Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (49 page)

“You’re telling me it’s hopeless,” Thorne said tightly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Matthew didn’t answer right away. Thorne felt as if he were suffocating. Rising, he went to the window and leaned on the sill, staring into the endless night sky. “I should never have gone to Hastings. I should have known he’d try something. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d been there.”

Matthew came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t torment yourself,” he said quietly. “‘Twill only weaken you, and you’ll need all your strength to get through this. Go home and pray. Prepare your soul for the worst.”

“If Martine—” Despair squeezed Thorne’s throat, and he choked on the words. “If Martine is taken from me,” he managed hoarsely, “I’ll have no soul. I’ll be empty.”

Matthew patted his back. “I know how much you love her.”

Automatically Thorne shook his head. “Nay. I should have loved her. I didn’t let myself. I didn’t allow it.”

“
Allow
it? Thorne, love doesn’t give a damn whether you allow it or not. It’s the one thing even you can’t control. I knew from the moment I first met you and Martine last summer that you were hopelessly in love with each other. ‘Twas in every word you spoke, every shy glance, every careful touch. There was a force, a power, that bound you together irrevocably.”

Thorne closed his eyes and pictured the ribbon of fate, wound around them both, as they clung to each other in the cold, cleansing water of Blackburn River. He lifted his hand, still wrapped in the sleeve of her chemise, and breathed in the scent of her—the herbal oils in which she bathed, the honey of her skin, the sunshine of her hair... “Sweet woodruff and lavender,” he murmured.

From the direction of the church came chanting. “I must join the brothers,” said Matthew. “Go home and pray.”

Alone now, Thorne stared sightlessly into the dark, letting the tranquil tones of compline enter his soul and steady his thoughts. Yes, he would go home and pray. He would spend the entire night on his knees in the chapel, as he did during his preparations for knighthood. Only this time he would pray not for the strength to be a valiant soldier, but for guidance. He would beg and plead with the Lord to show him a way to save Martine. She couldn’t die; he mustn’t allow it. She was a part of him now, she was in his blood, their souls were connected. He loved her.

A gasp of astonished laughter escaped him. It was true! He loved her! He’d always loved her. He always would love her. God, what a fool he was to have fought it so, to have denied this irrefutable force, so terrifying, yet so liberating. He loved her!

The tightness rose in his throat, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath to hold them at bay, he whispered, “I will save her. God will show me a way.”

*   *   *

At dawn, knowing what he needed to do, he rose painfully from the stone floor of the chapel, limped down the front steps to the bailey, and called to a stableboy. “Saddle up my mount, lad, and bring him here. And pack me something to eat and drink. I’ve a long ride today.”

It was midafternoon when he dismounted in the courtyard of Harford Castle. Boyce greeted him with a drawn sword and a semi-apologetic shrug. Thorne handed over his sword belt and dagger without waiting for it to be ordered. “Take me to the son of a bitch,” he said.

Boyce led him to the great hall and told him to wait while he fetched Bernard. “Thorne! Thorne!” squealed Ailith, clambering off Geneva’s lap and running toward him. The Saxon lifted her high in the air, gave her a big hug, then allowed her to lead him by the hand to her mother and grandfather, who were sitting at a table by the fire pit.

“My lady.” Geneva nodded. “Sire.” Godfrey made no response. As Thorne came closer, he saw that the old man sat perfectly still, propped up in his big chair with the help of small pillows. He had his head thrown back, and at first Thorne wondered why he frowned so angrily, but in fact it was only half of his face that grimaced so, or rather, hung slackly. The other half appeared nearly normal. His eyes, glistening and blue, were the only live thing about him. They seemed alert but intensely sad.

“What ails him?” Thorne asked Geneva.

Shaking her head, she spooned up some porridge from a bowl on the table and carefully fed it into her father’s mouth. “He’s been this way for a week. They’ve bled him twice, but it hasn’t helped.”

“Poor Grandpapa,” Ailith said, putting her little arms around him protectively. “Please get better soon.” Godfrey’s eyes looked helplessly toward his granddaughter.

