddled him. He held his breath as she guided him into her, groaned as she lowered herself onto his rigid shaft. He heard her gasp. She stilled for a moment, and then she began to move, drawing herself up his full length and down again, and again and again, until he thought his heart would explode from pleasure.

  “Martine,” he whispered as she rode him, driving him swiftly toward completion. He cried out as his climax neared, and heard a falcon scream in reply. Freya. He’d disturbed Freya.

  Martine stilled, and fumbled for something on the bed... a silver-handled stick, Estrude’s dog stick.

  He blinked, and came fully awake. Estrude—not Martine, but Estrude—raised the stick high over her head and looked around, panic in her eyes.

  He released his fistfuls of sheeting, grabbed the stick, and tore it out of her hand. “What the hell—”

  “Where is it?” she demanded. “Where’s the damn bird?”

  His mind reeling, he nodded toward the corner, where the white gyrfalcon sat tethered to her linen-wrapped perch.

  Estrude relaxed when she saw that the creature was secured and couldn’t hurt her. Birds of prey were even worse than dogs. Dogs went for the throat, but birds went for the eyes.

  “Get off,” Thorne growled, dropping the dog stick on the bed and seizing her around the waist. He tried to lift her off of him, but she had anticipated this and writhed out of his grip.

  She began moving with wanton enthusiasm, as she did whenever she wanted to finish Bernard quickly, and soon his struggles ceased. Indeed, he grabbed her hips and thrust so hard that she felt as if she were being stabbed by a lance. Suddenly he stopped, grimacing, and tried to life her off again.

  “I want to pull out,” he said hoarsely.

  “No, you don’t,” she said, continuing as before.

  “Get off!” But it was too late. He shuddered, digging his fingers into her flesh. She felt the hot rush of his seed within her, and smiled to herself. The Saxon muttered some unintelligible oath in his primitive tongue, then closed his eyes and lay still for a few moments.

  Estrude looked down at him in the silvery moonlight. His face and body glistened with perspiration; his hair was damp with it. With his eyes closed like that, he looked as if he were asleep. She took the opportunity to inspect him shamelessly. His shoulders were very wide, his smooth chest and long arms well muscled. It perplexed her at first that his left arm was so much larger than his right. Then she remembered that he held those huge birds of his on his left hand all day. His wide torso sloped down to narrow hips and those almost unreasonably long legs. She thought he must be the most beautiful man she had ever seen. That was very far from her reason for wanting to bed him, but it couldn’t be denied.

  Perhaps now that it was over, he wouldn’t be able to find it in his heart to be angry with her for tricking him. After all, she was an attractive woman, and now that he knew what an eager lover she was, he would certainly want her again. Perhaps he would even initiate the next tryst himself. There might have to be several.

  But when he opened his eyes, she saw no affection in them. �
��What’s the matter with you? Do you want to get pregnant?”

  “Would you mind?” she asked. “You must have dozens of bastards scattered between here and Byzantium.”

  “None that I know of. And I don’t want any from you.”

  “Rest easy, then. I’ve been married for fourteen years. If I could bear children, don’t you think I would already have done so?

  He seemed to be mulling that over. At any rate, she felt him relax under her.

  “That’s better,” she said with a reassuring smile. “You just like to be the one in control, but you’ll soon get used to my ways. Perhaps next time you won’t be so—”

  “Next time? Are you mad?” He sat up, pulled her off of him, and tossed her roughly aside. Rising from the bed, he grabbed her wrapper from the floor and flung it at her. “Leave.”

  Ignoring the wrapper, she watched him yank his chausses from a hook and pull them on. “You’ll see. You’ll come to me.” She smiled coyly. “Some evening when you’re thinking of her... wanting her and knowing you can’t have her—”

  Tying his chausses, he said, “That’s what brothels are for.”

  “Ah, yes. Your Hastings whores. I believe I proved myself an enthusiastic bed partner. What can they offer you that I can’t?”

  “A man has to be able to respect a woman he takes to bed. You’ve got a whore’s enthusiasm without a whore’s character.”

  “What?”

  He turned his back on her to lift the ewer from the chest at the foot of the bed. “Whores tend to be honest. You’ve got the scruples of a snake.” He began to drink.

  “You... bastard!” She shook with anger. “I’m a lady! Almost a baroness! You’re nothing but a crude Saxon pig. You belong in the barnyard, rutting with the other animals. You have no idea how to treat a lady in bed.”

  He paused in his drinking. “I never invited you to my bed.”

  “Any man of noble birth would have welcomed my attentions, regardless of what tricks I had used. He wouldn’t have just—just taken his pleasure and pushed me aside, I can tell you that. He’d have seen to my pleasure first. That’s what a gentleman does.”

  He set the ewer back down on the chest. “There’s always your dog stick.”