Dear God, thought Martine. Bernard saw us. He told Lord Godfrey. Thorne is ruined. I’m ruined.
Conversation ceased. Everyone lowered their tankards and knives except Edmond, who continued to eat. The only sound in the hall was the pop and hiss of logs as they settled in the fire pit.
The baron fixed his unfocused gaze on Thorne, standing across the table from Martine. “For ten years you’ve served me, Thorne Falconer, and served me well. You’ve been a valiant soldier, without equal, but everyone who knows me knows that it’s your skill with the birds, even more than with the bow, that has made you so indispensable to me.”
“Hear, hear!” chorused Peter and Guy.
“Too indispensable,” admitted Godfrey, a little sadly. “Aye, I’ll admit it. What I do tonight, I’d have done years ago, but for my greed. I wanted you here, at Harford Castle, training my birds, not miles away at your own manor, training yours.”
He sighed. “But the time has come. In betrothing my boy Edmond to the lovely Martine of Rouen—” he nodded toward Martine, who nodded back, relieved at the turn things were taking, “you have united my family with that of Queen Eleanor. ‘Tis a service I find I cannot let pass without reward.”
He gestured to a waiting manservant, who handed Thorne something long wrapped in purple silk. “Unwrap it!” the baron urged. Thorne did so, revealing a sheathed sword. He withdrew the weapon, a shimmering broadsword with a jewel-encrusted hilt.
Over the excited murmurings of the diners, Godfrey said, “Sealed within that hilt is a shred of the swaddling clothes of our Lord Jesus Christ!” The murmurs became exclamations, then cheers. Through it all, Thorne’s carefully schooled expression never wavered.
“And now for your land.” Silence enveloped the hall. Everyone, Martine included, stared at Thorne, who patiently waited for the baron to get on with it. Were it not for the white-knuckled grip with which he held the sword, one might have thought him disinterested in the proceedings.
Come to me, he had begged, his body rigid with desire. She remembered the feel of him inside her, the ache, the heat, and felt warm all over. Despite the rawness between her legs, which had pained her considerably during the long ride back, she wanted more than anything to take him into her once again, to close around him, to be united with him. She remembered how he had looked, arching over her, trembling, shaking with his need, groaning as he drove into her... Could this man who stood before her now, accepting his reward for betrothing her to another, be the same man?
“As soon as is practical after the wedding,” Godfrey continued, “‘tis my intention to deed to you a manor to hold in fief of me, specifically those thirty-seven measures of land bounded on the south and west by Harford River, on the east by the stone wall enclosing the property of...” Loud cheers and hurrahs from Thorne’s men drowned out the rest of Godfrey’s description, the holding in question obviously familiar to them.
Thorne, appearing stunned, glanced briefly in Martine’s direction. “‘Tis exceptionally generous, my lord,” he said quietly, taking his seat.
“‘Tis no more than you’re due,” said Godfrey. “And now, if my lady Estrude will stand...”
A smiling Estrude rose and smoothed her gown.
“My second announcement is also happy, and I daresay long in coming. Fourteen years in coming, to be exact. Friends and family, it is my great pleasure to announce that Lady Estrude of Flanders, my daughter by marriage, is, at long last, with child.”
A roar of approval filled the great hall. Estrude beamed. Bernard endured a volley of backslaps from his men. “A baby! A baby!” squealed Ailith from her mother’s lap. Curiously, Clare did not appear to share in her mistress’s joy. Red-faced, her chin trembling, she surreptitiously wiped the tears that welled in her eyes as she stole anguished glances at Bernard.
Rainulf, sitting beside Martine, gasped. “Thorne!”
All heads turned toward the Saxon. He sat perfectly still, the sword in his right hand, his left resting on the table next to his trencher, the palm sliced cleanly open. He cupped his hand as it filled with blood. “Clumsy of me,” he said tightly.
“Oh!” Martine started to rise, but Felda, rushing toward Thorne as she swiftly untied her apron, motioned for her to sit.
