Secret Thunder Part 27

"Perigueux, eh?" Orrik's gaze narrowed on the pin he held.

"Or Ventadour or Brive-la-Gaillard," Luke quickly put in. "Somewhere in the area of Aquitaine."

"He seemed very sure of it," Faithe added, gratefully accepting the horn of ale Lynette handed her. She'd had no time to rest up from her exhausting trip to Foxhyrst, nor to change out of the dusty, rumpled kirtle she'd slept in last night. No sooner had she and Luke entered Hauekleah Hall than Orrik had appeared and begun hammering them with questions.

Alex joined them and took the pin from Orrik. "I suppose it might have come from Aquitaine." He glanced at his brother. "It does look something like yours, after all. We already knew that."

Luke accepted his own horn and drained it swiftly.

"Perigueux..." Orrik scratched his beard.

"Or any city of Aquitaine," Luke repeated testily.

"That might be helpful," Orrik said. "Folks from down there tend to be darker than those from the north. You two are perfect examples."

Luke and Alex exchanged sober looks. Wondering at the cause of it, Faithe asked, "Do you know of someone? Another soldier from Aquitaine?"

"Nay!" they said in unison.

She sighed. "'Tisn't much to go on... a soldier with dark coloring."

"But 'twill help," Orrik said. "We can enlist some men to help us make inquiries. Baldric can be spared, and his brother, Nyle, and there are three or four others, all good men."

"How do you propose we use these men?" Faithe asked.

"They can start in Cottwyk and work their way out from there," the bailiff replied, "visiting every single hamlet and farm and city in the area until someone identifies the man we've looking for. 'Twill be a much more thorough search than I was able to perform on my own. We have more information to go on now, and we can get half a dozen men to help us. One of them is bound to turn up something."

Faithe handed her empty horn to Lynette and turned to her husband. "What think you, Luke?"

He shook his head. "I don't like it."

Orrik rolled his eyes. "I suppose you have a better idea."

"I'm going to send those men to Hastings," Luke said.

There was a heavy moment of silence.

"Hastings," Orrik said tonelessly.

Luke cleared his throat. "'Tis wiser to start from the beginning-from Caedmon's disappearance last October. I mean to investigate the reason for that disappearance, and track his movements through the winter."

Faithe let Orrik ask it, not wanting to appear to doubt Luke, especially in front of the others, but not understanding, either. "Why? 'Tis his death we're investigating, not why he left Hastings, or what happened to him during the winter."

Luke rubbed the bridge of his nose. Alex turned and looked out the window, leaning on the sill.

"The more we find out about what drove him away from Hastings," Luke said, "and how he lived, the better we'll be able to piece together the events that led to his death."

Orrik shook his head. "I don't see it."

"Perhaps the circ.u.mstances surrounding the killing aren't what they seem. Perhaps that's why you've had so little luck in finding the man responsible, because you've a.s.sumed that Caedmon was killed over a..." He glanced uncomfortably toward Faithe.

"It's all right," she said quietly, touching his sleeve.

"But what if that's not the way it was at all?" Luke continued. "What if Caedmon knew his killer? What if it had naught to do with the woman? What if-"

"What if, what if, what if," Orrik growled. "This is absurd. Caedmon died because some Norman cur couldn't wait his turn. I'm sorry, Faithe." He'd gone red in the face, as he always did when he was upset. "But, for G.o.d's sake! We know how he died, we know why he died, and it doesn't have a d.a.m.n thing to do with his disappearance from Hastings."

"I think it does," Luke said calmly.

"Then you're a fool," Orrik spat out.

"Orrik!" Faithe gasped. Alex turned around.

"And frankly," Orrik ground out, seemingly oblivious to Faithe's outrage, "I'm more than a little curious as to why you seem so determined to detour this investigation away from the time and place of Caedmon's death. Sending those men to Hastings would be a waste of time, as you must be aware."

"Obviously I disagree with you," Luke said.

"And that should be enough to silence you," Faithe told Orrik. "Luke is in charge here, not you. If he wants to send those men to Hastings, they'll go to Hastings, and you have naught to say about it."

Orrik shook his head disgustedly. "Do you know who the killer is, de Perigueux? Is that why you're trying to lead us away from him?"

Faithe fisted her hands in her skirt. "Orrik! That's enough!"

"Is he an old friend of yours?" Orrik persisted.

"For G.o.d's sake, Orrik!"

"Think about it, my lady," Orrik said. "That man" -he stabbed a finger toward Luke- "comes from the same region, perhaps even the same city, as the murderer. They might have known each other, might even have grown up together. Why else would he be sending those men on this pointless trip to Hastings, when-"

"You've overstepped yourself, Orrik," she said in a low, wavering voice. "Badly."

"But, my lady-"

"Not another word," she added grimly, "or I'll dismiss you myself."

Silence rang in the hall.

"As you wish, my lady," Orrik ground out as he executed an arrogant little bow. Turning on his heel, he left Hauekleah Hall.

Luke rubbed his forehead. Alex looked uncharacteristically grave.

"I need some air," Faithe said wearily, "and I've been meaning to see how the vineyard is doing. I'll be back by suppertime."

