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  Secret Thunder

  Book One of the Périgueux Family Series

  by Patricia Ryan

  "A marvelous love story from the queen of medieval romance. I will buy anything she writes! Once again Patricia Ryan dazzles us with her amazing storytelling abilities. This is as good as it gets. If you only read one historical romance this year, it should be Secret Thunder!" The Literary Times

  Copyright © 1997 Patricia Ryan. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Dedicated with love to my uncle, Dr. Thomas Guy Burford. My sisters and I still have those Wives of Henry VIII dolls you gave us so long ago. See what you started?

  Chapter 1

  March 1067: The village of Cottwyk in Cambridgeshire, England

  "It's not much of a whorehouse." Luke de Périgueux tugged on the reins, halting his mount next to his brother's at the edge of the clearing. He could barely make out the humble cottage against the darksome woods that surrounded it; English forests were black as hell at night.

  "At least it's shelter," Alexandre said through a yawn. "'Twill rain soon, and I'd rather be in there than out here when it does."

  A shudder coursed through Luke. He rubbed his arms beneath his mantle.

  Alex grinned and punched him on the shoulder. "So, my fearsome big brother feels the cold just like us ordinary men."

  Luke nodded, though it wasn't the damp night air making him shiver, but a cursed weakness of the body and soul—a weakness too shameful to reveal, even to Alex. His hands fisted involuntarily, and he gritted his teeth. Ride it out, he commanded himself. 'Twill ease up. It always does. A good, hard tupping should help. Flicking his reins, he approached the cottage.

  Alex followed, eyeing the crude wattle-and-daub hovel, a doubtful expression on his face. Yellowish light shone through the skins tacked over the windows, and wood smoke scented the air, but not a sound came from within. "Perhaps we've got the wrong place," Alex said.

  "Nay, this should be it." One of Luke's fellow crossbowmen had directed him here: There's just the one wench, and she's not much, but she'll spread her legs for anyone with tuppence and a hard cock—even a hard Norman cock. Most of these Saxon bitches run and hide when they see us coming.

  Little wonder. Every inhabitant of this miserable, rain-choked island feared and despised the Norman conquerors, and why shouldn't they? Five months had passed since Luke and Alex crossed the Channel to help William, Duke of Normandy—and now King of England—seize this godforsaken country in a single, bloody battle. Hastings should have been the end of it, and it would have been, if only these English barbarians would cease their pointless uprisings and accept Norman rule. All winter, William's army—including many landless knights, like Luke and Alex, hungry for English holdings—had confiscated estates and subdued the locals with a pitiless zeal calculated to crush rebellious tendencies. Yet, still the people of England defied them, holding on with pathetic tenacity to lands forever lost to them on the fourteenth of October, 1066.

  The deerskin covering the doorway parted, and a figure emerged—the figure of a woman carrying a lantern. She was plump, her bosom and hips stretching the wool of her coarse brown kirtle, and her hair was a mop of flaming curls. Holding the lantern high, she sized up the two strangers on horseback with a whore's practiced eye.

  Alex chuckled. "Seems we've got the right place, after all."

  "Do you speak any French?" Luke asked her as another bout of trembling overtook him. Hold on... 'twill pass.

  "Quite a bit," she answered in a guttural accent. "My husband, God rest him, hailed from Beauvais."

  A stroke of luck. Most of these Saxons didn't understand a word of their new ruler's language. Luke had picked up a little English—he had a facility for languages—but he had no desire to struggle with it tonight.

  She smiled coyly. "I don't imagine you came here to talk, though." Her doughy cheeks were sprinkled with pockmarks, and her teeth were crooked, but Luke wasn't feeling very particular at the moment.

  King William had issued regulations forbidding his knights and men-at-arms from molesting women or frequenting brothels. Unlike some of his colleagues, Luke had no trouble obeying the mandate against rape. Brutalizing innocents held little appeal for him; he was brutal enough on the battlefield. Unfortunately, the only practical alternative was to patronize whatever local brothels would serve the Normans, and he felt no compunction about doing so.

