“Let’s go.”
“But, milady, we can’t go without—”
“Do you propose to drag him behind us on a litter?”
“Nay, milady, but—”
“Then let’s go.”
* * *
Why do I always end up sitting across from Thorne? Martine wondered as she inspected the whole glazed rabbit on her trencher. She’d never eaten rabbit before and didn’t much feel like eating it now.
Godfrey, at the head of the table, frowned. “I wish Edmond were here. Doesn’t seem right.”
“She couldn’t wake him up,” Rainulf reminded him.
Bernard’s men snickered, except for Boyce, who shook with laughter. “My lord, if I may say so, you’re the one who wanted grandsons. Most likely the boy’s exhausted himself from trying too hard to plant one.”
Martine, her face scalding, saw Thorne suppress a scowl. So the Saxon didn’t like the idea of her sharing with Edmond the pleasures that he had taught her at the riverbank. But what right had he to disapprove? Edmond was her husband and Thorne Falconer was merely a selfish rogue who had used and discarded her.
Still, she couldn’t bear to be the subject of those crude whispers and giggles. Glaring at the red-haired giant, and ignoring Rainulf’s look of warning, she said, “‘Twas trying too hard to empty the brandy jug that exhausted my husband, and nothing more.”
Boyce laughed, of course, but the rest of the group exchanged the look of disapproval that had become so familiar to her. All except for Thorne, who looked directly at her for the first time since she’d sat down opposite him. Their eyes connected with stunning intimacy, and her heart betrayed her with a flutter of longing.
“Here he is!” thundered Godfrey, beckoning someone over to the table.
Everyone turned to see Edmond, uncombed and bedraggled, crossing the great hall.
Boyce guffawed. “Look at those marks on his face. Damned if the boy didn’t spend the night in the rushes.” His comrades laughed appreciatively, but Edmond, his jaw thrust out, his pallid face gone pink, clearly did not share in the mirth he’d spawned.
Oblivious to Edmond’s distress, Boyce said, “Your bride’s already told us you weren’t up to doing your husbandly duty last night. She didn’t tell us she made you sleep on the floor in punishment!”
Edmond stopped dead in the middle of the hall, his dark eyes filled with shame and confusion. Martine, regretting her part in the derision, felt a moment of pity. But the moment passed when he turned those eyes on her, for she saw something in them that chilled her. She’d seen that look once as a child, in the eyes of a wild dog that paced back and forth furiously in too small a cage. Poor thing, she had thought, but when she reached through the bars to pet it, it growled and bit her.
Glaring at Martine, Edmond turned and stalked away.
An uncomfortable silence followed before Thorne changed the subject by asking Rainulf about his pilgrimage, and a more relaxed conversation ensued. However, Martine noticed that Bernard did not join in. He sliced and ate his meat in grim silence, pausing every now and then to study Martine with his snakelike eyes.
* * *
“I can’t bear it,” Martine rasped against Rainulf’s shoulder as they said good-bye on the outer drawbridge. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, yet she couldn’t stop her eyes from burning with tears. “I can’t bear not seeing you for two years.”
“You’ll have—”
“Nay, please!” She looked up. “Don’t tell me again that I’ll have Edmond to take care of me. He can’t even take care of himself.”
He patted her hair. “I was going to say you’ll have Thorne.”
Momentarily speechless, Martine glanced toward the Saxon, who, having already bid Rainulf good-bye, now stood by the inner gatehouse watching them. “What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “Edmond is... young. I’m confident that he’ll mature in time, but while I’m gone, I’ll feel better if there’s someone more... capable... looking after you.”
She stepped back and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “You asked Sir Thorne to look after me?”
“Aye. Your hasty temper worries me now more than ever. You’ve been married barely a day, and already you’ve publicly humiliated your hus—”
“‘Twas I who was humiliated,” she spat out. “I had every right to—”
“I’m speaking of discretion, not rights. Bernard was also most displeased, in case it escaped your notice.”
