The hawk house still glowed from within with warm yellow candlelight.
He touched her. Casually, comfortably, as if he had every right in the world.
A dark form passed across one of the hawk house windows. How would he soothe her fears, if it were his place to do so? He was no saint, as her brother had pointed out, nor did he pretend to be.
The dark form appeared again and paused, framed within the little golden square of light. She could make him out clearly now. He wore no shirt, and Freya clung to his fist. As he looked toward the keep, she quickly reached out and pulled the shutters closed.
* * *
Thorne twitched in his sleep as the candle’s flame leaped and danced in the breeze. A despairing moan rose within him when the flame fluttered toward the straw thatch hanging down from the ceiling of the dismal little hovel. Closer, closer...
No...
The thatch ignited, bursting into flame, generating a firestorm that swept through the village in a matter of minutes.
Above the roar and crackle of the blaze rose a little girl’s scream: “Thorne! Help me! Please, Thorne!”
Louise. He panted as he ran through the narrow streets, searching in vain for his sister while flames engulfed everything in sight. “Where are you?” he gasped. “Where are you?”
“Here I am,” came the whispered reply—but not from Louise.
Cool fingertips stroked his sweat-dampened brow. He stopped thrashing and lay still, breathing in a subtle and mysterious scent...
Sweet woodruff and lavender.
“I’m here,” she whispered, and gradually she materialized in the moonlit semidarkness of the hawk house. He saw her leaning over him in his narrow bed, saw her midnight eyes, her cascade of silver-blond hair. “You were having a bad dream,” she murmured.
Oh, God. Martine. She’d come to him. She was here.
He tried to reach for her, but his arms were curiously heavy and wouldn’t move. He struggled, but she took his face between her hands and whispered, “Shh. Just lie still.”
Her mouth, warm and sweet, closed over his. He wanted to kiss her in return, but he couldn’t. He inhaled her intoxicating fragrance, his breath coming faster and faster, his heart thundering in his chest.
She untangled the sheet from around him and stripped it off. He felt the cool night air on his unclothed body and saw that she, too, wore nothing. Arousal consumed him with an urgency he’d never felt before.
Her hand closed over him, and he moaned. Oh, God. Martine... Martine. He tried to move, to respond to the rhythm of her caress, but his body, although rampant with need, felt leaden, immobile. He felt his fingers curl into fists, and realized he had grasped handfuls of linen sheeting.
She straddled him. He held his breath as she guided him into her, groaned as she lowered herself onto his rigid shaft. He heard her gasp. She stilled for a moment, and then she began to move, drawing herself up his full length and down again, and again and again, until he thought his heart would explode from pleasure.
“Martine,” he whispered as she rode him, driving him swiftly toward completion. He cried out as his climax neared, and heard a falcon scream in reply. Freya. He’d disturbed Freya.
Martine stilled, and fumbled for something on the bed... a silver-handled stick, Estrude’s dog stick.
He blinked, and came fully awake. Estrude—not Martine, but Estrude—raised the stick high over her head and looked around, panic in her eyes.
He released his fistfuls of sheeting, grabbed the stick, and tore it out of her hand. “What the hell—”
“Where is it?” she demanded. “Where’s the damn bird?”
His mind reeling, he nodded toward the corner, where the white gyrfalcon sat tethered to her linen-wrapped perch.
Estrude relaxed when she saw that the creature was secured and couldn’t hurt her. Birds of prey were even worse than dogs. Dogs went for the throat, but birds went for the eyes.
“Get off,” Thorne growled, dropping the dog stick on the bed and seizing her around the waist. He tried to lift her off of him, but she had anticipated this and writhed out of his grip.
She began moving with wanton enthusiasm, as she did whenever she wanted to finish Bernard quickly, and soon his struggles ceased. Indeed, he grabbed her hips and thrust so hard that she felt as if she were being stabbed by a lance. Suddenly he stopped, grimacing, and tried to life her off again.
“I want to pull out,” he said hoarsely.
“No, you don’t,” she said, continuing as before.