  "My name is Helig," the red-haired woman said. Luke couldn't remember having asked. Helig, for God's sake. Why the devil did these Saxons give their women such grotesque names?

  "'Twill be sixpence for the both of you together," Helig said. "Tuppence apiece if you want me separately. More if you'll be wanting something out of the ordinary."

  "Tuppence apiece, then," Luke said. Alex might not even want her; he could afford to be picky. Handsome and congenial, the young swordsman was remarkably adept at coaxing wenches out of their kirtles. Luke, on the other hand, lacked his brother's agreeable nature, and his fierce reputation made women uneasy. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had given herself to him for free.

  Helig directed them to an attached byre around back, where they stabled their horses, and through that to the cottage proper. Luke squatted on the earthen floor by the central fire pit to warm his jittery hands while his brother went about the pointless business of flirting with this homely Saxon whore.

  "Your hair looks like new copper," Alex told her.

  She snorted. "You don't seem in no hurry to get on with things. Care for a pint, then?"

  "Aye, and one for my brother."

  "Ah, I figured you and him was kin." Helig filled two tankards from a pitcher of ale. "I must say, I never seen such black hair on a Norman as you two have."

  "That's because we're from Aquitaine, not Normandy. Folks are darker in the south." Alex unpinned his mantle and tossed it onto one of the two roughhewn benches facing the table. Luke wrapped his own more closely around himself, hoping his brother wouldn't notice his tremors. He felt like a cocked crossbow, quivering and ready to fire; his jaw ached from clenching it.

  Helig set a tankard on the table with a thunk that made Luke bolt to his feet. Easy. As she reached across it to place the other on the opposite side, Alex came up behind her and lifted her skirt. She had thick legs and a generous white rump, which he fondled freely.

  She smirked at Alex over her shoulder as he moved against her. "Seems you're in something of a hurry after all."

  "Your charms are intoxicating."

  "There's straw up in the loft, and blankets." She tilted her head toward a ladder leading to a niche between the byre and the ceiling beams. "We'll be more comfortable up there."

  Lowering her skirt, Alex raised a tankard and drank from it. "Truth be told, I'm more tired than I am randy. We've been fighting since yesterday morning, with no sleep. It only ended at sundown."

  "I know." Of course. She would have heard the sounds of battle as they wrested nearby Cottwyk Castle from her countrymen. Her expression sobered only momentarily. Nodding toward Luke, she said, "What about you, then? Are you too weary to take what you came here for?"

  "Nay." He craved sleep as desperately as Alex did, but even more pressing was the need to release some of the savage energy thrumming in his veins.

  Alex set down his half-emptied tankard, grabbed his mantle, and lay down on the floor next to the fire pit, arranging the woolen cloak over him like a blanket. "Wake me when you're done," he told Luke, "and I'll take my turn." He shifted to get comfortable in the packed dirt, let out a great yawn, and closed his eyes. Within moments, his breathing grew steady and
one hand fell open limply. Knowing his brother, Luke very much doubted he'd be able to awaken him for his turn with Helig, but then he suspected Alex was a good deal less keen on the wench than he'd let on. He'd just thrown her skirt up that way to show a little polite interest. If he'd really wanted her, he would have taken her right then and there. Alex wasn't shy.

  "Nice fellow, your brother," Helig said.

  Luke grunted in affirmation and accepted the tankard she offered him, draining it in one tilt. It wasn't half bad. One thing these Saxons could do was brew ale.

  "You were thirsty." The whore took the empty tankard from him and reached up to unfasten his mantle pin. She held it close to her face, her eyes widening as she examined the little onyx dragon imbedded in the golden brooch. Looking up, she said, "You're him."

  Luke took the pin from her and clumsily refastened it to the cloak. It had been a parting gift from his father when they left to join William. Alex had received one also, inset with tiny pearls in the shape of a wolf's head, which he was forever misplacing. Luke treasured his pin and had always taken care not to lose it, especially after receiving word of his sire's death at Christmastide. Both pins bore the same hopeful inscription on the reverse side: Be strong and of good courage.

