Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  He sighed. "I don't want to, Faithe. You must believe that. But he may push me until I have no choice."

  "He'll get better," she said. "Give him time."

  "How much time? I've been here for a month and a half, and still he treats me with complete contempt. Everyone else, including Dunstan, accepts me as their master. I think some of them are even coming to like me. But to Orrik I'm the enemy, and I'll always be the enemy, and there's nothing I'll ever be able to do to change that."

  "'Twas the shock of Hastings," she insisted. "Of losing Caedmon and seeing what happened to King Harold. He'll overcome his anger in time."

  "Some types of anger can't be overcome," Luke said gravely. "Sometimes the best one can hope for is to... bury one's rage deep within. Although one always runs the risk that it will erupt without warning." Luke wished he didn't have reason for knowing this so well.

  She regarded him curiously. His gaze dropped to her hands, still tightly clenched. Smiling, he reached out and pried them apart, taking one hand in each of his. "This hasn't been an easy conversation, but I haven't noticed you twisting your ring."

  She looked down, a little shyly. "I've tried to break myself of the habit."

  He squeezed her hands. "I'm glad of it." Releasing one hand, he trailed his fingertips down the side of her face. Her eyes drifted shut.

  "Do you suppose," he said softly, "I could get a hot bath before bed?"

  She opened her eyes. "I thought you liked to bathe in the river."

  "Generally, yes. But I've been a bit stiff of late. Sleeping on the rushes has its disadvantages."

  So quietly he almost couldn't hear her, she said, "The bed would be more comfortable."

  "That it would." He smiled and ran a thumb over her lips, feeling the fluttery heat of her breath. "I must take it under very serious consideration."

  She smiled back, a slow, immensely gratified smile. "That you should."

  * * *

  "Caedmon? He died of the pox." Orrik spat on the ground. "In some stinking Norman prison." He continued picking his way through the charred remains of the cookhouse by the rusty light of the setting sun.

  When Felix had run in during supper with the announcement that Orrik was back from his mysterious errand, Luke had sent word for the bailiff to meet him here at compline. Faithe had wanted to come with him—she seemed to think they would beat each other senseless if left to their own devices—but he wouldn't let her. Assuring her he had no intention of either thrashing Orrik or dismissing him—yet—he insisted on going alone. This was one conversation he didn't care for her to listen in on.

  Luke inspected the great oven, the only part of the cookhouse left standing, although its stone facade was dusky with soot from the fire, and the greasy odor of smoke clung to it. It would need a good scrubbing. "Funny. I was at Hastings. I don't remember any prisoners being taken."

  Orrik rummaged through chunks of scorched wood and came up with a clay salt box. He lifted the lid. "Hah!" Tilting the full box toward Luke, he said, "Fire didn't get everything." Setting the box aside, he continued searching through the debris.

  "The English all ran into the woods," Luke persisted.

  "Except those whose bodies littered the field of battle," Orrik snarled.

  "Alongside those of the Normans," Luke pointed out. "No English soldiers were taken prisoner at Hastings, Orrik."

  "Is that a fact?" Orrik yanked a bent and blackened sieve from the rubble and tossed it aside with a dismissive grunt.

  "That's a fact." Luke crossed his arms and leaned back against the oven, not caring whether his shirt, which was ready for the rag box, got soot on it. "Now, tell me what really happened to Caedmon."

  "I've told you all I know."

  "I think not."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "Aye."

  Wrath darkened Orrik's face. "You've got no call to accuse me of lying."

  "In point of fact, I do, because you're not telling the truth."

  "To hell with the truth, and to hell with you." Turning away, Orrik nudged a half-burned bench aside, uncovering an intact iron trivet. He bent and picked it up, setting it beside the salt box.

  Luke didn't move from his indolent pose against the oven. "Lady Faithe may not share your lack of interest in the truth."

  Orrik's steely eyes speared Luke. "What have you told her?"

  "Nothing. Yet. I was waiting to talk to you. If you won't tell me what really happened, I'll get the facts from Dunstan, or someone else. But rest assured, I will get them."

