by Falcons Fire
He felt her rapid heartbeat through his arm as it touched her chest, and knew she must be just as aware of his own racing pulse. “To you as well, I should think.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “But only inasmuch as it frees my brother to go on pilgrimage.”
Thorne pulled her great sheaf of blond hair from beneath the mantle and smoothed it down her back.
She turned to face him, breaking the contact. Her eyes were huge. “‘Twould be disastrous if the baron found out after the wedding. You don’t suppose Lady Estrude—”
“Don’t worry about her. She presses you about your past because she’s nosy, not because she seriously suspects anything. Even so, I advise you to spend as little time with her as possible, especially during the next month, while your brother and I are at the monastery. I’m surprised he’s willing to leave you alone here, all things considered.”
“He’d wanted to see how I got on without him, but he’s changed his mind. A little while ago he told me he’d prefer it if I came along to St. Dunstan’s. He says there are whispers about my having raised the dead, and that it might not be safe for me here alone. Ridiculous, of course.”
“He’s right,” Thorne said. “People fear the unknown. They need time to accept the fact that it was your powers of healing, not sorcery, that saved Ailith. By the time you come back, they’ll have settled down.”
She shrugged. “I still think it’s silly. But I’ll go to make him happy.”
“It makes me happy, too.” He lifted her hood and adjusted it around her face. “To know that you’ll be safe,” he added quickly, opening the door. “I’ll walk you to the keep.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.”
He tried to insist, but she refused. She was right, he realized; it wouldn’t do for them to be seen together after dark.
Since he couldn’t escort her, he watched her from the window as she crossed the bailey and disappeared into the looming blackness of the keep. He stared at a point high on the dark stone wall until a little golden square materialized there, and he knew she had lit a lamp in her chamber. Presently her silhouette appeared in the window and stood unmoving for a moment. Just as it occurred to him that she might see him looking up at her, the little patch of light blinked out; she had closed the shutters.
Thorne reached out and did the same, then took a deep, shuddering breath. His chest ached. He lifted his hand to rub it, and found his shirt moist with her tears. Without thinking, he gathered the damp linen in his fist, willing the tears not to dry, because they were all he’d ever have of her.
Christ, what manner of spell had been cast on him? It would take all of his strength to resist its power.
He sank to his knees and prayed for that strength.
Chapter 11
Rainulf felt the empty grind of hunger in his belly. Slowing his mount and the packhorse tethered to it, he looked up through the rustling leaves of the forest canopy and saw that the sun was almost directly overhead; it was nearly noon. They were making good time and would be at St. Dunstan’s by late afternoon. He turned in his saddle to ask Martine and Thorne, riding some distance behind him, if they had given any thought to stopping for the midday meal.
He saw Thorne point to a flock of geese passing by overhead. The Saxon smiled, then leaned close to Martine to tell her something. She laughed in response, then noticed Rainulf watching them, and waved.
Rainulf had never seen his sister so happy and relaxed. Apparently Thorne’s company suited her, now that they’d overcome their differences. It was a pity his old friend was unlanded, and therefore unmarriageable. Rainulf sensed he’d have made a good husband for Martine. Despite their dissimilar backgrounds, they were markedly alike in personality and intellect.
Not wanting to interrupt them, Rainulf turned back and continued along the little dirt track. He would wait for his meal. To see Martine and Thorne laughing like old friends after having been so quarrelsome pleased him greatly.
Presently he came upon a boulder as tall as a man, around which the path had been forced to curve. Growing out of it, anchored in a fissure, rose a crooked old tree of indeterminate species. Its roots grew over and around the boulder itself, enclosing it in a tangled web.
He waited there for his companions to join him. A stranger meeting these two for the first time would never guess at their true rank, so humbly were they attired. Martine wore one of her nondescript tunics. Today, for some reason, she had chosen to leave her head uncovered and had plaited her hair in a single long braid which she wore draped over one shoulder. Thorne, in leathern leggings and a rough tunic, looked more like the woodsman his father bad trained him to be than the knight he became.
