When she returned her gaze to him, he was looking elsewhere, at something over her shoulder, something that made him grin in delight. She turned to find Rainulf behind her, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“Thorne! Is it always this blasted cold on this miserable island, or only in August?”
Thorne? Thorne Falconer? Dear God
. She wheeled in openmouthed astonishment toward the man on the pier as Rainulf swept past her and leaped onto the gangplank. A burning heat crawled up her throat and consumed her face as she watched her brother embrace the man with eyes of sky.
It was Sir Thorne! Not her betrothed! When she had asked Rainulf if that was him, her brother had, naturally, been thinking of the friend he hadn’t seen in a decade, not of the boy Martine was to marry. And Edmond was a boy, being merely nineteen. The man now greeting Rainulf with such warmth, hugging him and slapping him on the back, was at least ten years older than that.
“Martine!” Rainulf called to her. “Come meet Sir Thorne!”
Releasing a shuddering breath, she willed calm upon herself and followed her brother onto the dock. When Rainulf introduced her to his friend, she found herself unable to look him in the eye, and wished desperately that her face were not as red as she knew it must be.
“‘Twill warm up presently,” Sir Thorne said. His voice sounded deep and resonant, his French flavored with just a trace of an accent to betray his Saxon origins. Coming from him, the accent was, although a bit harsh, not unpleasant.
He nodded to Martine. “My lady has brought the Normandy sun with her, I think.” There was that smile again.
He was right about it warming up. The chill receded and the sky brightened even as they spoke. Bulverhythe Harbor was changing from a place of darkness and cold to one of light and shadow, of blues and greens and golds, of the singing of sparrows... and the mocking laughter of gulls. Martine looked up and squinted at the sun, ashamed for having considered its appearance a good sign.
There were no such things as omens, particularly good ones.
It was turning into an afternoon of surprises. Thorne Falconer had never liked surprises.
The first one had been the late arrival of the
Lady’s Slipper
, delayed as she was by the storm. Since Harford Castle was half a day’s ride north of Hastings, they would have to set out immediately if they expected to get there before nightfall.
He motioned to his page, standing a respectful distance away on the pier. “Fane, go get Albin and bring the horses.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I fetch your men as well? I know which alehouse they’re in.”
“Aye.” The boy sprinted away, Thorne and his guests following at a more leisurely pace.
“Your men?” Rainulf said. “You must have gotten more important than I’d realized.”
Rainulf had been another surprise, in his black robes and skullcap! Though Thorne knew that his old friend had long ago taken his vows, whenever he thought of Rainulf, he saw him as he had been in the Levant—unshaven and unwashed, in rags filthy and shredded from battle and long months of captivity.
Thorne smiled. “Fane misspeaks himself, but I tire of correcting him. They’re Lord Godfrey’s men, of course. Sir Guy and Sir Peter. Knights, like myself.”
“And Albin?”
“My squire. He and my falconry assistant are the only men I can rightly call mine. And, of course, Fane and the boys who run errands for me.”
Fane and Albin came into view with their mounts, packhorses, and litters. Thorne had brought two litters from Harford. One was an elegant curtained couch suspended between two dappled grays, for Lady Martine. The other was a utilitarian wooden box, into which some dockhands began loading baggage. Lady Martine was staring at the curtained litter and frowning.
Rainulf’s sister had been yet another surprise, in her saffron veil and homely gray tunic, like some humble postulant. Thorne had expected silk brocade, fur trim, and glittering jewels. After all, she was the daughter of a Norman baron and a cousin of the queen, however distant.
Despite her attire, he had recognized her immediately. Rainulf had written that she resembled him, and from what little he could see of her, she seemed to. Like her brother, she was tall. He wondered if she shared his fair hair, but from her dark eyebrows and lashes, he suspected not. Too bad; such hair would be stunning on a woman. She did have his smoothly sculpted, aristocratic features, but on her the effect struck him as slightly off-kilter. Hers was a face of highly polished imperfection, as if some eccentric sculptor had actually wanted the cheekbones a bit too pronounced, the mouth too wide. She should have been plain, but there was a spark in her eyes, a crackle of intelligence, that he couldn’t help but find attractive.
Rainulf was watching his sister regard the litter with grim distaste. “Thorne... I neglected to tell you. Martine hates riding in litters. You don’t have a spare horse, by any chance?”
Hates riding in litters?
“Just one. For you.”
Thorne turned to the lady to discuss the matter with her, but she pointedly walked away. It pleased him to see her approach the curtained litter, but his pleasure was short-lived, for she merely deposited upon its brocade seat the brass box and basket she had been carrying, then closed the curtains around them as if to make it plain that she would not be riding there. He sighed and looked toward Rainulf, who smiled and shrugged.
For his part, Thorne found the Lady Martine somewhat less than amusing. First her abrupt change in attitude, and now this demand for a horse, when he had gone to the trouble of bringing a litter all the way from Harford for her.
At first, her coldness had taken him aback, considering her shy smile from the deck of the
Lady’s Slipper
. Upon reflection, he had to admit that this kind of treatment, warmth followed by haughty withdrawal, was exactly what he would expect from a Norman gentlewoman. The sad truth was that, although she didn’t dress like a child of privilege, Lady Martine acted like one.
Albin spoke up. “She can have Solomon, Sir Thorne!” The dark-haired young squire smiled shyly at Martine and patted his enormous chestnut stallion on the flank. “I know you’d prefer a mare, my lady, but if you think you can handle him, you’re welcome to him.”
She didn’t thank him, merely took the reins he offered.
“What will you ride, then, Albin?” Thorne asked.
“One of the packhorses. I don’t mind.”