“Get off!” But it was too late. He shuddered, digging his fingers into her flesh. She felt the hot rush of his seed within her, and smiled to herself. The Saxon muttered some unintelligible oath in his primitive tongue, then closed his eyes and lay still for a few moments.
Estrude looked down at him in the silvery moonlight. His face and body glistened with perspiration; his hair was damp with it. With his eyes closed like that, he looked as if he were asleep. She took the opportunity to inspect him shamelessly. His shoulders were very wide, his smooth chest and long arms well muscled. It perplexed her at first that his left arm was so much larger than his right. Then she remembered that he held those huge birds of his on his left hand all day. His wide torso sloped down to narrow hips and those almost unreasonably long legs. She thought he must be the most beautiful man she had ever seen. That was very far from her reason for wanting to bed him, but it couldn’t be denied.
Perhaps now that it was over, he wouldn’t be able to find it in his heart to be angry with her for tricking him. After all, she was an attractive woman, and now that he knew what an eager lover she was, he would certainly want her again. Perhaps he would even initiate the next tryst himself. There might have to be several.
But when he opened his eyes, she saw no affection in them. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want to get pregnant?”
“Would you mind?” she asked. “You must have dozens of bastards scattered between here and Byzantium.”
“None that I know of. And I don’t want any from you.”
“Rest easy, then. I’ve been married for fourteen years. If I could bear children, don’t you think I would already have done so?
He seemed to be mulling that over. At any rate, she felt him relax under her.
“That’s better,” she said with a reassuring smile. “You just like to be the one in control, but you’ll soon get used to my ways. Perhaps next time you won’t be so—”
“Next time? Are you mad?” He sat up, pulled her off of him, and tossed her roughly aside. Rising from the bed, he grabbed her wrapper from the floor and flung it at her. “Leave.”
Ignoring the wrapper, she watched him yank his chausses from a hook and pull them on. “You’ll see. You’ll come to me.” She smiled coyly. “Some evening when you’re thinking of her... wanting her and knowing you can’t have her—”
Tying his chausses, he said, “That’s what brothels are for.”
“Ah, yes. Your Hastings whores. I believe I proved myself an enthusiastic bed partner. What can they offer you that I can’t?”
“A man has to be able to respect a woman he takes to bed. You’ve got a whore’s enthusiasm without a whore’s character.”
“What?”
He turned his back on her to lift the ewer from the chest at the foot of the bed. “Whores tend to be honest. You’ve got the scruples of a snake.” He began to drink.
“You... bastard!” She shook with anger. “I’m a lady! Almost a baroness! You’re nothing but a crude Saxon pig. You belong in the barnyard, rutting with the other animals. You have no idea how to treat a lady in bed.”
He paused in his drinking. “I never invited you to my bed.”
“Any man of noble birth would have welcomed my attentions, regardless of what tricks I had used. He wouldn’t have just—just taken his pleasure and pushed me aside, I can tell you that. He’d have seen to my pleasure first. That’s what a gentleman does.”
He set the ewer ba
ck down on the chest. “There’s always your dog stick.”
It took a moment. When she understood, she began to burn with rage. It inflamed her, fueled by the humiliation of rejection. She looked at the stick, then at Thorne, his back still to her, running his hands through his damp hair.
She closed both fists around the silver handle and jumped down from the bed. The power of hate buzzed in her arms. She raised the stick high as he turned to face her, then slammed it down on his head in a blinding arc. The impact jolted her.
He doubled over. She saw blood.
From the corner came screeching and the beating of wings. Thorne knelt on the floor, gripping the bed with one hand while the other covered his forehead. Dark spots appeared in the straw beneath him. Estrude looked at the blood on the stick and felt the room twirl slowly.
He rose to his feet, his eyes grim, blood trailing down his face from the gash on his forehead. She took a step back.
He grabbed the stick and whipped it out of her hands in a blur. Estrude stumbled back against the bed, her mind racing in fear. This will hurt.
He braced one foot against the bed and raised the stick.
“No!” She collapsed in the straw, curled into a ball, wrapped her arms around her head. She heard the crack of splitting wood and yelped.
