Ah, my knight. He felt a bee himself, drenched in honeydew. She was as potent as mead, and far sweeter. How had he ever thought her otherwise?
He squeezed her finger slightly, yearning to touch more of her.
“Let us dance first,” he said, praying she would agree.
She nodded and the blood hummed merrily in his ears, louder than the bee swarm. This intensity was new to him—was it also for her? Did she feel the same?
She was swishing along beside him, her long skirts rustling like fallen leaves. She was in red again, with blue sleeves, gaudy as a kingfisher. She was studying the village: the tidy garden plots, the small, neat thatched houses, the sturdy church. Seeking a way to escape, he guessed. Why did she have to be his hostage? Why had his idiot brother fallen into the clutches of his unholiness, the bishop of West Sarum? Her lover.
Hugh fought down the black anger that swirled in his chest, piercing him through, as hard a crossbow bolt. Suddenly he wanted to be away, fighting, smashing his lance into helmed knights who fought for Thomas.
“Would you ever wish to live in a place like this?”
Her question doused the black rage. He heard the slight catch in her voice—regret? desire?—and answered truthfully, “When I was a lad I would hang around the farriers, helping them with the horses. I often thought then that had I not been a knight, I would have been a smith, perhaps in a village like this one.”
“I can see you as one,” Joanna replied. “For sure you are hearty enough. How would I fare in this place, you think?”
He heard a faint clicking noise and realized she was clenching her teeth: perhaps she felt she had given away too much, or asked too much? Did she fear his mockery?
“Well, you are not yet a crone, so you could not be a wise-woman,” he began, grinning as she glowered. “But as a cook, why not?”
“A cook?”
“A baker. You are used to furnaces.”
She smiled, unconsciously swinging her hand in his. “Would we do well?”
Relishing the “we” Hugh said, “In certain seasons, yes. The winters would be hard, but then the dark and cold of the year is hard for everyone.”
“My mother loved the snows. Did you and David play snowballs when you were boys?”
Be wary here. Hugh sensed a past that was less than happy. Two months ago, before he had met Joanna, he might have asked her directly about her mother, but now he appreciated subtlety and tact. Joanna would tell him when she was ready.
“Every moment we could. And throwing stones, like the young ones here.”
“Older ones, too.” Joanna raised their clasped hands, pointing her fingers at the churchyard. A row of men were throwing rocks the size of a man’s fist into the road beyond, while the women arranged trenchers of cheese, salad, and dried fish on the tables.
Hugh decided he would join in the rock throwers but, as he and Joanna strolled into the churchyard, he heard the distinctive wail of pipes. The drummers and pipers had finally brought out their instruments, and the dance would soon be beginning.
She had never danced but she would. If Hugh faced down warriors without flinching, she would master this slippery maze of steps. Joanna held her head high and stepped out as his lady, their hands scarcely touching as they weaved and circled.
It was a carol dance, round and round with the women and men of the village, all laughing and gasping and in their brightest holiday clothes, sometimes linking hands with those beside them, sometimes breaking from the circle and weaving through the other dancers like a shuttle. Hugh clasped her hand throughout, going with her on her swaying progress, not releasing her fingers even when the other men slapped their thighs in time to the beat of the drum. He was the tallest and best made of the company, with the blackest hair, the bluest eyes.
“You like?” he called as the dance became a spiral, winding down to a single point where all became huddled in a tight embrace.
She laughed at him in answer, flicking her skirts and kicking up her heels. At the rim of her eye-line she noticed the village priest standing in the church porch, arms folded and frowning, but then he too was drawn into the festival by an old man giving him a tall beaker of beer. The other villagers were like herself: wide-eyed and smiling, sneaking little glances at Hugh.
Then the dance flung her against him, to a thumping of drumbeats and her pounding heart. He was a tower, a donjon, but living, with his own racing heart that she could feel as her hand came to rest against his chest.
“Up we go!” He lifted her out of the tight mass into his arms and high into the air, above the heads of the smirking villagers. Avoiding the children who had slammed into the group to join the fun, he carried her away from the dance.
“I wish to go on!” she protested, but not too loudly and she did not struggle. Not with others watching; that would be unseemly.
“I saw you licking your lips, my lady. I thought a mug of ale.” His eyes challenged her to contradict him, so naturally she did not.
“That will be welcome. Thank you.” She inclined her head and, because it was more comfortable and she did not wish to see the knowing looks of the village matrons, she rested her flushed cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes as she breathed in his scent.
The day slipped away in music and dance. Sometimes she and Hugh rested and he would serve her with ale or small pieces of fish and cheese, whatever she fancied. He introduced her to the elders of the village and the richest widow of the village, who patted Joanna’s cheek and called her a lucky girl. As the afternoon drew on, the ale became beer, then mead. The priest was scowling again and she had no doubt that if his church had been open, he would have preached a fearsome sermon the following Sunday. She said as much to Hugh, who grinned.
“No matter, even if our king and pope make peace, for we shall be away from here by then. Ah—they are bringing the sweet things. Will you have something?”
