Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  * * *

  It hurt to open her eyes. When she did, it was so dark she didn’t know where she was. Her ears rang; the sound filled her head. Something large and foul-smelling weighed her down, pressing her into the ground. Dried grasses prickled her back through her shift. It was night. Was she in the woods, trapped beneath a dead animal?

  Presently her eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight. She saw the walls and ceiling of her bedchamber, and realized that it was rushes beneath her. She recognized the smell of her husband, heard his halting snore, and remembered everything.

  Oh, God. Grunting with the effort, she pushed at the inert form pinning her to the floor, pushed and pushed until he flopped onto his back next to her. His chausses were down around his knees; her shift was bunched around her waist. Oh, God, he did it after all, she thought. She felt between her legs, expecting to feel raw and used—but there was nothing, no evidence that he had had his way with her. She saw the half-empty brandy jug in the rushes near the chest, and managed a smile. It worked after all.

  When she sat up, pain seared her skull, and she cradled her head in her hands. Her face felt sticky and swollen, one side of it, anyway. She patted it gently, wincing when her fingers brushed an open wound.

  What happened? Where was she? Was she hurt? She looked around, her thoughts jumbled. She was in her bedchamber. Something about this realization seemed familiar. Looking down, she saw Edmond, his clothes in disarray, and it all came back. I can’t keep my thoughts straight, she despaired. I’ve lost my senses.

  With some effort she gained her feet. I must leave here, she thought. I must get far away. I’ll find Thorne. Thorne will protect me. He promised Rainulf he’d protect me.

  Feeling around in the dark, she made her way downstairs. The ringing became louder and louder, until she could barely think. They’re ringing the bells for matins, she decided. Standing on the lawn, she looked back up at the prior’s lodge, clearly visible by the light of the full moon, and then at the surrounding woods.

  He’ll come to me at the river, just as he did before. He’ll come to me at the river where we made love. But which direction was the river? The ringing confused her, made her disoriented. She blindly picked a direction and ran into the woods.

  * * *

  Something tickled her face. She opened her eyes and saw a shadowy form above her—licking her? She gasped, and the form turned and darted away through the crackling leaves.

  It was dark. Where was she? In the woods? What was she doing in the woods in the middle of the night?

  She stirred. Christ, her head was on fire. Was she hurt?

  Slowly she sat up and struggled to her feet. I must find Rainulf. Rainulf will help me. Rainulf will take care of me. But where was Rainulf? At the university? No, it was the middle of the night. And... and they didn’t live in Paris anymore. He was at the castle, Harford Castle. She’d go there.

  She turned around in a circle, peering into the black forest. Not knowing which way the castle lay, she eventually just picked a direction and walked.

  * * *

  The distant voice of a child woke her, and she squinted at the early morning sunlight. She lay on her stomach at the edge of the woods, where it opened into a field. Far away, a man and a woman were sowing grain from a sack held by a child.

  She tried to move, but she ached all over. The light hurt her eyes, so she closed them. What was she doing out here? Mama would worry. Mama didn’t like her to wander too far from home.

  After a while she heard the child’s voice again, but much louder, much closer. Opening her eyes, she saw a pair of bare, dirty feet right in front of her face. The child stood over her, yelling words that made no sense, words Martine had never heard before. It was a girl child, around nine or ten. Turning, she waved and gestured frantically, until the man and woman–coarsely dressed villeins—came running.

  “Please tell my mama where I am,” Martine managed to whisper, but they didn’t hear her, so excitedly were they talking. The man said the name “Edmond” several times, but it meant nothing to her. The woman seemed to be arguing with him. Martine heard the words “Harford” and “Falconer.” Finally the man walked with the girl to a dirt path and pointed, and the girl ran off.

  Did he send her for Mama? Martine wondered as she drifted back into unconsciousness. Please let her bring back Mama.

  Chapter 16

  Thorne dipped the feather into the bowl and scooped up a bit of the egg white and oil mixture.

  “Hold her still, Kipp,” he reminded his assistant as he brushed the healing salve onto the eagle’s wounded thigh. There came a knock at the hawk house door. “Come.”