The moment passed. She was unhurt.
She looked up, still shielding her head. Thorne held half of the dog stick in each hand, having snapped it over his leg. She watched as he hurled the pieces into the empty brazier, where they clattered harmlessly. When he turned back and looked down at her, his eyes no longer held anger. To her dismay, he now looked upon her with pity.
He lifted her cloak from the bed and offered her his hand—an unexpectedly chivalrous gesture. She didn’t take it, but helped herself to her feet and snatched the cloak from him. She preferred his anger to his pity.
As she fastened the cloak, he took the rag from the washbowl and began wiping his bloody face with it. Confident now that she wouldn’t be beaten, Estrude said, “You deserved that.”
“Let’s say I did, and leave it at that. Just go. Don’t come back here again, and never speak of this to anyone, including me. Pretend it never happened.” She crossed to the door, her eyes on his back. Still holding the rag to his head, he dipped his cupped hand in the washbowl, walked over to the still-agitated falcon, and sprinkled her gently with water, which seemed to calm her. Estrude tried to think of one final remark, some scathing statement that would put him in his place and give her the last word.
Without turning to look at her, he said, “Leave.”
She did, closing the door behind her, and walked a few paces. Then, pausing long enough to pull her cloak closed, she broke into a run and didn’t stop until she was inside the keep.
Chapter 8
“And I will take you for my husband,” Martine said, her right hand resting on a small gold casket encrusted with emeralds, which held a finger bone of Saint Boniface. Sir Edmond then handed her a single white glove, symbolizing the bride price—some of his father’s most valuable holdings—that he would be obligated under the betrothal contract to pay her in six weeks, when they became man and wife. Finally the couple clasped hands while reciting the pledges that formalized their agreement to wed.
Martine had never understood the appeal of ritual. Her betrothal ceremony, held in the barony chapel and officiated by Father Simon, had been a meaningless recitation of prayers and vows. Thank God it was now over. Several times she had thought she might swoon, if not from boredom, then from her confining costume. She had been obliged to wear the outfit that Estrude had given her especially for the ceremony, and she thought she would suffocate in it.
The kirtle was of rose-colored silk lined with red wool and edged at the hem, throat, and wrists with red-dyed marten. Over this went a pearl-gray silken tunic woven through with silver threads and trimmed around the neck and trailing sleeves with heavy bands of silver braid. It laced tightly up the back, and felt so stiff and snug that Martine felt breathless and could scarcely bend over.
In fact, it so confined her that she had immediately resolved to wear something else instead. She’d reached behind to unlace it, but couldn’t manage, thus contorted, to loosen the knot that Estrude had so carefully tied. Felda refused to help her until she consented to look at herself in the mirror, and then she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to change, after all.
Granted, the costume was uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. But even Martine had to admit that it was beautiful. Or rather, that she was beautiful in it. She had thought that the gown would make her look as compressed as she felt, but it actually exaggerated rather than minimized her curves. She looked like a statue cast in a silver: a statue of a regal, straight-backed young woman with high breasts, a narrow waist, and slender, rounded hips.
Estrude then produced a long sash of braided silver cords strung with pearls, which she looped around Martine’s waist and tied low in front, followed by a mantle of silver brocade. The vision was now complete, and Martine couldn’t bear to destroy it. She would put up with the discomfort for one day. For one day she would look like a gleaming goddess—a Valkyrie.
Estrude tried to get her to wear a barbette, but this Martine refused. Instead, she had Felda plait her hair into two long, heavy braids, over which she wore a sheer veil topped by a circlet of silver filigree. Martine could tell that her stubbornness angered Estrude. So be it. Although Estrude’s gifts were generous, Martine bristled at the woman’s condescension. She had dressed Martine as she would have a child, or a doll. Martine knew that Estrude cared for her not in the least; Martine existed as something to adorn for Estrude’s own amusement, and then ignore. Already Martine had learned that men alone commanded Estrude’s full attention. Other women were, like herself, ornamental vessels for men to fill or leave empty, as they chose.
