Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (41 page)

“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. Right 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.”

Struggling to control her voice, Martine said, “Sir Thorne has never had any trouble discerning where his interests lie. Have you, Thorne?”

“Not generally, my lady.” He took her arm, but she pulled away as he tried to lead her toward the stairwell, accompanied by Boyce. Quietly but firmly he said, “Don’t make me hold a sword to you. I will if I have to.” He closed a hand—the hand of his bad arm—around her wrist, but she punched it with her free hand. Wincing, he released her with a raw oath. He moved behind her and she heard his sword being withdrawn, then felt the pressure of its sharp tip through the back of her tunic. Urged forward by that pressure, she headed for the stairwell.

For the first hour of her imprisonment, Martine stood in the middle of the tiny, fetid cell with her eyes closed, holding her skirts off the floor lest the vermin beneath the rotted straw crawl up them. At first she tried to pray, but she’d never been much good at that, and soon gave it up in favor of envisioning her imaginary herb garden, the one she’d planned in her head on her wedding day, and on parchment during her long winter’s exile at St. Dunstan’s.

Thinking of the herb garden calmed her, and presently she turned her mind toward her predicament. Once she thought about it, she realized that Thorne’s cooperation with Bernard had been a foregone conclusion. He’d had but two choices: death if he defended her, or a valuable holding if he gave her up. What would Martine have done in his place? No, she mustn’t make excuses for him. He’d sworn an oath to keep her from harm. He was supposed to be so resourceful, so brave. He might have thought of
something
. As it was, his betrayal was overwhelmingly painful, and coldly sobering. She was on her own now. If she was to be saved, she would have to save herself.

Outside, Boyce sat on a stool against the cellar wall, humming drinking songs. He was an odd sort, a fellow who, under different circumstances, she might almost have liked. She heard a creaking, accompanied by a kind of musical jangle, and knew the big man was shifting his weight on the stool, jarring the ring of keys on his belt—one of which would fit the lock on the cell’s iron door.

After a few moments’ thought, she approached the door and looked out through the peephole. “Sir Boyce?”

He stood, and suddenly his big face filled the little square opening. “It’s just Boyce, my lady. I’m not a knight, just a huntsman. But I must say it’s rather nice to be called ‘Sir.’ I’m flattered.”

As she’d thought he would be. “I’m terribly thirsty, Boyce. Do you suppose you could fetch me some wine?”

He frowned. “Nay, my lady, I can’t leave my post.”

She licked her lips and touched a hand to her throat, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.

He pulled at his beard. “But I could call for it to be sent down.”

“Would you?”

“Aye, I’m a bit thirsty myself, if the truth be told.”

She had, of course, counted on that, never having seen him without a cup in his hand. “I brought back a lovely claret from St. Dunstan’s. Felda knows where it is.”

And so the red-haired giant lumbered to the stairwell and called up for Felda to fetch down some of Lady Martine’s claret.

“And two goblets,” she prompted.

“
And two goblets!
” he roared.

Felda appeared with the claret, fussed and clucked over her mistress’s captivity, exchanged a knowing look with her, then poured a small goblet for her and a rather larger one for her guard. Boyce drank his down quickly while Martine pretended to sip hers.

“Isn’t that good?” Martine asked.

He looked a bit baffled. “It’s... different.”

“That would be the spices,” she quickly offered. “It’s spiced claret, didn’t I mention that?”

“Oh. Perhaps you did. But what kind of spices would make it taste so—”

“Take a guess,” she said, indicating that Felda should give him a refill. “You tell me what you think they are.”

Again he drained the goblet quickly. “Ain’t cinnamon,” he said, yawning. He took his seat on the stool again. “Ain’t cloves.” He inspected the empty vessel in his hand as he nodded sleepily, his expression of dazed puzzlement giving way to one of sudden illumination. He tired to focus on Martine’s face through the peephole. “Wait a minute.”

He stood, pawing at the wall for support, the goblet slipping from his fingers and rolling on the floor. “You’re a crafty wench,” he slurred, then lurched toward the door, shoving his face in the peephole; Martine jumped back. Presently he grinned, and then a deep, rumbly chuckle rose from him. “
Damn
crafty!” He laughed uproariously, his eyes watering. “That’s a good joke on me,” he choked out, pushing himself away from the door and stumbling toward Felda, who backed up swiftly. His roared with laughter. Tears streamed from his reddened face.

Suddenly he quieted, his eyes rolled up, and he toppled over like a felled tree, landing facedown with a
whump
.

The two women looked at each other in wonderment. Felda glanced toward the stairwell, then nudged the unconscious man with the toe of her slipper.