“Hold still, Sir Thorne,” Felda insisted as he rose to his feet, his face ashen.
“I’m fine,” he ground out.
Martine tried to meet his eyes, but he looked away, quite deliberately, it seemed.
Felda wrapped the apron around his hand, then ran after him as he strode toward the stairwell. “Let me bandage—”
“I’ll be fine. Let me be.”
“Thorne, just let me—”
He whirled around. “Let me be!” His anger drew a sharp exclamation from Felda. He briefly closed his eyes, the muscles jumping in his jaw. Raising both hands in a placating gesture, he said quietly, “Just let me be. Please.”
Everyone watched in silence as he ducked into the stairwell.
* * *
Come to me tonight, he had said. From her chamber window, Martine gazed at the candlelit windows of the hawk house. It was dark in the bailey, and she had seen no one move about for some time. Was it too soon to go to him? Would she be seen?
Behind her, Felda bustled about the chamber, prattling on about Lady Estrude’s announcement. “She’s lucky, that one is. After fourteen years, we all thought she was barren. I’d just about decided she was going through the change.”
Thorne’s shadow crossed one of the windows. He had a bird on his fist. “At her age?” Martine said. “She’s only thirty.”
“Aye, but her courses have been failing her of late.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows everyone else’s business in a castle keep, milady.” Martine hoped, for her sake and Thorne’s, that this was not true. “She says she can feel the babe already.”
“That’s absurd,” said Martine. “She claims she’s but one month pregnant. Perhaps she’s not really with child at all. In Paris I helped treat a woman who’d been so desperate for a baby that her body actually went through all the changes of pregnancy. Her courses ceased, and her belly grew...”
Down in the bailey, a lone woman, clad in a deep purple cloak, ran from the keep to the hawk house, casting furtive glances over her shoulder.
It was Estrude.
Without knocking, she opened the door and darted inside. Martine suddenly felt very cold in her thin silk chemise.
Felda, watching over her mistress’s shoulder, hissed a sharp Anglo-Saxon curse. Martine turned to look at her and found her sadly shaking her head. “Thorne, you fool,” Felda muttered.
Martine stared at her maid. “What do you mean? Tell me.”
Felda shook her head. “I’m not sure, but I think Thorne may have gone and done something very foolish indeed.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe Lady Estrude’s not just lucky. Maybe she’s clever. Maybe it’s not her that’s barren, maybe it’s Bernard.”
Martine pondered this for a moment. “You think... you think Sir Thorne is the baby’s father?” Felda shrugged, and Martine struggled to control her chaotic emotions. “Are he and Estrude... Is he in love with her?”
Felda’s eyes widened. “Her? God, no. Thorne don’t have to be in love with a woman to bed her, milady. He don’t even have to like her. If a woman’s willing, that’s good enough for him. He loves women, but he’s never been in love. He told me himself he don’t believe in it. He said it was something the jongleurs invented to keep themselves in business.”
Martine began to shiver. “I see.”
“Funny thing is, he don’t much care for highborn ladies, though of course he’ll be marrying one someday. He’s far too land-hungry to settle for a girl without property. But who he chooses to marry is altogether different from who he chooses to tup. Says he prefers a good honest tumble with a simple wench who knows what’s what, and he don’t mind paying fo
r it if that’s what it takes. Says all a whore wants from him is silver, but them fine ladies want all them pretty lies. They’re too much trouble, make him work too hard for it. But with an appetite like his, I don’t guess he’d be that fussy if one of them was willing and no one else was available.”
There were now two shadows in the window of the hawk house, so close together that they looked like one.
Martine wrapped her arms around herself to ease the tremors that shook her. “I see.”
* * *
Thorne slid the long needle into the tethered hawk’s nostril. He worked slowly and carefully, his bandaged left hand holding the bird still while his right manipulated the needle. Even when Estrude let herself in and came around behind him, he kept his eyes on his work and his movements steady, lest he do the suffering creature more harm than good.
