A Knight's Enchantment

by Lindsay Townsend

  “To do what?” Joanna asked.

  He knew she was as jumpy as a caged wren and divided in herself. How she must have hated letting slip that remark on riding! It made him wonder even more sharply what her true relationship was with Bishop Thomas. And what were her true feelings for him?

  She liked him, yet not. She was drawn to him, yet constantly pulled away.

  You hold her against her will. What do you expect?

  “Were it not for David I would take you wherever you wish to go,” he said.

  Surprise glittered in her eyes, bright as unshed tears, and in truth he was startled and ashamed himself. He had not meant to admit anything.

  “But we are in this world, not heaven,” he added, feeling hotter and more squalid than ever. He was unused to thinking on matters of fault or conscience—in the joust there was one winner and no blame. Joanna was forcing him to question his assumptions, and it made his head ache as if he had toothache. Was this how monks felt, all the time? “I am sorry.”

  The glitter in her face had been replaced by flat suspicion. “That is easy to say.”

  “I can teach you how to evade capture. Then, when you are freed, you will remain so.”

  She glowered, seeing through his feint at once. “You look for an excuse to handle me!”

  In the joust he would have charged and grappled, but this was a girl.

  “Come then,” she goaded. “Am I not your father’s servant? All maids are fair game, to men such as you.”

  He backed away. “Not me.” As a squire at tourneys he had seen wenches thrust weeping and terrified into the pre-dawn when they were hauled out of the tents by the grooms and guards of the lords who had idly bedded them for the night. He had vowed then to leave servant lasses alone. “It is no sport to—”

  He was going to add “bully” but she swung at him.

  “Oof!” He had avoided her fists, but she did not miss with her flailing feet. As she blazed in afresh to batter his shins he lunged low, hooking her off balance. She yelled and began to pummel his back as he hoisted her over his shoulder.

  “Watch your head,” he warned as she reared up, and then he jolted with her down the corridor, his knives and keys clashing, calling out to a startled page, “The lady has twisted her ankle.”

  He carried her to her chamber and let her down. “I am no bully,” he said, spreading his arms to prevent her escape.

  She said nothing, merely stared at his arms.

  “Yes, yes!” He dropped them down to his sides. “But how else will you stay to listen?”

  “By your talking sense!”

  He laughed, amused by the aptness of her complaint, and after a moment she joined him. He sat down on the stone floor, patting his knee, delighted for an instant when she sat down his legs and then a moment later wondering how he could move her off his calves onto his thighs.

  But aching legs or not, this was progress and he was determined to make the most of it.

  “I am trying to win David’s freedom by other means than hostage exchange. I have sent a messenger to the Templars, reminding them he is their man. I hope to have an answer from them soon, one where they agree to help.”

  Hugh thought he sounded too apologetic but Joanna had not moved yet. Did she know that, sitting on him like that, she was making his calves burn? She could, most easily, for she had a hefty streak of mischief. But then, watching her by the torchlight, he admitted that she made other parts burn, too, parts that were more personal and distracting.

  And you considered her too sallow and drab, his conscience goaded in the voice of his father, but he knew better now. Her skin always glowed with health, and in summer she would be as glossy as a beech nut. He imagined unlacing her gown, revealing that slim, vibrant figure and small, softly peaked breasts. Would her nipples be as dark and luscious as her lips?

  “I know my hands are stained, you need not stare.”

  Hugh hastily withdrew his gaze from her bosom and directed his attention to her face. She looked thinner, he thought, his guts feeling to shrivel inward with shame.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” he asked for something to ask, wishing afresh that she was not his hostage.

  She shook her head. “There is only me and my father now. My mother died when I was ten.”

  He heard the ache in her voice, saw it in her dark eyes, and wished he could bring her mother back for her. He had always thought himself lost, having no mother, but to have known a mother’s love and lost it when still a child must be worse.

  “It must be good to have a brother.”

  Joanna had the faraway look he often saw on her face when she was working. Swiftly he agreed: “It has its moments.”

  “Are David and Nigel your only close kin?”

  Hugh nodded. He thought of Nigel, the eldest of the Manhill clan, the one blessed by birthright and fate, the handsome, golden boy, the rich, everything-falls-into-my-lap Nigel. He did not want to sour his mouth by speaking of him.

  “Your father…is he the same with David and Nigel as he is with you?”

  He knew what she meant but did not want to talk about his old estrangement with SirYves, either. Yet, because he was her knight and he did not wish to be accused of discourtesy on top of keeping her against her will, he said carefully, “Father and I cannot be peaceful together. It may be we are too alike. He and Nigel are close.”

  “And David? Sir Yves has not quarreled with David, has he?”

  “More that my father does not think of him at all.”

  Because that was bleak and pitiful and he wanted to distract her, tempt her to eat, and see her smile—and how will she do that as your captive?—Hugh held out his hands and shifted sideways, rolling her gently off his legs. She caught his fingers and allowed him to help her to her feet.

  Hugh called to a passing page, “Bring us some bread and soft cheese, any pottage that is heated, and a jug of ale, if you please.

  “We shall eat in your workshop,” he said to Joanna, guessing she was too hungry still to refuse. “And then I will show you how to wrestle out here. I know your work and bed space is no place to roughhouse,” he added, pointing to the furnace and the many basins, jars, and glasses in the room.

  “Roughhouse,” Joanna murmured, as if she was tasting the term. She raised her brows. “Should we not do that before food?”

