Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (45 page)

When dessert was served, Eleanor dismissed the entertainers and nodded to Olivier, who rose and made a fulsome speech extolling Thorne’s skill and bravery during the siege of Blackburn. Then the queen herself stood and led a toast in the Saxon’s honor. She praised not only his character and military talents, but his reputation as a falconer and scholar. “Birds of prey and learning are both particular interests of the king’s,” she said. “Many times he has told me that the rest of a born nobleman is whether he can train his own mind as well as he can train that of his hawk.”

Thinking on it later, Martine came to realize that the queen’s purpose in repeating this statement of her husband’s was not merely to compliment Thorne. In setting him up as the king’s ideal of the true nobleman, she would forestall any objections, based on his humble origins, to the stunning announcement that followed.

Indicating for the Saxon to rise, she said, “I had another purpose in bringing you here than simply to honor you with this supper. I daresay you deserve more reward than a bit of food and song for having single-handedly recovered Blackburn. Your courage saved countless lives, and for that King Henry and Lord Olivier are eternally grateful. Blackburn is an immensely valuable barony, but it is a barony without an heir. Its disposition being a matter of great concern to the realm, Lord Olivier wisely sought the counsel of the king, who in turn put the matter into my hands. Having given it the gravest of consideration, it is my pleasure to award this fief, along with the title of baron, to the man who liberated Blackburn Castle... Thorne Falconer.”

A deafening roar filled the hall. Thorne looked toward Martine, who could merely gaze back in dumbfounded amazement. When the cheers died down, he simply said, “I’m most grateful, my liege.”

She said, “My clerks have already drawn up the deed of conveyance. If you will return here on the morrow at midday” —she nodded toward Martine— “with my dear cousin, your lady wife, we will attend to the necessary ceremonial matters, and perhaps indulge in a celebratory feast.”

Thorne bowed his head briefly. “Of course. Thank you, my lady.” Meeting Martine’s eyes, he smiled. She returned the smile, wondering at the strange and mysterious workings of fate.

*   *   *

“Lord, I become your man,” Thorne said, kneeling in the tree-shaded courtyard of Blackburn Castle with his clasped hands between those of the earl. “I will be faithful to you and will maintain toward you my homage entirely against every man, saving the faith of my lord Henry, King of England, and his heirs.”

The Saxon rose and, delivering the kiss of homage to Olivier, was transformed from Sir Thorne, a knight of the realm, to Lord Falconer, Baron of Blackburn.

Queen Eleanor and her entourage vacated Blackburn Castle a week later, closely followed by Olivier and his men. When, on the morning after Easter, Martine and Thorne arrived to claim their new home, they found a dozen house servants lined up in the courtyard to greet them. They were male and female, young and old. The only thing they all had in common, Martine thought, was that they seemed nervous, though none of them could have been more nervous than she. Here she was, an eighteen-year-old girl with very little experience of castle life, suddenly the mistress of one of the greatest baronies in England. She felt like a little girl all dressed up in her mother’s kirtle, playing princess.

One of the servants, a rather dignified-looking man of advanced years, stepped forward. “My lord, my lady,” he said in English-accented French, “welcome to Castle Blackburn. My name is John Burgess. I was my lord Anseau’s steward. If it please your lordship, I will be yours.”

Thorne nodded, and responded to the steward in English. Martine saw a flicker of wonder in the old man’s eyes, and most of the others exchanged looks. Surely someone had told them their new master was a Saxon, yet his use of their native tongue seemed to shock them. Doubtless they’d never thought to hear a man of his rank speak it.

The amiable exchange between the two men seemed to relax the others. When Thorne smiled and clapped Burgess on the back, they all broke into relieved grins and beckoned for their lord and lady to follow them into the keep and up the wide staircase in the forebuilding. Thorne took Martine’s arm in his and, apparently sensing her tension, patted it comfortingly.

