Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Thank you for your opinion,” Luke ground out, wishing his brother weren’t quite so artlessly perceptive. He had no desire to share with anyone, even Alex, his ambivalence about bedding his bride.

  “Shall I fetch Lady Faithe, milord?” the boy asked.

  “Aye.”

  He raced out the door. Luke followed at an unhurried pace, squinting at the dazzling sunlight that greeted him when he emerged from Hauekleah Hall. He strolled through the gate of the stone wall that enclosed the house and peered down the road to watch the approach of a horse-drawn wooden cart with two oversize wheels. It was too far away for him to make out the driver. A flash of movement to his left caught Luke’s attention; he watched the red-haired boy dart through a stand of trees by the side of the road.

  Luke traced the boy’s path through the trees. Beyond them he discovered an enormous, plowed field nestled in the crook of the river that curved through Hauekleah. Men and women dotted the field, broadcasting seed with great sweeps of their arms. To the east, beyond the river, sheep grazed in a pasture surrounded by rolling open meadows. The meadowland, punctuated by woodland patches and a network of rivulets, was a deep, saturated green, the cloudless sky an unearthly blue.

  The sight literally stole Luke’s breath. Not since his childhood in the Aquitaine countryside had he seen earth and sky meet in such jewel-toned splendor. Warm breezes caressed him, ruffling his unbound hair. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the perfume of his boyhood—fertile earth, spring grasses, a whiff of manure...and an underlying fruitiness. Scanning the landscape, he spied it, to the north on the opposite bank of the river—a vineyard planted in orderly rows. Now he truly felt as if he had come home.

  One of the field workers—a woman, backlit by the morning sun—was walking toward him across the field, accompanied by a child. Only when Luke saw the child’s bright head did he realize that this was the red-haired boy—and that the woman with him must be Lady Faithe.

  She wore a broad-brimmed, conical straw hat over loose hair, and the same ankle-revealing kirtle that she’d had on when he met her. To his astonishment he saw that her feet were bare. Snugged up against her hip was a curved basket half filled with grain and secured by a leather strap looped over one shoulder.

  “You were sowing grain?” he asked her incredulously.

  She smiled, as if amused by his astonishment. “Winter wheat. The first planting goes in right after the spring crops are sown.”

  “Of all the sorts of work for you to be doing...” he began.

  “Work is work,” she said carelessly. “‘Tis all the same to me.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Sowing wheat is relaxing.”

  “Relaxing!”

  He gazed over her shoulder at the field workers, each with a basket like hers, dispersing the sparkling grain in practiced arcs. A little girl scampered around a big open sack on the ground, scaring the crows away with a stick.

  “It is relaxing,” she said. “With other chores, I must always be thinking about what I’m doing. But with seeding, I get into a rhythm, and then my mind is free to venture elsewhere. I like to do it when I have things to think about, or problems to solve.”

  She ducked her head to fiddle with the strap on the basket, but not before he saw her face stain pink. Had she revealed more than she had intended? Was she thinking about last night? Had he, with his reluctance to consummate this marriage, been reduced to one of her problems to be solved?

  “Your bailiff has returned,” Luke said shortly.

  “Orrik?” Lady Faithe looked up, instantly animated. She untied the hat and removed it, then lifted the strap of the basket over her head and handed it to the boy.

  “Look, milady!” The boy pointed to the sky behind them. Luke and Lady Faithe shielded their eyes to peer overhead. “Three of ‘em! That’s your lucky sign, isn’t it?”

  “So it is,” murmured Lady Faithe, her attention riveted on the three majestic hawks soaring in elegant circles over the field. Luke admired the ease with which she switched back and forth between French with him and English with the boy.

  “What kind are they?” he asked, thinking he might take up hawking if he could raise the proper breeds.

  “I can’t tell from this distance,” she said, still staring skyward. “There are so many different types around here. This region is known for them. That’s how Hauekleah got its name. It means meadow of the hawks.”