  "You are him, aren't you?" Helig said. "You're the Black Dragon."

  "I'm Luke de Périgueux."

  Helig's gaze lingered on his hair, which he wore long and braided in back, in the style of his father, rather than closely cropped in the Norman fashion. It was the feature that distinguished him from the rest of the occupying soldiers, including his brother. "Aye, you're him," she said, nodding. "You're the one they talk about."

  Luke knew what they said about him, the words they used to describe him: bloodthirsty, ruthless, brutal. Now she'd be wary, perhaps even refuse him, tuppence or no. He waited for the fascination in her eyes to turn to apprehension.

  But it didn't. If anything, she seemed more enthralled by him now that she knew who he was. Her eyes lit with an interest he knew could not be feigned. Some women had a weakness for monsters in the guise of men, and Luke suspected this Helig was one of them. As she undraped the mantle from his shoulders and hung it on a peg, Luke reassessed her attractiveness as a bed partner. If her heart was in it, as it seemed to be, she might give him quite the lively ride. God knew he could use one.

  She approached him with a sway in her hips and a look of frank desire. There was something crudely seductive about her, an unwashed sexuality that stirred his loins. He backed her against the table and ground his hips against hers as he gathered up her kirtle with trembling hands. Arousal merged with the bloodlust still surging through him to rob him of all reason or self-control. He needed this woman, this release, and he was going to take what he needed now.

  Unbuckling his belt, she said, "Let's get you out of these things first." Luke yanked the heavy, calf-length tunic over his head and tossed it onto the bench, leaving himself in his shirt and chausses. Helig untied the shirt, exposing his chest, and combed her fingers through the dark hair there. "What have we got here?" She pulled out the first of two leather cords looped around his neck and ran her thumb over the crudely carved wooden cross. "My word. You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

  He whipped up her skirt and lifted her onto the table as she pulled out the second cord. "What's this, then?" She fingered the little leather pouch, causing the dried herbs within to crackle. "Yarrow?" A reasonable assumption. Many of Luke's fellow knights carried a pouch of the all-purpose medicinal herb.

  "Aye," he lied as he reached beneath his shirt and fumbled for the drawstring of his chausses. His madness had become a carnal drive, hot and urgent.

  She brought the pouch to her nose and sniffed, then frowned. "That's not yarrow. What's in there? Catnip?"

  Luke stilled in the act of untying the woolen hose.

  "I recognize the smell," she said. "My brother, Ham, uses it. Perhaps you know of him. You're under Lord Alberic's command, are you not? Ham is the hangman at Foxhyrst."

  Luke and Alex were quartered at Foxhyrst Castle, under the rather inept command of Lord Alberic, one of King William's most ambitious lapdogs. Alberic's devotion to his liege—combined with a certain amount of sly manipulation—had recently earned him the coveted title of sheriff. Most of the soldiers who'd served under him since Hastings—including Luke and his brother—remained with him as men-at-arms charged with suppressing rebellion. As Luke recalled, Alberic's hangman had more or less come with Foxhyrst Castle. Ham was a bearish, bald-headed Saxon who brought a great deal of savage enthusiasm to his work and cared little that his countrymen counted him a Judas.

  "Ham says he can't work up the stomach to torture and kill folks lest he chews some catnip first," Helig explained. "That's what this is, isn't it? Catnip?"

  Among other things. Luke took the pouch from her and tucked it back into his shirt.

  "Ham says it makes him half mad. Makes him evil as the Devil himself, so he don't care about nothing but killing. Takes a day or more for it to wear off." She looked at him knowingly. "You chew it before you go into battle, don't you? That's what makes you such a ferocious—"

  Luke closed one hand over her mouth and clamped the other around the back of her neck, hard. Bringing his face very close to hers, he stared fixedly into her wide green eyes. "You talk too much," he said quietly. "I don't want to talk to you. I just want to fuck you."