  It was Peter, and next to him, a raggedy little girl with dark hair and enormous eyes.

  “She showed up in the great hall while we were breakfasting,” Peter said. “She keeps repeating your name.” He ushered the girl inside and leaned against the worktable.

  It didn’t surprise Thorne that one of the villeins had sent his child looking for him. As the only English-speaking man of consequence in the area, they frequently summoned him to settle disputes or assist in emergencies.

  He’d seen this girl a few times. “What’s your name, child?” he asked in the old tongue.

  “Hazel, sir.” She was out of breath. That meant they’d told her to run; it was more likely an emergency than a dispute.

  He dipped up some more salve and applied it with careful strokes of the feather. “Who sent you for me, Hazel?”

  “Me mum, sir.” She hesitated. “Well, me pa, but really me mum. Pa wanted to send for Sir Edmond, only Mum says he’s most likely the one that done her like that, and to fetch you instead, and they fussed about it, but finally Pa—”

  “Slow down, child, I can’t follow you,” Thorne said. “Is someone hurt?”

  “Dying, most like, Mum says. We found her at the edge of the woods. Looks like a wolf’s got at her, but Mum says ‘twas probably just Sir Edmond.”

  Thorne dropped the feather into the bowl. For a moment he just stared at her.

  “Thorne?” said Peter, who hadn’t understood a word of the exchange. “What’s the—”

  The Saxon stood, his hands fisted at his sides. “Who is she? The woman who’s hurt. Did your mother say?”

  “She didn’t have to. I knowed who she was. I was standing in the churchyard when they got married last week. She gave me a silver... Sir?”

  He was out the door in two strides, moaning a Saxon oath.

  Peter ran after him and grabbed his arm. “What’s the—”

  “It’s Martine,” he said. “Get the girl and come with me.”

  The girl, riding with Peter, led them to a tiny cottage within Edmond’s manor. A man took the reins of Thorne’s horse as he dismounted. “She’s inside,” he said. “I didn’t want to bother you, Sir Falconer. I’d have sent for her husband, but—”

  Thorne muscled past him and swept aside the skins that covered the door. It was a dismal, reeking little hovel. “Over there,” a woman said, pointing. In a corner, on a straw pallet, lay Martine, as pale as death.

  Christ, no. No! His trembling hand automatically drew the sign of the cross.

  “She’s still alive,” the woman said.

  With a groan, he crossed the room in two strides and knelt beside the pallet.

  She lay on her back, her face turned toward the clay wall, dried leaves and twigs in her snarled hair, her complexion as white as her tattered shift. Not just tattered, but ripped apart, he saw. Gently pulling aside the torn, dirt-smudged linen, he inspected the scratches gouged into her chest, the purpling fingerprints on her throat. “Oh, Martine...” God, what did he do to you?

  “I cleaned her wounds as best I could,” the woman said. “Her feet are scratched up pretty good. We figure she spent the night in the woods. And there’s her chest. But it’s her face that took the worst of it.”

  Thorne brushed aside the tangled hair that clung to her face. Her cheek was abraded, her lip split, he
r forehead bruised; thank God it wasn’t worse.

  “The other side,” the woman said, taking Martine’s head in her hands and gently rolling it faceup.

  Thorne sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus!” The flesh, puffy and discolored, was further marred by angry bruises and two open wounds. Emotion swelled within him, squeezing his heart until he thought it would burst... rage, compassion, guilt...

  Edmond did this to her, of that he had no doubt. The man he had given her to had ravaged her like a wild animal. From the marks on her throat, he’d actually tried to kill her. Surely he was strong enough to break her neck.

  Emeline got her neck broke, Nan had said. ‘Twas one of them Harford dogs. Thorne had thought it was Bernard, reverting to his old ways, but most likely it was Edmond, adopting them anew. He’d always revered Bernard, always tried to be like him. And Thorne, blinded by greed for his land, had paid no heed to the inherent danger of that. What happened to Martine was his fault, his responsibility; he should have known Edmond was capable of this, should have seen it coming. Had he ignored the warning signs because they interfered with his plans?

