* * *
He’s a good actor, thought Thorne as Bernard, looking suitably grave, greeted him in the courtyard of Harford Castle. Martine dismissed Felda and asked to see Lady Estrude, whereupon Bernard turned and led his sister by marriage and the Saxon knight up the circular stairwell. Thorne, in agony from the long ride, immediately fell behind and was soon forced to stop and rest. Hunched over his crutch, he closed his eyes and tried to transcend the red-hot pain that coursed through his right leg.
In the privacy of the stairwell, the Saxon withdrew the chess piece and squeezed it, willing the hurt to disappear. As it receded, he ran his thumb over the little whalebone face, the high cheekbones, the full lips. He hadn’t lain with another woman since that morning on the riverbank; it was the longest he’d gone without sex since he first started wenching. It wasn’t that his need was diminished. It was, in fact, more overwhelming than ever. But it was a need that his whores and serving girls could no longer hope to satisfy. It was a need with a name, and that name was Martine of Rouen.
God, give me the strength to keep my distance from her, he prayed. She wanted that distance, needed it—that was clear enough. She had her reasons, some of which were actually rather good ones, and he knew that nothing he could say or do at this point would change her mind. But the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him must not be allowed to interfere with his pledge to Rainulf to protect her; truly, he would do so even had he not sworn an oath. Now that she had abandoned the safety of St. Dunstan’s, he must be her shadow, her personal soldier, but he must never presume to renew the intimacy they had once known. She felt threatened by his desire for her, and he wanted above all things for her to feel safe when she was with him, which now had to be constantly. And so he had resolved to be polite but cool toward her, a resolution that pained his soul as fiercely as his unhealed wounds pained his body.
When he finally entered Lady Estrude’s chamber, Martine was readjusting the ailing woman’s bedclothes and pulling up the blankets, having concluded her examination.
Martine—and Bernard, standing in the corner with his arms crossed—met Thorne’s eyes and then lowered theirs to Estrude. Following their gaze, he automatically crossed himself. He hadn’t seen the lady for four months, and although she’d looked sickly when he left Harford to lay siege to Blackburn, she hadn’t looked anything like this. Never had he seen anyone so debilitated, so ravaged by disease. From her moans, and the way she clutched at her bedclothes, she was clearly in agony. Her distended belly added to his sense of horror. It was his babe in that enfeebled body, a babe that would die when Estrude succumbed.
Martine dipped a cloth in water, wrung it out, and bathed Estrude’s face with it, then opened her satchel and withdrew a stoppered jug. The dying woman’s eyes struggled to focus on her benefactress; she seemed unaware that Bernard and Thorne were in the room. “What is that?” she rasped.
“Some claret I brought back from St. Dunstan’s, my lady,” said Martine, pausing to sit on the edge of the narrow bed and take Estrude’s clawlike hand in hers. “‘Twill help you to sleep.” Martine’s willingness to comfort a woman who had always treated her with contempt, to set aside whatever anger and jealousy she might feel and offer simple, unconditional solace, filled Thorne with awe.
With a seemingly great effort, Estrude shook her head. “I don’t deserve it. God wants me to suffer. He’s punishing me.”
Leaning closer, Martine said, “That can’t be true, my lady.”
Estrude nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis because I was too greedy for a baby. I sinned, and now He’s punishing me.”
Warning bells tolled in Thorne’s brain. He glanced toward Bernard, who was frowning in the corner, and then at Martine, who met his eyes with a knowing look. “Sir Bernard,” she said, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to fetch Father Simon.”
“She’s already had last rites,” he said.
“Ah. Well, then, perhaps you wouldn’t mind bringing me a goblet for the wine.”
Bernard, clearly unused to being asked to fetch anyone or anything, hesitated a moment. Then, as if deciding that his role of grieving husband might include a measure of compliance in such matters, he nodded and left the chamber. Thorne drew a steadying breath and directed a small smile of thanks toward Martine.
“God isn’t punishing you,” Martine told the suffering woman.