She shrugged. “I care naught what Bernard thinks of me.”
“You care naught what anyone thinks of you,” he said. “But people have ways of making one care. They have ways of punishing outspokenness such as yours. ‘Tis why I made Thorne swear an oath on the relic in the hilt of his sword that he’d protect and defend you while I was gone, should you need it.”
She laughed shortly. “He swore on that worthless scrap of linen? He doesn’t believe any more than I do that it ever swaddled the baby Jesus. A lot of good that oath is worth.”
Rainulf looked cross. “Thorne is a man of honor. He’ll make sure no harm comes to you. But should you ever find yourself in need...” He drew a purse from his robe and pressed it into Martine’s hand. It was heavy, and when she pulled the drawstring and looked inside, she saw the glint of gold coins. “The Church has all my land,” he said, “but I retained a certain measure of... portable wealth.”
She smiled knowingly. “Wealth you could hide, you mean.”
He frowned. “Wealth I thought might someday be more useful to you than to the Church. But yes, it can and should be hidden.” Martine slipped it into the pouch on her girdle. He beckoned to the boy waiting by the stables with his mount. “No one must know about it, not even Edmond.”
Especially not Edmond, thought Martine. She was no fool. The property given her when she married him was his until his death. The gold in that pouch represented her only real wealth, and she had no intention of letting it fall into his hands.
Martine wept anew as her brother mounted up. It was so like that day eight years before, when he’d left her at St. Teresa’s. Remembering the pain of that parting and how dreadfully she had missed him afterward, only made this good-bye harder.
She took his hand as he leaned down in his saddle to kiss her wet cheek. “You’re foolish and hardheaded, little sister, but I love you very much.”
“I love you, too. Please, please be careful.”
“I will.” With a wave to her, and another to Thorne, he turned and rode away. She stood and watched him, tears streaming down her face, until he ceased to be even a speck on the landscape.
I’m really alone now, she thought. Completely alone.
* * *
Edmond did not come home until late that night, long after Martine had gone to bed, again wearing both her sleeping shift and wrapper, having abandoned her practice of sleeping in the nude. She awoke to the sound of him bumping into something, but lay still with her eyes closed, feigning sleep as he moved about the room. Her heart raced in panic as she waited for him to join her in bed, but the panic eased when she realized that, in his own clumsy way, he was endeavoring to be quiet.
He lifted the covers and crawled in next to her. Even though her back was turned, her nostrils were filled with his distinctive, sweetly sour smell, like wine that had gone bad. He fell asleep almost instantly and, with a sigh of relief, she did the same.
* * *
Martine stood at the bedchamber window, combing her hair and watching Edmond in the yard below as he tossed a stick to the litter of bloodhound pups she had given him. It was dusk, and she had already changed into her sleeping shift, having fallen into a pattern of retiring early, so that she was fully asleep—or could appear so—by the time her husband came to bed.
A week had passed since the wedding, but still Edmond had not, thank God, attempted to bed her. She would have to pretend to be a virgin, and she didn’t know whether she was a good enough actress. Also, he grew more repulsive with e
ach passing day. He looked worse, acted worse, and God knew, he smelled worse.
Martine suspected he didn’t find her very attractive, either, but she knew there was more to it than that. He seemed wary of her, perhaps even a little frightened, peculiar though that seemed given his brawn. Her outspokenness clearly intimidated him.
And of course, as far as he was concerned, she had called his manhood into question before the entire baronial household, with no provocation other than the desire to humiliate him. She did not disabuse him of that notion, partly because they hardly ever spoke, and partly because she felt that anything that kept him at a distance was good. In fact, since the wedding, she had tried to be as cool and remote as possible. Perhaps if she continued to intimidate him, he would continue to avoid her.
