“Did he say where he was going when he left here?” Thorne asked, pressing some pennies into the knave’s hand—his only hand, the other having been severed at the wrist some time ago, from the looks of it.
The man nodded, rubbing his thumb over the coins as if to shine them. “Says he needs a good tumble, but the harbor whores is all turning up their noses at him lately.”
Word travels, thought Thorne.
His informant grinned, showing the blackened stubs of what used to be teeth. “Says there’s a wench over to Fishmonger’s Row he’s been using. The eel man’s daughter.”
* * *
Fishmonger’s Row was a dark, crooked lane no wider than a man was tall. Pedestrians pressing perfumed cloths to their noses peered into the open shopfronts to inspect the day’s fly-studded catch, while fishwives shrieked their prices.
Thorne watched as a bald, thickset man hauled a keg out to the street. He paused to kick a foraging milch goat who stood in his way, then upended the keg over the central sewage channel. Glistening black serpents spilled out in a writhing mass, overflowing the channel and scattering across the mud.
He noticed Thorne. “Most of them’s dead,” he said in awkward French. “I got fresh ones. You want eels?”
“I want Edmond of Harford,” Thorne replied in English.
The eel man paused just a bit too long before saying, also in English, “Never heard of him.”
The Saxon knight strode past him, into his rank little shop.
“Hey!” The man dropped the keg and ran after him. In the back of the shop stood a burly adolescent boy up to his elbows in a barrel of squirming merchandise.
“Where is Edmond of Harford?” Thorne asked.
The eel man looked pointedly at the boy. “I told him we ain’t never heard of the gentleman.”
The boy looked disgusted. “He’s upstairs, with Udele,” he said, cocking his head toward a narrow staircase.
Thorne leaped up the stairs, but the eel man clutched the sleeve of his tunic, holding him back. “Don’t you go disturbing Sir Edmond. He pays good coin for her.”
The boy seized him and pulled him off Thorne. “Leave off, Pa. You shouldn’t be selling her like that.”
Thorne took the last six steps in two strides and whipped aside the curtain at the top of the stairs. The second floor was all one dim, shabby room scattered with straw pallets and household items. On one of the pallets, on her hands and knees, was a plump girl with a tearstained face and a bloody nose. Edmond knelt behind her, lifting her skirt.
“What—” Edmond managed as Thorne crossed the room, grabbed him by his tunic, and yanked him to his feet. “Hey!”
Thorne hurled him against the wall, and he crumpled like a rag doll, yelling, “Udele! Get help! Get your father!”
Udele leaped to her feet, screaming at Edmond in anglicized French, “I hope he kills you, you pig! I can’t stand the sight of you anymore—you and your nasty ways! I hope you burn in hell!”
“I’ll show you nasty!” Edmond growled, struggling to his feet. “You don’t know what nasty is!” He lunged at the girl, but Thorne grabbed him and pinned him to the wall.
Emboldened by Thorne’s presence, Udele came right up to Edmond and said, “Big talk from a little man.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
“A wee little tiny—”
Edmond took a swing at her, but she ducked and spat in his face. Then she hauled back and swung, but Thorne seized her fist just before it connected. He told her, in English, “If you finish him off, there’ll be nothing left for me. Why don’t you wait downstairs?”
“You promise to do a proper job of it?”
“I promise.”
He saw her frank appraisal as she took in his height, the width of his shoulders, the size of his fists. She nodded and turned away. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Thorne released Edmond and tossed aside his mantle, then unfastened his sword belt and threw it into the corner where Edmond’s sword lay.
“This is about that witch you made me marry, isn’t it?” Edmond asked.
“Witch?” Thorne tossed his dagger into the corner as well.
“She put a spell on me.”
Just as it occurred to Thorne to wonder where Edmond’s own dagger was, it appeared in his hand, a flash of silver streaking toward Thorne’s eyes. He dodged the blade, grabbed Edmond’s wrist, and slammed it against the wall. The dagger fell to the floor, and Thorne kicked it away.
