A Knight’s Enchantment

by Townsend, Lindsay

  Her eyes narrowed. “You do not think I have expenses? Debts?”

  “Take the ring, and this golden chain,” he urged, shrugging off her questions, dismissing them as girlish folly. “Both would look well on you, I think. Were I your bishop, it would give me pleasure to see you wearing them.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She took them, almost a snatch, and retreated to the very back of the cave, leaving him to make up their rough reed mattresses and a fire.

  “Will you leave scrabbling for more messages and condescend to help me a little?” he demanded, some time later, as the fire began to smoke. “Feed this while I find food to feed us.”

  “I thought you preferred to do all things yourself,” she retorted. “Besides, you do not have enough kindling.”

  “If you can do better, do so.” Hugh left her sulking over the crackling flames and stamped off outside again. When he returned, Joanna was nowhere to be seen and the fire was a glowing, growing mass of orange. Even as he stared in amazement, the whole mass exploded into more flames and gushed a fog-bank of purple smoke.

  “Hell’s teeth!” He began beating out the smoke and flames with the end of his travel-stained cloak, choking and half blind in the sulphurous fumes. “What in the devil’s name—?”

  He spoke to no one. Joanna was gone.

  “Find her!” he bawled at his dog, but Beowulf was chewing something—doubtless dropped for him by the wretched girl—and merely sniffed his hand.

  “Find her, boy!” Hugh exhorted, scanning the closely growing trees, the lane, and his horse, contentedly cropping turf. Where had she vanished?

  Then he saw it: a blur of brown amidst green rushes. Got you!

  A few strides down the round little hill and across the track was all it took. He found Joanna frozen like a painting against a wall of rushes, her face and hands tucked away from sight and she tried to keep hidden. Her hair had been her downfall: it was tangled into a briar.

  “I slipped,” she mumbled, hearing his approach. “Fell into this.”

  “Hold still. I will have you out.”

  Gently, he unwound the streamers, tress after tress.

  “I should cut it,” Joanna muttered, moving and stretching as he released her. “’Tis nothing but vanity.”

  “That would be a pity,” Hugh remarked, teasing free the last clump. Her hair was soft and warm, scented with cinnamon. He held it between his fingers, wishing he could ask for a lock and knowing she would refuse.

  “What did you put on the fire?” he asked instead.

  “Cinnabar and other things.”

  “You keep such in your purse?”

  “It is my trade.” Joanna sighed. “And now I am your prisoner again.”

  “Indeed you are.” Hugh savored the thought, adding, “And this time Beowulf will guard you.”

  She shrugged.

  He held out a hand. “Come back to the fire and eat—before I decide to keep you close by stripping you naked.”

  Joanna gasped and whipped her hand away. “You would not!”

  “I might if you pester me again, or interrupt my supper.”

  “You are no gentle knight! By this, you have just confirmed my low opinion of you!”

  Hugh grinned, amused and discomforted in equal measures. Joanna seemed to have the knack of making him feel both ashamed and alive. He could not seem to stop goading her, nor she goading him. “And you are no castle lady, little wretch, so we are quit.”

  They returned to the cave in silence.

  Chapter 8

  The following day, Joanna vowed she would not speak to Hugh. Her opinions and wishes counted for nothing with him, so why should she share them?

  Yet it was hard for her. She hated silence as a weapon, thinking it unworthy and a waste of time. Still, what else could she do? She would not beg for part of Orri’s hoard, or her own freedom. Her captor had already shown what he thought: that she was a trinket of the bishop’s, a girl with no worries except for pleasing her master. If she explained about her father’s imprisonment, would Hugh care? If she told him how things really were between herself and Bishop Thomas, would he think even less of her? At least as the bishop’s mistress she had some status.

  I cannot tell him the truth, she thought. I dare not.

  Sleeping in the cave with her back to Hugh, she had not expected to gain any rest. To her surprise she slept soundly, waking refreshed and unmolested in the dawn, where Hugh was already awake, dressed in a fresh tunic, and with more bread and cheese for her breakfast.