Estrude rested a hand on his shoulder, jarring him slightly. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Slowly he said, “Trying to keep my hand still.”
She let go and came around to face him, her attention riveted on the bird. “That’s quite the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Really, what in God’s name are you—”
He sighed. “I’m draining this hawk of a bad humor.”
She smiled. “Do you think you could do the same for Bernard?”
Clever bitch. “‘Twould take more than a needle. My new broadsword, perhaps.”
She chuckled and watched in silence as he continued the treatment. Nodding toward his bandaged hand, she said, “‘Twas a nasty cut you gave yourself at supper.”
“‘Twas a nasty surprise you gave me.” Christ, but he hated surprises.
He slowly drew the needle out, then looked her in the eye. “I’m curious. How did you know ‘twas Bernard who was barren, and not you?”
She turned away and began fussing with things on his worktable. Finally she said, “I suppose it’s safe to tell you. When I was fifteen, there was this man. My father’s overlord. I lived in his household, serving his wife.”
Thorne dabbed a bit of soothing oil on the hawk’s beak. “You became pregnant by him?”
“Aye.” She lifted the little wooden falcon head that he was carving in Freya’s image and on which he would keep her leather hood. “I was a fool. I adored him—much as that little idiot Clare adores Bernard,” Thorne glanced sharply at her, and she chuckled. “I’ve known all along how she feels about him. Of course, nothing will ever come of it. She’s much too plain for Bernard’s taste. I, on the other hand, was comely and... willing. My mistress’s husband found me easy prey. When he discovered I was with child, he talked a midwife into giving me a tonic that expelled the babe from my womb.”
“And then you married Bernard.” He pulled on a gauntlet.
“And no one ever knew,” she finished, turning around.
“Why did you pick me to father your child?”
“Simply put?”
“I’m a simple man.”
“You seemed like good breeding stock.”
“Christ,” he muttered, untethering the hawk and taking her on his fist.
“Big and tall and healthy,” she continued. “And, from what I’d heard, quite the eager stud bull. I must say, I was somewhat put out by the trouble I had to go through for a bit of Saxon seed.”
“I’m simple, not stupid.” Ignoring the anger that sparked in her eyes, he said, “There’s another reason you chose me. You were fairly sure I’d keep quiet. I take it you came here tonight to make certain of it.”
“Aye.”
“I hardly have any choice, do I? If I talk, I’ll be destroyed right along with you. You knew I’d be forced to keep silent. ‘Twas all part of your plan. You’re a cunning woman.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Nay? What choice do women have in life but to be cunning, to get their way by sly manipulation? If I’m good at it, I consider it a compliment.”
She was exasperating. But she was right. Straightforward reason would never work on Bernard. Her only hope lay in deceiving him.
Thorne was still troubled. “One thing bothers me greatly, though. I can stomach keeping quiet, and I can even stomach having a child who doesn’t know I’m his father. But the idea that my own flesh and blood will be brought up by Bernard, of all—”
“He won’t!” Estrude said fiercely. “Not while I’m alive to prevent it.”
Her outburst caused the hawk to pump her wings and strain against the leash wrapped around Thorne’s gauntlet. He placated her with some gentle strokes and a few soothing words. “You sound almost maternal,” he observed wryly.
“I feel maternal. I’m a woman, after all.” She pressed a hand to her belly, and Thorne saw how its roundness stretched the silk of her tightly laced kirtle even tighter. No, it was too soon for her to show. It was surely a hearty supper that distended her so, and not the babe.
She said, “The child will be fostered out to a noble family. A good family. Far away from here. Far away from Bernard.”
“Do you swear it?”
Her eyes were grim. “My own father was much like Bernard. I’d not submit a child of mine to his rages.”
The image of Estrude as a little girl, suffering abuse at the hands of her sire, filled Thorne with a swell of compassion that startled him. It must have shown on his face, because she said, “I don’t want your pity. Just your silence.”
Thorne nodded slowly. “You have it.”