From the edge of his vision, he saw Edmond’s knee come up, and he moved aside just in time to take the blow in his thigh rather than its intended target. Thorne rammed his fist into Edmond’s stomach, then backed off and rubbed his thigh as the younger man doubled over, groaning.
“I’m surprised at you, boy,” Thorne said. “You’re fighting like a wench. Is it true you have a wee little tiny—”
With an enraged bellow, Edmond rose and charged. Stepping aside, Thorne grabbed him and used his momentum to fling him across the room, into the opposite wall. He collapsed with a grunt, cupping his nose with both hands. Blood seeped from between his fingers.
“You broke my nose, you Saxon bastard!” he wailed nasally. “I did nothing to deserve this!”
“You brutalized an innocent woman.”
“Innocent?” Edmond stood unsteadily, his eyes wild. “She put a spell on me. I told you! She unmanned me!”
“You were never a man to begin with. Don’t blame it on her.”
“She put a spell on me so I couldn’t... couldn’t service her as a husband ought. Couldn’t bring myself to do it to her. Everybody laughed at me, but it wasn’t my fault. It was the witch that done it.”
Thorne envisioned Martine’s face, torn and bruised, the scratches, the marks from where he had choked her. Every muscle in his body tensed in fury. “So you forced yourself on her.”
Edmond wiped his nose on his sleeve, staining it with blood. “I tried to,” he said matter-of-factly, clearly seeing nothing wrong with that. “‘Twas about time, I reckoned. But she has her ways, that one does. Next thing I knew, it was morning, and she was gone.”
“What are you saying? You never consummated the marriage?”
Edmond frowned. “If that means I never fucked the bitch, aye. But like I said, it’s not my fault. I tried... What’s so funny?”
He never consummated the marriage. Thorne couldn’t suppress a smile of relief at this revelation. She hadn’t slept with him. In that way, she was still his and his alone.
Edmond slammed his fist into the wall. “What’s so damn funny? I told you, she’s a witch! She should hang for what she did to me! It’s not my fault!”
He charged again, but this time Thorne met him with his fists, raining punches on his head and chest. Edmond stumbled back, then lurched forward, swinging. Thorne took a hit in the face, but blocked the rest, delivering blow after punishing blow. Edmond fought back, but he lacked focus, punching and kicking like a huge child having a tantrum. He had his bulk and strength, but Thorne was bigger and stronger... and he knew how to use his fists to do the most damage.
In his mind’s eye, Thorne saw Martine, battered and insensible, and sought to do to Edmond what Edmond had done to her. Something fierce and vengeful possessed him. Sport fighting was nothing like this, nor was hand-to-hand combat. This was revenge, this was justice, this was hate.
Don’t kill him, Peter had said. Thorne closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to remember why he shouldn’t kill Edmond. It was for Martine’s sake. He had to protect Martine.
Edmond crouched on the floor, heaving and gasping, his arms wrapped around his midsection. Thorne remembered having felt at least one rib crack, and he’d deliberately pummeled the kidneys. With any luck, the bastard would piss blood for a week. Every time he relieved himself, it would be a reminder of the lesson he’d learned this day.
The Saxon retrieved his sword and dagger, then grabbed a handful of Edmond’s tangled hair and yanked his head up.
His lips and nose were bloody and swollen; he had a cut above one eye, and by tomorrow his face would be mottled with bruises. Thorne saw fear in his eyes, but defiance as well. “My brother will make you pay for this, woodsman.”
“Your brother will never find out. Because if he does, you’ll die.”
Edmond sneered. “Not if he kills you first.”
“If he does, then one of my men will do away with you.” With grave ceremony, Thorne wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and intoned, “I swear on the most holy relic encased herein that you will be punished with death should you tell anyone that I was in Hastings today.”
Edmond’s eyes grew wide; ignorance breeds superstition, and he was as superstitious as they come. He spread his hands helplessly. “But what am I to say happened? Look at me!”
“Say you were set upon by brigands who beat you and took all your money.” He held his hand out. “Your purse.”