  Luke’s gaze shifted from the hawks to his wife, craning her neck, her eyes translucent in the morning sun, smiling with unabashed pleasure. God, she was beautiful—not in the way he’d come to associate with noble ladies. Her clothes were absurd, her hair untidy, as usual. And that hat! Yet, standing here with the verdant grandeur of her fields and pastures behind her, she looked so right, so perfect—a creature entirely in communion with her world.

  It was a rare and precious world, a community intimately linked to the seasons, whose entire reason for being was to coax sustenance from the land. This woman’s link to this land, Luke realized, had taken centuries to forge. No wonder she was so covetous of Hauekleah, so willing to offer herself as the spoils of war if only she could keep it.

  “Good things will happen for you now, milady,” the boy announced gravely. “You’ve seen your lucky sign.”

  “Yes, well...” She ruffled his gleaming hair, then pointed to the seed basket. “Dump that back in the sack, Alfrith. Then help Cwen with the crows.”

  The boy’s shoulders slumped in an exaggerated display of disappointment; clearly, crow duty was not his favorite chore.

  “And at terce,” she said, “you and Cwen may go to the kitchen and finish the rest of the hazelnut crumble from yest—”

  “Oh, milady, thank you!” Alfrith raced toward the field with sudden determination. “I’ll do a good job with the crows, I promise you.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Chuckling, she turned and gestured for Luke to follow her back through the trees. “Come. I’ll introduce you to Orrik.”

  The road was empty. “He must be coming to the back of the house,” she said. Luke accompanied her back up the road and through the front gate of Hauekleah Hall. But instead of going inside, she led him around the side of the house, across a lawn planted with shade trees.

  He couldn’t help thinking what a strange pair they made. With her light-footed gait and her big, silly hat swinging to and fro in her hand, Lady Faithe looked the very image of pastoral innocence. Whereas Luke... he looked like what he was. An invader. An interloper. The black insect on the honey cake.

  “You won’t be able to speak your language with Orrik,” she told him as they rounded the back of the house and proceeded up a flagstone walk through a kitchen garden that took up most of the walled croft. “He reads and writes Latin, but he refuses to learn French. He understands a little if it’s spoken clearly, but he insists he’ll never speak it himself.”

  “Eventually I’ll expect all of Hauekleah’s villeins to speak it—at least, those who answer directly to me.”

  She bristled slightly, but made no response. Past the garden, built up against the stone enclosure at the back of the croft, stood a cluster of small thatched structures. “The two in the right-hand corner are the storehouses,” said Lady Faithe, pointing. “Vance is being held in the smaller one.”

  The flagstone walk terminated at a gate in the back of the stone wall; beyond it, he saw chickens pecking in the dirt. “There’s a privy back there,” she said, which he was glad to hear; he didn’t care for chamber pots, and the woods were a bit far away for convenience. “Also the poultry house, barn, and stable.”

  The chickens shrieked and scattered in a panic. First one harnessed horse, and then another, came into view, followed by the cart, driven by a brawny man in a short, hooded cloak. The cart paused just outside the gate, and the man jumped down to swing it open.

  “Isn’t it rather early in the morning for him to be returning from such a distance?” Luke asked as they neared the
gate.

  “He probably spent the night with... a friend of his, down the road.”

  “A lady friend, I assume.” These Saxons were the randiest people he’d ever met.

  Faithe half smiled. “The Widow Aefentid. She has an inn on the other side of the woods.”

  By the time they got to the gate, a small crowd had gathered around the cart, but they moved aside to let Luke and Faithe pass. Lady Faithe walked up to the driver, who was unlatching and lowering the vehicle’s leather-hinged back. “That’s a fine cart, Orrik,” she said.

  Orrik lowered his hood as he turned toward her. “I thank you, my—” His expression turned grim when he noticed Luke.

  He was older than Luke had anticipated, probably close to sixty, but with the solid build of a much younger man. He wore his silver gray hair twisted into a knot at his nape, and, like nearly all Saxon men, a beard—although, unlike most, his was neatly trimmed. His eyebrows were jet slashes over eyes that glowed like new steel against his tanned face. Luke knew immediately that this was not a man to dismiss lightly.

