Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  He took a deep breath and banished all thoughts of Martine from his mind. “I’m fine. Come outside with me.” Zelma’s teasing had driven him perilously close to the edge. He would not let her finish him here in this stairwell, like some randy youth who had to take what he could get. He had to get her to the hawk house.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You won’t get pregnant. I’ll finish outside of you.”

  “I’m barren as a stone. Doesn’t matter.”

  He wouldn’t have to pull out! He had to have her. Perhaps she feared that he would hurt her. She had commented on his size, something about him doing her damage.

  “I’d be so gentle,” he said. “You’d never even know I was in there.”

  “Ah. Well.” Abruptly she let go of him, pulled her hands out of his chausses, tightened the cord, and adjusted his tunics. “There’s hardly any point to that, now, is there?”

  “What?”

  “If I wanted to fall asleep in the middle of it, I’d spread my legs for that Sir Guy or one of them other fine Norman ladies. A real Saxon stallion should be able to make a woman scream.”

  “Zelma—”

  She turned and descended the stairs, saying, “Try again when you’re not in such a gentle mood.”

  He watched her disappear and stood staring after her, still holding the pitchers. The throbbing ache in his groin was suddenly matched by a headache of blinding intensity. He turned, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall. It had been a trying day.

  More voices came from below—Peter and Guy on their way back up from wherever they had gone—but still Thorne didn’t move. Their conversation trailed off as they came up behind him. For a moment they regarded him in silence, and then Peter put a hand on his shoulder, saying softly, “Thorne?”

  “Aye?”

  He tapped his empty tankard against one of the pitchers. “Mind giving me a refill?”

  * * *

  Martine sat down in the hot, scented water and leaned back against the smooth wood of the tub. She closed her eyes and sighed. All the woes of the world were expelled from her in that sigh, replaced by a delicious, consuming warmth. She slid down until only her head and knees were above water, her hair hanging over the side of the tub and spilling onto the rush-covered floor.

  Felda pulled up a stool, draped the hair across her lap, and spent a wonderfully long time brushing it. The feel of the stiff boar bristles against her scalp intoxicated her. Such sensual luxuries were foreign to Martine. She wondered what it would feel like to be caressed by a lover, and her mind instantly conjured up a picture of Sir Thorne and the black-haired kitchen wench. She saw them locked together, doing that which she had heard described, but which she had never been able to fathom anyone wanting to do—and then imagined herself in the wench’s place.

  The longing, the pulsing void deep within her belly, came as a shock. She wanted him to enter her, to consume that void. Never in her life had she felt so empty.

  “The bath smells heavenly,” Felda said. “What was that you put in the water?”

  “Lovage and oil of rosemary,” Martine murmured.

  “I seen all them oils and powders when I unpacked your bags. Beda said you had enough to set up a stall on market day.”

  Martine opened her eyes. Her chamber, barely illuminated by the light from a single oil lamp, was but a cell within the thickness of the keep’s massive stone wall. It was so small that there was barely room in it for a modest chest, the stool, and a narrow, curtained rope bed, upon which Loki now slept. The bathtub took up nearly all the remaining space.

  She took the bar of lavender-scented soap that Felda handed her and began washing up. “Some of my herbs are from the garden at the convent, some from the Paris physicians who taught at the university. I used to sneak into their lectures. One of them even let me assist him with his patients.”

  “Sit up now, dear. Let me do your hair.” Felda poured steaming water over Martine’s head, then lathered her hair with the lavender soap. “Stand up now.”

  Martine stood, and Felda poured a bucket of hot water over her to rinse her off, then began drying her with a large linen cloth. No one had ever done such things for her before, but self-consciousness soon gave way to the novel pleasure of being pampered.

  Felda tossed the damp linen into an empty bucket and helped Martine on with her wrapper. “Sir Edmond’s going to be one happy young stag when he gets your gown off on your wedding night and sees what he’s got himself. He’ll have mounted you twice before you can make it to the bed.”

