Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (7 page)

He rose and went to the head of the table. “I’m going to help his lordship to bed,” he said, hauling the inebriated baron to his feet and guiding him in the direction of his chamber at the far end of the great hall.

Estrude rose as well. “I’ll go with you.”

He was not in the mood for this. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lady. I’m fully capable of handling—”

“I didn’t mean I’d help you put him to bed. You’ve had enough practice at that, God knows. I only meant I’d light the way.” She lifted a candelabra from the table and came to stand very close to him, out of earshot of the rest of the diners. Gazing up with half-closed eyes, she purred, “I would dearly love to show you the way, Sir Thorne. I wish you’d let me.”

Her face looked unnaturally white in the flickering candlelight, her lips dark as plums. Her large brown eyes, encircled by black powder, glittered seductively. She had applied her paint with a heavier hand than usual this evening—for him?—yet he could still make out, on her left jaw and cheek, the faint shadows of bruises almost healed, testament to her husband’s most recent rage.

Was it to spite Bernard that she had embarked on her recent campaign to seduce him? Thorne knew better than to think she had suddenly taken a fancy to him after all these years of mutual animosity. Nay, she wanted something from him. He didn’t know what, nor did he care to find out. Let her play out her tiresome little intrigue on a more gullible victim.

“If I wanted someone to show me the way,” he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’d use a little Saxon goosegirl or Hastings whore, wouldn’t I?” Now it was her turn to blush, a mottled pink stain creeping up her throat and disappearing beneath her pale face powder.

“As I said,” he added, turning away, “don’t trouble yourself.”

*   *   *

Martine watched the tall Saxon surreptitiously as he emerged from Lord Godfrey’s chamber and strode toward them across the great hall with his graceful, long-legged gait. He wore an unadorned knee-length tunic of a deep, warm red. The longer undertunic was black, like his chausses and shoes. Despite the simplicity of his garments and his humble origins, he was the noblest-looking man Martine had ever seen.

As Thorne took his seat across from her, Rainulf rose, saying, “Excuse me. I want to check on our baggage, and those puppies.”

“Puppies?” said Lady Estrude.

“Aye. One of Lady Martine’s betrothal gifts to Sir Edmond is a litter of fine bloodhound pups.”

Estrude daintily lifted a cheese-filled wafer to her mouth. “More dogs. How thoughtful.” She took a tiny bite and chewed it slowly as she watched Rainulf walk away and then said, “Tell me, Lady Martine, will your family be here for the wedding? I don’t suppose they’d want to make the crossing just for the betrothal ceremony, but surely they’ll want to see you married.”

Martine looked toward the doorway in the corner, but Rainulf was gone. Summoning a casual tone, she replied, “I’m afraid not, my lady.”

“Nay?” Estrude seemed perplexed.

From the corner of her eye, Martine saw Sir Thorne watching her closely as he reached for his tankard.

“I know your father is dead,” Estrude said, “but your mother is still alive, is she not?”

“My—my mother?”

“I understood there was a baroness,” Estrude persisted. “Lord Jourdain’s second wife. Isn’t she your mother?”

Martine looked again toward the corner doorway. When she turned back, she saw the eyes of every person at the table fixed on her, waiting for her answer.

Thorne rose and walked around the table toward her. “My lady,” he said, straddling the bench next to her, in the spot vacated by Rainulf, “I’ve been wondering. Does your cat have a name?” Loki hissed, and Estrude looked as if she wanted to.

“Loki.”

“Loki!” He grinned in delight. “That’s perfect. Loki that trickster, the sly one, the shape-changer.”

“You know the legends of the North?”

“My mother used to tell them to me.” He allowed Loki to sniff the back of his hand. To Martine’s surprise, the cat began licking him.

She said, “My mother did, too.” Thorne seemed to make no effort to keep his distance from her. His left knee pressed her thigh, and when he leaned toward Loki and his arm brushed hers, she flinched at the feel of hard muscle beneath the soft woolen sleeve.