Martine marveled at the boulder and the tree that sprang from it. The ingenuity of living things—their stubborn resilience—never ceased to amaze her. She slipped off a glove and laid her hand—unbandaged but still tender—on one of the gnarled roots. “How long do you suppose it’s been growing here?”
Thorne reached out to touch the same root, his hand brushing hers—deliberately, she suspected. It was the first time he had touched her that day, and when she felt the heat and roughness of his skin, a ribbon of pleasure unfurled in her belly.
“This has been here as long as I can remember,” he said, his expression thoughtful. He glanced at her, hesitated, and then added, “‘Twas my favorite thing to climb when I was a boy.”
“You grew up in this area?” Martine asked.
Thorne nodded slowly. “Aye.” He pointed north into the dark woods. “Our cottage was about five or six miles that way.”
It dawned on Martine that she knew almost nothing about Thorne’s life before the Crusade and his subsequent knighthood. That had been all right before, but now she ached with curiosity about his past. “Does your family still live there?”
“Nay. They... they’re gone. No one lives there, I’m sure. This land was taken by Forest Law about twelve years ago.”
“Forest Law?” Martine said.
Rainulf caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, then said, a bit too brightly, “Shall we find a place to eat?”
“Shame on you, Rainulf,” chided Martine. “I’m trying to learn something new, and all you can think about is your belly.”
Her brother glared at her and began to say something, but Thorne interrupted him. “It’s all right, Rainulf.” To Martine, he said, “Forest Law is an invention of the Normans, a way to steal the forests and pastures the Saxon people live off of so that the king and his barons can hunt for pleasure without competing with those who hunt to stay alive.”
Martine looked around at the lush woods surrounding them. “This forest is just a hunting preserve?”
“All the land we’ve ridden through since midmorning has been a hunting preserve, my lady. Much of England is now under Forest Law, and more is claimed every year. No one who lives on such land may take deer or boar, or even rabbit. ‘Tis all reserved exclusively for sport hunting by men like Bernard. Nor may the people chop down trees for wood or clear the land for crops, lest it reduce the game. So, you see, no one could possibly make a living in these woods. Even if you could find food without hunting or farming, there would be no way to make a fire and cook it.”
“How dreadful,” said Martine.
Rainulf said, “Am I the only one of us who’s hungry? Let’s eat.”
Martine frowned. “Here?” brightening, she said, “Why don’t we let Sir Thorne take us to his family’s cottage? We can eat there.”
Thorne said, “I haven’t seen the cottage in ten years, my lady. It may no longer be standing.”
Rainulf gave Martine a hard look. “Nay, sister. We’ll find some clearing to eat in. Thorne has no desire to see—”
“Of course he does,” Martine insisted, wondering why he forced her to bicker in front of Sir Thorne. “It’s his childhood home.”
“Martine, no! I’m sure Thorne doesn’t want—”
>
Thorne raised a quieting hand. After a moment’s thought, he said “Follow me,” then turned and rode off the path into the woods to the north.
Martine threw a smug look of triumph her brother’s way as she tugged her glove back on, but he just shook his head and nudged his horse into a walk.
She soon regretted having insisted on the trip. These old woods made for slow traveling. At first Thorne led them along a meandering creek, the banks of which were sparsely treed and easily ridden on. But when the creek veered east and they continued north through the dense woods themselves, the ride quickly became tiresome. Certainly no one, not even hunters, had been in this part of the forest for years.
Finally the woods opened up into an overgrown clearing. On the edge of it, shaded by an enormous old tree, stood a thatched mud and stone dwelling almost completely covered with clinging vines. Martine looked toward Thorne, whose neutral expression revealed nothing. He dismounted, as did Martine and Rainulf, then removed the horses’ bridles and hobbled them in a grassy patch by a narrow little stream.
