by Falcons Fire
“Perhaps he won’t find me,” she said. “I’ll go somewhere far away, where—”
“Martine, for God’s sake!” He released her abruptly and wheeled around, raking his hands through his hair. “It doesn’t matter how far away you go. Bernard is very cunning, very resourceful, and very determined. He will find you. He will find you, and he will force you to marry him.” Facing her again, he added softly, “Unless you’re already married. Think about it, Martine. The only way you can protect yourself from Bernard is to marry someone else. I’m offering myself. Not because I want your land. Because I want to keep you from harm.”
“But the land doesn’t hurt, does it?”
He shrugged his big shoulders in a gesture of weary frustration. “Would you have me say I’m displeased that we won’t be poor and homeless? I won’t lie to you, Martine. But if land was all I cared about, I would have taken Bernard up on his offer to join him in exchange for a holding.”
“You had a more cunning plan—to get me away from Harford, manipulate me—”
“Manipulate you!”
“You took advantage of me last night when I was weak and tired and vulnerable. Now I realize why you did it, why you seduced me. You wanted me to think you cared for me, so that I’d agree to marry you. That way you’ll have control over many estates, not just the one Bernard would have deeded you.”
He took a step toward her. “You think me capable of such cold-blooded—”
“Absolutely.”
He slumped down onto a bench, propped his elbows on his knees, and sank his head in his hands. Watching him, Martine felt a discomfiting stab of self-doubt. He’d argued with such disarming sincerity, maintained so convincingly that this marriage was for her benefit, that he didn’t care about the land...
But that was absurd, of course. Land was all he cared about, all he desired. His hunger for property surpassed all other hungers. If she doubted his avaricious motives, it was only because he wanted her to doubt them and had manipulated her. Some men, Matthew had warned, are remarkably skillful at bending women to their will.
And Thorne Falconer is one of those men.
Nay. He wouldn’t make a fool of her this time. She wouldn’t let him exploit her, not again. It was her land he craved, no matter what smooth lies he fashioned. Her land, not her. He didn’t even pretend to love her.
He dropped his hands from his face and looked at her; she saw the defeat in his eyes. “I take it you don’t want to marry me.”
She swiftly envisioned the alternative—fleeing to God knew where, hiding from Bernard. Thorne was right, of course; Bernard would find her. He would find her and marry her and make her suffer all the more for having tried to escape him.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry Thorne; even knowing his selfish motives, she couldn’t deny that the prospect intrigued her, even excited her. And, of course, she would be protected from Bernard. But she couldn’t let Thorne think that she was the same pathetically trusting girl who’d let him use her so cavalierly in the past.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you,” she said. Surprise, then relief, crossed his features. “I haven’t particularly got anything against a cold-blooded marriage, as long as we’re both honest about it... as long as we recognize that it’s naught but a union of mutual convenience. You get your precious lands, and I get protection from Bernard. All I ask is that there are no lies between us... that you don’t pretend to... to feelings that don’t exist. That would make fools of us both.”
His eyes were sad. “Martine—”
“Those are the only conditions under which I’ll marry you.”
He released a long, troubled sigh. “Very well, then. But we’d better do it soon, before Bernard finds us. We can go to St. Dunstan’s. I think Brother Matthew is authorized to perform the sacraments.” He hesitated, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something more, but then he just shook his head and turned toward the door. “I’ll get the horses ready.”
Martine watched through the window as Thorne saddled up their mounts. She would marry him, but she would close her heart to him. She would keep her distance, at least emotionally. She needn’t be weak and foolish like Adela. Adela had lived for Jourdain.
From now on, Martine would live for Martine.
Chapter 21
“Do you have a ring?” Brother Matthew asked the couple kneeling before him in the dim, candlelit church, empty save for the two monks serving as witnesses.
This is really happening, Thorne thought with a sense of incredulous wonder. I’m marrying Martine! He pulled off his ruby ring and took Martine’s left hand in his. It was ice-cold and trembled slightly. He gave it a gentle squeeze and tried to meet her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him.