He’d been increasingly affectionate of late, not in any overt way—he hadn’t tried to make love to her—but in small, almost tender ways, and only when they were alone. In truth, she craved these little gestures, savored them, even while it shamed her that he still had the power to disarm her this way.

She couldn’t help but wonder why, after his initial disinterest following their wedding, he seemed so intent on renewing their intimacy, albeit gradually. Perhaps it was merely that he was a man, with a man’s appetites. Sometimes, late at night, as she lay in bed next to him, she sensed him watching her, felt his breath on her, felt his heat, his simmering need. Soon, she knew, he would tire of waiting. One of these nights, he would reach for her. By law, she couldn’t refuse him her body. She had to acquiesce, but she didn’t have to enjoy it. He liked to make her lose control, and three times he had succeeded. The memory of how she had writhed in his arms, had moaned and clutched at him in animal hunger, flooded her with shame. It would never happen again. Never. She would open her legs for him when he finally insisted, but she would feel no passion—nor would she feign it. He would know that she received him not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice.

Or perhaps his gentle affections promoted some hidden scheme that she had yet to fathom. Whatever cause they served, she would do well to remember that they didn’t serve hers. She must close her heart to him. She must live for Martine, and only Martine.

When they entered the great hall, she felt like a mouse in a cathedral. Devoid of the people and furnishings that had filled it during Eleanor’s stay, it seemed immense and hollow. Sunlight flooded the hall through the many large, arched windows, casting patches of gold onto the ornate Saracen carpets that still bedecked the walls.

“I thought those were the queen’s carpets,” said Martine as she released Loki. “Why are they still here?” In French Burgess said, “Queen Eleanor left them here as a gift for the new Baron and Baroness of Blackburn, with her best wishes. Shall I leave them where they’re hung, or would you like them moved?”

“Sweep the rushes up,” said Thorne, “and lay the carpets on the floor.”

Martine turned to him, openmouthed. “On the
floor?
Are you mad?”

Thorne smiled mischievously. “I’ve told you before—if I’m mad, so be it.”

Her face grew warm at the memory of the two of them locked together on the mossy bank of River Blackburn. With a glance at Burgess, she said, “Really, Sir Th—”

“It’s not ‘Sir Thorne’ anymore,” he corrected. “So just call me Th—”

“‘My lord husband’ is correct, is it not?”

He grimaced. “The carpets,
my lady wife,
will go on the floor. I grew quite fond of carpeted floors when I was in Spain and Portugal on my way to the Holy Land. We can get other hangings for the walls, if you’re concerned about drafts.”

Frowning, Burgess said, “Do the rushes go on top of the carpets?”

“There will be no rushes,” said Thorne patiently. “Just the carpets.”

The older man hesitated, as if weighing his new master’s sanity, and then half bowed. “As you wish, my lord baron.” He withdrew a sheaf of parchment. “I keep the barony accounts from Michaelmas to Michaelmas. I am prepared to review them with you at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Burgess, but for now I believe we’d prefer a tour of our new home.”

“Of course, my lord. If you’ll but follow me...”

Blackburn Castle, Martine soon discovered, was much larger and more complex than Harford, representing the latest in castle engineering. Running water was available on each level through a system of pipes that led from a cistern on the roof, and the architecture was wonderfully complex. Besides the great hall, the keep contained a dizzying network of large chambers connected by passages and stairwells. There was a two-story chapel in the forebuilding, with entrances both from the great hall and the huge master bedchamber off the balcony. It was actually more of a suite than a bedchamber, with three anterooms, one of which was tiled and contained a privy, a shallow trough with brass spigots and a drain, and a permanently affixed bathtub! Like almost every other chamber in the castle, it boasted its own fireplace and a heavy wooden door. There were many other bedchambers and storerooms, a lesser hall below the great hall, a guardroom, and various chambers for the servants’ use. Martine was in awe of it all. The fact that she could actually get lost in a castle of which she was mistress both thrilled and unnerved her.