It amused her to discover that he had so sweet a tooth. “Surprise me,” she said, sitting for a moment on one of the stools ranged round the churchyard for just that purpose and listening to the drone of chatter and bees as the musicians also took a rest. It was only when Hugh was returning from the newly laden trestle table with a tray of tiny sweet flans, stewed cherries, and other delicacies that she realized she had lost a chance to slip away.
She had forgotten to escape.
Hugh drank from another cup of mead, seeing the sunset reflected in its golden depths. He passed the cup to Joanna, who took a sip. “I thought the villagers would be abed by now,” she remarked.
“Not at May-time. They will dance past moonrise and beyond.”
“Not all.”
Hugh too had noted the steady exodus of couples from the dancing floor and could hear the whisperings in the nearby houses and hedges. “Do you wish to leave? If we do not go now, we will be best to wait for sunrise: the road is unfit to travel at night.”
She did not contradict his lie about the road but shook her head. “May I see the bees again? I wish to see how they bed down.” Her eyes sparkled with more than the mead. “You did promise to tell me more of bee lore, and I think we have time.”
The dance had stopped again, while one of the drummers had gone off to be sick in a garden—all the musicians were by now very drunk.
He nodded—he did not want to speak lest he say something that made her change her mind. As couples had done earlier, they left the churchyard by the small wicker gate, stepping out in the direction of the setting sun.
They strolled hand in hand, then arm in arm, Hugh feeling the whole of his right side tingling because that side was closest to Joanna. She remarked on a primrose growing out of the side of a stone wall and he encouraged her to touch the moss and lichen garlanding the wall top, imagining her fingers gliding through his body hair as teasingly as they did over the mosses. From far off, he heard the piper start up again, a straggling series of notes, more wail than tune, and knew from her small smile that Joanna had heard it, too.
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He looked at her hands, noticing for the first time that they were ringless and glad that they were.
“Have you ever seen bees dance?” he asked.
“They do not!”
“Yes, they do. Look into a hive on a sunny day and you will see.”
“Only you could do that without being stung.”
“Perhaps.” Hugh neglected to mention that the old bee-keeper had been with him when he saw this, and Edward had opened the wicker hive so skillfully that none of the bees had been disturbed. He wanted to intrigue Joanna and entice her a little, not discuss bee stings. “I could mime their dance for you.”
“Sway your hips for me? Would that not dent your dignity with your people?”
“Do you see me undermined today, Joanna?”
She waved his question aside as he held open the gate for her through to the bee hives. “Where is Beowulf? And the horse?”
He smiled, knowing her nervousness over horses. “Both safe in the care of the priest, so you need not fret.” He did not ask if she wanted to know so that she might better plot her escape: the subject was a raw grief to them both, so why speak of it?
“Has your father blamed you all your life?”
So much for not speaking, Hugh thought, but then Joanna must still be on edge, still choosing how this encounter would go. He knew now that it was vital he gave her the choice, and he went along with the abrupt change of subject. “I did kill his lady wife, my mother.”
“And your father faults you, instead of himself.”
He was sure his puzzlement showed on his face and indeed she went on quickly, “A birth is no small thing, Hugh, and for your mother to have no midwife by her bedside from the start was unwise. But then it is easy to look back and see what might have been.”
“As you say.” He had known nothing of this. Realization was a shock and then a swift wave of anguish swept through him in a cold, numbing tide. After sorrow burst a blaze of anger: he found himself wishing that his father was here in the bee garden. He wanted to berate Sir Yves; he wanted to strike him to the ground and go on hitting….
Tasting black bile, Hugh turned his head so that Joanna would not think him furious with her.
Why did you raise the matter of his mother? Where are your wits? Joanna scolded herself, astonished at her own folly. But then she had wanted to say something to Hugh for days, ever since she had learned the sorry circumstances of his birth. She did not want him to blame himself anymore.
In truth, she was finding it hard to blame Hugh for anything, including her captivity. She could understand it. Was she not also striving to free her father by whatever means she could?
Seduce Hugh, then, tonight. Escape while he sleeps.
Solomon’s wry, bony, trusting face lodged in her mind, so clear she could count the number of his teeth. Not to do her utmost for him would be a betrayal. Why should she not use the looks God had gifted her? Hugh thought her pretty, so why not exploit it?
Guilt is a luxury: indulge it later, when you are free, she warned herself, wishing, as she smiled, that there was some other way. To lie with a man again, even Hugh, was no easy matter.
She looked back at the towerless, tiny church, memories of the last occasion a man had been with her bleeding out into her mind from her memory, wounding her afresh. What if this time was the same?
“Joanna, what is it? You sounded then as if you were suffocating.”
Hugh had stopped and taken her in his arms.
Tell him the whole truth about your father! Tell him what happened to your mother! Tell him you are useless in a man’s bed!
She opened her mouth, but Hugh spoke first.
“You are all pink and bright in the sunset.”
His lips brushed against her forehead. His tongue flicked the tip of her nose and he lifted her slightly in his arms.
“Quicksilver little squirrel.”
He kissed her left cheek. His left hand brushed the side of her neck: a thrill of lightning in her veins. He kissed her right cheek. His right hand circled her back and she stood straighter and on the tips of her toes so she could meet his dancing fingers.
