A Knight’s Enchantment

by Townsend, Lindsay

  But I do not want to!

  “My lord bishop?” he queried. “I would see the face of your captive. Is such a request beyond the ken of your guards?”

  Behind him he heard swords scraping in their scabbards as the soldiers went for their blades, but Bishop Thomas merely smiled.

  “You are a godless man, Hugh Manhill. Did I not promise a prisoner as a sign of my good faith? Will you honor your side of the bargain and allow me to speak to my alchemist?”

  Joanna tried to leap down from Lucifer but Hugh clamped his thighs more tightly about her and hoisted his shield before them. He trusted his men to watch their backs. “So talk. That is, as you say, what we agreed: a prisoner in exchange for you seeing your alchemist and speaking with her. I have kept my side of the bargain, but you will get nothing else from this meeting unless you show the prisoner’s face.” Even if it was David, he would not give Joanna up; not without his brother being de-hooded first so he could be sure he was David, and hale and hearty.

  “That I will not do, Manhill!”

  Hugh lifted his shield still higher. “Then you must make do with talk, and in my presence.”

  The bishop’s pale fish eyes narrowed but Joanna was not confounded. She began to speak in a fast spate of words. It was Latin, Hugh realized, a language he dozed through in church.

  Smiling again, Bishop Thomas replied and the two continued their exchange. Hugh said nothing. Although she was his hostage, he trusted Joanna not to betray him to his or his men’s deaths. Such evil was not in her.

  Still, he wondered what was being agreed, especially when she unclipped the purse at her belt and threw it underarm to the bishop. Thomas caught it, exclaiming a word that Hugh guessed was the Latin for “Done!” and then rubbed his mouth and chin with the bag, as if he was tasting what was inside. Beside him, the knight clutching the ropes tied to the hooded hostage let them fall into the mud.

  It was a signal for the party to depart and they did so with speed, Bishop Thomas wheeling his horse around without a single further word of farewell or anything else. He and his men galloped off into the murk, leaving their hooded prisoner stranded on his horse in the pouring rain.

  Again Joanna tried to leave Lucifer’s back, but Hugh whispered urgently, “Let us see who it is first.”

  She nodded and sagged against him, while he debated whether to ask her what she and Bishop Thomas had talked about. Since she did not seem in a mood to say much, he gestured to two of his men, who briskly rode alongside the abandoned prisoner.

  “You are safe now,” Hugh said, repeating the same in French and German, the two other languages he knew smatterings of. At his signal his men began to untie the strings surrounding the hood.

  He braced himself. “Now we shall see.”

  The rough hood fell away and Joanna gasped.

  The prisoner was Mercury.

  Chapter 22

  The Frenchman smiled and continued to smile as Hugh cursed steadily. Joanna could feel the heat of anger pounding off him and heard the words rumbling in his massive chest before they spilled out above her head in clouds of fury.

  “That damnable, treacherous, misbegotten, lying, thieving, devious bastard! No brother, no father, no hostage worth having, only this grinning ape! I wager he has not got back his wits, either!”

  He barked out a question to the hapless Mercury, who nodded and tapped his forehead. Joanna saw that the Frenchman was hale and well fed, with a high, good color. His mimed claim that he still had no memory seemed highly unlikely, but she was not about to share that thought with anyone, least of all Hugh, who was dark-faced with anger.

  “All those fine words of negotiation and he meant none of them! And you gave him gold!”

  “Not all of it,” Joanna said hurriedly. She did not want Hugh venting his fury on her, but he swung down from his horse to berate her face-to-face.

  “Ah! So you do not trust him fully! This your great lord and master! How can you serve him? Why did you speak in Latin to him? What were you plotting with him?”

  She heard the hurt beneath the anger and kept tight rein on her own temper. “There is no plot. I spoke in Latin so my lord would know I spoke freely. I gave him part of the gold as a sign of my continued good faith.”

  “Faith? Pah! Your bishop has none. He would have taken you back if I had allowed it and left me with this idiot! He even put David’s ring on the fellow, so I might be the more convinced! Teeth of the devil! I will have the ring back, for sure!”