Matthew cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father...” The Saxon lowered the ring halfway down Martine’s index finger. “And the Son...” He did the same on her middle finger. “And the Holy Ghost...” He slid it all the way down her ring finger, but of course it was far too big. She transferred it to her thumb, where it seemed to fit. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
* * *
“This chamber has the largest bed,” Brother Matthew explained, pushing aside the leather curtain in the doorway of the prior lodge’s best guest cell. Thorne noted that this bed was only very slightly wider than the others, but dismissed from his mind the notion of offering to sleep on the floor. When Martine agreed to marry him, she had implicitly agreed to sleep in the same bed.
“Thank you for letting us stay here,” said Martine, cradling Loki in her arms. “We’ll try to make other arrangements as soon as possible.”
“You needn’t be in any rush,” Matthew graciously replied. “I’ll enjoy your company.”
Rainulf still protected her, even from afar, Thorne reflected. For it was surely Matthew’s friendship with Martine’s brother that made him so eager to extend his hospitality to her.
That evening, while Matthew ate with the brothers and attended to monastery business, Thorne and Martine endured their own carefully polite supper in the prior’s lodge and took turns bathing in their chamber. Finally the servants left and they found themselves alone for the first time since they were wed that afternoon.
Thorne finally broke the silence. “Martine, there are things we should talk about.”
“I know,” she said. “We have to decide where we’re going to live.”
“Aye. And there are other things—”
She stood. “Not tonight. I’m too tired to think, much less decide anything. I’m going to bed now. We can talk in the morning.”
With that, she turned and disappeared into their chamber. Thorne sat for a while, nursing a brandy and contemplating the glowing coals in the brazier.
You’re incapable of love, she had said. Was he? He’d long ago chosen not to expose himself to the torment that weaker men called love. In the process of refusing to give in to it, had he actually become incapable of it? Had he, in fact, become as cold and unscrupulous and grasping as Martine accused him of being?
For years he’d believed that marrying for love was a mistake. The wise man married for land. Love always died, whether quickly and cruelly, or slowly under the weight of its own lies. Land, on the other hand, lasted forever. Now he had what he’d always wanted—a marriage of property. He should be pleased. In a way, he was. Martine was his wife!
But she was a wife who mistrusted him and thought he’d used his lovemaking to manipulate her. Yet she had consented to marry him. Presumably that meant she consented to let him bed her. The prospect of having her whenever he wanted should have thrilled him. But could he make love to her now, knowing how powerless and exploited it made her feel? He recalled her tears last night in the cottage. Sex should be a simple act of joy, but to her, it would be an act of submission, a relinquishing of her will, and it would only drive her further from him.
He couldn’t do it, not knowing that it would only deepen the rift between them. He needed to he
al that rift, and the only way to do that was to make her trust him, make her accept the fact that he wasn’t Jourdain. Jourdain had acted unconscionably—had used Adela and then abandoned her the moment she became inconvenient. His cruelty had wounded Martine deeply, had scarred her soul. To lie with her now would only scratch those scars open, make her feel used and manipulated. He must resist the temptation, at least for a while, gradually reintroducing her to his touch in small ways as he worked on regaining her trust.
Brother Matthew returned, and if he thought it odd that Martine had retired before her husband on their wedding night, he didn’t say so. Instead, he challenged Thorne to a game of chess, which the Saxon accepted. Centering the board on the table, Matthew said, “I had an interesting message from Olivier this evening. Queen Eleanor is planning to join him at Blackburn Castle sometime soon.”
“Really?” said Thorne, taking his seat opposite the prior. “I thought she was in France with King Henry.” The two men began setting up their pieces.
“She was, but she returned to England without him shortly after Advent. Since then, she’s been holding court at various royal seats throughout the realm, attending to the king’s business.”
“Isn’t that Chancellor Becket’s job?”