“Precious as salt.”
He kissed her mouth. Joanna felt as if she were dissolving into his kiss: only their lips seemed real.
“Sweeter than honey.”
He kissed her mouth a second time and she wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him closer still.
“Dance me this bee dance,” she breathed. “Dance it on me.” Her senses hummed as they trembled together, she amazed that so strong a warrior could shake like gold leaf.
“I dread to harm you, sweeting,” he murmured. “So small and trim.”
He lowered his head and tongued her nipples through the cloth of her gown. “Do I do right?” he whispered, nuzzling between the shallow curve of her breasts.
In answer she touched him there, in the core of his manhood, tracing him through his jutting tunic. The knives and keys on his belt jangled as his hips jerked toward her hand. As his head jerked up, she caught and nipped his earlobe between her teeth, whispering, “You are my champion. You.”
They bore each other down to the ground, scrambling backward on their hips and heels to be in the shadow and shelter of a stone wall. The night was warm, or it seemed warm to Joanna: when Hugh muttered of the need to make a fire she shook her head. “Our cloaks will be enough,” she said, draping hers across his legs, ignoring his snort of laughter when he saw how little of him her cloak covered.
“We will need to bundle close later,” he warned.
“Show me this dance, my knight,” Joanna reminded him. She knew what would happen between them and she wanted to go on now, before she lost her nerve.
“What is it?” she stammered, as he seemed to hesitate. Was he listening? The villagers all seemed busy with dancing again. Did he fear being spied on? This place was private, surrounded by walls, bordered by bee hives—an onlooker would need to see through stone and wicker to see them. There were no trees overhead where a child could climb and stare.
“We have no haste, my lady.” He kissed her deeply. “We have the night. None will disturb us here.” He touched the lacings of her sleeves. “I will give you an array of sleeves to wear. What colors will you have? Gold, of course.”
“Blue, please,” Joanna whispered, staring into his eyes. Even his light caress on her shoulders made her almost forget the grassless, dusty patch of ground they were settled on.
“Red, too. You favor rich, deep shades. Tasseled belts.” He flicked the long ends of her belt, his hand resting between her thighs. He ran his fingers up, over her loins and belly and breasts; a light, sweet touch.
“There are wicker stands by the wall behind the hives. They will be easier to rest on than bare earth.”
He rolled her away from him, lightly smacked her rump, and walked—in an awkward crouch—to the row of wicker hurdles. In moments he had made them a rough couch, topped with his cloak and a blanket.
Joanna squeezed a corner of it between her hands, sending a look of silent inquiry to Hugh.
“Saddlecloth,” he said, freely admitting, “I carried it here with me. Did you not notice?”
“I was watching the sunset,” Joanna lied, conscious that she had been watching him and flustered by her lack of attention. How had she missed such a ploy, such presumption? Why was she not angry now?
“It is for comfort, no more,” Hugh said gently. “You are queen tonight.”
I am safe, Joanna thought, and a tension relaxed within her. She settled onto the wicker “cradle,” finding it surprisingly springy, and beckoned to Hugh. “Will you unlace my shoes? They pinch a little after our dancing.”
Chapter 17
She was nervous. Not afraid as she had been—tension no longer strung her up like a bow close to snapping point—but she was still wary. Hugh moved very slowly and spoke in a low, slow voice, as if she were a mare to be gentled.
She has known no pleasure in her mati
ng with the bishop, he thought, and he was sorry for that, but relieved, too. Bishop Thomas was no seductive rival for him to worry about.
“Bees are fluffy, did you know?”
The question diverted her: her fingers stopped clawing at the saddlecloth. “How do you know that?”
“They must be, to collect pollen on their legs as they do. And they love the sun.”
She smiled. “Who does not?” She lay down on top of the blanket, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. He saw the dark, inviting hollow of her breasts and felt his manhood twitch afresh. “What else, my knight? This is ancient news on bees.”
She was a naughty tease. For two finger snaps he was tempted to straddle her, hoick up her skirts, and spank her, but instead he laughed.
“New, eh?” He sat cross-legged beside her, walking his fingers up and down her spine. “Bees flavor their honey.”
“How so?”
“They love the red and white clover and love to gather from those; the honey they make is sweet but not over-flavored. They take from borage and the honey they make is clear and pale. If they fly to dandelions, their honey is yellow.”
“How do you know so much?”
Hugh smiled. “I have a liking for sweet things, remember?” He felt about his belt and found the small flask he had been given earlier that day by the village elder. “I have some honey here, the liquid, and honeycomb, too.” Unless it had melted into his linen undershirt, which was quite possible, given the heat he was feeling. “Will you taste?”
She nodded and held out her hand but he shook his head. “Allow me.” He leaned closer, his heartbeat racing as she did not draw back. “Close your eyes.”
He almost whooped with triumph when she did so but fought it back down his throat and dribbled a small portion of honey onto his personal eating spoon. As he held it up, the setting sun flared along its metal edge in a burst of light: a lucky sign, he hoped.
“Mmm, it tastes quite smoky. Is this the dandelion honey?”
A Knight’s Enchantment Page 14