  Already, though, he did not trust her, not a finger’s-width. He sent the wolfhound with her when she slipped into the bushes, and when they rode together he actually tucked the end of her plait into his belt, fastening her hair into the belt clasp.

  “The briar caught you so well yesterday, it gave me the idea to do the same,” was all he said, when she twisted about as much as her bounds allowed to hurl him a glare of silent reproach. “We have a long way to go today, and I will not have you straying.”

  Straying where? Joanna almost asked, before she remembered she was not talking. Instead she kept quiet and marked every landmark as the stallion’s hooves ate up league after league. Unused to riding, she was soon sore and the skin on her thighs felt both bruised and rubbed, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together. She would not complain. She would not ask for anything.

  “You are very quiet,” Hugh remarked as they cantered past an orchard where the apples were just coming into blossom.

  Joanna said nothing. She was thinking of how bright the day was, and how pretty the apple blossoms, and how her father could not see either. Every day she was a hostage was a wasted day, one less off the dreadful deadline. She could not work. Even the gold she had found had been largely taken from her. She wet her lips, wondering if she should try to give an account.

  Hugh took a swig of mead from a flask and offered it to her.

  “Thinking of the bishop, no doubt,” he said, which instantly extinguished any ideas Joanna had of trying to explain.

  She look a large drink, half choking on the sweet, potent ale, jabbing her heel back into Hugh’s shin as he chuckled.

  “Not far now,” he went on, revealing that he had noticed her discomfort. “You will be able to rest properly, on a bed, and bathe if you wish. Good! My men have set up our tents as I wanted.”

  He pointed ahead to something Joanna could not see and she nodded, the ache in her lower back and hips now burning like a furnace. For a bath she would do much—even delay her escape.

  “Watch her closely,” Hugh instructed Mary and the younger Mary, two of his men’s wives. “She is of great worth to me, and vital for the release of my brother. She may dupe you into thinking she is doing nothing in that tent but bathing, but never leave her alone.”

  After yesterday he was taking no chance, Hugh thought, as the women bowed and hurried to obey him. Joanna had almost slipped away once but he would tame her. He had three men round the bathing tent and now two maids to spy—never mind turning base metal into gold, she would have to make herself invisible to escape this tourney ground.

  And a hot bath would soothe her. She might even smile for him again, especially if he could find her a new gown to go with her new golden jewels.

  Satisfied that he was doing all he should to keep his reluctant hostage safe and happy, Hugh whistled to Beowulf and went to look around the field of tents and horses, to learn who had come and whom he might be fighting.

  She had always been the one hauling basins of hot water: it was luxury to be waited on, to sink into a barrel of delicious warm water. At first Joanna started at every sound in the camp, flinching each time she heard horses galloping, men shouting, blacksmiths working. For a camp that would soon witness men skirmishing and jousting it was a strangely happy place, with an excitement Joanna could sense.

  The tent flap drew back and she reached for her eating knife, determined to stab Hugh with something more than words, but it was not her captor
but the younger Mary, carrying towels and a gown.

  “We are about a size, you and me, my lady, so I trust this will suit?” Mary unfurled the gown off her arm and spread it out over a chest, waiting for Joanna’s approval. “My lord bought it for me and I have yet to wear it.”

  Joanna looked at the small, slim serving-woman with her frank, friendly eyes and smooth, unblemished skin and wondered how she could look so happy. The gown, she noted, was of scarlet linen, with darker red detachable sleeves: all very fine and better than the gowns she wore in the bishop’s palace.

  “Thank you,” she said, astonished and touched by this gift. “But, please, it is your new robe—”

  Mary smiled and shook her head. “My lord will get me another, very soon. He is generous, my lady.”

  “I am no one’s lady.”

  Mary’s pretty smile broadened. “You are my lord’s, and he told us all to show you honor. Will you dress now?”

