Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (39 page)

“Kill me,” Estrude begged for the hundredth time that day.

Now, she’s the one who needs a pillow over the face
, thought her husband, not because a quick death would be a merciful end to her suffering, but rather because the sight of her disgusted him beyond measure. In recent months her skin, jaundiced and covered with mysterious sores, had shrunken down over her bones, the flesh beneath seeming almost to dissolve in the process. Her face, with its wild, terrified eyes and lips stretched back over too-large teeth, was the face of a living corpse. Her arms and legs were like twigs, a curious contrast to the enormous belly that grew and grew and grew, like an overripe fruit waiting to burst.

Would it indeed rupture if she waited too long to die? he wondered idly. And if so, what would come out? A horned minion of Satan, as Father Simon speculated? While his wife thrashed and clawed at her bedclothes, Bernard envisioned such a creature springing from her womb in an explosion of blood, and chuckled at the sheer primitive absurdity of it.

No, it was no demon growing within his wife’s body, but neither was it a babe, of that he was fairly certain. Estrude’s belly, but six months into her confinement, had swelled to outlandish proportions. The midwife assured him that twin babes at full term could not have distended it so. No, it was some malady or other that had done this to her, and not a pregnancy, normal or demonic. The bitch really was barren, after all, worse luck.

On the bright side, she’d be dead soon. He could start over with a new wife, someone young and healthy and capable of producing heirs. He’d keep this new one on a short leash and let her feel the sting of his belt right from the start, not give her time to grow insolent, as Estrude had. And it might serve him well to closet her in the bedchamber, where he’d always know where to find her. He’d have a door built, one that locked from the outside. This time he’d do it right.

Of course, in contemplating a second marriage, he was obliged to confront the same irksome problem that had forced him to go all the way to Flanders for a bride the first time. Although a full twenty years had passed, he knew it didn’t matter how long ago it was, or that she was just a twopenny whore, or that she deserved what she got and more; the incident had plagued him ever since. It was his own damn fault for losing his head and doing her right there in the brothel, for making such a mess of it and leaving her on her pallet for them to find, knowing he’d been her last customer. His uncurbed rage had not only been unwise, it had been vulgar, uncivilized—and that shamed him, for he was, after all, a civilized man.

“Kill me,” Estrude pleaded as she kicked and tore at her hair. “Kill me. Please!”

It was a tempting notion, that of pressing a pillow to her face in the dead of night, but an ill-advised one. A keep was a place with no secrets. Were it not, he would have eased her passage from the world—and his sire’s as well—long before this. But the risk of being found out was too great, and, as far as Estrude was concerned, quite unnecessary, considering she’d be dead within days.

Edmond’s voice rose from the courtyard below. Godfrey leaned out the window and called him inside.

How proud his little brother had been of himself after cutting his teeth with that little whore of Nan’s, that Emeline. In truth, Bernard had found the incident somewhat flattering, for of course Edmond had only sought to emulate what he himself had done two decades before. But then the boy had tried the same business with the lady Martine, and that Bernard had found less than amusing. Edmond’s childish enthusiasm was ever unfettered by discretion, and that could be a dangerous thing; it led to sloppiness, and, as Bernard well knew, sloppiness led to getting caught. Had he wanted to be rid of his own wife, Edmond should have had the patience to plan the act in advance, make it look like an accident.

“Kill me. Dear God, kill me...”

He’d often been tempted to plan such an accident for Estrude, but fool that he was, he kept thinking his seed might eventually take root in the poor soil of her womb. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. At six and thirty, it was high time he had sons. If his next wife didn’t conceive within a year, he’d do what he should have done with Estrude long before this; he’d tell her to pack up a picnic hamper and take her on an outing to Weald Forest, just the two of them. Fingering his little jeweled eating knife through the pouch on his belt, he smiled as he imagined the exquisite punishments his imaginary bride’s infertility would earn her. He wouldn’t even have to bury her. He could, in fact, garner a certain measure of sympathy by claiming that she’d been tortured and raped by bandits before his very eyes.

“Ah, Edmond,” Godfrey said.

