Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (16 page)

“Well, of course,” Bernard interjected, “she’s more than welcome, if that’s what she chooses. But I hardly think it’s what she would truly prefer. After all, you’ll be leaving on pilgrimage shortly after the wedding, and she won’t see you for years.”

“Two at the most.” Martine saw Rainulf direct an uncomfortable glance toward her. Bernard was right, of course. She would have preferred to accompany her brother to the monastery, but he had insisted that the separation would be good for her.

“Two years is a long time,” Bernard persisted. “Surely she’d be happier with you than here among virtual strangers.”

Why, Martine wondered, did Bernard insist so strenuously that she spend the next month away from Harford? It was almost as if there were something he wanted to keep from her. She looked toward the meadow, where Edmond and another man exchanged kicks and punches while a group of Harford’s “dogs” cheered rowdily. Her betrothed had discarded his tunic, and fought in his shirt and chausses. His hair hung in his face as he circled and ducked and kicked, his expression one of savage and single-minded determination. Was it Edmond that Bernard wanted to keep her from? Perhaps he thought it best that she not get to know her betrothed too well before the wedding, lest she be tempted to break the marriage contract.

Even if that were so, it didn’t matter. Martine already knew she could never care for Edmond, and that was as it should be. Were she to have feelings for him, he would someday use them against her, turning their marriage into a union of sorrow for her and power for him. Martine would marry, but she would marry on her own terms. Hers would not be the jongleur’s bond of love, nor Thorne’s of property. She married for duty. She married for Rainulf. Eight years ago, he had given her—a terrified and lonely child—her future. And now she would return the favor.

“When are you going to St. Dunstan’s?” Olivier asked Rainulf.

`Tomorrow, Sire.”

Lord Neville had joined the group at the high table, and now he said, “Tomorrow? St. Dunstan’s is a day’s ride, Father, most of it through dense woods. Are you sure it’s wise to set out on a trip like that while the bandits who murdered Anseau and Aiglentine are still at large?”

After a moment of perplexed silence, Olivier said, “Haven’t you heard? Those men were captured. My hangman’s spent the last two days giving them a taste of what they’ll find in hell once he’s stretched their filthy necks.”

As Martine watched, the color drained from Neville’s face. His wife’s hand immediately clutched his sleeve, but he shook her off testily and said, “Captured? Nay, no one told me. Someone might have sent a messenger.” He paused dramatically, preparing his audience for his next statement: “After all, I
am
Anseau’s only living relative.”

There was complete silence beneath the canopy. Martine knew that Anseau was believed to have left no family at all—at least, none in England. Olivier and Godfrey, frowning, consulted with each other in a whisper. Finally Godfrey shrugged, and Olivier, looking a bit taken aback, said, “I am informed that there may be a distant connection.”

“Distant, perhaps,” Neville conceded. “Nevertheless, I am his heir. I thought that was widely known.”

The silence gave way to excited murmuring. So this was Neville’s purpose in arriving uninvited at Martine and Edmond’s betrothal feast—to present himself as Anseau’s heir and, presumably, set the stage for his inheritance of Anseau’s barony.

After a thoughtful pause, Olivier said, “This is not the time or place in which to discuss these matters, Lord Neville. You may or may not be Anseau’s legitimate heir.” Neville made as if to speak, but Olivier silenced him with a sharply raised hand. “Understand that the barony in question is the largest and wealthiest within my fief. Its inheritance is not a matter to be decided lightly. Assuming you are, as you claim, Anseau’s only survivor and heir, rest assured that what is yours will come to you in due course. For now, I will discuss the matter no further.”

Again Neville tried to speak, but Olivier turned to Godfrey and said, “Are there not betrothal gifts to be exchanged? This would be a good time, since everyone is gathered about.”

Eagerly taking the cue, Godfrey called for Edmond to be summoned from the meadow and the gifts to be presented. Edmond presented Martine with a great heap of ermine skins, white with black-tipped tails, all of superb quality—a generous gift, and much admired. Estrude seemed particularly impressed, and Martine consented to allow her to trim her wedding costume with them.