Rainulf partially unloaded the packhorse. He set the two baskets housing Loki and Freya on the ground near a chopping block, then unrolled a rug on the grass and brought out their cheese, bread, and wine. Martine retrieved her cat, who instantly leaped from her arms and darted straight for the cottage, disappearing into it.
“Loki!” She followed him to the door, pushing aside the weathered bear pelt that covered it.
There were two rooms connected by a doorway from which a deerskin curtain had fallen down. The back room, essentially a straw-filled shed, had probably served as a stable. From within it, Martine could hear the furious rustling of straw. Of course—what better attraction to a cat than an abandoned stable. It must be teeming with vermin.
She stepped into the front room and looked around. There was plenty of light to see by, since the skins tacked over the windows had mostly rotted away. Near one wall stood a large board on stumps flanked by two benches, furred with dust. Three straw pallets, draped with wolf pelts, had been stacked in a corner.
Various implements and household items were scattered around the clay-lined cooking hole in the middle of the earthen floor: an ax with a broken handle, a cracked wooden trencher, an enormous iron kettle pitted with rust...
Separated from this debris, alone in its own empty corner, was something quite remarkable, and Martine crossed the room to examine it more closely. It was a cradle crafted of smooth, dark wood, the headboard carved in an intricate geometric pattern surrounding a central cross. Draped over it, as if to protect a baby from the dust, was a neatly hemmed square of coarse woolen cloth, its color obscured by age. Martine crouched and reached out to pull the cloth aside, then hesitated, contemplating what she might find beneath it. Curiosity won out, though, and she turned back the little blanket, gasping at what she found.
The face of an infant stared back at her with unblinking eyes. In shock, Martine stood and retreated a step before realizing that the baby’s head, so perfect and round, was carved of pale, creamy wood, that the blue eyes and pink lips had been painted on. It was a doll.
Kneeling, she uncovered the wooden infant completely, shaking her head in wonder. About the size of a newborn, it was perfectly proportioned and carefully dressed. The little face looked startlingly lifelike, with full, dimpled cheeks and a well-fed double chin. Its head was covered with a neatly fitted white linen coif, from beneath which peeked strands of fine blond hair, apparently human. Its costume, although fashioned from humble brown homespun, had been styled like the tunic of a royal babe, with rich embroidery and long, fur-lined sleeves rolled back to expose the linen kirtle beneath. A little wooden cross hung on a leather cord around its neck. The plump little hands were bare, but each foot was encased in a slipper of soft deerskin.
Martine pulled off her gloves and pressed the cushion on which the doll lay. It was stuffed with feathers, not the coarse straw with which the family had made do. She stroked the smoothly polished cheeks, the fur that lined the sleeves, the tiny hands. As she began to lift it from its cradle, Thorne’s voice broke the silence: “Don’t.”
She recoiled from the cradle and turned toward the voice. The Saxon stood in the doorway, ducking his head and holding the bearskin aside, his large form silhouetted against the light. Dust motes, stirred up by Martine’s entrance, formed a glittering haze in the air between them.
He dropped the bearskin and slowly walked toward her, his eyes on the doll in its cradle. Squatting next to her, he said, in a gentler voice, “It’s old. I wouldn’t want it to be damaged.” Carefully he rearranged the doll exactly as she had lain and centered the little cross on its chest.
He handled the doll as tenderly as it if were a human babe, and Martine yearned to know what lay hidden beneath his carefully governed features. “It’s an extraordinary doll,” she said. “Did it belong to your sister?”
Still staring at the round little face, he said, “It was my sister. I carved it in Louise’s likeness, soon after she was born.”
“You carved it?” He nodded. “And the cradle as well?”
“Aye.” He rubbed the dusty wood with his thumb. ‘Twas Louise’s cradle, and when she outgrew it, it became Bathilda’s.”
Martine smiled. “Bathilda. I’ll never get used to your Saxon names. Did you... you didn’t sew her clothes, did you?”
