Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (18 page)

“My lady!” Father Simon exclaimed. “What are you doing? This is outrageous! Someone stop her!”

“Leave her alone,” Thorne commanded, standing between Martine and the horrified priest.

“Nay!” Simon cried, reaching toward Martine. He probably meant to push her away, but before he could, Thorne yanked him abruptly to his feet.

“Get away from here,” he ordered, roughly shoving the priest, who stumbled and fell. Raising her head to take a breath, Martine saw that Peter and Guy had emerged from the crowd, their swords drawn in automatic and unquestioning allegiance to Thorne.

“The child is dead!” Simon exclaimed, gaining his feet. He glanced toward Bernard as if for support, but the other man just looked on passively, smiling his humorless smile. “To attempt to bring her back is unholy. The devil’s work.”

Thorne said, “If the devil is here today, ‘tis you who act as his instrument, not the lady Martine.” His right hand contracted into a fist. “Now, leave.”

Simon’s lip curled. “You wouldn’t strike a man of the cloth.”

From the corner of her eye, as she blew into Ailith’s mouth, Martine saw the Saxon’s big fist whip through the air toward the priest’s astonished face. The punch connected with a dull crack, and suddenly Father Simon lay sprawled on his back, howling and shielding his face with his hands.

“Wrong again,” Thorne said dryly, returning to tower protectively over Martine and Ailith. Bernard and his men laughed uproariously as Father Simon writhed, blood from his nostrils spattering the white tablecloth.

Pausing to take a breath, Martine heard a new sound, a kind of liquid rattling, coming from Ailith. It sounded like a death rattle, which she had heard more than once in Paris. Alarmed, she put an ear to the little chest. The sound came again, and again. It had a strained quality, as if the result of great effort.

Thorne crouched next to her. “What is it?”

“I think she’s trying to breathe,” Martine whispered.

The child’s small body began to twitch convulsively. Vaguely aware of the onlookers’ startled gasps, Martine took hold of Ailith and, with Thorne’s help, turned her onto her side and held her there. Spasms shuddered through Ailith, and water poured from her mouth. Her indrawn breath grated raggedly, and then she coughed with a kind of hoarse croak, spewing water. Again she coughed, and again the water spilled from her mouth.

“Ailith!” Geneva cried. “Ailith! My baby! Ailith!” She strained toward her daughter, but Rainulf, his eyes wide with amazement, held her back. The gasps became a chorus of murmurs and exclamations.

Presently Ailith’s eyelids fluttered open. She blinked, as if the light hurt her eyes, and coughed once more, weakly.

“Thank God,” Rainulf said. He smiled at Martine, and it warmed her heart to see the joy and pride in his eyes. Releasing Geneva, who gathered her daughter in her arms and covered her face with tears and kisses, he executed a solemn sign of the cross.

Many of those watching did the same, but in their eyes Martine saw not joy but bewilderment and even fear. She heard whispered comments about sorcery, but paid them little mind.

Let them wallow in their ignorance
, she thought exhaustedly.
Ailith is alive, and that’s all that matters.

*   *   *

Thorne slammed the hawk house door behind him and stripped quickly, peeling off his sodden chausses and shirt and pulling on a pair of dark linen braies. The long trousers were threadbare, but they were loose and comfortable and, best of all, dry.

Shuttering the windows against the rain, he thought how late it seemed, although the sun had yet to set and supper was only now being served in the great hall—a supper that he had no appetite for. The rain clouds blocked the late afternoon sunlight, giving the illusion of a night sky. His overwhelming fatigue only fueled that sense of lateness. It had been an arduous day.

First, the betrothal ceremony. He recalled how his heart had twisted in his chest as he watched the lady Martine coolly accept the white glove from young Edmond, take his hand in hers, and speak the words that sealed their betrothal. He should have felt relief at being one step closer to earning his manor. Instead he felt only profound regret.

How, in the space of two days, had this woman so thoroughly stolen into his every waking thought? It was a bewildering dilemma, and a troubling one, not only because his ambitions depended on her marriage to Edmond, but because it would be foolish indeed to allow himself to start caring so much for anyone. Caring made one vulnerable. He had cared for little Louise, cared deeply, and it had all but stripped him of his sanity when she left the world. Her death taught him a painful but valuable lesson: Love had a price. If one did not want to pay it, it was best to school one’s emotions, to keep strong feelings in check.

Yet he craved Martine, craved her as he had never craved another woman. There was, of course, no question of his ever having her, even once. All he could do was pray, with all his heart, that his desire for her would diminish over time. Perhaps when Lord Godfrey deeded him his land and he reaped the benefits of her union with Edmond, he would be able to rein in his unruly feelings.

First the betrothal ceremony and then the sobering news from Olivier’s messenger that Anseau and Aiglentine’s killers had implicated Lord Neville in their crime. Upon their return to the castle that afternoon, the earl and his barons conferred and decided to allow the murderous Neville his freedom for the time being, deeming it unseemly to incarcerate one of noble blood without proof of guilt. Neville would have to be summoned to King Henry’s royal council, and if his peers found him guilty, he would then be punished.

The best he could hope for would be a pilgrimage of penance to Jerusalem. His head would be shaved and he would be fitted with neck and wrist chains forged from his own armor, then forced to walk barefoot, alone, from one shrine to the next for years, possibly decades. The worst–if Henry felt not particularly disposed toward mercy—would be the same treatment accorded the bandits who had done his bidding: preparatory torture followed by a public hanging, a great disgrace both to himself and his family. The most likely sentence would be a swift beheading with an ax, a more humane and respectable form of execution than the noose.