Martine’s gift to her betrothed, in addition to the bloodhound pups, was a chess set that Rainulf had commissioned from a renowned Danish artisan. The white pieces had been carved of whalebone; the black of ebony. What made the set so distinctive was that the kings and queens, rather than being represented by tiny figures, were small sculpted heads—miniature busts on short pedestals. The black king wore a regal crown over his short hair, his queen a barbette and veil beneath an elaborate coronet. Olivier noted that they resembled Henry and Eleanor, and Rainulf acknowledged that the resemblance had been deliberate. The earl passed the pieces around, and there were many compliments on the cleverness of the idea and the skill of the artisan.

Boyce, one bandaged arm in a sling, the other hoisting the pitcher of ale from which he drank, said, “Young Edmond’s going to have to learn how to play chess now! And he hasn’t even mastered draughts!”

Bernard’s men laughed uproariously. Edmond laughed, too, but Martine sensed his discomfort, as if he didn’t know whether to shrug off Boyce’s comment as good-natured teasing, or take offense.

So
, thought Martine.
He can’t even play chess. Can’t read and can’t play chess. No wonder all he does is hunt.

Apparently unnoticed, except by Martine, Thorne lifted the white king and queen to examine more closely. The uncrowned king, young and long-haired, he inspected briefly and put down. Cradling the queen in the palm of his large hand, he gently rubbed his thumb over its small, smoothly sculpted features—the prominent cheekbones, wide mouth, and straight, aristocratic nose. The hair was hidden beneath a tucked and twisted veil, as Martine had worn it when she had posed for the sculptor. Thorne smiled with secret pleasure at his discovery, and Peter, next to him, said, “You seem quite taken with that piece.”

Thorne’s eyes met Martine’s and held them for a brief moment. He seemed slightly embarrassed to find that she had been watching him. Handing the chess piece to the other knight, he said, “I
am
quite taken with the workmanship. Don’t you recognize her?”

Frowning, Peter examined the piece and then passed it around. Several people ventured guesses as to the lady’s identity. Most thought it to represent the Virgin Mary.

Thorne laughed. “‘Tis another lady of great beauty and virtue. Our Martine of Rouen!”

There were gasps of delight and many apologies to Martine for not having recognized her image. It was curious, Martine reflected, that only Thorne had seen her face in the whalebone.

*   *   *

As the afternoon wore on, the clouds began to darken and fill up the sky like smoke. Martine, strolling along the edge of the river, saw, far away, the tiny figure of a horseman on the road to the castle, but paid him little mind. Bending her head, she continued to search the wildflowers for blossoms to add to the half-finished chaplet in her hand, which she wanted to finish before it began to rain. She was making it for Ailith, who followed along behind, collecting a bouquet for her mother.

Martine heard Thorne’s faraway voice and squinted to make him out from the group of men hawking some distance away, where the meadow met the woods. It wasn’t hard; he was by far the tallest one. A spaniel scented quarry and danced excitedly around some low bushes. The master falconer had brought not Freya, who had yet to be taught to hunt, but an experienced peregrine. He unhooded the bird, rewarding the dog with words of praise.

All afternoon, in addition to picking flowers and weaving them together, Martine had watched Thorne and his companions fly their falcons, unnoticed from her discreet vantage point at the river’s edge. She wanted to know something of hawking—it would be expected of her—and found that she had already learned a great deal from this covert observation.

After giving the unhooded peregrine a few moments to get her bearings on his gauntleted fist, Thorne cast her off with a twist of his arm. She circled above the dog in graceful, ascending spirals, attaining a remarkable altitude. When she had gotten almost out of sight, the well-trained spaniel rushed the bushes, flushing a covey of grouse into the air while Thorne alerted the peregrine by means of a loud, singsong cry.