“He is,” she insisted. “Because of what I did to get this babe. It... it’s not Bernard’s child. I sinned to get pregnant, so God gave me a babe who’s sucking the life from my body. The babe grows huge while I waste away. Soon I’ll be dead, and then I’ll roast in hell for eternity. I’m doomed.” The speech seemed to have exhausted her, for she closed her eyes and struggled to take in ragged lungfuls of air.
“God is merciful,” Martine said. “He wouldn’t punish you like this for adultery.”
“Not just adultery,” Estrude whispered, not having even the strength to open her eyes. “I used trickery. Sir Thorne didn’t want me, so I tricked him.”
Martine directed a puzzled look toward Thorne, who gave a small nod of his head.
“I wore your perfume. I went to him in the middle of the night and let him think I was you.” Martine gaped at Thorne, wide-eyed. Estrude tossed her head, grimacing. “He was furious afterward. I forced myself on him. ‘Twas wrong. ‘Twas a very great sin. God let Sir Thorne’s babe grow within me only in order to kill me with it, to send me to hell.” Her weakened voice rendered the last few words almost unintelligible.
Martine placed her hands very gently on either side of Estrude’s face and said, “My lady, open your eyes. Look at me. That’s right. Listen carefully to me. You’re not pregnant.”
Estrude’s eyes searched Martine’s as if to divine the truth in her words. Could it be possible? Thorne wondered.
“But my belly,” Estrude groaned, her words echoing Thorne’s thoughts.
“I examined you,” Martine reminded her. “And I assure you, you’re not with child. You never have been. You suffer from an illness I’ve seen before, in Paris. ‘Tis a ball of disease that grows and grows and never stops. You’ve probably been ill for a year or more, but didn’t realize it.”
“My courses... they had almost stopped, even before...”
“You see?” said Martine. “You’re ill, that’s all.”
“Am I dying?”
Martine hesitated. Then, “Aye.”
Estrude nodded. “Will it be soon?”
Another pause. “Aye.”
“Thank God,”
“And then you’ll be with the angels,” Martine assured her.
“With the angels,” Estrude whispered, smiling. Thorne saw a sheen of tears in her half-closed eyes. “I’ll be with the angels.”
Bernard returned with the goblet, into which Martine poured the claret. She raised her sister-in-law’s head so she could sip it, and then whispered, “Sleep if you can.”
Within moments, Estrude’s whole body seemed to relax. Her fingers uncurled; her limbs lost their rigidity, her face its rictus of agony. Her eyes closed and her breathing became calm and regular. An hour later, as the sun touched the horizon, the steady rise and fall of her chest quietly ceased. Death, which had waited so patiently for Estrude of Flanders, took her at last.
* * *
An hour after that, Bernard, Godfrey, and Father Simon sat huddled around a small table in the baron’s chamber.
“But she’s his sister by marriage,” Godfrey pointed out to the priest as Bernard refilled his tankard, thinking, Just agree to it before you pass out, that’s all I ask.
Father Simon steepled his fingers and said, “Yes, well, that’s not quite like being a blood relation. It’s only affinity, not consanguinity. A small donation to Bishop Lambert” —he shrugged— “and there will be no objection from the Church, I assure you.”
Bernard guided the tankard to his father’s mouth. The old man drank for a while, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared into the tankard, frown
ing his openmouthed frown, as if trying to puzzle the whole business out.
Don’t think, thought Bernard. Drink. Again he wrapped his hand around his sire’s and aimed the tankard for his mouth. He’s usually more malleable than this when he’s in his cups.
But Godfrey stilled the tankard as it touched his lips. “Why tomorrow?” he asked. “Why first thing in the morning? Estrude’s body is still warm, for God’s sake!”
That woman’s body was never warm, thought his son.
The baron shook his head in confusion. “I never knew a second wedding to take place the very day after the first wife—”
Oh, hell. “Look here,” Bernard growled, his patience stretched about as thin as it could get. “Do you want grandsons?”