Would Neville come willingly to Henry’s tribunal? Knowing him as he did, Thorne thought it unlikely. Had it been up to him, he would have organized a party that very afternoon to seek out the cur and arrest him. Unfortunately, the decision had not been his, although the consequences might; as Godfrey’s soldier, Thorne must needs also fight for his overlord, Olivier, and his king, Henry. Should Neville find some way to resist justice, Thorne would be among those called to enforce it, a prospect he did not fear, but also did not relish.

After tending to the needs of his falcons, he lay facedown on his narrow bed and closed his eyes.

Martine’s face floated before him, pale and terrified in the dark waters. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and studied the thatched ceiling of his little hut, chilled by how close she had come to death. Her death would have meant Ailith’s death as well, for only she had detected the flickering spark of life in the little body. Everyone else, Thorne included, had assumed the child was already gone.

Someone began knocking at the door. Let them knock. He needn’t answer. He had no need of company and much need of sleep.

He covered his face with his hands. Could he have borne Ailith’s death? Losing her would have been like losing his sister all over again. In a way, Louise lived for him through Ailith, softening the hurt that lingered in his heart, the hurt that would never leave, but could at least be made bearable. Ailith had done that for him.

The knocking ceased. Rising, Thorne dipped a rag in the washbowl and bathed his face, arms, and chest. Exhaustion had overcome him, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into a dreamless sleep.

Rain pattered softly on the thatch and rattled the window shutters. A gust of wind blew one open and he went to close it, noticing as he did the dark form walking away from the hawk house toward the keep—his unwelcome caller. He wore a long, hooded mantle and walked with his head down against the wind and rain. Who would have crossed the bailey in this weather to see him? Perhaps it had been important business. Feeling a small tug of remorse, he squinted into the rain. Was it Rainulf? No, he wasn’t quite tall enough.

Another gust whipped the caller’s hood back off his head—
her
head, Thorne now realized, in the brief moment before she replaced the hood. A very brief moment indeed, but he had seen the pale blond hair—that extraordinary hair.

He was out the door before he knew it, sprinting, half clothed, in the rain toward Martine.

Thorne grabbed Martine’s shoulder and she turned, startled, her hood flying off again. He pulled it back into place for her and, with a hand on her arm, guided her quickly back to the hawk house and through the door, shutting it firmly behind them.

For a moment they stared at each other in the dim room. The hesitance in her eyes surprised him; she had always seemed so sure of herself. Whatever the reason for her coming to him like this, she clearly found it difficult. Her smooth face, drained of color, looked eerily like the whalebone chess piece carved in her image. In the little sculpture, however, her hair was bound beneath a nunlike headdress. The Martine who stood before him wore hers loose, falling halfway to the floor in unkempt flaxen tendrils. She was beautiful, achingly beautiful. How could he ever have thought her plain?

Finally she spoke. “I had decided you weren’t here.”

“I was sleeping.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to—”

“No, no, that’s all right.” Her mantle was soaked through; taking a step toward her, he reached for the gold brooch to unfasten it. She stiffened, and he drew back. “I just—I only meant—your mantle is wet, and I thought—” He stammered like some weak-minded boy. What must she think of him?

“Oh. Of course.” She tried to undo the brooch herself, but her hands, heavily wound in strips of bleached linen, were unequal to the task.

“Allow me,” he said, and with chivalrous reserve, waited for her nod before unpinning the mantle and hanging it on a hook. She had replaced her ruined betrothal costume with loose, dark garments.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at his bare torso and then look away, two bright spots of pink staining her pale cheeks. Thorne smiled inwardly. He had grown quite fond of her blushes, the only hint he ever had of her true feelings. Nevertheless, he took a shirt off its hook and pulled it over his head, then lit two candles.

She shivered. He motioned for her to sit in his large chair, then poured a stiff brandy and offered it to her. Holding the cup gingerly with both bandaged hands, she took a sip.

“I can fetch some coals for the brazier,” he offered.

She shook her head. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.”

Indicating her hands with a nod of his head, he said, “Do they hurt much?”

“A bit.”

“Then you must finish that brandy quickly. ‘Twill dull the pain.”

She looked into the cup as if weighing a decision, then tilted it to her lips and swallowed its contents quickly. He took it from her and reached for the jug again.

“Nay,” she said. “I’ll fall asleep if I have more.”

He conjured up an image of her asleep in bed, then remembered what Ailith had said about her sleeping in the nude, and cleared his throat. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he asked, “How was Ailith when you left her?”

Martine allowed herself a tired smile. “Still asleep in her mother’s arms.”

Thorne nodded slowly. “She’d be dead now if it weren’t for you, my lady. I’ve rarely seen such courage as you displayed today. She means a great deal to me. I wanted to tell you... I wanted to thank you.”

She nodded, meeting his eye. “I want to say something. I know what you think of me. I know you think I’m... spoiled and... and willful and—”

“Nay, my lady.”

“Please don’t deny it. It’s what everyone thinks, and I know you’re no different.” She looked into her lap, where her white-sheathed hands rested atop the dark wool of her tunic. “Perhaps I am that way. I know that some things are hard for me, hard to say. Especially to...” She glanced uncomfortably at Thorne, then looked back at her hands.

Especially to me?
wondered Thorne.
Especially to men?
But she never completed the thought.

Martine shook her head somberly. “I haven’t been fair to you. In truth, I... I didn’t like you or trust you. But now... now I feel differently. I hope very much that you can forgive my past rudeness and that we can be friends.”

Thorne took a deep breath to ensure that his voice would be steady. “I’d like that very much.”

She met his eyes and held them, her expression grave. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

He thought sadly that perhaps she would prepare to leave now, but she didn’t. For a moment it seemed she might speak, but then she paused, biting her lip. He reflected on her hesitation, wondering what else she wanted to tell him, and why it should be difficult for her.