  “Christ,” he muttered, sinking his face in his hands. He had sworn an oath to Rainulf to protect this woman—this woman who had trusted him, had cared for him, had given herself to him. She haunted his dreams... she owned his heart. And he had failed her.

  She moaned. He uncovered his face and took her hand. “Martine,” he murmured, “I’m here.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “It is you,” she whispered hoarsely. “You came.”

  “Aye. I’ll take care of you. From now on.”

  She smiled weakly and then frowned. “My head hurts. What happened?”

  She doesn’t remember. He shook his head helplessly. What good would it do to tell her the truth—that her husband had savaged her, had taken her by brutal force, had very nearly killed her?

  She said, “I must have fallen out of bed.” He nodded, his throat tight. “Ask Mama to kiss it for me?”

  He gazed for a long, painful moment at her wounded face, the childlike pleading in her eyes. His voice a ragged whisper, he said, “I’ll kiss it for you.”

  Leaning close, he chose an uninjured spot on her forehead and gently pressed his lips to it.

  She squeezed his hand. “I knew you’d come, Papa. I knew you’d come for us.”

  Papa. Thorne watched as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “Sleep,” he softly urged. Nodding contentedly, she closed her eyes and went completely limp. If not for her quiet, steady breathing, he might have thought she had expired. Thankfully, her wounds, although cruel, were almost certainly not mortal. He opened her fingers, pressed her palm to his mouth, and kissed it.

  Closing his eyes, he saw Edmond... Edmond striking her... Edmond with his hands around her throat... Edmond on top of her.

  He couldn’t be allowed to get away with this—not this. By law and custom, she was under the rod of her husband. He was free to discipline her in whatever manner suited him, for any offense, with no threat of penalty. Such affairs were private. Any retribution must, likewise, be a private affair—Thorne’s affair.

  But right now Martine needed his help. He had to get her to a safe place and see to her injuries. He called Peter in from outside.

  When his friend saw Martine, he blanched. Meeting Thorne’s eyes, he said, “Edmond?”

  Thorne nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” Peter said, his right hand curled into a fist, which he cradled in his left. It was a seemingly casual gesture, but not one lost on Thorne. Peter’s prowess with his fists was legendary.

  He was a good friend, to be willing to exact Thorne’s revenge for him—revenge on the son of his overlord, no less. It was a generous offer, but one Thorne couldn’t accept. The revenge had to be his, otherwise he could never live with himself.

  He stood. “I’ll deal with Edmond. You go fetch Felda. Have her pack some of Lady Martine’s clothes, then bring her back to Harford. If Edmond’s at the house, stay out of his way. If he’s not there, find out where he went.”

  “Are you taking Lady Martine back to Harford?” Peter asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Do you think that’s safe, what with Bernard and his men—”

  “Not the castle. The hawk house, where I can keep an eye on her.”

  After Peter left, Thorne handed the woman some coins for her troubles, then wrapped Martine in his mantle and gently lifted her from the pallet. He gave her to the women’s husband to hold while he mounted up, then took her back and cradled her in his arms, letting the reins hang loose.

  She stirred, murmuring anxiously. “Everything’s all right,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” She relaxed with a sigh. Using the pressure of his legs, he nudged his horse into a steady walk in the direction of Harford. First he would take care of Martine.

  Then he would take care of Edmond.

  * * *

  Images drifted in and out of Martine’s consciousness, like the shadows of passing clouds. The rhythm of a horse, strong arms, and warmth. She heard hoofbeats on the drawbridge, excited voices...

  Then she was at a quiet place, a feather mattress beneath her. A woman’s voice, familiar and reassuring, was saying, Let’s get you cleaned up, now, milady... A warm cloth on her face and chest and feet, a comb plucking at her hair, cool hands exchanging a fresh shift for the ruined one. Sit up just for a moment, now... that’s right... put your arm in the sleeve...

  Now sleep, milady. You need your sleep. Sir Thorne will take care of everything.