Edmond threw the stick across the yard and squeezed some more wine into his mouth from the skin hanging on a cord around his neck. The puppies scrambled after the stick, descending on it in a pile of squirming bodies. He whistled, and the victorious pup emerged from the pile with the stick in its mouth and dutifully returned it. Again and again, as darkness fell, he tossed the stick, took it back, and tossed it again. At one point the smallest pup claimed the stick but, instead of bringing it back, ran with it into the woods.
“Come back here,” Edmond yelled. He whistled and slapped his thigh. “Here, pup!” Another whistle. Finally the puppy appeared, without the stick. “Where’s the stick? Get the stick.” The puppy just stood there, looking at him, its little head cocked.
Edmond squatted down and beckoned to it. “Come here, boy. Come on. That’s right.” The little creature ran to his arms, tail wagging. He picked it up, stood, and held it in front of his face. “What good are you if you can’t even bring back a stick?”
As casually as he might break off a piece of bread, he closed a hand around the animal’s head and snapped its neck.
Martine gasped. Turning, he looked up at her, the dead puppy hanging limp from his hand. He looked surprised. Surprised that she’d been watching him? Or perhaps it was surprise at her shocked expression, her apprehension. He’d never seen her vulnerable before, and it seemed to amaze him. He inspected her with intense interest, looking her up and down as if this were the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.
No, it was more than mere interest, she realized, feeling queasy. It was excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they took in her sleeveless linen shift, her loose hair, her fear. She backed slowly away from the window, watching him watching her.
He smiled. It was a lifeless smile like Bernard’s, a smile not of pleasure, but of anticipation. He hurled the puppy’s body into the woods, then turned and strode purposefully toward the house.
Martine dropped the comb and ran downstairs to the kitchen. With palsied fingers she unlocked her brass box, searching through its contents until she found the little blue vial.
“Milady?” Felda said from the stove. “What are you—”
“A jug of brandy and a goblet. Hurry!” While Felda fetched the brandy, Martine grabbed a mortar and quickly mixed a pinch of the hemlock with half a dozen other sedative herbs.
“What is that stuff?” Felda asked as her mistress funneled the powder into the brandy.
“Surgical sleeping draft.” She recorked the jug and shook it, then grabbed the goblet from her wide-eyed maid and returned to the bedchamber.
Edmond stood at the window urinating in an arc onto the lawn below. Hearing the leather curtain part, he looked over his shoulder. Martine had returned with brandy. He saw the disgust on her face although she tried to disguise it. And he noticed her body, barely concealed through the thin shift she wore.
Martine’s hands shook. He saw them, just before she set the jug and goblet down on the chest by the door and hid them behind her back. What a dunce I’ve been to tremble before her like a whipped dog. She was the one who trembled now.
“Take off your shift,” he commanded, turning back to the window.
She paused. “Don’t you want some brandy first?”
“You know what I want.” He shook himself off, tucked himself in, and turned around. She tried to look nonchalant, but he could see the panic in her eyes. He drew strength from it.
She said, “I thought perhaps some brandy might relax—”
“I’m relaxed enough,” Any more “relaxed,” and he’d be in no condition to give her a proper tupping. Every morning Boyce asked him if he’d broken that feisty new mare to the saddle yet. He never answered, but they always knew. And they always laughed. She’s put a spell on him, they said. In jest, but after a few days, he began to wonder if they were right. After all, there’d been that business at the river with Ailith.
Never mind. Tonight she’d cast no spells. Tonight he’d ride the witch like she deserved to be ridden, and then she’d not be so high and mighty. He’d make it hurt. He’d make sure she knew it was he who held the reins, he who wielded the whip.
“Take off your shift,” he repeated. She just stood there, but from the look in her eyes he could tell her mind was racing—hatching some scheme to get away from him, no doubt. He took a step forward, and she took a step back.
She was his wife, by God! She had to do his bidding, same as his dogs or his horses. But she treated him like the dog, made him feel less than a man, same as Boyce and the others did. Only he didn’t have to take it from her. Not from her. He wasn’t some dumb creature. He was her master, and she’d damn well learn it.