From the keep, Burgess led them on a survey of the grounds. The inner bailey had been walled off for gardens, which had never been planted. In the center of the outer bailey, surrounded by a cookhouse, granary, stable, kennels, and barracks, was a large and well-stocked fish pond. Crossing the outer drawbridge, Burgess pointed out St. Dunstan’s, nestled in the valley below, as well as the vineyards, orchards, and grazing pastures that immediately surrounded the castle.

The manors and villages that comprised Lord Falconer’s fief were numerous and vast, he explained, and yielded massive revenues. Since Lord Anseau’s passing, he had continued without interruption to collect the taxes, fees, rents, and tolls that provided his lordship’s baronial income, an income that normally amounted to thousands of pounds annually.

“Thousands?” Thorne asked.

Burgess withdrew a sheet of parchment, held it toward the young baron, and pointed. “This is the sum I’ve amassed since Lord Anseau’s death, which I am prepared to turn over to you immediately. And this is the sum I expect the barony to have earned by the end of September.”

Martine watched as Thorne calmly inspected the numbers. “This money will come in handy. There’s much work to be done on the castle and grounds.” He handed the parchment back to his steward. “That’s all for now, Burgess. Thank you.”

Burgess recrossed the drawbridge, but when Martine made as if to follow, Thorne held her back. “Walk with me.”

He took her hand and led her away from the castle and across a rolling pasture to a pear orchard planted in tidy rows. The orchard, like everything else at Blackburn, appeared to have been well tended despite the barony’s recent upheaval.

“Are you very rich, then?” she asked as he guided her into the cool, green corridor between two rows of trees.

“Nay.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “
We’re
very rich.”

She couldn’t help but return the smile. They strolled in silence down the shadowy lane, hand in hand, listening to the birds chatter in the trees, savoring the breeze that rattled the new spring leaves.

Gradually Martine began to relax, to actually feel comfortable walking with him like this.
‘Tis as if we’re lovers
, she thought.
Or truly man and wife, not two people bound in a travesty of a marriage.

He was clever, she realized, to have maneuvered her into this situation—alone with him in a dark and private place, her hand in his. Their companionable silence began to strike her as insidious. Wanting to end it, she said, “Must you speak English to the servants? I can’t understand a word of it.”

He chuckled. “I can see I’m going to have to teach you the language of my fathers.”

“Can’t you just speak French instead? It’s what everyone else speaks.”

His features clouded momentarily. “It’s what the nobility speaks. For now.”

“For now?”

“The Normans persist in speaking it, but the people refuse to accept it. They’re poor, they’re landless, they’re downtrodden, but they’re wonderfully stubborn when it comes to their language. I think there’s every possibility that the ruling class of England will one day have to give in and start speaking English.”

Martine laughed. “You’re m—” She bit off the rest, but it was too late.

Grinning, he seized her by the shoulders and backed her against a tree trunk, wagging a finger at her in mock reprimand. “You’ll have to stop saying that—unless you want me to do this.” He cupped her face, tilting her head back.

“Thorne—”

Her objections were abruptly silenced when he closed his mouth over hers. She stood stiff and unresponsive, her hands at her sides, as his lips shaped their warmth and softness to her own. It was the first she’d felt his mouth on hers since the kiss of peace during the marriage sacraments. He kissed her with a firm but gentle pressure, as if he knew she was determined to resist him but had no choice in the matter. His tongue lightly traced the shape of her lips, which she kept pressed together.

He drew back fractionally. “Give in to it, Martine,” he breathed unsteadily, his lips grazing hers. “Please—I need this. Just this. I’ll do nothing more.” He implored her with his translucent eyes as he moved his thumb to the edge of her mouth and forced its roughened tip between her lips.

She gasped as her mouth parted, admitting a more impassioned assault. Thorne intensified the kiss, his hands wrapping around the back of her head to hold her still, his lips and tongue caressing hers with a kind of relentless ardor. Behind her she felt the hard, smooth wood of the tree trunk. In front, pressing her into that trunk, was the equally solid and unyielding form of her husband.