  Orrik spared Luke only the most cursory glance. “So that’s him, then.” He spat into the dirt, then hauled a large key out of the cart and set it on the ground. Turning, he grabbed two small sacks. “I got those nails, and a hundred tallow candles. Got a good price on the quicklime and the tar. The salt was a bit dear, though.”

  Lady Faithe took a step toward her bailiff. “Orrik...”

  “They tell me you already married the evil, murderous, stinking son of a—”

  “Orrik!” Faithe shot a quick, wary look toward Luke and said, “He understands English.”

  Orrik cocked an eyebrow in Luke’s direction and continued unloading his supplies.

  “And we did get married,” Faithe said, gripping her straw hat in her fists, “so he’s my husband now, and lord of Hauekleah, so you mustn’t say such things.”

  “I take back ‘stinking.’” Orrik hauled out a bolt of brown wool and another of green and laid them on top of the keg. “He has no odor at all that I can discern. Doesn’t seem quite natural. As far as I know, the rest still applies.”

  “Orrik, please.”

  “Nay, my lady,” Luke said in English, keeping his voice level. “Let him talk. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Orrik met Luke’s gaze squarely for the first time. “You’re dealing... my lord... with a man who saw firsthand what you bloodthirsty butchers did at Hastings. I saw hundreds—hundreds—of Englishmen mown down by your ungodly crossbows.”

  “I was at Hastings, too,” Luke said. “‘Twas a battle, not a massacre. Both sides fought nobly.”

  “Nobly? You haven’t heard what your William did to our king, then, after he’d been blinded by an arrow in the eye.”

  “I’ve heard it, but I don’t believe it. All battles produce such tales.”

  “Granted,” Orrik said, his voice soft with menace. “But in this case the tale is true, for I was among the men making that last stand with King Harold, and I saw it all from my ditch.” The bystanders fell into silence. “‘Twas dusk when they rode up, your William and three of his men. They drew their swords, and all I could do was hold my tongue and watch, or they would have slain me, too. First William stabbed Harold in the chest, then the rest went to work on him. One cut his belly open and pulled out his innards, while another hacked off his head. The third man cut off his...” Orrik glanced at Lady Faithe. “Another part of him. And wrapped it up and tucked it in his saddlebag, for what purpose I can’t begin to imagine.” He drew in an unsteady breath, his face washed of color, clearly shaken by the memory.

  Dear God, Luke thought, he’s telling the truth. And the worst of it was, Luke wasn’t even surprised. Although a natural leader, William had never struck him as a man of honor. Now he knew his instinct had been correct.

  “Harold was a great king,” Orrik said. “Strong and just and even-tempered. And that’s the way your noble William chose to end his life.” Spitting on the ground again, he wheeled around and hefted a stack of slate. “Justify that, if you can.”

  “I can’t,” Luke said. “Nor can I justify most of what I’ve seen during my years of soldiering—nor most of what I’ve done, for that matter.”

  “I daresay that’s true.” Orrik grunted as he dragged four iron tires out of the cart. “Else they wouldn’t call you the Black Dragon.”

  “They don’t anymore,” Lady Faithe interjected, her voice icy. “I won’t allow it. From anyone.” She exchanged a meaningful look with her bailiff, who grimaced and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his homespun tunic.

  “Yes, my lady,” he ground out.

  She took a step toward him, her mouth set in a determined line. When she spoke again, very softly, it was in Latin, which Luke knew none of the onlookers could understand. “You must set an example for the others, Orrik. They look up to you.”

  “Milady, for God’s—”

  “Don’t force me to try and decide what to do with you if you persist in this open disrespect. I’ve known you since I was born, and I love you like a father. You kept Hauekleah functioning while I was at St. Mary’s, and I’ll always be indebted to you for that. But Luke de Périgueux is my husband now, Orrik.”

  “Yes, but, milady—”

  “He’s my husband, and I can brook no insolence toward him from anyone, even you. Especially you. Do you understand?”

