Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (53 page)

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it
, she repeated over and over to herself. Perhaps Thorne
would
save her, unlikely though that seemed. And if he couldn’t, he had promised to end her life with a merciful arrow before she could feel the flames. She had to believe he would. It was the only way she could maintain her composure.

On the outskirts of the city, near the surrounding marshlands, the ground rose slightly. At the highest point, the stake had been driven and the pyre built. A large audience had gathered, but they were, like those who had watched her pass through the city, completely silent. The cart pulled up in back of the crowd, and Martine scanned the faces of those who turned to look up at her. With a sinking heart she noted that Thorne’s was not among them.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it
. But if he didn’t come in time, if they tied her to the stake and lit the pyre...
Don’t think about it!

The guards lifted her down from the cart and led her through the throng, who parted for her, crossing themselves and murmuring blessings. Felda was there, sobbing. She reached toward her mistress, but a guard pushed her roughly back. Brother Matthew emerged from the crowd. When the guards went for him, he held up a little wooden crucifix, which stilled them. They even had the grace to back off for a moment while the prior tucked the crucifix into one of Martine’s bound hands and kissed her on the cheek, whispering, “God is with you.”

The sheriff stood before the pyre and read a document prepared by the bishop, which stated that the Church had condemned her to death for the crime of heresy and had given her into the hands of the secular authorities for execution. He glanced briefly at Martine, and she thought he looked sad, even remorseful. Nevertheless, he nodded to the burly hangman, who took her by the arms and led her to the place of execution, her hands still tied behind her. A barrel stood in the midst of the pile of green branches surrounding the stake, and this he lifted her onto. She smelled tar. Looking down, she saw it oozing from a crack in the barrel. To the side were two bushels of coal and several loads of peat. Clearly they expected to be feeding the slow-burning fire for a long time.

It could take all morning for you to die
... Bernard had said.

Chills coursed through her. A surge of nausea gripped her stomach, and she sucked in great lungfuls of air to dampen it.
Don’t think about it, for God’s sake!

Someone threw the hangman a coil of rope. Reaching up, he looped it around Martine’s neck and lashed it firmly to the stake. The pressure drew her head back; the rope tightened around her throat. Tremors seized her instantly. It hadn’t occurred to her that they would tie her by her neck, and for some reason she found it inexpressibly terrifying. She couldn’t move. She could barely swallow the sour bile in her mouth.

“N-not my neck. Please,” she said hoarsely.

“I’m sorry, milady,” the hangman whispered. “Truly I am. But I’ve no choice in the matter. These were Father Simon’s instructions.”

Her heart slammed painfully in her chest. Where was Thorne? Her eyes darted among the onlookers.
Thorne! Where are you? Please, Thorne, don’t let them do this to me!

Passing the rope around her chest and hips and legs, the hangman secured her entire body to the stake. Her breath raced and a whimper rose in her throat as she watched Father Simon approach with a torch in his hand, flanked by Bernard and Gyrth. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but then she opened them and again searched for Thorne.
God, please! Send Thorne to me!

The hangman tried to take the torch from Simon, but the priest held it aside, saying, “‘Tis the judgment of Bishop Lambert that the honor of lighting the pyre should go to the victim of this heretic’s evil sorcery.” He handed the torch to Gyrth.

The hangman looked to the sheriff, who said, “‘Tis
my
judgment that the Church would do well not to meddle so in secular affairs, Father. Lady Falconer is not the bishop’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine, and she’ll be executed by the public hangman same as anyone else.”

Father Simon glared at him. “The bishop’s responsibility encompasses everyone’s affairs. Most notably in the matter of excommunication—a punishment he rarely hesitates to pronounce when he is displeased.”

The sheriff looked disgusted. Martine could tell he wanted to resist this seizure of his authority, but hesitated to risk the pain of excommunication. The hangman made it easy for him: “If I may, my lord sheriff, lighting this pyre is a task I’m not much looking forward to. Let the bastards do the job themselves, if that’s what they want.” He punctuated his words by spitting on the ground.

The sheriff sighed heavily, then stepped aside.

Bernard spoke: “‘Twould seem the time has come.” He looked up and smiled maliciously toward Martine, then nodded to Gyrth. “Go ahead.”

The big man shambled up to the pyre, holding the torch in his outstretched hand. Martine felt its heat as it neared, and flinched, imagining that heat consuming her, charring her flesh. Her gaze passed over the upturned faces one last time, searching wildly. A movement from behind the crowd caught her eye—someone leaped up onto the cart.

Thorne!
He held a shortbow, and had a quiver of arrows slung on his back. Martine met his eyes and silently mouthed the word
Please
. He reached behind for an arrow and swiftly drew it, determination in his gaze. As he aimed, she closed her eyes.
‘Twill be quick
, she thought.
Thanks to Thorne, ‘twill be quick.

The heat came closer. She heard the muffled
pfft
of the arrow as it flew, and braced herself.

Startled gasps erupted from the onlookers. It took her a moment to comprehend that she hadn’t been shot, and then despair washed over her. He had missed! How could he have missed? At the sound of cheers, she opened her eyes. Gyrth, his hands empty, stared openmouthed at something behind the pyre, toward which Bernard stalked angrily. When he came back into view, he held the still-flaming torch, impaled with Thorne’s arrow.

“Gyrth!” yelled Thorne from the cart. “I demand that you speak!”

“This is absurd!” exclaimed Father Simon. “He can’t speak. He’s mute.”

Thorne shook his head. “No, he’s not. Speak, damn you!”

Gyrth raised his chin defiantly.

Thorne gestured to two men on the ground, who climbed up into the cart. It was the two sailors who had testified at the trial. “These are your men, are they not?”