“Enough to turn your stomach, isn’t it?” growled Bernard from behind them. Thorne wheeled around, his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword, which, of course, he’d surrendered. Geneva ordered Ailith from the hall, and the child scampered away, unaware that anything was amiss.

Bernard had several men with him. “Search him,” he told Boyce.

“He already gave me his—”

“Search him anyway. Check his boots. These Saxon bastards are sneaky.”

Thorne allowed Boyce to pat him down, and then he removed his boots himself and shook them out to prove he’d secreted no dagger there. He had, in fact, briefly considered doing so. The notion of getting Bernard alone and opening his throat with a hidden blade had been tempting for an instant—before he realized it wouldn’t help Martine. The charges of heresy were a matter of public record now, and Bernard’s death wouldn’t obliterate them. In fact, for Thorne to kill her accuser would surely only add fuel to the case against her.

Bernard took a seat at the table and bellowed, “Wench! Bring brandy!”

Lady Clare scurried out from a dark corner and set a pitcher and cup before her master, who then pulled her roughly onto his lap. She averted her gaze from Thorne’s, but Bernard grabbed her by the chin and yanked her head around so that she had to face him. “She’s not much for looks, but she does come in handy from time to time.” He closed a hand over one of her small breasts and squeezed so hard that she winced. “‘Tis quite extraordinary, really. She’ll do just about any damn thing you please. And there’s no limit to what she’ll put up with.” He bit her earlobe, and tears of pain filled her eyes. “Is there, my unassuming little hare?”

“No, sir,” she whispered, looking down.

Bernard turned his reptilian eyes on Thorne. “But then, you already know about her extraordinary devotion to me, don’t you?”

“Quite well,” he said tightly.

Bernard smiled coldly, then pushed Clare off his lap so abruptly that she stumbled and fell. As she scrambled back to her corner, he said, “She claims to be in love with me. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”

“I can’t say as I have.”

Bernard’s smile faded as he reached for the pitcher. “Why did you come here, woodsman? Or should I say...
my lord
woodsman?”

As coolly as he could, Thorne said, “I want to give you Blackburn.”

Geneva gasped. All eyes—even Godfrey’s—turned toward the Saxon. Bernard inspected him through narrowed eyes over the rim of his cup, and then swiftly tossed its contents into his mouth. “In return for retracting my denunciation of your lady bitch, I assume... calling off the forces of Mother Church.”

Thorne’s hands contracted into fists. “Aye.”

Bernard sat back and smirked. “‘Tis an empty offer, as you well know. You hold Blackburn in fief from Olivier. You can’t just give it to whomever you please.”

“But I can abandon it,” Thorne said. “I can simply ride away and never come back. Since I have no heirs, ‘twill be Olivier’s again, to dispose of as he will. You should have no trouble convincing him to grant it to you. I understand he’s the one person in England who actually likes you.” Ignoring Bernard’s sneer, he said, “I’m offering you a much greater reward than you stand to gain from Martine’s execution for heresy. One of the most valuable baronies in Sussex, as opposed to a handful of scattered holdings.”

Bernard said, “What if I want them both—Blackburn
and
those other holdings?”

“You’ll have them,” said Thorne. “You’ll have it all. Just make them free Martine and I swear before God and all the saints that we’ll walk away from what was ours and never try to take it back. We’ll go to France. You’ll never see us again.”

“I’ll have it all...” Bernard said. “And what will you have? I don’t see that this arrangement benefits you in the least. That makes me suspicious.”

Geneva said quietly, “He’ll have Martine.” She smiled at Thorne. He had never seen her smile before, and was amazed at the way it transformed her face into that of the beautiful young woman she once was.

Bernard chuckled meanly. “Sister, you don’t know Thorne Falconer as I do. Love has no place in his life.” He spoke to Geneva as if the Saxon weren’t even in the room. “‘Tis one of the few reasons to admire the man. Nay, he’s got some mischief up his sleeve. As land-hungry as he’s always been, there’s not a chance in hell he’d give up Blackburn just to keep that troublesome wife of his from the stake. He’ll lure me into releasing her and then double-cross me.”