  Joanna went cold, wondering if Hugh had imagined the worst: that David might be dead.

  “That sly bastard!” Hugh raged on. “Mercury, or whatever you call him, is the same height as David, the same build. I did not dare to hope too much, but I so wanted to believe.”

  “So did I,” said Joanna, thinking of her father.

  “And you!” Hugh swung a pointing finger at her as if it was a deadly sling. “Would you have gone along with this deception? If I had agreed to your leaving in exchange of this lump of French turf, would you have said anything? Or said nothing and tripped back into your bishop’s meaty arms?”

  “I did not know.”

  “Then why were you speaking in Latin?” Hugh kicked the ground before Lucifer, raising a huge divot of mud. “If you had nothing to hide, why not use English?”

  “I have told you why already,” Joanna began, but Hugh cut across her.

  “He is an oath breaker of the vilest kind!”

  “Here.” Joanna was sick of being harangued. She tore off her veil and the skull-crushing mail cap and flung both at Hugh. Dropping off Lucifer’s back so the massive horse was between them, she began to blunder back to the castle through ranks of riders who were suddenly intent on the rain clouds or their saddles. Only Mercury continued to watch, as bland and seemingly as unconcerned as a hermit in a cave.

  “Joanna, wait.”

  She plodded on a few more paces, her shoes sinking ankle-deep in mud when Hugh raced up behind her and scooped her into his arms.

  “What of Mercury? Lucifer? Beowulf? What of David’s ring?” she demanded, staring at the waterlogged ground. She did not want to look at his handsome, grim face.

  “I have the ring already, you may be sure! As for the rest, my men will take them in. Beowulf may come with us, but that is no grief to me.”

  “Let me down, Hugh.”

  “You would sink nose-deep in this.”

  She felt too dispirited to fight him. “Do you think you are the only one who has lost by today’s exchange?”

  He acknowledged her point by a small nod, but would not let the matter go. “I know you have your father to worry about, but you are both part of that creature’s household. David is accused of sorcery. He has already spent time in that damnable oubliette!”

  Do you think alchemists immune to such a charge? Joanna bit down on the retort and swallowed it. Bishop Thomas had told her in Latin that her father was well and safe, working at alchemy again and outside the donjon. If true, that knowledge was as precious as gold to her, but how could she share it with Hugh? It would bring home the loss of his brother more keenly. Unwilling to flaunt her small good fortune, she said nothing.

  “He never looked back at you when he rode away.”

  “I know.” Desperate to put a stop to their quarrel, Joanna rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She wished they were still in the village, where loyalties were straightforward. “Since I am still here, what plans have you for me?”

  “I suppose you think I should set you up tomorrow with horses and guards and send you back to West Sarum.”

  “How can I answer that, honestly, Hugo? I know you feel ashamed that I am your hostage, but you must do what you think is best for your family.”

  “Family! A fine breed, with a father who gives no help, an elder brother who never asks, and David, who dreams his way through life.”

  “A Templar, and yet a dreamer?”

  “You did not know him as a boy.” Hug
h touched her cheek. “You are cold, as well as sodden. Time to bear you indoors.” He brushed beads of water off her forehead, as if oblivious to the fact that the rain was still falling. “I like it when you call me Hugo.”

  The name, a half-endearment, had slipped out without Joanna realizing it. “I am cold,” she agreed quickly, aware that she would not get away tonight, from Hugh or the castle.

  And truly, did she want to anymore?

  I am a womanish fool. I have fallen in love with my own hostage taker.

  Why?

  Because Hugh Manhill Destroyer is also Hugo the bee-charmer.

  Because he cares and burns so greatly.

  Because he laughs with me, and makes me laugh.

  Because he is stupidly, abundantly jealous of Bishop Thomas.

  Because he accepts me as an alchemist.

  She counted the reasons, all logic and sense, while her body was enclosed in the solid, baking furnace of his arms and her mouth yearned to kiss him all over.