“The keys,” Martine whispered. Her maid slipped the key ring off Boyce’s belt. The third one she tried unlocked the door. Martine darted from the little cell and embraced her. “Oh, thank you, Felda. I knew I could count on you.”

“What now, milady?”

“Ailith once told me there’s a secret passageway down here.”

Felda rolled her eyes, and Martine’s heart sank. “It’s hardly a secret, milady. Everyone knows about it—all the household staff, anyways.”

Oh, thank God
. “Where is it?”

It took longer than Martine would have liked to move aside the pyramid of barrels that concealed a small wooden door in the stone wall. “‘Tis a tunnel leading to the church,” Felda explained, pulling open the door. “For use in the event of a siege. Lots of castles have them.” She plucked a torch from its bracket on the wall, lifted her skirts, and ducked. “Follow me.”

It was but a narrow passage burrowed into the earth and shored up with wooden posts. They had to hunch over as they made their way through it, and after a while Martine began to wonder if the church was, indeed, this far away. But presently the tunnel sloped upward, ending in a series of rough-hewn stones that served as a kind of stairway. Above the stairs, in a ceiling of oak planks, was a wooden panel. Felda forced open the panel’s rusted latch and the two women pushed upward on it until it swung aside.

They found themselves behind the altar of the barony church. Once outside, Felda extinguished the torch in the snow. “‘Tis a good thing we’re having a long, cold winter,” she said. “With all this snow, and that full moon, ‘tis as bright as day.”

It was true, Martine realized as she looked toward Harford Castle looming above the little village, its windows dark. She could see it as clearly as if it were late afternoon, and not the dead of night. It was so cold, though. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. “I won’t get far without a horse,” she said. “And I could use a mantle.”

Felda nodded. “Fitch Ironmonger’s got a horse. And I’ll wager his wife’s got a mantle she could spare.”

“His wife! Does she know about you?”

“Of course not,” said Felda, leading the way. “And if Fitch don’t want her finding out, he’ll hand over the horse and the mantle.”

Martine stood in the shadows while Felda hissed “Fitch!” through the back window of a little cottage. The ironmonger emerged, groggy with sleep, and they engaged in a brief and animated conversation, all in whispered English. Fitch growled and shook his head. He repeatedly called Felda a name that Martine knew meant a female dog. But finally, when Felda shrugged and made as if she were going to enter the cottage—undoubtedly to wake up the wife—he grudgingly saddled up his fat old palfrey and produced a threadbare woolen mantle lined with squirrel.

“Where will you go?” Felda asked as Martine mounted up. “The first place they’ll look for you is St. Dunstan’s.”

“I know. I need to find someplace I can stay for a day or two, while I consider my options. There’s an abandoned cottage I know of that’s well hidden. Perhaps I’ll go there.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“You’ve done quite enough. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account. When they question you, say that you brought the claret as Boyce asked, but you didn’t know it was drugged. Say you came back upstairs before he drank it.”

Felda sighed and took Martine’s hand. “Be careful, milady.”

“I will.”

*   *   *

The reflected moonlight made it easy to find the tree growing from the boulder in the middle of the road. Then it was only a matter of following the meandering creek north, and then continuing in that direction when the creek headed east, until Martine at last came to the overgrown clearing and the snow-covered cottage within.

It was well past midnight, and it had been a long and fatiguing day. Martine kicked the pile of straw pallets in the corner, and two mice darted out. She kicked it again, but nothing else emerged. Wolf pelts were heaped on the pallets. She tossed aside the top one, which had been gathering dust for years, then curled up on the rest with her mantle wrapped around her.

Even in her exhaustion, she found it difficult to get to sleep. Thorne’s treachery felt more bitter than the frigid night air, and she found she could ease neither her body nor her mind. When she finally drifted off into a light, restless sleep, it was to a vision of her mother’s apple-green wedding gown frozen in a lake turned to ice.

When she awoke later during the night, she realized that she was not alone. She sensed someone standing over her, felt his hands upon her. With a cry, she lashed out, but when she tried to swing her fists at the dark form above, her efforts were hampered by the mantle in which she was tangled.

“Easy.” She knew that voice. It was Thorne. She relaxed... and then tensed.
Thorne!
He’d found her! She sat up. “I won’t let you take me back.”

He paused in the act of covering her with something lined with fur—his own mantle, for he wore none—and sat on the edge of her makeshift bed. In the silvery light, his eyes looked enormous. “Take you back! My God, you’re serious.”

“You put in with Bernard! You betrayed me!” He reached for her, and she slapped his hand away. “Get away from me.” She tried to rise, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down into the wolf pelts. When she raised her fists to him, he captured one in each hand and pinned them next to her head.