Slowly Godfrey lowered the tankard to the table, his eyes moist and reddened. “More than anything. You must remarry. I want you to. But why the lady Martine? There are dozens of suitable girls—”
“In Sussex,” Bernard said tightly. “We’d have to go abroad, remember? Like we did the first time.” He emptied the pitcher into the tankard, which overflowed a bit. “We’d have to go to Brittany, or Aquitaine, or Flanders again. Somewhere far away, where they don’t know about... what happened. Remember?”
“Oh, yes,” the baron mumbled. “The girl. That poor girl.”
“Christ,” Bernard grumbled. ‘Tis a sin that a man that soft ever had control of a barony. “I don’t want to go abroad again,” he explained slowly to the witless fool who had sired him. “It takes time. It’s inconvenient. It’s annoying. And besides, with Edmond dead, the lady Martine now owns her bride price outright. Those lands have been in our family since the Conquest. Wouldn’t you rather they remained under our control than under that of an eighteen-year-old girl we never even saw until last summer?”
“I don’t care about that,” Godfrey said. “I want grandsons.”
Bernard leaned eagerly toward his father. “And I want to give them to you. The lady Martine is young and healthy. She could fill this keep with baby boys.”
The baron’s rheumy eyes glittered, and his mouth curved in a wistful smile. “Baby boys.”
“Aye. Lots and lots of baby boys. Say the word and Father Simon will marry us in the morning.”
“If it’s by your command, no one can question it,” the priest offered, cringing when Bernard shot him a look.
“Question it?” Godfrey muttered.
“No one will question it,” said Bernard. “Not if it’s by your order. And then will come the baby boys.” Christ, but this is a tiresome business. “Lots of them.”
Godfrey nodded slowly, smiling that pathetic smile.
“Do you order it?” Father Simon prompted.
The baron sighed. “Let it be so.” Bernard sighed, too. Finally. But as he rose from the table, his sire said, “I must admit, though, I’m rather surprised you’re agreeable to marrying her, even for the lands. You always say she’s so willful and insolent. And I know you blame her for Edmond’s death.”
“I was distraught,” Bernard said smoothly. “And as for her willfulness, all she really needs is a bit of discipline.” He turned to leave. “Don’t worry about all that. Just think about the baby boys.”
“But what if she’s barren, like Estrude?” Godfrey said to his back. “What if she can’t bear sons?”
Bernard’s hand unconsciously gravitated to the pouch on his belt, one finger slipping inside to stroke the knobby, jeweled handle of the little razor-sharp knife within. “Don’t worry about that, either. I’ll deal with that problem when it arises.”
* * *
“I don’t like that none of my men are here,” Thorne said after the funeral that evening as he and Martine stood warming their hands over the fire pit in the great hall. “Godfrey sent Peter, Guy, and Albin to France. King Henry is still embroiled in those territorial skirmishes, and Godfrey supposedly felt he owed him some men. I wouldn’t be suspicious, except that it was Bernard who put the idea in his head to send them.”
He rarely even looked at her anymore when he spoke to her, Martine noticed. Unable to seduce her again, he’d become completely indifferent to her. No doubt he regretted the oath that made him feel obligated to keep to her side this way. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said. “Perhaps, with you gone, your men simply had little to do.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured. And then he looked up, focusing on something over her shoulder, and his expression became grim. “Perhaps not.”
When Martine turned, she saw Bernard and a contingent of his men advancing toward them. Bernard wore his humorless smile, but his men had the shuttered expressions of soldiers doing their duty. Geneva, who’d been playing draughts with Ailith in the corner, quickly hustled the child out of the hall.
Martine looked back toward Thorne. His hand rested on his sword, she noticed, but it was his right hand, and she knew that arm was still very weak.
Bernard paused before her, inspecting her with his hard little eyes. “My lady.” He looked toward Thorne, his appraising gaze seeming to linger on his crutch. “Woodsman.”
“What do you want, Bernard?” said Thorne.
“I want to remarry,” he said. “As soon as possible.”
“Then I suggest you start making travel arrangements,” replied the Saxon. “Try Italy, or perhaps the Rhineland. They might not have heard about you there.”