Martine’s eyes, like those of the men in the meadow, immediately sought out the peregrine. Her flight ceased, and in the brief moment that followed, Martine held her breath in anticipation of the kill. Like something dropped from a great height, the peregrine dove with blinding speed, talons outstretched, toward her prey. From the distance at which Martine watched, it looked as if the two birds—falcon and grouse—collided in midair, the grouse dropping to the ground and the falcon soaring sharply upward.

In reality, Martine knew that the event had been nothing as random as a collision. It had been a carefully planned, flawlessly executed attack by a creature born to the purpose and trained to perfection by southern England’s greatest falconer. The men in the meadow cheered as much in appreciation of Sir Thorne’s mastery over the falcon as for the falcon’s mastery over the grouse.

The falcon turned over in the air and dropped onto the dead grouse, but her attention was soon stolen by Thorne’s shrill whistle and the lure—something heavy on the end of a cord—that he swung in circles over his head. He let the lure drop, and the peregrine flew to it and began enthusiastically pecking at it. Then he knelt close by, whistled again, and held something toward her, which Martine assumed to be a bit of meat. She flew to his fist and ate the meat, then he slipped the little hood back over her head, leaning over and tightening the braces with his teeth.

The rumbling of wooden planks on the bridge made Martine turn with a gasp. It was the horseman, the one she had seen on the road—a young man on a dun stallion that had been ridden to the point of exhaustion, judging by the foam trailing from its mouth. Reining in his sorry mount, he called to Martine, who happened to be closest, “I’ve a message for my lord Olivier!” Martine pointed to the meadow, and the young man took off toward the hawking party.

Sudden movement from the direction of the canopy caught her eye, and she saw Lord Neville and his wife hurrying toward their horses, which they mounted hastily and kicked into a gallop. Several of the guests stood to watch their abrupt departure, although Bernard and his men, including Edmond, were too preoccupied with drinking and storytelling to notice much else. Rainulf, standing alone just outside the canopy, stared grimly at the baron and baroness as they rode away, then turned toward the meadow, as did Martine.

The messenger dismounted and bowed to Olivier, then stood at attention while he communicated his message. Although they were far away, Martine heard the earl exclaim, “Dear God!” After a brief and impassioned exchange, all the men began striding purposefully toward the canopy, Olivier bellowing, “Detain Neville! Don’t let him get away!”

Martine ran to her brother, who was standing quietly with his arms crossed, his expression sad and detached. Looking down at her, he said, “We can’t hope to overtake Neville at this point. All our horses are in the stables. I can’t imagine the earl will be pleased about that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Martine, grabbing his arm. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Gazing calmly at the distant, retreating figures of the baron and baroness, he said, “Neville had Anseau and Aiglentine killed.”

Martine gasped. “
What?
How do you know?”

“They bolted like rabbits as soon as that messenger arrived looking for Olivier. My guess—and Neville’s, I’d wager—is that the bandits have confessed and named him as the man who paid them for their crimes.”

Martine began to understand. “Neville wanted that barony.”

Rainulf nodded. “Aiglentine was about to bear a child. If she had done so, and the child had lived, Neville could never have hoped to inherit that holding. But with Anseau and Aiglentine gone, and no heir—”

Ailith’s voice, shrill and insistent, piped up from the direction of the river. “Mama! Mama! Look at me!”

As Martine turned to look, she caught sight of Geneva sitting on a bench nearby. The older woman glanced toward the river, her expression of weary disinterest giving way to shock and fear as she sprang to her feet. “Ailith!” she screamed.

Martine wheeled around. Ailith stood on one of the boulders at the top of the waterfall, her arms out to the side to balance herself. After a second of stunned disbelief, Martine dropped the chaplet and ran, along with Rainulf and Geneva, toward the river, screaming the child’s name.

“I’m going to jump across like Uncle Edmond did!” Ailith called out. “Watch me, Mama!”

Ignoring the screams of warning, she turned, lifted her ivory kirtle, and leaped.

The boulder at which the child aimed was fairly close, but her short little legs were barely adequate for the job. Her bare feet slid and she landed on her hands and knees.