“Aye,” said Matthew, “but the chancellor’s abroad with Henry. According to Olivier, the queen’s taken quite an interest in the siege of Blackburn. She wrote him that she wants to see for herself the impenetrable castle that withstood every weapon except Thorne Falconer. I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“Rainulf introduced us in Paris after the Crusade. She took a liking to me for some reason. We used to talk a great deal.”
“They say she’s a perfect combination of beauty and wit. Did she strike you so?”
“She’s very beautiful,” Thorne said. “And exceptionally intelligent. At the time I knew her, she was rather melancholy, though. She was with child but had already petitioned Louis for a dissolution of the marriage. She told me that she had thought to marry a king, but had married a monk instead. I liked her. I hope she’s happier now than she was then.”
“You’ll have a chance to judge that for yourself,” said Matthew, making his first move. “She’s asked Olivier to arrange a supper in your honor.”
Thorne stared at the grinning prior. “In my honor?”
“You’re a hero. The savior of Blackburn.”
“Good God,” Thorne muttered.
Matthew chuckled and pointed to the board. “Your move.”
Thorne couldn’t concentrate on the game, and Matthew won easily. When the Saxon asked for a rematch, the prior begged off, wanting to get in some sleep before matins.
So as not to wake Martine, Thorne undressed down to his drawers in the hall before slipping quietly into their chamber. For a time he stood over the bed looking down on his sleeping wife with a sense of amazement. We’re wed! he thought. Martine and I are wed!
She lay on her side, her arms and shoulders exposed by the sleeveless shift she wore, her palms together as if in prayer. Her breasts were soft and round beneath the thin linen. He recalled how they felt cupped in the palm of his hand, how they tasted when he took her firm pink nipples in his mouth. His pulse quickened and his loins tightened.
Aye, we’re wed—in name only. For now. He slid quietly beneath the covers, summoning all the patience, all the self-control at his disposal.
It was chilly between the linen sheets, but Martine’s body radiated warmth. She had her back to him, and he very softly touched the bare skin above the neckline of her shift, feeling her heat flow up his arm and spread within him. When it reached his throat, something caught inside, and he swallowed hard, astounded to feel himself suddenly on the verge of tears. Closing his eyes, he commanded himself not to cry. The last time he did so was when he found out about the fire that took Louise and his parents, and then he had been out of his mind with grief. The time before that was too long ago to remember, so it must have been when he was but a baby. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, he mentally chided himself for his weakness. This was what came of caring. His reactions were reduced to those of an infant.
Rolling away from Martine, he closed his eyes, but it took him a very long time to get to sleep.
* * *
Bernard of Harford quivered with frustration and rage as he stood at the window of his chamber, looking down upon his father emerging from the hawk house with Azura on his fist. He could live for decades more. Decades. I’ll be an old man before he’s dead. At this rate, I might die before he does. Harford will never be mine.
Who would ever have thought that damned woodsman, that upstart lowborn Saxon, would have the gall to marry Martine of Rouen—a cousin of the queen, for God’s sake? Martine of Rouen, who’d been promised to him, who should have been his—warming his bed, bearing his sons. The falconer’s audacity knew no bounds. He’d stolen her from him, pure and simple, and now he was laughing at him. They were both laughing at him, thinking they’d gotten the better of him.
Damn him! And damn the impudent, cold-eyed bitch he’d taken to wife! Damn them both to everlasting hell! She was to have been his—his—she and her lands, valuable lands that had once been part of Harford, that should have someday gone to Bernard...
That still might, if he was clever. He had an idea, an exquisite idea, an idea of great beauty and promise, a way to avenge his humiliation at the hands of Martine and Thorne Falconer and recover his rightful property. But it was an idea that would have to wait until Queen Eleanor next left the country; not only was Eleanor Martine’s cousin, but it was rumored that she knew and actually liked the woodsman. Should she choose to shield the couple with her royal protection, Bernard’s plan would come to nothing. So he would wait until Henry summoned her to his side, as he frequently did. Once she took the royal smack across the Channel, he could make his move.