  Mary would not allow her to step out of the tent until she had tied the gown and its sleeves to her satisfaction, lacing the waist far more tightly than Joanna would have done. After that, the maid dressed and covered her hair with a dark blue veil of some soft and luscious silk, and handed her the old gold necklace from Orri’s hoard. Giving her shoes a final polish, Mary clapped her hands and at once a young page scrambled into the tent, bowing to both women and offering Joanna his arm.

  “Go with Stephen,” Mary said. “He will guide you.”

  She brushed aside Joanna’s further thanks, turning back to the steaming bath with the air of a busy but contented woman.

  Self-conscious in her tight new gown, Joanna walked with the page about the tourney ground, taking in everything. High on a level hilltop, surrounded by palisades and new ditches, the forthcoming field of battle was colorful with flags and fluttering pennants, beaded round with brightly hued tents and wagons. Squires and heralds went from tent to tent, delivering messages, issuing challenges. Horses stamped and snorted as they were groomed and prepared for battle. Traders walked about the hill, selling pies. Farther down the hill, beyond the field itself, were many campfires and men eating and drinking, comparing swords and maces.

  “Should we not be returning to your lord’s camp?” Joanna ventured at one point. They had walked the length of a bowshot seeing more tents, more carts, more men. No women, she noted, with alarm.

  “This is all his company,” Stephen replied, nodding a greeting to a passing minstrel. “See: my lord comes now.”

  Joanna decided it would be petty of her to ignore Hugh, but did so anyway, gazing off to the left. “Why are those men pointing at me?”

  “Because damsels at a tourney ground are rare, leastways in England,” Hugh answered for his page.

  He was closing fast, still dressed in the leggings he had worn when he had kidnapped her, but he had found a patched rough tunic from somewhere and was handling some quilted linen body armor as he approached, seemingly checking it for holes and tears.

  “They know you are my prize,” he added.

  Joanna stopped and took a step back. “You told them that?”

  “No, but they have eyes. They will have guessed. Save your indignation, Joanna,” he went on, frowning not at her but at a small hole in a quilted linen shirt. “You are my first prize demoiselle and today, at this joust, I will do battle in your honor.”

  His arrogance made her breathless with shock and then with anger. “I should thank you, then?” she said, when she could speak.

  “It is but custom, the way of the tourney. In France, a damsel is proud to be a prize: she issues challenges to other knights to prove that her knight will keep her safe and protect her.”

  “That is a perversion of the knightly code,” Joanna managed to say, through clenched teeth. “And were I a queen or noblewoman, you would not dare to treat me this way.”

  Finally, he looked at her fully, surprise showing in his tanned, handsome face. “Why do you seethe? It is but play.”

  “Tell that to the peasant whose lands these are and whose crops you have destroyed! I know! I have seen it before!”

  Abruptly she was back in a dark past that she could recall only in terrible snatches: running with her father ahead of a troop of men; their clothes singed, their hair scorched and everywhere hay and corn stacks burning, burning….

  “Here, Joanna, take a drink. ’Tis good ale, nothing more.”

  Joanna accepted the cup of ale and sipped, memories playing beneath her eyelids as she remained standing with half-closed eyes, trying to force herself back to this day.

  “Forgive me,” she said, looking up at Hugh. “These old memories come over me at times: they are but shadows.”

  He clasped her hand. “Yet painful, nonetheless.” He looked at her solemnly, without malice or humor. “I understand. We should take a walk about.”

  Bitterness spurted in her at his compassion: what right had he to be sympathetic? “So you may show off your prize to the rest?”

  He grinned: darkly and devilishly handsome. “To calm you down, as I might a skittish mare, but yes, to show you off, too.”

  He threaded his arm through hers and drew her along, pointing to birds’ nests in the nearby trees and flowers blooming in distant fields as if they were strolling in a peaceful arbor, not a field of battle.

  Who was she? Hugh wondered, guiding her to his own tent. He had to arm and prepare, but his mind was not on the coming jousts and skirmishes but on Joanna. Being out of doors in sunshine suited her, showed off her lightly tanned skin so that she looked like a little field maid: his nut-brown maid in a bright red dress. But then she had gone as pale as ice when she spoke of destroyed crops, reliving something.