Bernard’s eyes narrowed, and his hand closed over the hilt of his own sword. “It seems that won’t be necessary,” he said, turning again toward Martine and fixing her with a penetrating look that chilled her to the bone. “My sire has taken matters in hand, you see. He has already chosen a bride for me, and as it happens, she is conveniently close.”
Martine stood utterly still, paralyzed with incomprehension. Nay... he can’t mean...
She heard a metallic scrape as Thorne began to draw his sword from its scabbard; in a flash of steel, four other swords were aimed at his throat.
It’s true. Oh, God, Thorne was right. We walked right into a trap. Bernard lured me here so that he could... She couldn’t even form the words in her mind, couldn’t imagine the horror of being wed to this monster. If marriage to Edmond had been bad, marriage to Bernard would be a nightmare.
“Nay,” she said. “I won’t do it. I won’t marry you.”
“No one is asking for your permission,” Bernard said coolly. “Our overlord gave you to me. There the matter comes to an end.”
She swallowed down her outrage, her fear, and hid her hands in her skirts to conceal their trembling. From the corner of her eye she saw Thorne, still at swordpoint, frozen in watchful silence. “I’m going back to St. Dunstan’s,” she announced.
Bernard chuckled. “Aye, and if I gave you long enough to figure out a way to get back there, I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d do. That’s why I’ve arranged for the marriage to be solemnized in the morning.”
“In the morning! Tomorrow morning?” Still the Saxon simply watched and listened. She wheeled on him. “Sir Thorne, please! Do something!”
He glanced at the gleaming blades of the swords and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, What shall I do?
“Say something!” she demanded. “Anything! You’re supposed to protect me!”
“That’s right,” Bernard told Thorne. “I’ve heard about your oath to the good Father Rainulf. I daresay it must be a tedious business, following this viper-tongued wench about all day. I won’t pretend to any great affection for you. Still it grieves me to see a knight of your caliber reduced to such lowly service. A galling assignment, is it not?”
Thorne just stared at him for a moment, expressionless. “What if it is? ‘Tis no business of yours.”
His words squeezed Martine’s aching heart. She had known, of course, that he must begrudge his promise to Rainulf. Still, to hear the words from his own lips...
Bernard smiled. “Don’t be so sure. Mayhap I could offer you an alternative to playing the vixen’s faithful watchdog. R
ight now, you’re a bug in my helmet, which I must” —he gestured to his sword-wielding men— “eliminate, lest it drive me to distraction. However, I am always in need of good men. ‘Tis a shame to destroy so much strength and skill when I can make use of it myself.”
“What makes you think ‘twill be easy?” Thorne asked.
“Let’s not be coy. You want property. I” —he nodded toward Martine— “want my property back. If you renounce your oath to Father Rainulf and put in with me, I give you my word that I will deed you one of the holdings that comprised the lady Martine’s bride price, in return for your faithful service to me.”
To Martine’s horror, Thorne took his time answering. Could he actually be weighing the offer? “Nay,” he finally said. She breathed a sigh of relief. But then he added, “I want the land Lord Godfrey was going to grant me in the first place. ‘Tis a far goodlier holding than those others.”
No... Martine just stared at Thorne, who, unsurprisingly, refused to meet her eyes.
Bernard nodded slowly. “You’re a greedy man. I admire that. Done, then. ‘Twill be yours on the morrow.” He nodded to his men, who lowered their swords. To Thorne he said, “And now, as a gesture of fealty, you will escort the lady upstairs to her chamber. Boyce will stand guard over her tonight, and in the morning,” —he took Martine’s fingertips and lifted them— “we shall be joined in holy matrimony.”
She yanked her hand out of his grasp. “I’ll kill myself before I marry you.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Bernard drawled. He glanced at the pouch in which she carried her eating knife. With snakelike speed, he whipped his hand out, snatched it, and ripped it roughly from her girdle. “Boyce, search the chamber for anything she might use against herself... knives, rope—”
Thorne said, “Wouldn’t it be safer just to lock her in the cell downstairs?”
Rage struck Martine speechless. Bernard turned toward the Saxon, looking pleased, even impressed. “What an excellent idea. I had my doubts about you, woodsman. I’m glad to see you know where your interests lie.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 166