  Squatting down, Orrik dug a big flesh hook out of the ashes and turned it over and over in his soot-stained hands, his gaze unfocused. When he looked up, his eyes were full of sorrow. "I'll tell you what you want to know, but only so you don't go stirring things up, looking for your precious truth. Faithe doesn't need to know this, but she's a smart girl—she'll catch wind of it if you start asking questions. You must hear what I say and keep your mouth shut."

  "You're overstepping yourself if you think you can tell me what to do," Luke said with menacing calm. "Just tell me what happened."

  Muttering a Saxon oath, Orrik slammed the hook into a chunk of wood, then pried it loose. "We'd got word last summer that your Duke William meant to sail his army to England and steal the throne from King Harold. So we set out from here to join Harold's forces and await the invasion. There was Caedmon and Dunstan and me, plus a couple of men who didn't make it. Took a while for you bastards to get up the guts to come across, but we waited you out—right up till the fourteenth of October. We tried to stick together at Hastings, and we did, through most of the battle. All except for Caedmon. We lost track of him as soon as the fighting started, and we never saw him again."

  "You didn't find his body afterward?"

  Orrik stood, the flesh hook at his side. "Nay, and it wasn't like I didn't try. I searched among the corpses for hours, turning them over, looking into their faces..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "He wasn't there."

  "He deserted?" Luke asked.

  Orrik gripped the big hook in a shaking fist. "I didn't say that! I just said he wasn't there."

  "Did you look for him? Try to find out where he—"

  "What do you take me for? Of course I looked for him. I searched all of southern England for him. 'Twas Christmastide by the time I returned to Hauekleah. I didn't know what to tell Faithe. As it turned out, she took the problem out of my lap. She's the one came up with the notion that he'd been taken prisoner."

  "And you let her believe it."

  "What would you have done? I was just trying to spare her feelings." Orrik scratched his shoulder thoughtfully with the tip of the hook. "But like I said, she's a smart girl. She knew about ransom and such. She sent me to London in January to negotiate for his release."

  "And you went?"

  "Aye, well... not to London. I spent the time searching for Caedmon, then came back and told her they wouldn't let him go yet. She kept saying they'd set him free eventually, and I hated to think of her being disappointed. I kept looking for him, starting in Sussex and working my way north."

  "No luck?"

  "Not till Hocktide—the last day of Easter. If you can call it luck. I wasn't even looking for Caedmon at the time—just happened to be passing through this little village on my way to market. Stopped in an inn for a pint, and asked if anybody'd seen a fellow of Caedmon's description. They led me to a grave." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I dug it up, to make sure. 'Twas him. He'd been dead a few weeks—" Orrik's voice broke; he crossed himself grimly. "I filled the grave in and came back to Hauekleah. Told Faithe her husband had died in prison. And there you have it."

  Luke scrubbed his hand over his scratchy jaw. "You lied to her, then."

  Orrik took a step toward Luke, white fire flashing in his eyes. "I love that girl like she was my own daughter! How could I tell her that her husband died in a shabby little Cottwyk brothel, fighting over a twopenny whore?" He blanched, clearly realizing he'd revealed more than h
e'd intended to.

  Luke's scalp prickled with apprehension. Nay... it can't be. "Cottwyk?"

  "Aye, 'tis a little hamlet not far from Foxhyrst."

  "I know it," Luke said woodenly, pushing away from the oven. "And they told you... that's how he died?"

  Orrik grimaced and rubbed his eyes. "Aye. They said he showed up during the winter and wandered around, sleeping here and there. Called himself Caedmon. They said he had red hair and a beard, all long and tangled-like. I dug him up, and it was him."

  A picture materialized in Luke's mind—snarls of reddish hair, tattered clothes... Cold panic shivered through him. Nay...

  "That he should have come to such an end," Orrik said dismally, "is something only the Lord Himself can understand." Reaching into his tunic, he produced something shiny. With a sick jolt, Luke recognized Alex's gold mantle pin with its white wolf insignia. "This belongs to the bastard that done it. There's writing on the back, in French. If it kills me, I'm going to find the murdering whoreson and stretch his filthy Norman neck."