He raised a bemused eyebrow. “Nay, my talent with needle and thread extends only as far as imping. My mother sewed the clothes. I asked her to dress her as she would a princess.”
“She did a good job,” Martine said. “When I was a child, I used to dream about gowns with long, fur-lined sleeves. You must have loved Louise very much to go to so much trouble for her.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes luminous in the dim room, and then continued to study the doll. “I was ten years old when she was born. There had been other babies in between, but Louise was the only one who lived past the first year. She was different from the beginning, so healthy and fat, and happy. She was very spirited, like Ailith. My parents couldn’t control her, but she listened to me. Wherever I went, she followed. She was my little shadow. Every night, in my prayers, I thanked God for not taking her from us, as He had the others. And I promised Him that if He let her continue to live, I would care for her and protect her and make certain no harm ever came to her.”
Grimly he shook his head, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded strained. “But I broke my promise. And for that, Louise paid with her life, as did my parents.”
Martine stared at Thorne, hunched over the little cradle, his transparent blue eyes filled with pain.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
He reached into the cradle to adjust Bathilda’s coif. In a distant, almost hard tone, he said, “At seventeen, I took up the cross. I knew my family needed me, but I was very young and blinded by faith. Instead of staying home and helping my parents to make a living, instead of protecting Louise as I had promised God, I followed a foreign king on a doomed Crusade. I was a fool.”
His sorrow overwhelmed Martine. “You were trying to serve Christ. You were—”
“A fool,” he spat out. “When I returned two years later and came looking for my family, I found this cottage as you see it, and not a soul in sight. I was told that these woods had been taken by Forest Law not long after I had left and that my parents and Louise had moved to a village not far from here.”
He clenched his jaw. “My parents hated towns. It must have been hell to have to live in one. If I had been here, I would have built them another home in another piece of forest, one where they’d be allowed to hunt and chop wood. But I wasn’t here, and my father was too old to do it himself. I abandoned them, and in doing so, I condemned them to death.”
“What... what happened?”
“There was a fire.” He shook out the little blanket, and dust blossomed in the air like smoke. Martine covered her face with her hands. “One breezy nig
ht someone’s candle got too close to his thatch, and within minutes the entire village was in flames. They began rebuilding the very next day. ‘Twas the seventh time in ten years that particular village had burned to the ground.”
Martine opened her eyes to find him replacing the blanket over the cradle.
He said, “They collected all the unclaimed bones and buried them in a mass grave.” He smoothed the blanket carefully, as if it shielded not a wooden doll, but the precious, unclaimed body of his sister.
Martine wanted to comfort him, but what could she say? The depth of his grief shook her profoundly. He seemed so self-contained, from all appearances the absolute master of his feelings. Yet he hadn’t mastered them at all, she now knew. He’d merely shielded them—shielded the raw hurt, the stinging self-reproach—behind the armor of his celebrated self-control.
“I found Bathilda here,” he said, “just as you see her now, carefully dressed and arranged in her cradle, with this cloth to protect her.”
“Why was she left behind?” Martine asked. “It looks as if they took everything else of value.”
“I’ve wondered that myself,” he said. “Perhaps Louise thought Bathilda would be happier here in her own home than in a town. She was trying to protect her from a fate that she couldn’t avoid herself.”
“And you left her here.”
He shrugged. “Louise knew best. This is Bathilda’s home. She belongs here.”
He rose and reached for Martine’s hand to help her up. Even after she had gained her feet, he didn’t let go of it, but held it firmly in his. His warm, callused skin felt wonderful against her own.
“I never speak of these things,” he said. “Not only because they’re sad, but because they make me feel ashamed. I don’t know why I told you... I hope you don’t mind.”
She saw into his eyes, saw his uncertainty, his grief. The worst grief, she knew, oftentimes stemmed from guilt. “Of course I don’t mind. But you mustn’t feel ashamed. You’re not to blame.”