“We’re cousins, then, you and I—both descended from the Northmen. They call me a Saxon, but there are none of pure blood left in England or North France.” His gaze traveled from her eyes to her lips, and then he leaned toward her. Martine gasped, thinking,
My God, he’s going to kiss me!

He paused, his face very close to hers. “What scent is that?”

Martine realized she had stopped breathing. Swallowing hard, she said, “‘Tis a perfume I make from sweet woodruff and oil of lavender.”

“It’s different,” he murmured, backing away slowly. “Lovely.”

“I’m surprised you think so,” Estrude said. “I’ve always found those herbal concoctions a bit too tiresomely subtle. Rose oil is my scent of choice. No other flower is quite so sweet.”

“Nor quite so cloying,” Thorne observed, “especially once it’s a bit past its prime.”

Estrude stiffened, her face a mask of indignation. Thorne merely nodded toward Loki, who was still purposefully licking his fingers. “Is this animal’s tongue supposed to feel this way?”

“‘Tis rather rough, I’ll grant you.”

He grinned. “Lord Olivier could put Loki and some salt water to good use.”

Gradually, so as not to alarm the cat, he moved his hand, trailing his fingers around to the animal’s back. Loki tensed as this stranger began gently stroking him, then settled happily into Martine’s lap, purring and nesting with his paws. Thorne caressed him firmly from head to tail. His purr deepened; his eyes closed. Martine could feel every caress through the cat’s warm, vibrating body. It felt exactly as if Thorne were caressing her.

His hands were large, but well shaped, not the coarse, meaty hands of the villein. He wore a ring on his right hand, a cabochon ruby surrounded on all sides by golden talons that gripped it as a falcon grips its prey.

“‘Tis a handsome ring,” Martine said.

“I’m fond of it. Lord Godfrey gave it to me when he made me his master falconer. ‘Tis the thing I prize most in the world. Or it was until tonight.” He looked at Martin, and his blue eyes took her breath away. “A white gyrfalcon is an extraordinary gift, and a valuable one. Your brother is very good to his friends.”

He held her gaze for a brief, searching moment, and then, almost shyly, looked back down at Loki. “I’ll need a name for my bird. Can you think of any goddess from the North who might like to be a falcon?”

That was easy. “Freya.”

“Of course!” His warm smile relaxed Martine. “Freya!”

“She had that magic falcon skin, remember? So she could fly to the underworld and see the future.”

“That’s right. Loki used to borrow it, in fact.”

“She was the goddess of beauty and love,” Martine said.

“And of death,” said Thorne. “Beauty, love, and death. Quite like a falcon.”

Martine said, “I heard you say you were going to ‘wake’ Freya tonight. What does that mean?”

“‘Tis how you get a new bird used to you. You stay awake with her all night, until she thinks of you as almost a part of her.”

“I’ve never tried to stay awake that long,” Martine said. “Isn’t it difficult?”

Estrude interrupted. “Our Thorne is reputed to be a man of unusual endurance. ‘Tis well known he prides himself on his self-control.” She leveled a peculiar, knowing look at him. “How nice for young Lady Martine to have made a friend so quickly. Edmond will be sure to appreciate your kindness.”

Thorne bit back the urge to answer Estrude’s sly innuendo with some clever barb. ‘Twas best to let the matter lie, for, as usual, she had paired insolence with keen perception. In truth, he did find the lady Martine desirable, although he shouldn’t. She was ill humored and aristocratic, both characteristics he normally abhorred in women. She was also obliged by contract—a contract that Thorne himself had arranged, and upon which his future depended—to marry young Edmond.

Then why was he so drawn to her? Why did he ache to touch her? Why did her scent stir him as it did? The answer, of course, was that it had been weeks since he had shared his bed, and his body craved the touch of a woman, any woman, without regard for good judgment or common sense. Chastity might be all right for men like Rainulf, men of the spirit, but it made him restless; worse, it made him susceptible to the charms of the wrong women.

When Rainulf reentered the hall, Thorne quickly rose and returned his friend’s place to him. The serving girls came back with dessert, and Thorne smiled at the plump redheaded woman in charge. “How goes it, Felda?”

