Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  They collapsed into the rushes together, slick with oil and sweat. He wiped her tears away with a shaky hand and whispered breathlessly, “Why are you crying?”

  “This is perfect. A perfect moment.”

  He chuckled tolerantly as he drew himself out of her and gathered her in his arms. “That’s what you said after the first time, in the barn.”

  “I was wrong. That was a very good moment—excellent. But this is perfect. Everything is wonderful. Naught is amiss.”

  “You’re right,” he said wonderingly. “Everything is perfect—or as close as one could reasonably hope for. And ‘twill remain that way. Now and forever.”

  “Now and forever,” she murmured against his lips.

  * * *

  Things remained perfect for another twelve days.

  Chapter 20

  After supper on the last day of July, as Faithe’s house staff and the village children busied themselves decorating Hauekleah Hall for tomorrow’s Lammas Day songfest, little Felix appeared in the doorway.

  Luke could tell he’d been swimming, which he did more and more by himself lately, ever since Luke taught him how. His hair was wet, and his clothes clung damply to his small body. Grinning excitedly, he scanned the activity in the great hall until his gaze lit on Luke, at the rear, enjoying a game of draughts with Alex.

  “Milord!” the boy shouted over the commotion and waved a small object in the air. “Look what I found!”

  Luke squinted at the object, which gleamed in the early evening sun streaming in through the doorway.

  “I found it at the bottom of the river! I saw it shining!”

  “Luke!” Alex whispered.

  Luke stood. He held out his hand. With all the calm at his disposal, he called out, “Bring it to me, Felix.”

  Luke held his breath as Felix darted between two groups of children sitting on the floor, tying ribbons around sheaves of wheat. Waving to Alfrith and Bram, he jumped over several long garlands of midsummer blossoms stretched out across the floor waiting to be wound around posts and hung from rafters.

  As he passed Faithe, strewing mint and wormwood among the rushes, he paused.

  “Nay,” Alex murmured.

  “Felix, bring it here!” Luke demanded loudly. He couldn’t hear Faithe’s voice from across the huge, crowded room, but he could read her lips: “What have you got there?”

  “Look.” Felix handed her the mantle pin.

  Orrik came up behind Faithe and peered down over her shoulder.

  Alex stood up. His right hand automatically touched his hip, where the hilt of his sword would have been had he been wearing it.

  Luke muttered a brief, heartfelt prayer.

  Faithe smiled when she saw what it was she held, and ruffled Felix’s wet hair. The other boys gathered around him, stealing glances at the pin and patting him on the back. “Good work,” Orrik said. Felix puffed up his little chest with pride.

  Luke’s gaze was riveted on Faithe as she studied the onyx dragon imbedded in the golden disk, her smile never wavering. Meeting his eyes across the room, she held it up and cupped her hand around her mouth. “Look what Felix found!”

  Luke circled the table and strode toward her through the preholiday mayhem, his hand outstretched. “I’ll take that.”

  As he watched, she turned the pin over and held it close to her face. Halfway across the hall to her, Luke paused and glanced back at Alex, still standing next to the table where they’d been playing draughts. He held Luke’s gaze for a grim moment and then lifted his cup of brandy and drained it.

  When Luke looked back at Faithe, he saw that her smile had turned into a frown of puzzlement. Her lips moved slowly as she read the inscription—identical to that on the white wolf pin, save for the words that prefaced the quote. Luke’s was inscribed To my middle son, Alex’s To my youngest son.

  Luke felt starved for air.

  She looked up at him. The bewilderment in her eyes made his heart splinter into a thousand fragments. He crossed to her until they were close enough to touch, but he didn’t touch her. Around them, Faithe’s famuli—mostly kitchen wenches and serving girls—stopped what they were doing to stare at their lord and lady. The tapestry of chatter became muffled and then faded away. Orrik snagged Baldric by his tunic and whispered something in his ear. Baldric grinned maliciously and raced out the back door.

  “‘Tis a quotation from Deuteronomy,” Luke said, very softly, knowing she didn’t care about that, but not knowing what else to say. “Moses’ counsel to the people of Israel. ‘Be strong and of good courage. Have no fear or dread, for the Lord your God goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.”‘

  She just stared at him.