  “Felda, really.” Martine regretted the reproach the moment she uttered it, but Felda’s comment had summoned afresh those disturbing mental pictures of Sir Thorne and the kitchen wench.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, milady. My big mouth is always getting away from me. Here I promised Sir Thorne I’d be such a good lady’s maid and I go prattling on about such things, and you a convent girl.”

  The boys who had poured Martine’s bath were now playing dice on the other side of the chamber’s leather curtain. Felda called them in to empty and remove the tub, then took a fresh linen and toweled Martine’s hair with it. “You must be hungry.” She handed her mistress a piece of bread and a cup of buttermilk, sat her down on the stool, and began combing her damp hair. “‘Twill be a warm night. You hair should be dry by morning.”

  The bread tasted fresh, the buttermilk smooth and tangy. Felda seemed like a good sort. Like someone Martine could talk to, someone she could ask questions of and expect candid answers. Attempting a nonchalant tone, she asked, “What is he like, by the way? Sir Edmond?”

  “He likes to hunt, milady,” Felda said, handing Martine a slice of cheese.

  “Yes, but what else? Doesn’t he do anything else?”

  Felda combed in silence for a while, then said, “You see, it’s the way he was raised. After his mum died. The Lady Beatrix, God rest her soul.” She stopped combing for a moment, and Martine knew she was crossing herself. “Eleven years ago Easter.”

  She sighed and continued. “The whole household went downhill after that. Lord Godfrey never has gotten over it, but that’s another story. Your Edmond was only eight years old, and suddenly no mum. I mean, it’s not like he’d had much of one before, her being so sick all them years. But all of a sudden she was gone, and his lordship... well, he wasn’t much use to the boy, in his state. ‘Twas Bernard raised that boy. Bernard and his men.”

  “His men?”

  “His knights. There are four here at the castle, besides him and Thorne. And Edmond, now that he’s been dubbed. Two are his and two are Thorne’s.”

  “But surely they’re all Lord Godfrey’s.”

  “I’m not telling you how it should be, milady, but how it is. If you’d rather not know—”

  “No, please.” She turned and looked into the other woman’s kind green eyes. “You know I want to know. Everything. You must always tell me everything.”

  “Yes, milady.” She poured Martine a generous brandy and handed it to her. “Bernard’s got his men, and Thorne’s got his. We call them the dogs and the hawks, ‘cause Bernard hunts with his dogs, and Thorne with his hawks. Not that that’s the only difference between them, God knows.”

  “What else? Tell me about Edmond.”

  “Like I said, Bernard and his men raised little Edmond. Bernard’s much older, you know. He’s a good six and thirty by now. Him and his men took the boy everywhere they went: hunting, whor—uh, on trips to Hastings... everywhere. Godfrey’d wanted to send him to a monastery school, or perhaps to serve one of Lord Olivier’s knights, but Bernard wouldn’t have it. He said the boy needed him, and he wasn’t going anywhere. In truth, I think ‘twas him what needed the boy.”

  “How’s that?” The brandy warmed her stomach and made her drowsy. How delicious to drink brandy while having one’s hair combed.

  “Edmond adored Bernard. Looked up to him like he was the Lord God himself. A
lways copying him and trying to please him. I think Bernard needed that. I think it made him feel...”

  “Hmm?” Martine’s could barely keep her eyes open.

  “Never mind. You’re half asleep, and I’ve said too much, as usual. Let’s get you into bed.”

  Felda took Martine’s wrapper and tried to put a shift on her, but Martine hated nightclothes and refused. The linen sheets felt cool against her bare skin, the feather mattress soft.

  Felda tucked her in snugly, then moved about the chamber tidying things up and hanging clothes on hooks. Martine watched her with heavy eyes, enjoying her comforting presence, the freckles spattered over her plump arms and face, the coppery glow of her hair in the lamplight. As she worked, Felda hummed a peaceful, haunting melody; it was a familiar tune, a popular love canso that comprised part of every jongleur’s repertoire.

  Martine closed her eyes, and the melody danced slow, measured circles around her, like a bird... like a seagull seeking her out, coming to escort her to her beloved. As the gull spun and twirled in the blue sky of England, it grasped the sun in its claws and pulled it, trailing a glowing thread of light... a golden ribbon.