  They stared each other down for several long moments, and then Orrik gritted his teeth and said, “I understand perfectly, my lady.”

  “Good,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Chapter 6

  Looking down, Faithe saw that she’d crushed the brim of her straw hat in her fists. Prying her rigid fingers from the crumpled headgear, she handed it to the smithy’s young daughter, standing nearby. “Would you give this to Moira to fix, Esme?”

  “Yes, milady.” The girl took the hat and ran off toward the manor house.

  Overwhelmed with sorrow, for she’d never had to speak thusly to Orrik, she turned away from him, only to find Sir Luke staring at her with the oddest expression.

  He’d observed her dressing-down of Orrik in silence, as if conceding this dubious privilege to her. Now he scrutinized her as if she were a thing he’d never seen before, his keen eyes tempered by a warmth that took her completely by surprise. He held her gaze for a moment, and then he nodded slightly, as if to say she’d done well.

  She nodded back. Then, needing to flee Orrik’s disapproving glare and the watchful eyes of her villeins, she walked back through the gate and into the croft. To her relief, Sir Luke came with her; she would not have wanted him alone with Orrik.

  “Good morning, milady... milord,” called Dunstan from the garden path. His nephew, little Felix, accompanied him, a horn of ale in one hand and a hunk of brown bread in the other. They paused at the door to the small storehouse. “Time for this sorry wretch to break his fast,” Dunstan told Baldric, who was standing guard. Baldric withdrew a large key from his tunic.

  “Did you have any trouble with him?” asked Sir Luke as he approached the storehouse, Faithe on his heels.

  Dunstan shook his head as Baldric turned the key in the lock. “He went in easy enough. How was he during the night, Baldric?”

  “Not a peep.” Baldric swung the door open.

  A fetid stench assaulted them, wafting out of the storehouse in a wave. Faithe’s body reacted in advance of her mind, her gorge rising even before she’d put a name to the smell: Death.

  Felix shrieked, the horn slipping from his fingers to soak the ground with ale. Dunstan hissed an Anglo-Saxon oath. Baldric, seemingly unmoved, looked on with an expression of vague curiosity.

  Sir Luke stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the interior of the storehouse. When she tried to squeeze around him, he grabbed her shoulders and spun her away from the open doorway. “Nay, my lady,” he said gruffly.

  “I want to see—”

  “No, you don’t.”

 
“Let go of me,” Faithe demanded in a furious whisper, but he only held her tighter. She glanced toward Orrik and the others, filing into the croft to see why Felix had screamed. “They mustn’t see me like this. You’ll make me look weak in their eyes. Now, let me go.”

  His gaze searched hers. She thought she detected a trace of admiration on his part, mingled with foreboding. He closed his eyes, his jaw set, then grudgingly released her.

  Sidestepping him, Faithe filled her lungs with air and strode up to the doorway. She hesitated when she heard the droning—a low, almost inaudible insect murmur—but she summoned her nerve and stepped inside.

  The breath left her in a gust, one hand automatically covering her mouth while the other groped for the door frame. Sir Luke’s strong hands wrapped around her waist from behind, supporting her. If not for him, she doubted her legs would have held her up.

  “Have you seen enough?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

  Christ, yes. But try as she might, she couldn’t avert her gaze from the gruesome sight.

  Vance hung suspended in a haze of dust motes, rotating slowly at the end of a noose tied to a ceiling beam. A ribbon of glittering sunlight shot through the vent hole near the ceiling to play over his lifeless body. His face, when it came into view, was dark and bloated.

  But it wasn’t the sight of his corpse, or even the noxious odor, that undid her. It was the flies. She didn’t see them until the beam of light hit his face, and then she quickly squeezed her eyes shut, but the image remained. God, there were hundreds of them, crawling over his filmy eyes, swarming in his gaping, toothless mouth.

  Her insides felt as if they were being slowly pulled up through her throat. Thank God she hadn’t eaten breakfast; if she had food in her stomach, she would surely have lost it by now, in front of everyone.

  “Come, my lady.” Sir Luke pulled her gently back from the doorway, one arm encircling her.