“The trial is over!” said Father Simon. “Sentence has been pronounced. Sheriff, I command you to arrest Lord Falconer and those two—”

“I’m not yours to command, priest,” the sheriff retorted, then turned to Gyrth. “Answer him. Are those your men?”

Gyrth nodded.

Thorne said, “These two tell me that you didn’t stop speaking until right before you were called upon to testify. Did it take ten months for my wife’s spell to take effect, or is it possible there was no spell to begin with?
Answer
me!”

Gyrth merely shook his head.

“What do you suppose the penalty is for false testimony in an ecclesiastical court?” Thorne challenged. “If I can prove you lied—and believe me, I can—what do you think they’ll do to you? Cut your tongue out? Excommunicate you? Perhaps
you’ll
be lashed to a stake and burned. There would be a certain amount of justice to that, I think.”

Still Gyrth maintained his silence. It amazed Martine that he would continue so stubbornly to deny the truth, even when threatened with such cruel punishments. It occurred to her that, regardless of whatever other motive he had for lying about the spell, he must despise her intensely.

Steadying her voice, she said, “I—I want to say something, before you...” She glanced at the torch, and then met Gyrth’s gaze. “I know—I
think
I know—why you hate me so much. In part I suppose it’s simply because I’m a Norman. My—my husband is a Saxon, and he’s told me things. He’s told me what my people have done to yours, and I think I understand a little better why your people hate mine.”

She glanced at Thorne, who nodded in encouragement. “But I also know that there’s more to it than that. During the crossing, I was... arrogant and thoughtless. The things I said, the way I treated you... I ridiculed you in front of your men. ‘Twas inexcusable. I thought your beliefs were ignorant, primitive. But my husband has taught me much about the ways of his people, and now I know that I was the ignorant one. That’s all I wanted to say, just that I’m sorry, and that I understand... why you’re doing this. I forgive you. But I beg you, with all my heart, to forgive me as well.”

No one spoke. Gyrth stood with his head bowed, his meaty hands fisted. When he looked back up at her, there were tears in his eyes. “God forgive me for what I was about to do,” he said. The onlookers murmured excitedly. Gyrth shook his head. “‘Twas... ‘twas wrong, very wrong.” He pulled something out of his pocket, some silver coins. To Bernard he said, “I’m giving you back your six shillings. I don’t want your money.”

“He paid for your false testimony?” asked Thorne.

“Aye, milord.” He shook his head and walked away, mumbling, “God forgive me.”

The sheriff said, “Bernard of Harford, I arrest you—”

“Not quite yet,” Bernard growled, yanking the arrow from the torch. “I came here for entertainment, and I will
not
be disappointed.”

He turned to Martine, holding the torch not toward the pyre, but toward the skirt of her linen kirtle. It would ignite instantly, she knew. She would be mortally burned before they could find a way to put out the fire. Chuckling, he called to Thorne, “That was a pretty trick, woodsman, shooting a torch out of someone’s hand. Think you can pull it off twice?”

Thorne whipped an arrow from his quiver, aimed, and shot, all in the time it took Martine to draw a breath. The crowd roared before she even realized what had happened... before she looked down and saw Bernard sprawled faceup on the ground, twitching, the Saxon’s arrow protruding from his chest.

“Probably not,” said Thorne.

Bernard looked up, directly into Martine’s eyes, his expression of surprise giving way to fury. But presently his spasms ceased, his eyelids closed halfway, and his lungs emptied in a final ragged sigh.

Martine felt a rush of cold as the blood drained from her head. The noise of the crowd blurred into a muffled din, and then everything went gray and she felt nothing...

Sensation returned in the form of a whisper. “Drink this. Come, now, love...”

She took a long swallow from the wineskin held to her mouth.

“That’s right.”

The wine was sweet. But the feel of Thorne’s arms around her, the warmth of his chest against her back, his shoulder beneath her head, was infinitely sweeter. He held her curled in his embrace as he sat leaning against a tree. His touch was so warm, so comforting, so perfect... She never wanted it to end.

She saw the pyre off in the distance. People still gathered about it, swarming busily, but she couldn’t hear them. She could barely see them, although the sun had risen.

It’s in the past
, she thought dreamily, settling against her husband and breathing in his comforting scent. She pressed her ear to his chest, the better to hear his heartbeat. With every steady thump, the fear and pain that had long darkened her soul receded further and further into the past. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt the whisper-soft tugs of an unseen ribbon as it twined lazily around them both, binding them together, always and forever.

Thorne kissed her hair, her temple, her cheek. He nuzzled her ear and murmured, “Do you think you can walk?”

Martine flexed her toes and grinned. “Probably not.”

He scooped her up in his arms and rose gracefully to his feet. “I’ll carry you all the way back to Blackburn if I have to. I can’t wait any longer. We’re going home.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes, eyes as perfectly blue as the brightening morning sky overhead. “Home. Yes, I’d like that. Take me home.”

###

Read on for more about the author and her books, plus an EXCERPT from Rainulf’s story, HEAVEN’S FIRE...

Other Electronic Books by Patricia Ryan

Medieval Romances:

Heaven’s Fire
(the companion book to
Falcon’s Fire)

Secret Thunder

Wild Wind

Silken Threads

The Sun and the Moon)

Nell Sweeney Historical Mysteries by P.B. Ryan:

Still Life with Murder

Murder in a Mill Town

Death on Beacon Hill

Murder on Black Friday

Murder in the North End

A Bucket of Ashes

Thank you for sharing the excitement of
Falcon’s Fire
with me! From the moment Martine of Rouen and Thorne Falconer first made themselves known to me, whispering their tale of forbidden love into my ear, I’ve been completely caught up in their world.