Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Of course it was your fault,” Orrik said with deadly calm. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to him? Didn’t I tell you not to open the door?”

  “Aye, but I just...”

  “You just disobeyed me. And now our prisoner has escaped. And it’s all your fault.”

  “I... I can explain! Truly I—”

  “Go,” Orrik commanded, and pinned Baldric with his steely gaze. “I’ll deal with you on the morrow.”

  The bailiff stood aside just enough for Baldric to creep through the doorway.

  “What was Baldric doing here?” Faithe demanded. “I specifically told you he wasn’t to come anywhere near—”

  “Nyle fell down on the job,” Orrik said. “I had to replace him, and Baldric was the only man available.”

  “I’m sick to death of your lies, Orrik!”

  “My lady—”

  “What have you done with Luke? Did you hang him?”

  Orrik’s face darkened. “On my mother’s soul, I did no such thing. I haven’t laid eyes on him since I locked him up in here. And I daresay I never will again. Neither will you.” He nodded knowingly. “Aye, we’ve seen the last of your lord husband, I’ll wager. He’s well on his way to Bulverhythe Harbor by now. By the time the sun has risen, he’ll be on a boat, crossing the Channel. A man can disappear very easily on the Continent. He’ll never be brought to justice now, but the Normans would have mucked up the job anyway. ‘Tis just as well this way.” He spat on the ground. “Good riddance to—”

  “Shut up, Orrik.”

  He stiffened his stance, but gentled his voice. “Now, my lady, don’t be getting all—”

  “All what?” she demanded in an unsteady voice. “My husband has... has disappeared, and all you can say is—”

  “He didn’t disappear, Faithe. He escaped. There’s a difference.”

  “And what of Alex?” she demanded. “What happened to him?”

  “I already told you. He got on his horse and rode—”

  “I’ve spent half the night riding west, Orrik, and there was no sign of him.”

  Orrik looked momentarily stunned. “You didn’t believe me? You went out at this time of night, alone—”

  “Of course. I have no reason to believe you anymore. What really happened to Alex, Orrik?”

  He thrust his jaw out. “He rode away, just like I said. If you didn’t find him, ‘twas merely because he was fleeing like a rat, worried I’d change my mind and come after him.”

  She sighed heavily. “I’ll never find out the truth from you—about Alex or Luke.”

  “Your husband escaped, and that is the truth.”

  “I’m sick of listening to you.”

  She lifted her lantern and tried to squeeze past him through the doorway, but he blocked the way. “He tricked Baldric and escaped, and do you want to know why?”

  “Shut up! I’m tired of your explanations, your... your heartless logic.”

  “The truth can be heartless, my dear, but it is the truth, and it bears a little respect now and then. Luke de Périgueux escaped because he couldn’t face the king’s court. He knew that if his vicious crime were scrutinized in the open, he’d be found out for what he is—a murdering beast, without conscience or remorse.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Not that his beloved King William would have meted out the punishment he deserved for such an offense. He might not have even been found guilty—officially. But they would have known. They all would have found out what he really is. That’s what he fears. That’s why he escaped.”

  “Shut up!” She slammed a fist into his chest, but he didn’t even flinch.

  “Don’t you see? That he escaped proves his guilt. He’s afraid to stand trial.”

  “Perhaps he’s merely afraid of what you’ll do when my back is turned.”

  Orrik shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re still defending him. He admitted killing Caedmon, yet you still think him the beleaguered innocent. You still want to give him the opportunity to avoid punishment for what he did.”

  “I want to see justice served.”

  “So do I,” Orrik said solemnly. “But it’s too late for that. Luke de Périgueux has eluded justice.” He closed his hands over her shoulders and said quietly. “All we can do now is go on with our lives. In a way, he’s done you a favor by sneaking off this way. You’ll never see him again. You can put him out of your mind. Forget he was ever here.”

  Forget Luke? The notion was too ludicrous to contemplate. She could no more put him out of her mind than she could forget to breathe. He’d become a part of her. Everything he was, everything he’d done, was intimately connected with her now.

  “I need to find out the truth,” she told Orrik.