  “My father was a pious man. He...”

  She was shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

  The young boys gaped, clearly sensing that something momentous was happening, but not sure what it was—except for Felix, who looked back and forth between Luke and Faithe with a heartbreakingly flustered expression. A few of the serving girls, including Lynette and Leola, edged closer, straining for a look at what Faithe held in her hand.

  “Faithe.” He took a step toward her, but she backed up, and he knew then that she did understand. God help him, she understood perfectly. “Faithe...”

  “I don’t understand,” she repeated, her voice wavering. “Explain it to me. Just explain it to me, please!” Desperation glittered in her eyes.

  Luke closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, Faithe. Whatever happens, know that I love you, and that I’m—”

  “Explain it!” Her face turned a scalding pink; her eyes were wild. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like. Please! Tell me that other pin isn’t Alex’s!”

  “Yes, do.” Orrik crossed his arms, his eyes like newly minted silver shillings.

  “It’s my pin.”

  Luke turned to find Alex behind him.

  “I’m the man you were looking for, Faithe,” Alex said.

  Faithe shook her head again. “No, Alex.”

  “‘Tisn’t how it seems,” Luke said.

  Orrik snorted disgustedly.

  “Then tell me how it is,” she demanded shakily. “Explain it.”

  Luke scoured his mind for the right words. Felix sniffled pathetically.

  “Oh, God.” She fisted her quivering hands in her skirt. “Alex, please tell me you didn’t... please!”

  “We can’t talk about it here,” Luke said, indicating their audience. “Let’s go outside and—”

  “I’m sure you’d like that.” Orrik nodded toward the herd of brawny men being led through the back door by Baldric. They’d been rebuilding the cookhouse, and they still gripped their tools in their meaty fists. Luke saw augers, chisels, and various axes, hammers, and saws of all shapes and sizes. “See that this murdering cur” —he pointed to Alex— “doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Faithe opened her mouth to speak, but seemed at a complete loss; Luke had never seen her look so helpless. The men blinked at Orrik and exchanged looks. Alex was well liked by everyone at Hauekleah.

  Obviously sensing their hesitation, Orrik said, “‘Twas he who murdered our Lord Caedmon. He all but admitted it.”

  The men murmured darkly. One of them grabbed Alex by the arm and held a carpenter’s axe to the back of his neck.

  Pulling herself together, Faithe ordered her staff and the children out of the great hall. They all dropped what they were doing and left quickly, save for Lynette and Leola, weeping piteously, and Felix, who lingered unnoticed behind Orrik.

  “You” —Orrik jabbed Firdolf on the arm— “go fetch a good, strong length of rope, and tie it into a noose. Bring it back here.”

  Firdolf’s mouth dropped open.

  “Do it!”

  The young bondman backed up slowly, glancing back and forth between Leola and Alex.

  “Now!” Orrik ordered.

  Firdolf turned and lumbered off to do the bailiff’s bidding.

 
; “Nay!” Lynette, crying hysterically, clutched the front of Orrik’s tunic. “Let him go! He didn’t do it! He couldn’t have!”

  “Stop this!” Orrik slapped the young woman’s face.

  “Orrik!” Faithe gasped.

  “You bastard!” Alex screamed, leaping toward the bailiff. Three of the men seized him and wrestled him back. “Don’t you touch her!”

  Orrik sneered at Alex’s rage. “Nyle! Baldric! Take these wenches outside.”

  The two brothers grabbed the twins, who began to struggle frantically, biting and lashing out with their fists. Leola broke free and hurled herself toward Alex. Baldric pounced on her and lifted her roughly off her feet. She kicked him in the shin. He yanked her braid, causing her to howl in pain.

  “Stop it!” Alex bellowed. The girls quieted; their captors held on tight. “Lynette... Leola. Go home.”

  They shook their heads, tears streaming down their crimson faces.

  “Aye,” Alex insisted, quietly but firmly. “Go into your house and wait there. There’s naught you can do to help, and—”

  They both burst into fresh tears.

  “And this isn’t as bad as it seems,” he lied. “‘Tis a misunderstanding, nothing more. Go home. Go.”