From the chapel, the betrothal party proceeded on foot to the riverbank east of the castle, where they would celebrate with a midday feast and some hawking. Godfrey, Olivier, Thorne, Guy, and Peter all carried hooded birds of prey on their fists, even during the service. Martine knew that it was usual to take the birds almost everywhere one went; it accustomed them to the company of people. Still, she thought them a peculiar sight in church.
The entire household had turned out for the ceremony, even Geneva. She had a wan, irritated look about her, as if she had been bullied into participating. Of the women present, only she had taken no care with her appearance. Her hair was concealed in a muslin turban, and she wore a discolored white tunic. But she had left her chamber and shown up, and Ailith acted as if it were the most exciting event of her life. On the way to the river she danced and skipped around her mother, laughing and tugging at her, clearly thrilled to see her up and dressed. Geneva ignored her daughter until the child took up the long sleeves of her tunic and began flapping them back and forth, as she had Martine’s the day before. Far from being charmed, Geneva wheeled around and yanked them from Ailith’s grasp, hissing, “Stop that!”
The day was mild and clear. Puffball clouds made stately progress across the sky, propelled by a clover-scented breeze. The clover grew in sprawling blankets in the meadow east of Harford Castle, among myriad wildflowers and wind-borne grasses. This meadow was separated from the village and castle by the river, upon the rocky banks of which grew hawthorne in spiny bushes as tall as apple trees. Along the eastern bank Martine could see long trestle tables draped in white linen and shaded by a white silken canopy that flapped in the breeze.
In order to get to the eastern bank, one had to cross the river. It was spanned by a narrow wooden bridge, but Edmond chose not to use it. Instead, he trotted a few yards downstream to where an outcropping of boulders rose from the rushing waters, forming the apex of a craggy waterfall about twenty feet high. Lifting his ankle-length maroon tunic, he made powerful leaps from boulder to boulder, some of which were separated by a wide expanse of churning water. Oblivious to the risk, he sprang carelessly ahead, p
urple mantle and black hair flying, while Ailith clapped and cheered.
Downstream from the waterfall, a natural dam had formed from fallen logs and uprooted hawthorne bushes. As a result of this dam, the part of the river into which the waterfall emptied had widened into a kind of pond, so deep that it looked like a bottomless, boiling cauldron. Martine cringed to think of what would happen to Edmond should a slip of the foot pitch him into the murky, roiling depths of that pond. Several times Martine thought he couldn’t possibly reach the next boulder, but he always landed with surefooted grace before springing quickly ahead.
He looked much less like an infidel today, Martine thought, watching him from the bridge. With his well-brushed hair and long, ceremonial tunic, he seemed quite civilized, and extremely handsome. Had he not fidgeted so during the betrothal ceremony, he might almost have appeared dignified. He had seemed to vibrate with suppressed energy; she could feel it when they held hands to pledge their intent. She had known other young men his age—students of Rainulf’s—but none had seemed quite so jumpy. Then again, they were scholars immersed in academia. Edmond was unschooled, a creature of nature, hunter and animal both.
Bernard whooped his praise when Edmond reached the other side, and Edmond grinned back at his brother with pride, adoration in his eyes. He never once looked in her direction, yet Martine did feel someone’s curious eyes upon her.
It was Thorne, standing some distance away, watching her from beneath the canopy as she gazed at Edmond. She realized Thorne might misinterpret her gaze as one of admiration or tenderness—or even blossoming love. Ridiculous, of course. Edmond was beautiful to look upon, but so were many things and creatures for which Martine would never feel love. When he had held her hand during the ceremony, she had felt not the slightest thrill, only a vague cramp in her wrist and a desire for the whole spectacle to be over with.
* * *
“Don’t you care for venison, my dear?” Lord Godfrey asked.
Martine considered the untouched plateful of meat that Edmond had sliced for her. Whenever she looked at it, she saw the pain-crazed eyes of the stag that Bernard and his men had tormented for sport the day before. “I’ve lost my taste for it, Sire.”
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