Fane came running up, followed by Guy and Peter. Albin and Fane usually accompanied Thorne on his errands to Hastings, but this time he had thought it best to bring his men along as well, considering the recent trouble in Weald Forest, through which they were obliged to ride. Also, it was a diversion for them. They welcomed any excuse to leave Harford and ride down to Hastings when there was no local war or tournament to occupy them.
Rainulf said, “I thought Edmond would be with them.”
“Ah... I’m afraid he was delayed away from the castle. I know he would have wanted to greet you personally—especially my lady.”
He nodded in Martine’s direction. She held his gaze for a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time. Her eyes, blue as midnight, searched his, just fleetingly, as if seeking something precious that she’d lost. Thorne stood transfixed, remembering his first glimpse of her just a short while ago, and feeling the same connection, the same uncanny sense that she knew things about him, and he about her, that they couldn’t possibly know.
He blinked, she looked away, and the moment ended. By the time he’d taken a steadying breath, she had already mounted Solomon, brushing off Albin’s awkward efforts to assist her. The rest of the party mounted up as well, and they set off. To Thorne’s surprise, Martine handled the assertive stallion with easy assurance, as if he were the tamest mare.
Thorne steered the group away from the disreputable lanes that surrounded the harbor, in deference to the lady’s sensibilities, but smiled inwardly at his own misguided chivalry. It was quite absurd that he should want to protect her from the sight of taverns and brothels, since she had doubtless seen many such establishments in Paris, and she didn’t strike him as the squeamish sort.
The streets were congested with people that afternoon, even though it was not a market day. The rain had forced them indoors all morning, and now that it was clearing up, they swarmed out of the overhanging shops and town houses to attend to postponed business. The roads were narrow seas of mud. The stench of excrement mingled with that of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and boiling fish. Pigs wandered idly among the pedestrians, snuffling through the filth in the sewage channels and scattering with panicked squeals before the party on horseback. Thorne could not imagine why anyone who had a choice would live in a town.
He swiftly guided the group north, out of Hastings and into dense and tangled Weald Forest, where they rode double-file along the narrow, well-used traveler’s path. Although the sky had cleared and the sun shone, little of its warmth and light filtered through the leaves. That which did fell in dappled patches of gold on the meandering dirt track, like a handful of scattered coins.
It was August, and the woods were ripe with growth. Ferns and mosses competed with gnarled vines, wild mint, and colonies of tiny blue violets. Thorne opened his ears to the breeze-riffled leaves and the trill of myriad birds and insects. He breathed deeply of the scent of loamy earth and the sweet, musky fragrance of plants about to go to seed.
Ahead of him, the lady Martine and her brother rode side by side. From time to time, Rainulf would lean over and touch his sister’s hand, sometimes speaking softly to her, as if comforting a frightened child. Most curious, since she struck Thorne as exceedingly self-composed, if enigmatic.
When they were several hundred yards into the forest, he quietly unsheathed his sword. Albin, riding next to him, and Guy, bringing up the rear, promptly followed suit. Peter, up in front, cocked his head at the whisper of steel against leather, then withdrew his own weapon. Thorne saw the lady Martine direct a questioning glance toward her brother.
Rainulf peered into the dense foliage on either side of the path, then looked back over his shoulder at Thorne. “Expecting trouble?”
Thorne glanced at Lady Martine’s back and hesitated, not wanting her to feel unsafe. “Not really. Just standard precautions in a dark forest.”
Still staring straight ahead, Martine said coolly, “Sir Thorne, since you’ve placed me in a dangerous situation, kindly do me the favor of telling me what that danger is so that I may be prepared in case it comes. Don’t compound the problem by pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Peter stifled a chuckle, and Rainulf turned and grinned at his friend. Thorne suddenly felt the fool for having taken the trouble to spare the lady’s feelings, since she clearly had total command over them.
“So,” he said, “my lady has a tongue, after all.”
Martine’s back stiffened. Good; he had raised the vixen’s hackles. Now, as a gesture of civility, he would smooth them. “In truth, the danger’s not so great as my lady fears. There was an incident in this forest not long ago involving bandits, but it’s unlikely such men would attack a party of this size.”
That should satisfy her,
he thought, but only momentarily, for she said, “Of what nature was this incident? Who were the victims?”
“A baron and baroness from northwest of here. The young Lord Anseau and his wife, Aiglentine.”
“They were robbed?”
Persistent wench.
“Aye.” Thorne wondered what it would take to melt her frost, and decided to try to find out. “And their throats were cut.”
Rainulf crossed himself and Martine nodded, still without turning to look at him.
“The barons are outraged, of course,” Thorne said. “And Olivier, our lord earl, has vowed to find the men responsible and inflict the worst tortures you can imagine before giving them to the hangman.”
The lady made no response to this.
“And find them, he will,” the Saxon continued. “He’ll have to. Not only to serve justice, but to satisfy the king’s chancellor.”
“Thomas Becket?” Rainulf said. “What’s his interest in this?”
“The lady Aiglentine was the daughter of a close friend of his, and he was quite fond of her. Becket wants these bandits caught and an example made of them. Olivier has organized every man, woman, and child in Sussex, and beyond, to look for them. They will most assuredly be caught, and God have mercy on them when they are.”
“Yes, God have mercy,” Rainulf murmured thoughtfully.
Thorne said, “The men who were Anseau’s vassals are up in arms, as well. He was a respected overlord, strong but compassionate, and everyone loved the lady Aiglentine. At the time of her murder, she was heavy with child. The baby died as well, of course, so in fact, there weren’t two victims, but three.”
Martine half turned toward him, as if she had wanted to say something, then thought better of it. She wore a grim expression, and when she briefly sought out Thorne’s eyes before turning away, he saw such abject sadness in them as to take his breath away.
She bewildered him, this humbly clad baron’s daughter. She was aloof and ill humored, yet her eyes—those fathomless eyes—drew him in.