  Where do we go now? Hugh was thinking as he strode toward his father’s keep. Joanna was quiet in his arms, no longer shaking, but for how long would their truce last? For how long could he, in conscience, hold her?

  If she were a man, would he be troubled? Probably not. But he would have left a man to wade through the grime. As for what had happened in the village between them…

  Hugh grunted as a rush of memory and desire burned through him. Even in the midst of his fury against the bishop, a small, treacherous part of his mind, and all of his heart, was glad. Because Thomas had played false, he had been given a legitimate reason not to release Joanna.

  Had the hostage been David instead of Mercury, would he have given up Joanna?

  I do not know. It is no grief to me that I did not have to find out.

  He was within the bailey, passing the stables. His men trudged a few paces behind, soaked through to their skins and doubtless eager to steam in the comfortable heat of the fires in the hall and kitchen. He went into the largest stable, where the warhorses would be bedded down for the night.

  “Lads, to me!” he called, giving each a small coin as the grooms appeared from shadows and corners and hay piles. “Off you go to the kitchen tonight.”

  He let Joanna down onto the beaten earth floor, saying to the final three grooms, “Bring towels, blankets and a brazier, plenty of food and wine, and there will be another penny in it for each of you.”

  The lads hurtled into the pouring rain and he set Beowulf to watching the horses, knowing the hound would alert him to any trouble. As his men entered the stable, the great chargers soon were settled for the day and, after a few snorts and kicks of the wooden partitions, lowered their glossy heads into their food buckets.

  “Let my father know that the lady Joanna and I are in the chapel, praying for my brother’s safe return,” Hugh told his captain. The man saluted and left with the rest of the troop, his footsteps fading into the drilling rain.

  “He will not come seeking you?” Joanna had already guessed where he wanted them to sleep tonight. As she had not protested, he took that as a good sign that their truce was holding.

  “Not in this weather.” He avoided the stable lads’ straw pallets at the darkest, narrowest end of the stable and drew together a fresh bed of straw behind the doorway. He sensed Joanna watching and glanced at her. “When the food comes, we can eat and I will escort you to your chamber if you wish. Or you can stay here. The day is very wet.”

  “It is,” she agreed.

  “The horses will help with warmth.” He decided to give her another chance. “Though if your prefer somewhere with a fire?”

  Joanna looked from him to Lucifer and back. “I am becoming more accustomed to horses.”

  “It comes with use,” Hugh agreed, praying that he did not look smug.

  The lads had done him proud, he thought some time later, when it was full dark outside and the rain hissed in the black bailey yard. Joanna was sitting on a sweet-smelling mass of hay, warming her bare feet by the brazier. Beside her was a comfortable bundle of blankets, and he had taken possession of the flagon of spiced mulled wine.

  “More leek porry?” He nudged the small cauldron with his knee. It was a meatless day but they had eaten handsomely. For once, Sir Yves’s greed had served him and Joanna well.

  Joanna shook her head. “I have eaten too much already. Those cheese tarts were delicious.”

  “You have a crumb,” he lied, and swiftly brushed away an imaginary speck on her chin. He felt her tremble and knew it was with desire, not fear.

  “Quicksilver darling.” He loved her speed, the shimmer of her when she was relaxed and happy.

  She gave him a look. “I meant to say this before. Quicksilver is Mercury, and that is male.”

  He leaned across and hugged her, amused by her teasing, but Joanna’s face clouded.

  “Who is Mercury? Why did my lord give him up?”

  Hugh thought of the Frenchman, a hostage he did not want. Resentment bit into him afresh. “Who would want to trouble with him?” he growled. “Without his memory he can tell us nothing of his kin. He is an empty cup that has to be filled and housed. As your lord knew well.”

  Joanna sat up straighter, accidentally spilling her drink into the straw. “Hugh, I am sorry. Mentioning such a matter was a mistake.”

  Because you were hoping we would make love? Hugh stood up and strode into the darkness of the stable. To say that would be crass, crude, and unkind, but his tongue seemed to burn with the unsaid words. He looked back and saw her standing up, poised ready to face him, and wished anew that she was his, wholly his.