  “You need to forget,” he said. “But for now, you need to sleep. ‘Tis late. You’re tired. We’ll talk again in the morning, when you’re rested. I’ll come by around terce.”

  By terce she’d be halfway to Winstow, looking for the truth, but it would be the height of folly to share her plans with Orrik. “I’ll see you then,” she said and went upstairs to her chamber to wait out the rest of the night.

  * * *

  It was midday by the time she arrived at the oil merchant’s shop. She found Dunstan upstairs, tending to his sister. The poor woman’s wasting disease had transformed her into a virtual skeleton covered in skin the color of yellowed parchment.

  “‘Tis only a matter of days now,” Dunstan whispered as he closed the curtain that separated Audris’s sickroom from the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry,” Faithe said as she took a seat at the table.

  “I pray that God will take her soon.” He poured them each a tankard of ale. “I’ve made some soup.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she lied, remembering the stew.

  “Is all well at Hauekleah?” he asked.

  “Hardly.” Faithe told Dunstan about the discovery of the pin, Luke’s horrible confession, and his subsequent escape from the storeroom. The young reeve appeared deeply shaken by this news. “When I was here last,” she said, “you told me many things... but you kept some to yourself. I know you were trying to protect my feelings, but I need to know everything now.”

  “Nay, milady

  “Something happened while you and Caedmon and Orrik were waiting for William’s forces to cross the Channel. I think it had something to do with... a woman. A prostitute. You wouldn’t tell me then. You must tell me now.”

  “‘Twould tarnish his memory,” Dunstan said. “The man was... he was ill.”

  “Was he mad?”

  Dunstan stared into his ale. “Some diseases ravage the mind as well as the body. I’ve seen it with Audris. The things she says, when she manages to talk to me... most of the time, they make no sense. Caedmon... he was getting that way. Those headaches maddened him.”

  “I understand he suffered from seizures and double vision.”

  “Aye, but ‘twas more than that. He’d complain of the oddest things, like not being able to taste his food. He seemed drunk a lot of the time, even if he hadn’t had a drop.”

  Faithe leaned across the table. “Tell me. I appreciate that you want to safeguard Caedmon’s memory, but he’s dead, and Luke is alive. I need to understand what happened that night in Cottwyk, for his sake as well as my own. If what you’re keeping from me has a bearing on that—”

  “It may.” Dunstan took a deep, unsteady breath. “‘Twas about a fortnight before Hastings. King Harold and most of his men were in the north, fighting the Danes who invaded right before William, but he’d commanded some of us to remain in the south. We were spending the night at an inn in a tiny village—Ixbridge, I think it was. We all slept downstairs, but Lord Caedmon, because of his rank, got a private chamber upstairs. There was a woman there, a woman who... sold herself. Her name was Matfrid. He spent the night with her.” Dunstan looked at her inquiringly, as if asking whether she wanted him to go on.

  Faithe nodded. Hear this out. Don’t let
him see how this affects you, or he’ll never tell you the rest.

  “During the night, we heard screams. Horrible ...” He shook his head. “We went upstairs to Caedmon’s room, and...”

  “He was attacking her?” Faithe asked in a choked whisper.

  Dunstan nodded. “With a knife.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We got it away from him. He’d cut her face.”

  Faithe covered her mouth with a hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “We had to pay her two shillings and move on,” Dunstan said. “That was the only time he’d been like that. I mean, he’d been more hostile than usual before that, picking fights with us and all, but after Ixbridge... well, we knew then that something was very wrong with him.”

  “Orrik was there that night?”

  Dunstan nodded. “He ordered us to keep quiet about it. Caedmon was subdued after that. He didn’t call much attention to himself till he disappeared from Hastings.”

  Faithe let out a pent-up breath and rubbed her forehead.

  “‘Twas wrong to keep it a secret, I know that now. But you must understand, Orrik was only thinking of you, He loves you like a daughter. If he’s made mistakes, it’s been for that reason only.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s what makes all this so hard.”

  * * *

  Orrik was waiting for Faithe in the doorway of Hauekleah Hall upon her return that afternoon, a folded sheet of parchment in his hand. “Where have you been, milady? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “You worry about me far too much,” she said meaningfully. “I know about Ixbridge.”