  It was the ribbon of omens... of good and bad fortunes... of fate. Around and around her it spun, in rhythm with the song of true love, until she was wrapped in a glowing cocoon... unmoving, unseeing, sinking, drifting, floating... bound by the ribbon of fate.

  Chapter 5

  There it was again, that sound. Like a little gasp.

  Martine opened her eyes. She had the sense of having slept for some time, and the faint aura of dawn glowed through the thin white curtains enclosing her bed. Where was Loki?

  Soft footsteps. Someone was in her room.

  Martine listened carefully. “Felda?”

  The movement stopped, replaced by silence. Martine sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. From the other side of the curtain, Loki mewed, and then came a sharp “Shh!”

  It had not been a man’s voice, more like a young woman or a child. Tentatively Martine parted the curtains and peeked through, then smiled.

  In the middle of the room stood a little girl, no more than five or six, holding Loki in her arms and staring, wide-eyed, at Martine. She was a dirty, unkempt little thing, barefoot and wearing a stained tan kirtle backward. Despite her tangled brown hair and the film of grime on her face, she was a pretty child, with large, dark eyes now wide with fear. Perhaps she was the daughter of one of the house servants, who had wandered upstairs to find the strange pet master Edmond’s betrothed had brought.

  “Good morning,” Martine said. The child just stared. Martine wished Rainulf were there. What would he say to her? Of course! “What’s your name?”

  Still no response. Perhaps she didn’t understand French. It seemed that many Saxons spoke little of their rulers’ tongue. Martine had heard Albin speak a kind of anglicized French to the stable hands. Martine tried to remember some of the Anglo-Saxon words she had heard Thorne speak to the peasants they had passed on their way to Harford yesterday.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in English. The girl looked bewildered.

  Martine rose and approached her, which caused her to shriek and back into a corner. Loki sprang out of her arms, and she crouched, hiding her face in her filthy hands.

  The leather curtain parted and Felda entered, bearing a tray of wine and bread. At first she didn’t see the child. “Good morning, milady. I forgot to ask you last night whether you broke your fast in the morning or preferred to wait till noon.”

  “I can wait,” Martine said, and pointed to the corner.

  “Lady Ailith!” Felda said. “What in heaven’s name are you up to?”

  Lady Ailith? The girl mumbled something into her hands.

  Felda leaned over her. “What’s that, dear?”

  “She’s naked!”

  Felda glanced at Martine and grinned. “Well, milady, when you sneak into someone’s bedchamber uninvited, you pretty much have to take what you find, don’t you?” A pause, and then the little head nodded.

  Martine donned her wrapper and said, “You can look now. I’m covered up.” Ailith peeked between her fingers, then sighed with relief and stood up. Felda introduced the little girl as Edmond and Bernard’s niece, the only child of their sister, Geneva, wife of the Earl of Kirkley. Geneva and Ailith had been guests at Harford Castle for some time.

  Martine said, “I see my lady knows how to dress herself!” Ailith looked down at her backward kirtle and patted it, grinning with pride. “Do you bathe yourself as well?”

  Ailith screwed up her face, and Felda said, “Her little ladyship don’t care for baths.”

  “I can see that,” Martine said. “One would think her mother would insist.”

  Ailith said, “Mama has a headache.”

  Martine looked to Felda, who said, “The countess has had a headache for some time now, milady. She pretty much keeps to her chamber.”

  “I see,” said Martine. “But one can’t go without baths forever. Fetch the tub, will you, Felda?”

  Felda said, “Oh, she won’t let you bathe her, milady. I’ve tried.”

  “I’m not asking her permission,” Martine said, grabbing the child as she tried to dart out of the room. Ailith shrieked, clawed, and kicked, but Martine held tight.

  “Fetch the tub,” she calmly repeated. To her astonishment, the child bit her right hand, hard. Martine clamped an arm around Ailith’s forehead, immobilizing her in a headlock. It was a skill she had perfected at St. Teresa’s, helping with the younger girls. “And do hurry.”

  By the time the sun had fully risen, her little ladyship had gotten as clean as she would ever be.