  Luke willed steadiness into his voice. "Find him? You're looking for the... killer? Is that what these 'errands' of yours are all about?"

  Orrik nodded, rubbing the pin with his thumb. "Aye. I've been looking for the bastard for over two months now—quietly, of course. Faithe mustn't discover what I'm up to. She mustn't find out how Caedmon died. But his death must be avenged, and I intend to be the instrument of that vengeance." He stepped closer to Luke, holding the flesh hook like a weapon. "Swear to me that you won't tell her how her husband died. Swear it!"

  "Don't presume to command me," Luke managed. "Or threaten me. Ever again." Shouldering Orrik aside, he turned away and stalked back toward the house, deeply shaken.

  Christ, I'd be the last person to tell her! God, don't let her find out... please...

  * * *

  "Don't worry," Alex kept repeating that night after Luke dragged him out to the kitchen garden to share what Orrik had revealed.

  "For God's sake, Alex, I killed her husband!"

  "Shh!"

  Both men glanced back at the dark form of the house looming over them. The windows of the bedchamber Luke shared with Faithe were brightly lit, and people were moving around in there. Luke heard the splash of water. Faithe must be arranging for the bath he'd wanted this afternoon when he'd thought...

  "Christ, what am I going to do?" Luke whispered.

  "You're going to put it out of your mind," Alex said determinedly.

  "How can you say that? 'Tis your mantle pin they've got."

  "They've had it for months now. They haven't found me yet."

  "'They' is now Orrik. He's intelligent and very, very angry. A dangerous combination."

  In the darkness, Luke saw Alex's teeth flash. "He hasn't found me yet, and I've been living under his nose since the first of May. No one here knows me as the White Wolf. I'm perfectly safe."

  Luke shook his head. "You're too complacent, brother. You should be thinking up ways to protect yourself, not denying the existence of danger."

  "Luke..."

  "I won't let you be punished for a crime I committed, Alex. I won't. That's all there is to it."

  Alex leaned heavily on his cane. "Nothing has changed, you know. If you turn yourself in, I'll take responsibility. I'll claim you're just trying to protect me.

  Luke groaned. "This is madness. Madness."

  Alex shrugged. "Life is mad. One learns to deal with it."

  The men went back inside. One of Alex's twins—the one with two braids—poured each of them a cup of brandy. Luke accepted his gratefully and drank it in one burning gulp.

  "Milord?" Moira descended the bedchamber stairs, followed by two serving boys bearing empty buckets. "Your bath is ready."

  As Luke turned toward the stairs, his brother closed a hand over his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "Enjoy your bath... and your bride. And stop worrying."

  Luke climbed the stairs and knocked softly on the bedchamber door. Faithe, in a shift and wrapper, opened it and ushered him toward the steaming tub. "Everything's ready. Would you like me to... stay and help?"

  Was she blushing, or was that just a trick of the candlelight? "Nay, I... I can manage."

  Disappointment shadowed her face for a brief moment, and then she said, "Very well." On her way out the door, she stopped and turned. "Did you ask Orrik about those errands of his?"

  Damn. Luke rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing he'd thought this all out a little better. "Nay..."

  "Nay?"

  "That is, I did. He... wouldn't tell me. He's very stubborn."

  "That he is. Do you want me to question him?"

  Luke's head shot up. "Nay!"

  "We've always been close. Perhaps I can—"

  "I said nay!"

  Faithe grew horribly still in response to his harsh tone.

  "I'm..." He shook his head. "I'm tired. 'Tisn't you."

  She visibly relaxed and even smiled. "Let the boys know when you're ready for them to take the tub away," she said and closed the door behind her.

  Luke undressed and sank into the water, hot and lightly scented with something pleasantly herbal. After unbraiding his hair, he leaned back against the big wooden tub, closed his eyes and let out a long, troubled sigh.

  He killed her husband.

  I went to the barn and cried into the straw.