  His eyes widened and then closed. “Faithe

  “You had no business keeping that from me, Orrik—especially in light of what Luke said about Caedmon. If he attacked a woman once, he could do it again. Luke was telling the truth about what happened in Cottwyk. You knew it, but you said nothing. Why, Orrik?”

  At length he opened his eyes. He looked more melancholy than she’d ever seen him. “I was only thinking of you, Faithe. De Périgueux means nothing to me, less than nothing. He’s the enemy. You’re...” He took a step toward her, arms outstretched; she stepped back. “You’re my little girl, Faithe. My wee lass. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Losing Luke would hurt me, Orrik—worse even than finding out... what Caedmon did. Caedmon was sick, and his illness drove him mad. Didn’t you think I could understand that?”

  “I didn’t want you to have to,” he said hollowly. “Only Dunstan and I knew what Caedmon had become. I didn’t want you to know, and I didn’t want it to become public knowledge, what Caedmon did in Ixbridge. I thought ‘twould be better than way.”

  “Ignorance is never better.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze on the sheet of parchment in his hand.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  He handed it to her. “A letter from Lord Alberic.”

  The seal was broken. She looked at Orrik.

  “You weren’t here,” he said reticently. “I thought it might be important.”

  She unfolded the letter. Alberic’s clerk always wrote to her in Latin rather than French, assuming, perhaps, that she couldn’t understand the vernacular of her new Norman masters.

  “It’s about de Périgueux,” Orrik said. “He turned himself in to Lord Alberic.”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning.”

  “You see? He wasn’t afraid of a fair trial!” Faithe scanned the letter as Orrik briefed her on its contents.

  “According to Alberic,” the bailiff said, “your lord husband showed up at Foxhyrst Castle shortly after dawn, demanding to be taken to London and tried in the curia Regis—William’s own court. However, Alberic seems to have other plans.”

  “Oh, no.” Faithe swiftly read through the letter. The king’s court, Alberic maintained, was overburdened with matters involving King William’s barons and knights. Such matters could just as properly be considered the responsibility of the king’s commissioners—his sheriffs and itinerant justices—who were authorized to dispense high justice in the king’s name. Since Alberic’s jurisdiction as sheriff encompassed Hauekleah, he would take it upon himself to pass judgment on the murder of Lord Caedmon. A panel of jurors was being assembled so that the matter could be adjudicated in Alberic’s shire court at Foxhyrst Castle beginning tomorrow morning. Lady Faithe was welcome to attend the proceedings, or to send a representative if she preferred.

  “Tomorrow morning!” Faithe exclaimed. “So soon?”

  “‘Tis best that the matter be dispensed with quickly,” Orrik said.

  “This is bad,” Faithe murmured. “Alberic hates Luke. Did you notice the words he used? ‘Crime.’ ‘Murder.’ Luke will never get a fair trial from this man.”

  Orrik stroked his beard thoughtfully. “A pity.”

  Faithe shot him a look.

  “I mean it,” he said, looking hurt. “All I want is justice. I know that must be difficult for you to believe, after everything that’s happened. ‘Tis my own fault.” He looked at the ground. “I... reacted rashly when Sir Luke confessed to the killing. My concern was for you, but you’re right. I was misguided. I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “It’s too late for forgiveness, Orrik,” she said quietly. “Too much has happened. And, no matter what you say now, I know you’ll never find it in your heart to accept Luke as your master.”

  “You’re assuming he’ll return to Hauekleah,” Orrik said.

  “I intend to see that he does.” She refolded Alberic’s letter. “Do you know where Nyle is?”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t be in Foxhyrst tomorrow morning. I’ll be... somewhere else. But I need to get a message to Alberic.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Nay.”

  “You’ve truly lost all trust in me, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “‘Twas your doing, Orrik,” she replied sadly. “I’d trust that snake, Baldric, before I’d trust you.”

  Orrik shifted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Baldric is dead.”

  “Dead! What happened?”