  * * *

  Martine moaned in her sleep, and Thorne instantly sat up in the chair he’d pushed next to her bed. Laying his sword down, he took the wet cloth from its bowl and wrung it out.

  He’d spent the morning with her in the hawk house, watching her, praying, and making plans. For most of that time she’d slept fairly peacefully, although from time to time she’d seemed anxious, as now—a nightmare, perhaps.

  When he pressed the cloth to her forehead, she started, whimpering in distress. He reached out to stroke her hair. “My lady—”

  “No!” she gasped, lashing out with wild punches and kicks. “No!”

  He rose and sat on the edge of her bed. “My lady... Martine!”

  Her fist caught him on the nose, the sudden pain blinding him for a moment. She bolted upright, arms flailing, crying, “No! Don’t touch me!”

  Seizing both of her wrists in one hand, he wrapped the other arm around her and held her tightly against him as she struggled. “Martine.” Her eyes were open but wide with terror. She moaned fearfully, clearly reliving Edmond’s attack, thinking it was he who held her immobile.

  “It’s Thorne,” he said. “Thorne.” Still she writhed and twisted in his arms. He kissed her hair, her temple. “It’s me,” he whispered in her ear, then kissed her cheek. “It’s Thorne. I won’t hurt you.” He continued to kiss her, murmuring reassurances as he did so, until presently she calmed and slumped against him, her eyes closed.

  “That’s right,” he said softly, laying her back down and smoothing her hair off her face. “Rest.”

  “Thorne,” she breathed, her eyelids fluttering open.

  He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out again, then gently stroked her face with it, avoiding the worst of the wounds. “I’m here to take care of you. No one will hurt you.”

  Her brow knit. “Edmond... oh, God.”

  Thorne brought his face close to Martine’s and looked deep into her eyes, filled with dread. “Edmond can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here.” He touched his lips to her forehead, and then softly kissed each eyelid. “Rest easy.”

  She nodded and mumbled something he couldn’t make out. He bathed her face and throat with the cool cloth and then untied her shift and opened it to examine the scratches on her chest. Claw marks; that’s what they look like, he thought as he dabbed them gingerly with the cloth. It was as if she’d been attacked by an animal
. She had, of course, for Edmond was but an untamed creature, savage and unpredictable. He saw that clearly now. But why had it taken this to make him see?

  Because his greed had blinded him, that’s why. It was only fitting that his scheme to barter her hand for a holding had crumbled to dust—for Lord Godfrey would never reward him for arranging this ill-fated marriage. If the truth be told, it was less punishment than he deserved for bringing this misery down on Martine. Filled with shame and remorse, Thorne vowed to make amends. He had promised Rainulf that he would protect and defend the lady Martine, and from now on, that’s exactly what he intended to do.

  * * *

  After the noon meal, Thorne, Peter, and Guy stood in a tight cluster outside the hawk house while Felda attended to her mistress. Each had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Peter said, “The stableboy told me Edmond saddled up and headed for Hastings early this morning.” Again he fisted his right hand and cupped it with his left. “Let me do it.”

  “Nay,” Thorne said. “‘Tis my responsibility. You two stay here and guard Lady Martine. She’s not to be left alone for a moment.”

  Both men nodded, but as he turned to leave, Peter stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Why not?” Thorne said. “He—”

  “He deserves to die, without question. But if you kill him, Bernard will kill you.”

  “I can take—”

  “Care of yourself, I know. But Lady Martine can’t, not in her present condition, anyway. You swore an oath to protect her. If you intend to keep it, you must stay alive, and to ensure that, Edmond must stay alive as well.”

  It was brutally simple logic, and Thorne had to acknowledge the sense of it. Grimly he said, “Just make sure no harm comes to Martine. And I’ll make sure just the right amount comes to Edmond.”

  * * *

  Upon his arrival in Hastings early that afternoon, Thorne headed directly for Bulverhythe Harbor. In the fourth tavern he visited, he met someone—one of the harbor’s omnipresent human water rats—who had shared a pint with Edmond around midday.