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 c
ord 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.
Lady Faithe hadn't swooned when pulling Alex's chausses off, Luke reminded himself. As he recalled, she had laughed at his concern for her modesty. But, but of course, the situation had been a far cry from the marriage bed, and the instrument in question as quiescent as its owner.
He'd best aim for gentleness, but he wasn't sure he knew how to tup a woman gently. With whores he could do as he wanted, and most often what he wanted after the fury of battle was a hard, mindless rutting that would make him forget, for one long, screaming moment, the creature he'd become. He shouldn't use Lady Faithe that way—didn't want to use her that way—yet it was the only way he knew.
"Thank you," she said when he'd gotten her unlaced all the way. She laid the night shift across the foot of the bed, hesitated, then began gathering up the kirtle to take it off.
Her hands were trembling.
Luke hated being the cause of a woman's trepidation. What would his father do? Yes...
He turned his back in a deliberate way and unbuckled his belt. From behind, he heard the rattle of her keys and the whispery rustle of silk.
"May I ask you something, my lord?" she said.
My lord. How he hated to hear the formal address from her lips—especially in the bedchamber. He felt certain she hadn't called her first husband "my lord."
"Aye."
"Why did you choose to have Vance tried in the hallmoot? Why not let Lord Alberic's hangman extract the information you wanted?"
Luke pulled his tunic and undershirt over his head and hung them on a hook with his belt, then untied his hair and combed his fingers through it. "I was merely taking your advice, my lady."
"My advice?"
He squatted to remove his boots. "You told me your people would not despise me unless I did despicable things. I have no desire to be despised, only obeyed."
"But you threatened to do those things. You recited a list of tortures, as if you meant to... I mean I thought..."
"You thought I was monster enough to order those things done to that sorry wretch."
She made no answer. He tossed his boots into a corner a little too forcefully, then rubbed his arm below its throbbing injury. "Often a prisoner will confess his crimes on merely viewing the instruments of torture. The threat of punishment can be as effective as the punishment itself, and far less trouble for all concerned."
"I see," she said quietly.
By the time he was down to his linen drawers—he'd leave those on for the time being, he decided—he heard the squeak of the ropes supporting the mattress. Taking a deep breath, he turned and saw her sitting in her nightgown on the edge of the bed with her back to him, brushing out her hair. The braids had molded it into ripples that reflected the candlelight in shimmering waves. The sight captivated him, and for a moment he merely stood and watched her, admiring the uncomplicated grace of her movements.
Her arms, revealed to the shoulders by her sleeveless nightgown, were slender but solid, shaped by underlying muscle that flexed as she drew the brush through the wavy satin tresses. They were the arms of a woman unafraid of hard work. Luke's stepmother and sisters felt bonelessly soft when he embraced them, and little wonder, given their pampered lives. Lady Faithe wasn't pampered, a fact reflected in her laborer's hands and sun-gilded complexion and supple arms. He wondered how the rest of her would look, when he got that gown off her.
That thought spurred a quickening in his loins. He turned down the wolfskin blanket and linen sheet and sat in bed with them tucked around his waist. The mattress felt deliciously soft beneath him. He'd expected straw; the feathers came as a pleasant surprise.
Setting down her brush, Lady Faithe got under the covers and cast a quick, self-conscious glance in his direction. No sooner had she turned away, however, than she looked back... and reached out to him!
Luke's heart hammered in his chest as she touched him, her fingertips gliding lightly up his arm. But when they reached the knot just below his shoulder, they ignited a current of pain that sucked the breath from his lungs.
"I'm sorry," she gasped, recoiling. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just that I had no idea your wound was so... why didn't you tell me?"
Luke followed her horrified gaze to find his arm from elbow to shoulder stained with angry streaks of purple and red. A spider web of broken capillaries surrounded the hardened, whitish lump on his upper arm.
"Does it hurt very much?" she asked.
"Nay," he lied.
Lady Faithe shot him a skeptical look, got out of bed, and flipped her hair behind her so she could sort through the keys on the chain she still wore around her neck. Her night shift laced up the front by means of a pink satin ribbon tied in a bow that fluttered in rhythm with her breathing. Luke bunched the covers more securely around his waist as a familiar heaviness arose in his lower body.
She lifted the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed, retrieved her medicine box, and unlocked it. "Here it is." Holding up a small ceramic vial, she returned to bed and uncorked it.
"What is it?" Luke asked, leaning toward her to inhale the vial's aromatic contents. "Perfume?"
"Spirit of rosemary. 'Tis good for bruising." Tilting the vial onto her fingers, she poured out a little clear, oily liquid. "Tell me if this hurts," she said in a comforting whisper as she tentatively touched the swelling on his upper arm.
"Nay," he said huskily. "It's fine." It did hurt, despite her airy touch, but he was loath to let her know that, for fear she'd cease her ministrations. She smoothed the liniment onto his battered flesh with featherlight strokes, taking seemingly great care not to hurt him. Except for a brief moment when her gaze seemed stolen by the wooden cross nestled in his chest hair, her attention appeared to be riveted on her work. He watched her fingertips draw careful circles all up and down the bruised skin, the slick fluid warming as she worked. A soothing heat soon encompassed his arm, spreading through his shoulder and down into his chest... and lower still.
"How does that feel?" she asked, so softly he hardly heard her.
He swallowed hard. "Fine. It feels fine."
She looked up at him through her lashes. "Does it hurt less than it did before?"
"Aye," he said truthfully. "Much less."
She grinned impishly. "I thought it didn't hurt before."
He smiled and shook his head. "Does it amuse you to lay your little traps?"
She stared at him, looking quietly stunned.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You... you smiled."
"Did you think I couldn't sm
ile?"
She seemed to ponder that for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." An engaging grin lit her face. "I'm pleased to see I was mistaken."
As she reached toward the night table for the vial's cork, Luke caught a glimpse of dark marks on her inner wrist. She snatched up the cork, but before she could shove it back in the little bottle, he closed a hand over hers.
She gasped, her whole body tensing as he turned her fist so that he could inspect the marks. Clearly, his touch unnerved her, a fact that shamed him. Here he was on his wedding night, and his bride couldn't bear the feel of his hands on her.
Leaning over, his hair falling in his eyes, he ran a fingertip along the silken skin on the underside of her wrist—skin marred by shadowy bruises. She shivered.
He pried her fingers open to retrieve the cork, set it and the vial on the night table, then examined her other wrist, also bruised. She sat perfectly still as he held both her hands in his, stroking his thumbs over the marks. He recalled his brutal handling of her, his absurd accusation that she was trying to kill Alex, and felt only shame for having let the dark beast awaken, if only briefly.
"I..." He looked up and met her apprehensive gaze through errant strands of his hair. What could he tell her? That he'd never hurt her again? Who knew when the beast would next arise from its slumber? For the life of him, he couldn't think what to say to her. How could he reassure her of his harmlessness when he couldn't reassure himself?
"It's all right," she said.
"I wish it were."
He felt the frantic pumping of her pulse through his thumbs as they caressed her wrists. Was it the same drumbeat of awareness that pounded through him—or fear? Letting her go, he dampened his fingers with the spirit of rosemary and lifted her right hand, cradling it in his palm.
"This isn't necessary," she protested as he gently massaged the liniment into her wrist.
"Does it cause you pain?"
"Nay."
"Then allow me this small indulgence."
She lapsed into silence as he ministered to her, his fingertips rough against her smooth skin, even through the film of warm oil. Her pulse still raced, and that pink satin ribbon fluttered continually.
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