  Where had she been before she had fallen into the bishop’s clutches? And why should her past matter to him?

  “Hey, Destroyer! I will have you this day!”

  The nickname startled Hugh, although he claimed it, lazily raising an arm in mocking salute of a fellow knight, bantering without thought. Never before had he considered what a destroyer might be like to those beneath the knightly class, to those left behind once the mêlées were gone.

  Their lords will see them right, he told himself, but he knew that was too easy. What if their lords were like Bishop Thomas?

  “I must arm,” he said to Joanna, glad to see her stepping out more smoothly and the color returned to her clear, inquisitive face. “Stephen will attend you.”

  He ducked into his own small tent. Normally he armed on the field, but with Joanna present he felt awkward: it was nothing to be stripped to the waist, but to be stripped completely? What if she was less than impressed?

  “What do you care?” he muttered, checking back, all the same, that Joanna was being cared for; that the page was bringing a stool for her comfort, and more ale.

  He was in his linen body armor and struggling with the mail coat when a scrape on the tent door-hanging had him reaching for his sword, in case a riot of knights had decided to start early. Flinging back the cloth flap, braced for a rush of burly squires and men-at-arms, he found his own squire Henri, stocky and round-faced, looking as proud and puffed-out as a highland capercaillie.

  “My lord! I found your lady here wandering in the lists. I brought her safely back and warned her that it is not wise for so heavenly a damsel to stroll alone.”

  “My thanks, Henri,” Hugh replied, giving the lad his due without glancing too closely at the heavenly demoiselle. “Bring the lady in; you may both help me to arm.”

  Henri bowed his way in and then nipped out immediately to find Hugh’s surcoat, leaving Hugh alone with Joanna.

  “That is a less than angelic expression, squirrel,” he remarked, seeing her glowering round the tent. “I suppose you were trying to sneak away?”

  She glowered at him. “It seemed a good plan. An experiment, to see how far I could go. Squirrel?”

  “It seems fitting for you. Bright-eyed, busy, always vanishing from sight in a second.”

  �
��And I might vanish again—”

  “And be caught again.”

  “I may try the experiment again.”

  “With the same result.” Hugh stretched his arms above his head and shook the mail shirt into place, its cumbersome weight seeming far less than usual because he was on his mettle with Joanna. “Will you pass me my helmet?” He pointed to the closed-in helm on top of the single clothes chest—that chest, and two stools, were the only furniture in this tent. He was intrigued as to what she would do.

  She crossed to the chest but did not touch the metal helm. “Why should I help you kill people?”

  He almost laughed out loud at her folly, but remembered her pale, stricken face and answered more gently.

  “In a joust or skirmish we do not seek to kill, merely capture.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. “You should have good practice, then,” she snapped back, but then she picked up the helmet and stalked across to him. “Here.” She thrust it at him.

  “No honeyed words of encouragement, oh heavenly damsel?”

  “My tongue is vinegar for oafs such as—oof!”

  The exclamation burst from her as he snatched her into his arms.

  “A kiss first, sweet lady?” he asked, dropping the helm behind him, trapping her legs between his before she could injure his shins. He blew a stray lock of hair away from her flushed face. “You seemed to like my kiss.”

  He lowered his head toward her, chuckling as she sucked her lips inward. “No? Not even when I ride out for you?”

  “Do not delude yourself, knight. You wage war for yourself.”

  Ignoring that, he flicked the old gold chain around her throat, thinking again how pretty her mouth looked when reddened. “This suits you well. I will seek to win you more today.”

  “I make my own way.” She was as stiff as a shield in his arms and twice as unyielding. The few women he had known had all told him bluntly that he was a one-night stand-in for their absent spouses: they had fought his clothes, not him, and afterward were keen for him to leave. Joanna was different: to win her would be the challenge of months, and to keep her the challenge of years. He smiled at the thought, not in the slightest daunted.