“What? You don’t expect me to give you my—”
Thorne yanked hard on Edmond’s hair, and the boy yelped. “Your purse,” he repeated.
“Thieving Saxon swine,” Edmond muttered as he handed it over.
Thorne let go of Edmond and threw on his mantle. “One more thing, and listen well. You will also die—” again he rested his hand on the sword’s jeweled hilt, “most slowly and painfully, should you ever touch the lady Martine again. Nor are you ever to speak to her. If she enters a room, you are to leave it. Am I understood?”
“But she’s my wife! I’ve got to spend the rest of my damned life with her!”
“We’ll see about that.”
He turned and left, ignoring Edmond’s “What’s that supposed to mean?”
On his way out, he tossed Edmond’s purse to the eel man. “I was never here.”
* * *
Martine awoke in the hawk house, lying on her side in the narrow bed. Thorne sat slumped in his big chair pulled up close to the bed, his face turned toward the morning sun streaming in through the open window; he didn’t notice her awaken. In contrast to his dark morning stubble, and the violet bruise that stained one cheekbone, his skin looked very pale. His eyes, transparent in the bright sunlight, were sad and distant.
She remembered now that he had returned around sundown, and sat up with her all night. From time to time she would awaken, always confused and disoriented, and he would soothe her, stroke her hair, and whisper soft reassurances to her. She noticed the sword lying across his lap and remembered his oath to Rainulf. He had promised to protect her, and now he kept that promise. He was a man of honor after all, at least in his dealings with other men.
Felda had spent the night here, as well, Martine remembered, changing her poultices, bringing her broth and wine to sip. Martine licked her cracked lips. “Where’s Felda?” she asked, her voice raw.
Thorne rose and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “She’ll be back,” he said, laying a gentle hand on her uninjured cheek. “Do you know where you are?”
She nodded, wincing at a twinge of pain.
“Do you remember what happened?”
She closed her eyes. “Edmond,” she whispered.
He took her hand. “Edmond won’t bother you anymore.”
After a moment she opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his bruise. “What did you do to him?”
He smoothed her hair off her face. “Less than he deserved. I left him alive.”
She looked into his eyes. “I suppose I should thank you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t deserve your thanks. If not for me, you wouldn’t have married him in the first place. What I did to him was far too little, far too late.” With a squeeze of her hand, he added, “But there is something more I can do. Or try to do. To protect you from him, to free you from him permanently.”
Her heart beat wildly. “Is that possible?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. If it’s true that... that the marriage was never consummated.”
She saw the hope in his eyes. “It’s true.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes lit up, he even smiled a little. “If I could arrange to have the marriage annulled, would you—”
“Annulled!” She tried to sit up, but pain speared her head, and she sank back onto the pillow.
“Easy.” He leaned close, his hands cradling her head. “If I could arrange it, would you want that?”
“My God, do you have to ask?”
He chuckled. “I just had to be sure it was what you wanted before I start making inquiries. It ought to be a simple matter to annul an unconsummated marriage. Brother Matthew’s an expert on canon law. We’ll talk to him this evening.”
She frowned. “This evening? Are we going to St. Dunstan’s?”
He nodded. “It isn’t safe for you here. Edmond is undoubtedly still in Hastings—he’s in no condition to ride. But Bernard and his men are here. I’ve sent Felda and Peter to collect the rest of your clothes and belongings—”
“What about Loki? And my lockbox, with my herbs?”
“Them, too. And as soon as they’re back, we’ll leave.”
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Brother Matthew repeated. Martine admired his patience even as she lamented his words. “But you can’t annul a marriage simply because it wasn’t consummated. It won’t work.”
“That’s outrageous,” Thorne said, bolting to his feet.
“Outrageous or not, it’s canon law,” Matthew said. His fierce, dark eyes and great tonsured shock of hair, as black as his cowled robe, were a sharp contrast to his quiet intelligence.