  She nodded. He eased his hands away, and she licked her lips nervously. "Let's go upstairs to the—"

  He covered her mouth with his hand again. It was shaking. "Right here is fine." With his other hand, he parted her stout thighs and positioned himself between them.

  She looked over his shoulder at Alex, unconscious on the floor.

  "My brother can sleep through anything." He jerked on the drawstring again, but his palsied hands seemed unequal to the task of freeing himself from his chausses.

  Luke felt a gust of cold air at his back. Helig sucked in a breath and pushed him away, her eyes on something behind him. Wheeling around, Luke saw a man standing in the doorway, holding the deerskin aside.

  The intruder was big and unmistakably Saxon, with long red hair and an unkempt beard. His skin was pale as parchment, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. Even from across the room, Luke could smell him. He smelled like sickness and sour ale.

  The Saxon growled something at Helig while gesturing to Luke and the sleeping Alex, his expression one of outrage. From what Luke understood of the local tongue, the whore was being berated for consorting with Normans.

  Luke took a step in the other man's direction, the quivering bowstring inside him humming with murderous fury. His fists shook with the unreasoning need to punish this creature, to smash his face in, pummel the life out of him.

  Jumping down from the table, Helig grabbed Luke's arm and said something to the other man in an appeasing tone. The Saxon barked something back at her, then reached beneath his tattered cape and produced two pennies. He pressed these into Helig's hand, then began pulling her toward the ladder that led to the loft.

  Luke seized the Saxon bastard and spun him around, hauling back with his fist.

  Helig closed both hands over his wrist. "Please, no!"

  He could have easily wrested himself from her grip, but a small, still-sane voice added its soothing whisper to the cacophony inside his head: It's the herbs... hold back... ride this out.

  "Please," the whore begged in a tremulous voice. "I don't want any trouble here. This fellow, he's a bit touched. Don't know what he's doing, really."

  That's two of us, Luke thought. Two madmen, fighting over a poxy whore.

  "He comes to me regular," Helig continued. "All he wants is what he came for, and then he'll leave. Just let me do him first, and then I'll do you for free. You can have me all night. I'll do anything you want."

  Luke yanked his hand out of her grasp. He could kill this man, the state he was in. Christ, he almost did. Let it go... ride it out.

&nbs
p; With a heavy sigh, Luke snatched his mantle off the peg and wrapped it around himself. "Wake me when he's gone."

  From the unsteady way the Saxon climbed the squeaky ladder, Luke could only conclude that he was drunk. It could be a long wait before Luke's turn came around.

  He knew he'd never get to sleep with the battle madness still upon him. He searched the cottage for something stronger than ale, something to take the edge off, and came up with a jug of brandy. Half filling his tankard, he drank the brandy in one long, scorching swallow, then reclined on the other side of the fire pit from his brother and stared into the flames. They danced and swayed, like a field of wheat beneath a rippling breeze—a golden field, ignited by a setting sun.

  The image brought to mind the Abbey at Aurillac, where he'd spent an untroubled youth avoiding his lessons in favor of tending to the monastic wheat fields and vineyards and sheep pastures. Luke fingered the rough wooden cross beneath his shirt, remembering those years—happy years, the only truly happy years of his life. Often lately he found himself wondering if he'd still be happy—or at least content—if he'd taken Holy Orders as his father had intended, rather than rejecting cloistered life for soldiering.

  Luke ached to exchange the tools of warfare for those of the farm. He would surely have been granted a conquered holding already—either outright or by marriage to an English heiress—as had most of the others who'd fought at Hastings, but his skill with the crossbow made him too valuable an asset for subduing the locals. It was said that William had his siege towers, his battering rams, his stone-throwing machines... and Luke de Périgueux. His fellow soldiers had long ago dubbed him the Black Dragon, in honor not just of his dark Aquitaine coloring, but of the fiery beast within him, the image of which adorned his battle pennon.

  A light rain began to patter against the thatch. From the loft came whispers and the crackling of straw. Envious of Alex's blessed oblivion, Luke reached for the brandy jug and drank directly from it.