  They nodded limply. The men let them go, and they lurched from the hall, holding on to each other.

  “You’ve quite a way with the wenches,” Orrik observed. “But ‘twill take more than sweet words to keep me from stretching your filthy, murdering neck this evening.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Luke said.

  Alex shook his head. “Luke...”

  Luke looked directly at Faithe and said quietly, “I did.”

  She stared mutely, stricken by his confession. Dimly Luke was aware of Orrik barking orders, someone’s big hand closing around his arm, a sharp pressure at his back, through his tunic. Alex tried to intercede, but they held on to him, three or four of them.

  “He’s lying to protect me!” Alex claimed. “I did it. ‘Twas my pin you found there, wasn’t it?”

  “All that means,” Orrik told him, “is you were there with him when he did it. If I have to choose which one of the two of you is more likely to do murder, it’s got to be the Black Dragon. He’s the one that did it. I know it in my bones. ‘Tis an act of brutality perfectly in keeping with his nature.”

  How convenient for Orrik, Luke thought, to have such a good excuse for disposing of the Norman master he never wanted in the first place, and had always despised.

  Faithe never wrested her gaze from Luke’s. “Why?” she choked out. “You must have had a reason. I know you must have had a reason.”

  The time for deceit—even in the name of kindness—was over. Luke’s position as master of Hauekleah wouldn’t save him from Orrik’s unreasoning fury. His only hope for salvation was the truth. “I didn’t just murder him in cold blood, Faithe. I swear it. And I didn’t kill him fighting over... the woman.”

  “Doesn’t matter what clever lies you come up with, de Périgueux,” Orrik threatened. “As God is my witness, you’re going to swing from my noose this night.”

  “Nay!” Faithe exclaimed. “There will be no hanging. I won’t permit it.”

  “God’s bones, woman, do you mean to just let the man walk free?” Orrik demanded. “He killed Caedmon—he said so himself! He murdered your husband, and you propose to—”

  “I didn’t murder him,” Luke interjected.

  “Liar!” Orrik rammed his fist into Luke’s stomach. A sickening burst of pain doubled him over. Hands grabbed him and yanked him upright.

  Faithe and Alex were both screaming at Orrik. Orrik screamed back, “He’s a murderer, and he’s got to hang!” He snatched a small saw out of someone’s hand. “I’ll cut his stinking Norman throat before I let him go free.”

  “Then the Normans will hang you,” Faithe warned.

  “‘Twill be worth it,” Orrik said. “I’ll go to the hangman willingly, knowing I’ve seen justice done.”

  “You call this justice?” Faithe demanded. “Hanging a man without a trial?”

  Orrik grunted dismissively. “We’ve no authority to try him. Only his king can do that, and you can’t tell me we can expect real justice from him. Even if he were found guilty, the great and mighty Black Dragon would never hang for killing a lowly Saxon. Worst that’ll happen to him is a whipping. The only way to see justice served is for us to hang the bastard ourselves, even if we have to do it in the dead of night and burn the body afterward.”

  Baldric grunted in agreement. The others seemed taken aback—even appalled—by what the bailiff was proposing. Unfortunately Luke knew that all Orrik needed in order to implement his threat was the cover of darkness.

  “I forbid this,” Faithe announced, scanning the faces of the men surrounding them. “Do you hear me? I won’t have it.”

  All the men, even Orrik, murmured their assent, but Luke detected a predatory gleam in the bailiff’s eye, a mulish set to his jaw, and knew, even if Faithe didn’t, that she couldn’t hope to control him. Not for a moment did Luke believe Orrik would willingly hand him over to the Normans, no matter what pacifying assurances he offered now. Alex’s severe expression indicated that he knew this, too.

  Faith turned to Luke. “What happened that night? Tell me the truth this time. You’ve lied to me for months, one way or another.”

  Luke didn’t deny it.

  “No more lies,” she said. “What really happened?”

  Luke drew in a steadying breath. “I was trying to protect... that woman. Helig. She was upstairs in the loft, with Caedmon. I’m sorry, Faithe. I didn’t want to tell you this. I didn’t want you to find out what happened that night.”