“Damn!” Thorne strode to the one small window in the central hall of the prior’s lodge. Martine and Matthew, sitting at the table, watched his back as he leaned on the windowsill, peering into the night sky and shaking his head.
Martine picked Loki up off the floor and hugged him. She had spoken barely a word since their arrival that afternoon at St. Dunstan’s. Too weakened to ride, she’d had no choice but to make the trip in a curtained litter. Despite having slept most of the way, her head cradled in Felda’s lap, she ached all over and felt incapable of speaking on her own behalf. Luckily, Thorne was willing to do that for her.
The Saxon slammed his fist down on the windowsill and wheeled around. “‘Tis an obscenity that she should be chained in marriage to this... animal, simply because of the Church’s narrow-minded—”
“The Church has her ways,” Matthew said quietly. “There are more grounds for annulment than laymen are generally aware of,” Matthew said. He paused meaningfully. “Most notably, impotence.”
Thorne stared at Matthew. “Impotence,” he said, as if testing the sound of the word.
“It’s used successfully all the time,” Matthew said. “And in my judgment, I believe it to offer the lady her best chance for an official dissolution of the union. Actually, her only chance.”
Matthew and Thorne regarded each other in silence for a moment, and then both turned and looked toward Martine as if to say, Give us your permission and we’ll proceed.
Impotence. It was an ugly word, a shameful word, a word to spawn dark whispers and giggles. The thought of making a formal and public charge of it repelled her. She closed her eyes. She felt exhausted; her head throbbed. In her imagination, Edmond’s face loomed close, his yellowed teeth bared by a feral sneer, his smell stinging her nostrils, his meaty arms grabbing her, hurling her toward the bed, toward pain and darkness.
Shuddering, she opened her eyes, met Thorne’s, and nodded. “Do what you must,” she said, then rose and went to her chamber.
* * *
Thorne, sitting next to Martine on a bench in the corner of Brother Matthew’s office, watched in pensive silence as the prior handed the petition for annulment across the central table to Father Simon. The priest held the document close to his face and squinted as he read.
In the opposite corner sat Bernard and Edmond, deep in whispered conversation. Or, rather, Bernard whispered while his brother, his
face still faintly bruised, stared sullenly at the floor. When Simon finished reading the petition, he joined the two men in their corner, leaning over and murmuring something in Bernard’s ear.
“Impotence?” Bernard exclaimed.
“What’s that?” Edmond muttered.
Father Simon mumbled something.
Edmond bolted to his feet. “What?”
Bernard rose and grabbed his brother’s arm. “Edmond, I told you to keep your mouth—”
“You fucking witch!” Edmond screamed at Martine, stabbing the air with his fists as Bernard and Simon held him back. “This is your doing!”
“Shut up, Edmond!” Bernard hissed, shoving his brother back onto the bench. “Let me handle this. I told you.” Holding Edmond down by his shoulders, he bent over and whispered into his ear for a few moments. “All right?” Thorne heard him say. Edmond hung his head, his hair obscuring his face. “All right?” Bernard repeated. Edmond nodded without looking up.
Bernard turned around and straightened his tunic. “We do not consent to an annulment. Edmond and the lady Martine must remain married.”
Edmond buried his head in his hands.
“Oh, God,” Martine whispered. Thorne patted her arm, wishing he could do more—take her hand, gather her in his arms—but knowing that any hint of impropriety at this stage of the negotiations would be ruinous for her. He hesitated to so much as look at her, lest his feelings for her show on his face.
Matthew stood and addressed Bernard. “If Edmond cooperates with the annulment, the matter will be handled as discreetly as possible. The charge of impotence need never become public knowledge. But should he object in any way, the lady will not hesitate to pursue her cause all the way to Pope Alexander—and then, I assure you, there will be no way to keep the circumstances confidential.”
“Your threats change nothing, monk,” Bernard said. “We refuse to cooperate in any way with a dissolution of this marriage.”
Matthew said, “You do know that all of the holdings that were given up to Lady Martine upon her marriage will revert to Lord Godfrey upon annulment.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 161