  “I don’t want to come out,” Ailith wailed, sliding deeper into the now cool water and gripping the sides of the tub with stubborn determination.

  “Please, milady,” Felda said, standing over her, linen at the ready. “Come out for Auntie Felda. Please?”

  Martine pushed up the sleeves of her wrapper, plunged her arms into the water, and hauled out the wet, flailing child.

  “You dry me off!” Ailith demanded.

  Martine said, “Is that the way you ask for something?” Ailith looked perplexed. “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  Martine shook her head. She took the linen from Felda, wrapped the child up, and lifted her in her arms, hugging her tight.

  “Hold me like a baby,” Ailith said. Martine shifted her in her arms, carrying her as she would a swaddled newborn. “Now make believe I’m your baby, and I’ve just been born, and you love me more than anything. Say, `Oh, my precious babe I think I’ll name you... Robert!’ “

  “But that’s a boy’s name.”

  “I’m a boy baby. Say it!”

  “I’d rather you were a girl.”

  “A girl? Do you want your husband to cast you aside? Call me Robert.” She kicked her legs. “Say it!”

  Martine looked at Felda, who nodded sadly. So that’s why Ailith and her mother were living at Harford Castle. The Earl of Kirkley had repudiated the marriage—cast Geneva aside—for her failure to bear a son.

  Martine sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing Ailith in her arms. “If you were my little girl, I wouldn’t trade you for all the sons in Christendom. And I’m sure your mama feels the same.”

  Ailith dug her face into Martine’s shoulder and mumbled, “No, she doesn’t.”

  Felda came up with a clean lavender kirtle for Ailith, and Martine painstakingly combed the tangles out of her damp hair. Then she tied a purple fillet around the child’s head, saying, “This is how my mama used to fix my hair.”

  “Look how pretty you are,” Felda said, holding Martine’s little looking glass while Ailith inspected the results.

  “Will Thorne think I’m pretty?” she asked.

  Felda winked at Martine in response to her look of surprise, saying, “Lady Ailith plans on marrying Sir Thorne when she grows up.”

  “He should have his land by then,”
Ailith explained.

  Felda rolled her eyes. “Don’t turn down any good offers while you’re waiting for that, milady.”

  “What do you mean?” Martine asked.

  “What I mean is, if Lord Godfrey intended to grant Thorne a manor, he would have granted it by now. Thorne’s getting impatient, he is. He’s been in Godfrey’s service for close to ten years now, and proved his worth many times over. The way he figures it, the baron don’t want to lose him as master falconer, and that’s why he won’t deed him a holding.”

  Martine said, “You seem to know an awful lot about Sir Thorne.”

  “Everyone needs someone they can talk to, even a man like Thorne. He tells me things he would never tell anyone else.”

  “Are you and he... Is he your...”

  Felda hooted, waving her hand in dismissal of the idea. “My Lord, no! We’re chums, is all. Known each other for ages. Nay, my sweetheart is Fitch, the village ironmonger. Whenever he can sneak away from his wife, that is.”

  “He’s married?”

  “You should see her, milady. Arms like hams, and legs like haunches of venison. Once in a while he likes to tup a wench he ain’t scared to death of.”

  “If I can’t marry Sir Thorne,” Ailith mused, oblivious to the conversation going on over her head, “then perhaps I’ll marry you, Auntie Felda.”

  “Thank you for thinking of me,” Felda said.

  “Now that I’m pretty, I can get married,” Ailith said. “If you’re not pretty, no one wants to marry you, and you have to become a nun.”

  Martine said, “Then you’d better help make me pretty. Your uncle Edmond comes home today.” She pictured Edmond riding up to Harford Castle on a white steed, such as the one her father used to ride—such as the one Sir Thorne rode. “Pick out something nice for me to wear. Something that won’t make me look like a nun.”

  Ailith scanned the garments hanging on the wall. They were all drab and plain, with one exception, to which she immediately gravitated. It was a tunic made of polished Egyptian cotton crinkled into tiny pleats, and the color was extraordinary—a rich, vivid blue with a hint of violet.