* * *
Alone now in her chamber, Martine continued to watch the hawk house. Presently Lady Estrude emerged, pulled her hood up, and sprinted back to the keep. Martine waited until she heard her enter her own chamber down the hall. Then, taking a deep breath, she pinned her mantle over her knee-length chemise and, on bare, silent feet, traced Estrude’s path back to the hawk house.
Thorne opened the door on her first knock, scooped her inside, and pushed her back against the door. His mouth closed over hers, hot and demanding. With his bandaged hand he fumbled with the brooch that secured her mantle, while the other stole beneath it to glide over a silk-clad breast. He groaned and tore at the mantle; the brooch went flying, the mantle fell to the floor. Before she could stop him, he pulled her chemise up, lifted her by her hips, and wrapped her legs around him.
He kissed her throat, then raised her higher and suckled a tight nipple through the chemise. Arousal flashed through her like lightning. She arched back against the door as he thrust against her, hard as rock through his loose shirt and chausses.
Nay. Don’t let him do this, her inner voice cried. She pushed against his shoulders, and he lowered her to the floor, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her words were silenced with another searing kiss. He untied the front of her chemise with impatient fingers, and then she felt his hands on her bare breasts, squeezing, caressing, the bandage rough against her soft skin.
She wrested her mouth from his. “Thorne—”
He recaptured her mouth, then took one of her hands and pressed it between his legs. She felt the tautly stretched wool of his chausses, and the rigid shaft beneath. It jumped at her touch, and a growl rose in his throat. Molding her fingers around it, he guided her hand up and down its length. It felt hot and alive, frightening and wonderful.
Again she tore her mouth away. “Thorne, please!”
“I know we need to talk,” he murmured hoarsely. “But, God, I need you. All day I’ve needed you. I’m in pain.”
From needing me, or just needing a woman? wondered Martine, all too certain she knew the answer. With an appetite like his, Felda had said, I don’t suppose he’d be that fussy if no one else was available.
Those words gave her the strength to wrench her hand out of his grip. Instantly his long arms enclosed her in a shuddering embrace. “I know I’m going too fast,” he breathed. “But I’ve got to have you.” She felt him gather the skirt of her chemise in his fist. “I need you now. Now. We’ll talk later.”
G
ripping his shoulders, Martine drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Is it your baby Lady Estrude is carrying?”
The whole world seemed to whirl to a stop. Thorne didn’t move at all except to tighten his fingers around the silk clutched in his fist. Beneath her hands, his big shoulders tensed.
Oh, God. Oh, God. She wrestled out of his grip and jerked away from him, clutching at her chemise to cover her chest. Thorne started to reach for her, but her expression stilled his arm. Closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw and dragged his hands through his unkempt hair.
Christ, why does he have to be so handsome?
She found her brooch in the straw, shook out her mantle, and wrapped it around herself with shaking hands. Did she have the right to be jealous of a woman he had lain with before her? Did it matter? The horrible truth was that he felt no more for her than for that awful Estrude, on whom he had carelessly sired a bastard. And he undoubtedly felt less for either one of them than he did for the whores and servings wenches he preferred. Thorne Falconer cared nothing for women, not in his heart. They existed in his world for one purpose only—to slake his lust.
No, that wasn’t quite true, for Martine herself served a secondary purpose—to marry Edmond of Harford and thereby earn for Sir Thorne the land he coveted. It was humiliating enough to be used in this manner alone, but to have allowed him to seduce her as well... Martine cringed to think of how he must have laughed at her gullibility, even as he took his pleasure with her.
He had used her, just as Jourdain had used her mother, and she, fool that she was, had let it happen, had invited it, had willingly walked into the trap she had spent her life avoiding. He’d been so earnest, so convincing... so skilled. Just as Jourdain had undoubtedly been. The knowledge that he had manipulated her so easily was inexpressibly painful, and for the first time in her life she understood—really understood—the despair that drove her mother to take her life.
She could not undo what was done, could not erase the pain and humiliation. But perhaps she could mitigate it, could salvage a few shreds of dignity to walk away with.
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