  “I daresay that’s true,” Orrik snarled.

  Faithe sliced a look of warning toward Orrik, then returned her attention to Luke. “Go on.”

  “They were upstairs together. I was asleep downstairs.” No point in offering all the sordid details—the herbs, the nightmares, the madness. They would muddy things and only hurt his cause. “I woke up to screams, the woman’s screams. I went up there, and... I’m sorry, Faithe. He was attacking her.”

  She looked at Luke as if he’d said he’d seen fish flying in the sky.

  “Lying pig!” Orrik slammed his fist into the side of Luke’s head. Pain erupted in a white-hot flash.

  More screaming... he shook his head to clear it as the hands tightened around his arms. His ears rang. All he could hear was Felix wailing, amid uncontrollable sobs, “I’m sorry, milord! I found the pin. ‘Tis all my fault.”

  “Listen to Luke!” Alex was yelling. “Won’t you just listen to him? He’s telling the truth.”

  “It’s impossible,” Faithe murmured, her bright flush draining quickly—too quickly.

  Luke tried to approach her, but the hands held him back. Hot blood trickled into his eye, and he could feel the stinging flesh begin to swell. “I’m sorry, Faithe, truly I am. But he was... hitting her. Over and over again.”

  “He’s never done anything like that,” she said woodenly. “Never.”

  Luke implored her with his eyes to look at him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Faithe.”

  “Hah!” Orrik spat out.

  “Not anymore,” he amended, feeling as if he were skidding down a perilous and deadly slope. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I... want to...” But she didn’t. Of course not. She didn’t want to believe the man she’d been married to for eight years was capable of such savagery.

  “He was... his illness, it made him...” Luke groped for the words to explain it to her, but her eyes were becoming glassy, unfocused, and he didn’t think she really heard him. She wavered slightly on her feet, and he knew then that the shock was too much for her. This was exactly how she’d looked after finding Vance’s corpse hanging in the storeroom that morning, before she’d run away to faint in the blessed solitude of the barn.

  “Faithe...” Luke said, but she just turned away with d
reamlike listlessness. “Someone help her. Moira!”

  “I’m... I’m...” Sweat gleamed on Faithe’s bleached face. Moira tried to put her arm around her, but she swatted the plump maid away. “Nay,” she said hoarsely. “Leave me be.”

  She stumbled away, and out the back door.

  “See what your lies have done?” Orrik demanded, rage flaring in his eyes. “She’s like my own daughter, that girl. Look what you’ve done to her.”

  “Here it is, Master Orrik.” It was Firdolf, returning with the noose he’d fashioned from a length of thick hemp rope.

  “You’ve done naught but damage since you came here,” Orrik charged, trading his saw for the noose and snapping it to test its strength. “Now I mean to do a little damage myself. An eye for an eye, as they say.”

  “Your mistress has forbidden this!” Alex reminded him.

  “My mistress has been taken in by the smooth Norman ways of her husband.” Orrik draped the noose around Luke’s head and pulled it tight. “She’s not thinking straight. It falls to me to do her thinking for her.”

  “Nay! Nay!” Felix pummeled Orrik with his little fists. Orrik backhanded him across the face, and he sprawled into the rushes.

  “Go away, Felix,” Luke ordered. “You can’t help me.” And he didn’t want the boy to have to watch him hang. He had enough on his conscience.

  “But ‘tis my fault, milord!” Felix whimpered. “I’ve got to help you.”

  “You can help me by going home to your mother, so I don’t have to worry about you. Now, go!”

  The boy got to his feet, but hesitated.

  “Get out of here!” Luke roared.

  He sprinted out the front door.

  Orrik seemed grimly amused. “Shall we get on with things?” He tugged on the rope, jerking Luke’s head to the side. “That big oak outside the sheepfold has a good, sturdy branch high up. ‘Twill do quite nicely for our purposes, I think.”

  “Listen to me, all of you,” Alex exhorted the men, straining against the arms that held him. “Orrik has no authority to do this. You heard Lady Faithe. She expressly forbade this!”

  Orrik grabbed a sledgehammer from the man next to him.