“Same as always, Sir Thorne.” She set before him a bowl of fragrant candied orange peel and one of sugar. “How was Hastings?”

“Same as always.”

Guy said, “Felda! What’s the new girl’s name?” Thorne followed the gaze of the others to a beautiful woman moving down the table, replacing pitchers of wine and ale with new ones of brandy and spiced beer. Felda grinned at Guy while the new girl acted as if she hadn’t heard.

“Her name’s Zelma,” Felda said. “But she only speaks English, so save your breath.”

“I don’t need words to tell her how I feel,” said Guy. “Zelma!” When the wench glanced in his direction, he blew her a kiss, whereupon she wheeled around and sauntered away from him, looking vaguely bored. She had dark, heavy-lidded eyes and arched black eyebrows, but her most striking feature was her great mass of thick, blue-black hair, which she wore in a linen snood. The loose hair that spilled from it in unruly tendrils gave her a disheveled air, enhanced by the fact that the cord lacing up the front of her low-cut brown kirtle had come loose. Her generous bosom swelled precariously above the gaping fabric. Should she stretch just so or lean over too far, her breasts would surely be revealed in their entirety.

Thorne watched her discreetly over the top of his tankard as he took a drink, grinning to himself when he noticed Rainulf doing the same. Albin, Peter, and Guy, on the other hand, gaped at her much as the dogs gaped at Loki.

Lady Martine looked from Zelma to Thorne and back again, then dropped her gaze to her lap and proceeded to pet her cat with studied—and almost certainly pretended—indifference. Could it be that she was jealous? Perhaps Estrude had been right when she hinted that Martine seemed to be under some spell of enchantment.

It was a spell, then, that had been cast upon them both. Luckily, however, it was a spell with a simple cure, at least as it affected him. If abstinence made him lust unwisely, then all he really needed to set him straight was a friendly tumble—but not, God knew, with Estrude of Flanders. Her kind demanded tedious affairs, for which Thorne had little patience. Complicating matters in this case would be Estrude’s husband, Bernard, quite possibly the most dangerous man Thorne knew.

Father Simon broke Thorne’s reverie by rising and delivering a stream of long-winded good-byes. A group of adolescent boys in the corner watched in silence as he exited the hall. The moment he disappeared, they brought out their dice, kicked aside the rushes, and squatted down, commencing animated play.

Estrude said, “Lady Martine, have you no one to serve you? No lady’s maid traveling with you?”

“Nay, my lady. I had no such person in Paris.”

“We shall have to find one for you.” She turned to her maid. “Clare, do you known of anyone? One of your sisters, perhaps? The fat one. She’s got nothing better to do.”

“She has fits, my lady,” Clare said.

“Yes, but in between the fits, she’d be fine, I’m sure.” Estrude nodded happily. “I shall send word to your father tomorrow that we’d like her to—”

Thorne said, “Perhaps Lady Martine would prefer to choose a maid herself from among the house servants.”

“The house servants?” Estrude said in disbelief. “But surely the daughter of a baron would prefer a girl of breeding to one of these—”

“Why don’t we let Lady Martine decide?” Thorne turned to Martine. “My recommendation, if it’s of any interest to my lady, would be Felda.” Estrude gasped. “I’ve known her for many years. She’s reliable, has a good heart, and will serve you as well as any girl of noble birth.”

Felda displayed as much astonishment at this referral as Estrude. Martine looked at Rainulf as if for guidance, but he smiled and spread his hands as if to say,
This is up to you.

“Felda,” she said, “would you be at all interested in this position?”

“In being a lady’s maid?” Felda said, grinning. “I should think so!”

Estrude shook her head. “This is preposterous.”

Martine said, “Then it would please me greatly to have you.”

Felda yelped with delight. Then she leaned over, took Thorne’s face between her fleshy hands, and kissed him on the lips.

Thorne grinned. “Don’t make me sorry for suggesting you.”

“Nay! I’ll be wonderful. Oh, milady, thank you. Can I start now?”