Bernard turned to find his brother in the doorway, gawking at Estrude with an expression of repugnance. “I’m not going in there.”

The baron followed his younger son into the hallway. Bernard could just make out his sire’s words, thick with drink and muffled by the leather curtain that separated them. “She’s dying, son.”

“Well, I wish she’d hurry up about it. Jesus!”

“I’ve got a problem now, boy. No grandsons, and no good prospects for getting any. Geneva’s been cast aside, and Bernard will be a widower soon. That leaves you.”

A moment of silence. “Oh, no,” Edmond moaned. “She’s a witch, Pa! She’s a fucking witch!”

“You’ll ride to St. Dunstan’s tomorrow and bring her back.”

Father Simon looked toward Bernard and raised his eyebrows.

“I won’t do it,” Edmond said.

“You will! You’re my vassal to command same as anyone else within my domain, and you’ll do as I say or I’ll put you in a monastery for the rest of your natural days. You hear me, boy?”

It was an unusually vehement speech from the old man, considering how weak and ineffectual he’d become. But then, he’d always been passionate on the subject of grandsons. Another long pause, and then Edmond mumbled assent.

“And you will live with her as man and wife until she bears a son. After that, you may do as you wish.”

Christ
, thought Bernard.
At this rate, Edmond will end up with heirs before I do.

*   *   *

He’d thought he was well rid of her. He’d thought he’d never have to set eyes on the witch again, much less live with her.

Squeezing some more wine down his throat, Edmond kicked his bay stallion simply for the need to kick something. It lurched forward, throwing him back hard, feet in the air. Only by grabbing the saddle quickly did he manage to regain his seat. He pulled back sharply on the reins, and the bay snorted testily.

He’d not only have to live with her, he’d have to bed her—or try to. Who’s to say she wouldn’t use sorcery on him again, or sneak him another dose of poison? For all he knew, she had a spell to make his cock shrivel up and fall off! She might even kill him this time.

He looked around blearily in an effort to confirm that he was still headed west, toward St. Dunstan’s. It was noon, so the sun was of no help. The snow-dusted terrain looked unfamiliar, and for the first time he noticed how steep it was. To his left, the rocky hillside dropped off precipitously, making his vision reel and his stomach turn over. The wineskin slipped out of his fingers and tumbled down the hill, bouncing over boulders for quite some time before disappearing in the woods below. No great loss, that. It was almost empty, and he had another.

Aye, but ‘twould be better to be dead than to have to take that woman back
, he thought, uncorking the second skin and filling his mouth. Everyone knew about her. Bernard even told him there was a rumor circulating in Hastings that she’d cast a spell on the pilot of the
Lady’s Slipper
after summoning a storm on his boat!

He nudged his mount into a trot, drinking as he rode. He began to see double, but he didn’t mind. Being drunk kept him from feeling the cold, not to mention taking the edge off this distasteful errand. But for the wine, he didn’t think he could do it.

If his wife didn’t kill him, more than likely the Saxon would. He’d sworn on the baby Jesus’ saddling clothes that he would do away with Edmond slowly and painfully if he laid a finger on the witch! But what right had that upstart woodsman’s son to order him away from her? She was his wife, damn it. His lord and sire had commanded him to get her with child, and he would, by God, if he had to tie her to the bed to do it!

Again he kicked his mount, and again the stallion raced forward, its hooves skittering over the loose gravel that covered the narrow hillside track. Dropping the wineskin, he jerked back on the reins, whereupon the enraged bay bucked and squealed. In a panic over losing his seat, Edmond grabbed for the animal’s mane, but it was too late. Off he flew, sailing over the side of the hill and rolling roughly over boulders and fallen trees until he finally landed with bone-crushing force on an outcropping of rock.

He looked up, squinting into the sun and listening to the receding hoofbeats of his mount.
Christ, my head’s on backward
, he thought. And then a veil of red obscured his vision, and his mouth filled with blood, and he could no longer feel his body.

His last thoughts were,
She’s a more powerful witch than I thought. She’s killed me before I even got there.