  "Christ."

  Luke slid down until his head was submerged. Only when his lungs were on fire did he come back up, gasping.

  He was the one. The dark creature—the murdering Norman beast whom Orrik pursued with such grim purpose.

  He was my husband. We'd spent nearly eight years together. He was good to me.

  And Luke slew him over a two-penny whore. An unforgivable crime, but one which he thought he'd put behind him, at least for the remainder of his mortal existence. However, the sin that haunted his memory and blackened his soul had now resurfaced to jeopardize all that he'd gained, to strip him of everything important to him... including Faithe. He'd come to care deeply for her—far more deeply than he would have thought possible just a short time ago. And she'd become the focal point around which he was building his new life—a bucolic life he'd grown quickly to treasure, and which was suddenly very much at risk.

  The knowledge that he murdered her husband—with no provocation other than the savagery lurking deep inside him—changed everything. For weeks he'd imagined making love to her—gazing into her eyes as he was buried deep inside her. Now, he couldn't envision that without seeing her expression of love and longing replaced by shock and outrage when she discovered what he'd done... and that he was, underneath it all, a monster. He couldn't let that happen. Faithe had become a part of him; she'd gotten into his very soul. To lose her now would be like ripping out his heart.

  He'd been disgusted that Orrik had lied to her. Now he must do so himself, by withholding the awful truth about her husband's death.

  And, as for making love to her...

  I cried until I had no more tears.

  He'd made her a widow, then married her for her property. Guilt flowed red-hot in his veins. If he tried to bed her now, he doubted his body would even rouse to her.

  Luke washed up and dried off, dressed for bed, and had the boys empty and remove the bathtub. Faithe came back in as he was settling down in his usual spot in the rushes. She hesitated in the doorway, her expression pensive, then closed the door, took off her wrapper, and blew out the candles. He heard the ropes supporting the mattress squeak as she got into bed.

  "Faithe..."

  "Aye?"

  Oh, Christ. "Good night." He lay down with his back to her.

  There came a long pause. "Good night, Luke."

  Chapter 11

  Luke seized the Saxon by his tunic and yanked him off the whore, her screams reverberating in his skull. His hand curled into a fist, which he aimed at the Saxon's head.

  He hauled back and swung

  The impact jolted him
awake.

  "What—?" He sat up, his right arm shaking, his hand still tightly fisted.

  With a groan, he buried his face in his hands. The images remained, though, playing themselves out in his mind's eye... the one mighty, war-hammer punch... the Saxon's head—Caedmon's head—whipping around... the limp body in the straw.

  It was back, all of it, the whole dreadful nightmare, back in full force.

  Tossing off his blanket, he stood and looked down at Faithe, fast asleep in the predawn half-light. As usual, her bedclothes were askew, her limbs at engagingly awkward angles. When she was sleeping, she reminded him of a newborn filly, a study in artless elegance.

  Luke recalled his impression of the Saxon, Caedmon, as no more than a ragged savage. The details of his appearance were blurry—the herbs always impaired his memory—but he remembered that rank odor of his. How could a woman like Faithe have tolerated marriage to such a man, however indifferent the union? This was a man, after all, who'd deserted his army on the brink of battle, a man who'd lived like a wild thing all winter, frequenting whores instead of returning to the loving wife waiting patiently at home for him.

  Her keys were on the night table, where she left them every night when she retired. He'd forced her to do so, although he knew she hated to be without them, even at night. He'd forced her to speak to him in his own language, even in private. He'd come to her country as an enemy invader and claimed her ancestral farmstead for his own.

  And she'd adapted to all of it. Moreover, she'd adapted with grace and intelligence and a strength of character he'd never seen the equal of, in a man or a woman. She'd not only come to accept him, but to care for him. He needed no words of endearment from her to know what she felt for him; it was no more than he felt for her, a deep connection that went beyond physical longing—although there was that, too.

  She'd given him the life he'd hungered for during those bleak, bloody years of soldiering. She'd given him sunlight and green pastures, warmth and human affection, a place in the world to call his own.