She turned toward the doorway, but he leaped across the room, seizing her as she tried to run. Clutching her shift by the neck, he ripped it open halfway to the waist, then slammed her against the wall and held her there by her shoulders. Looking down, he saw that he had raked her upper chest with his nails. The sight of those bloody scratches against her smooth white skin made him hard as a club.
The bitch actually lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. And then she said the wrong thing. She said, “You’re an animal.”
He couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. Releasing her, he whipped his open hand across her face. He heard a crack as her head hit the wall, and then she slid down. He grabbed her and tossed her roughly onto the big four-poster bed. She looked dazed. A raw scrape marred her cheek, and blood ran from her nose.
He took off his belt and tunic and tossed them aside. “Pull up your shift.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded meekly, reaching down to lift the ankle-length gown. So, he thought, removing his boots, all she needed was the taste of my hand. I’ll let her taste more than that before I’m done with her. He stood up.
Martine kicked him, driving her foot with breathtaking force into his stomach. He grunted and toppled to the floor.
“Bitch!” he gasped, hauling himself to his feet. He grabbed her just as she reached the door, and flung her back toward the bed, taking no care with his aim. When she hit the bedpost, he felt the impact in his bones. For a moment she slumped against the thick column, as if embracing it. He saw the blood on the wood, and felt a carnal thrill.
I’ve killed her, he thought as she sank to the floor and collapsed on her side in the rushes. I’m free of her now.
He rolled her onto her back with his foot. Blood covered one side of her face. She’ll lie back and take it now, by God, just like she should have done in the first place. It’s her own damn fault. He kicked her legs apart and knelt between them. It was then that he realized she was still breathing. Worse luck, he thought.
It was at that moment he remembered Emeline—Emeline, the sauciest of Fat Nan’s whores. Emeline... His smile faded and his eyes narrowed as he gazed down upon the battered and senseless face of his wife. Emeline had laughed at him and called him a beast from the forest.
He reached down and softly stroked Martine’s neck, feeling the life still pulsing stubbornly beneath the smooth skin. His fingers closed around her throat, and then the other hand joined the first, and he squeezed just as he’d done with Emeline. At first he hadn’t meant t
o do it, but his hands had gone around her neck while he took his pleasure with her, and he found that her struggles excited him. He squeezed harder and harder as his pleasure increased. He came quickly, and then it was over. He realized he’d broken her neck.
He was terrified when he told Bernard what had happened, but Bernard told him not to worry. Bernard had taken care of everything, and it had cost but a few pennies. He’d fix it this time, too. For all her airs, this one was no different from the other. Women were all the same; Bernard had always told him so. Don’t let them laugh at you, he always said. If they get smart, teach them a lesson.
The witch’s face slowly turned blue, just like the little whore’s. Soon... and then he’d be free of her.
“Sir Edmond?” The voice of Felda right outside the curtain interrupted his thoughts.
He released Martine and stood up. “What is it?”
“I... heard a sound before. Is everything—”
“Everything’s fine. I slipped and fell is all. Go back downstairs.”
After a few moments he heard her footsteps retreating. Wiping the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, he grabbed the jug of brandy off the chest, uncorked it, and took a few gulps. He looked back down at his unconscious wife. He’d teach her a lesson, all right. He’d do her like he’d done Emeline, squeeze her throat while he took her. He grinned and swallowed down a good half of the jug, unconcerned about being too drunk to do her right. Just thinking about Emeline kept his weapon at the ready.
He corked the jug and went to set it back down on the chest, but it fell to the floor instead.
The damn brandy went to his head fast. He’d best make quick work of this. Kneeling again between her legs, he reached down and pulled at the waist cord of his chausses. His fingers were big and numb and clumsy, and it took a bit of doing to get himself untied. He raised Martine’s shift and lowered himself onto her as the room began to slowly whirl. Closing his eyes for just a moment, he felt the numbness spread from his fingers to the rest of his body, and then he sank softly, softly into a dark and silent oblivion.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 159