“There will be no double-cross,” Thorne promised. “There are no cunning motives behind my offer. Your sister is right. What I do, I do so that Martine will live.”

Bernard shook his head. “You’ve deceived me before, Saxon. ‘Tis the way your kind operates. You’ve often said ‘true love’ is a trap for the weak, and the one thing you aren’t is weak. ‘Tis wretched creatures like that wench in the corner” —he nodded toward the cowering Clare— “who fall prey to the fiction of romantic love. She might be willing to give up everything for love, to become a slave, to humble herself, but not you. I know you too well.”

“The love I feel for my wife,” Thorne said slowly, “is nothing you’ve ever experienced or could hope to experience, nothing an animal like you could begin to comprehend. It is humbling, but in the same way that kneeling in a great cathedral is humbling. One feels like a small part of something vast and unfathomable. It’s what separates men from beasts, which is why you’re incapable of it. I thought
I
was incapable of it once, but I’m not, thank God.”

“What a very pretty speech,” drawled Bernard, sitting back lazily. “But why waste all those high-flown sentiments on me if I’m too base to understand them?”

Thorne crossed to the table and leaned on it, towering over Bernard and ignoring the tip of Boyce’s sword, which rested just between his shoulder blades. “To convince you that I won’t double-cross you and that my motives are simple and honest. I love Martine with all my heart, and that is the
only
reason I want you to free her. I give you my solemn oath. I’ll swear on anything you want. Retract your denunciation, and everything that is mine will be yours.”

“You love her that much?”

Thorne slowly straightened up, and Boyce withdrew the sword. “I do.”

“I’d say she’s put a spell on you.”

“You’d say it if you believed it, but you no more think she’s a sorceress than I do. You’re not stupid enough to believe your own charges.”

“That I’m not. But neither am I stupid enough to miss an opportunity to acquire Blackburn.”

Thank God
. “Then you accept my offer?”

Bernard smiled slowly. “Nay. ‘Twas most entertaining to listen to you make it, though. Especially that charming bit about how you feel like a small part of something vast and—”

“But you said you wouldn’t miss an opportunity to—”

“Woodsman,” Bernard growled, sitting forward, “I don’t need you or your pathetic deal to acquire Blackburn any more than I need your
permission
to take back lands that were rightfully mine to begin with. You
will
abandon Blackburn, but not in return for your wife’s release. You’ll abandon it because you have no choice. Because if you remain in England until the conclusion of the trial, I promise you that you, too, will be arrested for heresy—”

“Me! That’s absurd.”

“It’s all absurd,” Bernard countered, laughing. “Fantastically absurd, and ridiculously easy. If I denounce you, you’ll stand trial and have to prove your innocence, which might be rather difficult. You criticize the Church, you rarely attend mass, you read pagan writings... You will most certainly be branded a heretic, and then you’ll be tied to a stake and roasted alive. Can you imagine the agony? You can’t save your lady, but you can still save yourself.”

“If I leave England immediately,” Thorne said, and Bernard nodded. “That’s clever, I have to admit. If I do leave, you won’t have my meddlesome influence in the trial, and I’ll be abandoning Blackburn, which you can talk Olivier into granting to you. If I stay to help Martine, you’ll see that I burn, and you’ll still end up with Blackburn.”

“There
is
only one logical choice for you to make.”

“Love has very little to do with logic,” Thorne said. Bernard rolled his eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” Thorne asked. “Knowing that you can get Blackburn even if you release her, why go through with the trial? Why let her die?”

Bernard stood quickly, knocking his chair over. “For the simple, unadulterated pleasure of watching her writhe in torment as the flames peel the flesh from her bones!”

Thorne leaped on the table and lunged at Bernard, but Boyce and two others grabbed him and hauled him back.

Bernard laughed hysterically. “For the thrill of listening to her shriek and beg and moan.
That’s
why I’m doing this, woodsman.”