  He wanted to say something caring to her, but what his mouth actually said was, “Your lord! How can you call him that? A greedy, lustful, pig! How could you lie with such a leper?”

  The dreadful accusation fell into the darkness between them, a black cave of silence and despair.

  “And you are perfect?” she spat in return, her eyes bright and pooling with unshed tears. “What are you, if not a brutal man who earns his bread by war? What are you, if not a kidnapper!”

  Anger at his cloddish stupidity at hurting her afresh merged with rage at her constant defense of the loathsome Thomas. Why could she not admit the fellow was a running sore in the world of men? He strode back toward her. “You defend him! Him! Bishop of West Hell!”

  “He is a man of spirit.”

  “But I am a man of flesh.” Hugh reached her and wrapped his arms about her. “And you a woman of copper and flesh. You are mine.”

  “What I meant to say—”

  Determined to love her—really love her; have her admit to him, in sobbing, panting breaths, that he was the greatest lover, the champion, the first and last—Hugh did not let her finish. He began to kiss her deeply, savoring the sweetness of her mouth. Her tongue skimmed his lips and teeth as she kissed him in return, her fingers pulling at his clothes. “Hugo!” she moaned, writhing against him like a spiraling flame.

  To slow her down, lest she please him so much he could not restrain himself, he took both her wrists in one hand. Kissing her again he unlaced her gown, freeing her breasts.

  Call me lover, greatest, champion, he wanted to say, as he lowered his head and lifted her, caressing her breasts with his tongue. Tell me you want me all day, each day, every way. Ride me, have me lance you, give me your breasts and mouth and hair and arse.

  He wound a brawny arm about her thighs to keep her raised and off her feet and cupped her budding petals of breasts, their silken warmth stoking his own desire. Her dark nipples stood out, proud and taunting. He licked and kissed them again, her fierce upward arching to his tongue making his own loins leap in answer.

  He wanted to put her on hands and knees in the stable, flip up her skirts, and go into her like a stallion. Instead he dropped her softly into the hay and, still fondling those sweet little breasts, he drew her onto his lap, running his free hand up and down her legs. She gasped and ground her hips against him
.

  “You are as dark and wanton as a girl from the harem,” he said against her ear, nipping her lobe softly between his teeth, distracting her as his hands drew up her skirts. “I may not read but I have heard of such women: girls in silks, smelling of ginger and honey, with jewels in their hair. Girls who dance.”

  “I cannot dance.”

  “No?” He fluttered his fingers up and between her thighs, dipping into her most delicate softness, delighted at how pliant and honeyed she was. She closed her eyes, her fingers clutching his shoulders, her hips bouncing and dancing in response to his caress.

  “Alchemist by day and dancer by night, eh?”

  Joanna was almost beyond speech. Hugh’s fingers seemed to be trailing everywhere, elevating her body and freeing her mind. A fragment from the Song of Solomon drifted into her mouth and out of her lips, “‘I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.’”

  He laughed and she was pleased with his laughter, but she wanted to touch him and he would not let her. Each time she tried to reach him with her hands—even so far as caressing his chest—he would block her with his hands.

  “But you are lovely!” she burst out, kicking her feet against him in sheer frustration.

  He grinned, his eyes bluer than any sapphires she had seen. “You are a naughty, wicked little harem girl. If I were a groom in an eastern lord’s palace and caught you out-of-doors, I would use you thus.”

  He tossed her lightly back into the hay and, as she reared toward him, caught her round the middle and lifted her hips and legs. Head down, she tried to stretch to sweep her fingers across Hugh’s back, but then he began to touch her again and she was helpless with pleasure.

  “You smell delicious.” Hugh lightly spanked her bottom and stroked her dark intimate curls. Soon he was patting between her legs and slapping her buttocks, alternating his attentions swiftly between each sweet place, and she was a growing rush of heat and delight. He lifted her higher and higher, patting and slapping, and the whole stables seemed to be glowing and she was as hot as the brazier and Hugh was glowing, too, and when he flicked her breasts with the tips of his fingers the rush of sweetness poured through her in a golden haze.