“Sir?” came a timid voice from beyond his chamber curtain. It was that hopeless little maid of Estrude’s, Clare. Instead of returning to her own family after the death of her mistress, she’d stayed on at Harford Castle, mooning over him with her watery little eyes and generally getting in the way.
He sighed. “What is it?”
She parted the curtain and came to him, a cup in her outstretched hand. “I brought you a brandy.”
With a lightning-quick backhand, he slapped the cup into the rushes, spattering its contents all over her satin tunic. “Did I ask for brandy? Did I tell you to come in?”
“N-nay,” she mumbled, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry.” She looked like a little white rabbit with a twitching pink nose. “I should have known not to disturb you, after everything you’ve been through. You must be sick with grief. First your brother, and then... then my lady Estrude.” She crossed herself with a shivering hand.
“Then why did you?” he ground out.
“I just wanted... I don’t know. To comfort you. To let you know you’re not alone.”
Christ. “Did it ever occur to you that I might want to be alone? That I might prefer it that way?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.” Her eyes were filling up with tears, her chin trembling. “I should have known better. I’m a fool. It’s just... oh, God!” She dropped to her knees and grabbed his hands. Appalled, he yanked them out of her grasp. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s too soon after... after my lady’s passing, but... I can’t help it. I had to come. I had to let you know how I feel about you.”
“Dear God, get up. This is disgusting.”
Sobbing, she seized the front of his tunic and pressed her face into it. “Please don’t order me away. Please! I love you! I can’t help it, I do! It nearly killed me when I found out you wanted to marry Lady Martine. She doesn’t love you as I do. You wouldn’t have been happy with her. Marry me, please!”
Bernard laughed incredulously. Marry this homely, quivering little rodent? But then a thought occurred to him, and he asked, “Are you heir to any lands?”
She looked up a
t him, her face wet and red. “N-nay. M-my older sister—”
“Is she married?”
She hesitated, her eyes filled with hurt. “Nay, but... but she’s fat.”
Bernard considered that and shrugged. “I’m tired of skinny women.”
“And she has fits,” Clare added hopefully.
“Fits,” he hissed. He thought about it. Fat and fits. No, he wasn’t that desperate. And who was to say her father would approve the union anyway, given Bernard’s unfortunate reputation?
“You don’t understand!” Clare wailed, shaking his tunic with her fists. “You mean everything to me! Everything! You’re the sun and the moon and the stars to me. My heart weeps for love of you. I’d be whatever you wanted me to be. I’d be your slave if you’d only let me. I’d be good, I’d be obedient. I’d do anything for you!”
“Anything?” he asked, reflecting on the fascinating potential of such devotion as she crushed her tear-stained face against him.
“Anything!” She started to rise, but he clamped his hand over her head and pushed her back down to her knees.
“Nay,” he said, reaching beneath his tunic to untie his chausses. “Don’t get up.”
* * *
On a frosty morning in mid-March, dozens of the queen’s men and their horses descended upon St. Dunstan’s to be billeted in monastery buildings and fed on monastery provisions. Many more traveled with Eleanor to Blackburn Castle itself, where Olivier would host them for perhaps a fortnight.
The servants and lay brothers regaled Thorne and Martine with breathless descriptions of the queen’s arrival at the castle. First a procession of armed guards on horseback drew up, followed by a string of curtained litters bearing the queen, her ladies, the royal children, and their nurses. Mounted knights rode behind, accompanied by their falcons, hounds, squires, and packhorses, then a handful of plainly dressed clerks, and following them on foot, a rather curious contingent of animated folk in particolored costumes—most likely entertainers of some sort. Finally came a rumbling parade of hide-covered carts filled with beer, wine, and food, as well as open wagons loaded with kitchen utensils, linens, plate, and rugs. One seemed to contain a small altar, another an enormous, disassembled bed—undoubtedly Eleanor’s own.