*   *   *

Standing at the window in the hall of the prior’s lodge, Martine withdrew the sheet of parchment from her tunic and began to reread it.

5 March 1160

From Bernard of Harford to his sister by marriage, Martine of Rouen.

Know, my lady sister, that much has transpired recently of which I am obliged, with a great heaviness of heart, to inform you. It is with the utmost sorrow that I transmit herewith the news that your husband, my most beloved brother, Edmond, has passed from the world. Would that my melancholy account ended there, however, it appears that my dear wife, Estrude, gravely ill these many months, is destined to join him soon.

“Martine.”

She turned toward the voice, Thorne’s voice. He stood in the door of the stairway, dressed in homespun as he had been when she saw him in church a fortnight ago. This morning, however, he was again clean-shaven. He no longer wore the sling, but he had his crutch with him.

“Sir Thorne.” She noticed in his eyes a flicker of disappointment at the formal address.

“Brother Matthew told me about Edmond.”

She nodded and looked down at the letter.

He said, “I won’t pretend I’m sorry.”

“Then neither will I.” They met each other’s eyes.
He always knows what’s in my heart
, she thought.
That’s the source of his power over me. That’s why he can bend me to his will. I must try to be strong. I must close my heart to him and strip him of that power.

Thorne frowned. “Matthew tells me you’re riding back to Harford today for Edmond’s funeral.”

“Yes, I’ve just finished packing.” She nodded toward the satchel in which she’d stowed a change of clothes and a jug of claret mixed with sleeping draft, which she hoped might soothe Estrude’s torment. “I’ll only be gone for a day or two. I’m leaving Loki here.”

He closed in on her. “I don’t think you should go.”

She backed up. “Edmond is dead. I needn’t hide behind St. Dunstan’s walls anymore. Felda and I are riding back today.”

“Without an escort?”

“No harm will come to us.”

He sighed. “If you insist on going, I’m going with you.”

She straightened her back. “You’re in no condition to ride. And there’s certainly no need.”

“It matters not what condition I’m in, and there certainly is a need.”

She planted her fists on her hips. “You don’t understand. I don’t want you to come.”

“But I do understand,” he said soberly. “I know you’d rather I left you alone. I know you find my company... distressing, and that’s Matthew’s urged you to stay away from me. But the fact remains that the journey to Harford isn’t safe for you, and neither, necessarily, is Harford Castle itself.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I swore an oath to your brother to take care of you, and whether you like it or not, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

*   *   *

He’s a good actor
, thought Thorne as Bernard, looking suitably grave, greeted him in the courtyard of Harford Castle. Martine dismissed Felda and asked to see Lady Estrude, whereupon Bernard turned and led his sister by marriage and the Saxon knight up the circular stairwell. Thorne, in agony from the long ride, immediately fell behind and was soon forced to stop and rest. Hunched over his crutch, he closed his eyes and tried to transcend the red-hot pain that coursed through his right leg.

In the privacy of the stairwell, the Saxon withdrew the chess piece and squeezed it, willing the hurt to disappear. As it receded, he ran his thumb over the little whalebone face, the high cheekbones, the full lips. He hadn’t lain with another woman since that morning on the riverbank; it was the longest he’d gone without sex since he first started wenching. It wasn’t that his need was diminished. It was, in fact, more overwhelming than ever. But it was a need that his whores and serving girls could no longer hope to satisfy. It was a need with a name, and that name was Martine of Rouen.

God, give me the strength to keep my distance from her
, he prayed. She wanted that distance, needed it—that was clear enough. She had her reasons, some of which were actually rather good ones, and he knew that nothing he could say or do at this point would change her mind. But the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him must not be allowed to interfere with his pledge to Rainulf to protect her; truly, he would do so even had he not sworn an oath. Now that she had abandoned the safety of St. Dunstan’s, he must be her shadow, her personal soldier, but he must never presume to renew the intimacy they had once known. She felt threatened by his desire for her, and he wanted above all things for her to feel safe when she was with him, which now had to be constantly. And so he had resolved to be polite but cool toward her, a resolution that pained his soul as fiercely as his unhealed wounds pained his body.