  “We found him hanging by his neck in the storehouse this morning.”

  “Hanging! Like...”

  “Like Vance. Aye.”

  “But... why?”

  “The only thing I can figure is he must have been consumed by guilt for having let de Périgueux escape. I told him not to open the door, not for any reason. Shame can drive a man to such an act.”

  “My God,” she whispered, not because she believed him, but because she didn’t. Baldric was incapable of feeling shame. A wily little toad, he would never have taken his own life, for any reason. And, if Baldric didn’t hang himself, she knew full well who did. She’d have to decide what to do about this, but right now her overriding concern was Luke; she would take care of Orrik later.

  “Nyle is beside himself over his brother’s death,” Orrik said, “and of course he’s got to bury him. No one else can be spared. Except for me, of course.”

  “I told you—no.”

  “Faithe... I...” Orrik shook his head in evident frustration. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. For everything. I was wrong. I reacted angrily, and in haste. But I repent all that now—especially seeing the mistrust in your eyes. It cuts me to the quick, that it does. Give me a chance to prove myself. Let me take your message to Alberic.”

  “I’ll find someone else,” she said. “In the meantime, you’re to remain at Hauekleah. You’re not to leave here until I return. I’ll deal with you then. Do you understand?”

  Orrik executed one of his impudent little bows. “All too well, my lady.”

  Chapter 24

  Luke tried not to flinch when Ham, the hangman, lifted the red-hot pincers from the brazier and held them in front of his face.

  “And this here,” Ham said, turning the fiery instrument slowly as he examined it with deep-set rodent eyes, “is what I’m g
oing to use to tear the flesh from your body, bit by bit.”

  Luke breathed in the smell of superheated iron, felt its stinging heat—but he stood still, unwilling to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cringe. He did shift his wrists reflexively against the manacles that bound his hands behind his back, which made his shoulder wound burn with pain.

  Jerking his gaze away from the sinister device, Luke scanned the cavelike cellar of Foxhyrst Castle, refurbished by Lord Alberic into a proper Norman-style torture chamber. Chains hung from the ceiling; an iron chair fitted with restraints stood in a corner, and next to it a set of leg vises; a ladder for dislocating the limbs leaned at an angle against the damp stone wall next to the subterranean cell in which Luke had spent the night—another night with next to no sleep.

  “And when I get done with that,” Ham said, his breath hot and foul on Luke’s face, “I aim to chain you up and flog you till there ain’t no skin left on your back.”

  With his free hand, Ham reached into the pouch on his belt, withdrew some dried leaves—Luke smelled catnip—and tossed them into his mouth. He was a hulking creature with a hairless head that sprouted from his shoulders without the benefit of a neck. The lack of hair was evidently deliberate; Luke could make out a dusting of coppery stubble all over the milk-white scalp.

  “Then maybe,” Ham said as he chewed, “I’ll gouge out one of your eyes, the one that’s already swole up, and cut off one of your ears—just one each, so’s you can still hear and see what’s happenin’ to you. Then I’ll pour brandy on your hair and set it on fire.” Ham swallowed and grinned, displaying a sparse mouthful of yellowing teeth. “So’s you’ll look like me. That’ll begin to pay you back some for killin’ my sister.”

  “I didn’t kill your—”

  Ham drove a giant fist into Luke’s stomach, landing him on his back in the sawdust. He gasped for air as the pain and nausea receded.

  “Helig died runnin’ away from you.” Ham squatted over Luke, holding the pincers over his face. “You killed her just as dead as if you’d stuck a knife in her gut. And I aim to make you suffer for it.”

  “I haven’t even been tried yet, much less found guilty.” Luke had come to Foxhyrst Castle yesterday and formally surrendered himself to Alberic, for transport to the king’s court, only to be handed over to Ham for incarceration. At dawn the hangman had dragged him out of his dank oubliette and announced that he was to be tried in Alberic’s shire court that very day—no doubt so that “justice” could be dispensed before William caught wind of it. Luke had expected to be taken upstairs immediately, but instead Ham had treated him to this little demonstration of the punishments in store for him once he was found guilty—punishments that would conclude with a public hanging.