It came to her as she strolled through the fragrant rows of vines, absently inspecting leaves and stems and roots while she basked in the low sun slanting over the surrounding pastures and meadows.

She knew what she had to do.

Luke wouldn't like it. He hadn't wanted her to go to Foxhyrst; he'd probably find this even more objectionable. But the more she thought about it, the more she knew she had to do it.

She walked slowly as the sun gradually settled onto the hilltops, relishing this time to herself. Privacy was a precious commodity in her life; so was silence.

When she spied the distant figure of a man walking toward her, she sighed in irritation. But then she recognized his distinctive, long-legged gait, graceful in its restrained power. She noticed his height, and the soldierly way he held his arms in relaxed readiness. Just watching him walk was enough to make her ache for him. She smiled and walked toward him.

They stepped into each other's arms and embraced as the sun dipped below the hills, casting the vineyard in an ethereal twilight. He felt so large and warm and solid. She breathed in the wool of his tunic mingled with his familiar, masculine scent, and felt a sense of perfect communion with her world. He'd done that for her; he'd completed her. They'd both been lost, but now they'd found each other, and all was in harmony.

"You are so beautiful, Faithe," he said, his soft, deep voice resonating against her ear. He kissed the top of her head.

She smiled against his shoulder. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

His chest vibrated with silent laughter. "I'm a great hulking brute."

She shook her head. "You're a beautiful man, Luke of Hauekleah, and I love you very much."

"Luke of Hauekleah," he murmured. "I like the sound of that."

She looked up at him and said archly. "You're supposed to say, 'I love you, too.'"

He laughed. "I do. So much. His amus.e.m.e.nt seemed to fade. He brushed her hair off her face. "So much it frightens me sometimes."

"Why should love frighten you?"

"Not love," he said. "The loss of it. The possibility that... it won't always be there. That you'll stop loving me. I think that would kill me."

"Nothing could ever make me stop loving you, Luke. Nothing." Faithe wrapped her arms around him and held him close. "What put such a thought in your head?"

After a long pause he said, with a nonchalance that seemed forced, "I'm just out of sorts from being hungry. I've been sent to fetch you back for supper."

"Right this instant?"

"It's on the table."

Tell him now. Tightening her arms around him, she said, softly, "I'm going to go to Cottwyk." Not I want to go. I'm going to go.

She felt the tension course through him. He held her at arm's length and looked down at her, his brow furrowed. "Why?"

Choosing her words carefully, she said, "I've never seen his grave, Luke. I need to see it."

He frowned as if he wanted to argue with her, but could think of nothing to say.

"And there are other reasons," she continued. "I know you don't think there are answers to be had there, but I think... perhaps there are. I wouldn't have said this in front of the others, but I do think 'twould serve us well to question the local people, and... see for ourselves... where it happened."

His gaze burned through her; his hands clenched her shoulders. "You mean to go to that..."

"Brothel. Aye."

"Nay!"

She bristled.

Very quickly he said, "I know I can't prevent you from doing this if you've set your mind to it. You're used to making your own decisions and going your own way. I respect that. But..." Releasing her, he turned away and rubbed the back of his neck. "For you to even think about setting foot in a place like that..."

"I'm not a blushing maid, remember? I feel certain I can pay a visit to a house of prost.i.tution without swooning."

"But why should you?"

"To see the place where Caedmon died," she said. "I may be able to learn something. Perhaps there will be clues about what happened that night."

"I a.s.sume Orrik's already been there. Why should you subject yourself to all this?"

"Perhaps Orrik missed something. I'd be looking at things with fresh eyes. And as for subjecting myself to this, I've told you-I'm not so very fragile. I'll be fine. And I'll feel as if I'm doing some good." She approached him and stroked his face lightly. "I need that."

"I know," he said huskily, dragging both hands through his hair. "I know. When do you propose to make this trip?"

"I'll be busy all this week with the feast of St. Swithun, so 'twill have to be next week. Monday, perhaps."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Is there anything I can say to talk you out of going?"

"I shouldn't think so."

Sighing heavily, he said, "Then I'm going with you."

She smiled and slid her arms around his waist. "I was hoping you'd say that. I'll be glad to have your company."

He grunted softly, and she thought she heard him say, "Aye, 'twill be quite the jolly outing."

Before she could respond, he withdrew from the embrace and took her hand. "Come. Our supper is getting cold."

Chapter 18.

"That's it," said the fat priest, pointing to the other side of the churchyard from where they stood. "That's where we buried him."

"That's where we buried him," repeated the innkeeper, a red-faced fellow in a greasy ap.r.o.n.

Luke didn't look where they pointed. He looked at Faithe, alert and still, staring at the place where her husband had been laid to rest. Finally, she crossed the churchyard, weaving between the weathered headstones until she stood next to the newest-looking one-a crude wooden slab on which had been carved one word: Caedmon. The grave was isolated from the others at the very edge of the patch of consecrated ground, and the earth over it had not yet had time to settle; it rose in an oblong mound and sprouted a melancholy a.s.sortment of weeds and gra.s.ses.

Luke glanced uneasily at his brother, who'd insisted on accompanying them to Cottwyk. The journey had clearly taken a toll on Alex; he hadn't ridden that far since before he was wounded. He leaned heavily against a tree trunk, his expression taut.