  “Of course, you are right,” Hugh said quickly, happy to agree.

  They ate a little first, anyway, while standing outside in the corridor. Hugh as a further delaying tactic had asked for more torches to be brought to light the space and, as these were placed in the wall sconces, he encouraged Joanna to taste each of the dishes the maids and pages had carried up to the chamber. As she was eating, he dragged her pallet out into the narrow landing between her room and the stairs.

  “Somewhere for you to fall, my knight?” Joanna queried from the doorway, pointing with her slice of “poor knights”—toasted white bread loaded with honey, pine nuts, cinnamon, and pepper.

  In answer, Hugh teasingly threatened to bite off part of her “pokerounce,” chuckling as she rapidly devoured it instead.

  “I am surprised your teeth are not rotten to the gums, given your love of sweets,” he observed. “And as for the pallet, I would not have you bruised, my lady.”

  With her mouth full, Joanna could not answer at once, but then she swallowed. “Nor would I have you required to make an account of your hurts to your squires, my knight.”

  Hugh noted her smile and took another sip of ale. “You are very confident, my lady.”

  “I have every reason to be so. You are trained in arms, my knight.” She folded her arms across herself. “Without a lance or sword you are no different from anyone.”

  “Perhaps not from any man, my lady.”

  “If you think me so disadvantaged, then you should wrestle as a one-armed man.” Still smiling, she leaned forward on her toes. “You should also pay me a forfeit each time I win.”

  “What
manner of forfeit?”

  “A chain or coin from Orri’s hoard.”

  “You drive a keen bargain,” Hugh replied, momentarily disconcerted by such a practical, mercenary answer. “It is custom for a lady to pay by kisses, and accept the same in return.”

  “Oh, I will pay and receive those, too. I always honor my debts.”

  Disquiet coiled in his mind. Was she so eager for gold?

  No. She seeks gold as the symbol of wisdom and healing.

  Then why did she want it?

  A face hovered in his memory: a man’s face, dark, with bright eyes. David had spoken of him, though he had not paid heed at the time and could not recall what his brother had said. But he knew that he had seen the fellow in the bishop’s donjon. Joanna’s kindred. Was he, too, like David, imprisoned and dependent on the whim and favor of Thomas? Would Thomas do such a thing to his own mistress?

  No sooner thought than answered….

  “You may have the hoard,” he said. “All of it.”

  He took another drink of ale to avoid looking at her, ashamed now of how he had glibly assumed that she needed no wealth save trinkets.

  “I will bring it to you,” he said, still without meeting her eyes. “And then I will return your bed to its proper place. It is too late now for any match between us.”

  He left before she could answer, wishing again that he could achieve his brother’s freedom by some other way.

  I will send another message to the Templars and offer all my prizes to the order, if they will but intervene on behalf of David and the other prisoners.

  He could only hope and pray it would be enough.

  Chapter 15

  Days passed. Joanna worked, missing her father, anxious about him, wondering how he was. Hugh spent time with her every evening, bringing food up from the kitchen himself and coaxing her to eat. She no longer spied on him when he practiced in the bailey yard. She had no time.

  He had brought her Orri’s hoard, leaving it on her workbench wrapped in a rough cloak. He brought her colored stones in the hope that they would contain rare ores. When a traveling artist came to SirYves and offered to repaint the keep’s great hall with a frieze of running stags, Joanna helped the man to make his paint and Hugh, who had a good eye for an amateur and would gladly have wielded the paintbrush himself, was persuaded to take his father hunting so they could work undisturbed.

  He cares for me, Joanna told herself at night, watching the rising, fattening moon and loathing its bland, silvery face. But still she knew he would not release her.

  Then a messenger returned to Castle Manhill, along with one of the bishop’s men, a priest Bishop Thomas sometimes used as a clerk. Joanna knew nothing of this until Hugh brought the man to her chamber.

  “You will know each other,” he said as the grizzled, bearded priest wheezed in the muggy atmosphere of the room. “Why not go out on the battlements and talk in the fresher air? It is a very bright and sunny day today. If you come with me—”

  The priest, wary of Beowulf sniffing at his crotch, was already backing away, but Joanna was determined to speak to him. She caught up with his burly figure as he stepped after Hugh onto the battlements and tugged at his travel-stained cloak.

  He turned to her, a protest forming on his lips, but glad enough to pause in the relative shelter of the keep while he gathered his breath to complain.

  Swiftly, Joanna spoke first. “Father Paul, have you news of Solomon, please? Does he still enjoy ‘Ego Sum Laedunum’?” She switched seamlessly to Latin, chanting her words as if repeating the lines of a song. “I will soon have much gold for my lord and am progressing well with my greater work,” she sang in Latin. “I will be most glad to return to my lord’s household, especially if I know that my father is in good health—he and the other guests,” she finished, thinking of David and Mercury.

  Hugh, who had been watching a flock of rooks rising from a nearby woodland rookery, baiting and playing on the rising breeze like black balls of fluff, now turned to regard her with a mild, quizzical expression, as if he knew exactly what she was doing.

  Father Paul stared at her, then Hugh, and answered stiffly, in English, “Solomon the alchemist is living and working at present within the palace of West Sarum. He sends his good wishes.”

  “And were you going to tell Joanna that?” Hugh asked, still mild, but with extra grit in his tone that had the priest swinging round and glancing with longing at the narrow door off the battlements. Beside Hugh, clamped as close as a burr, the wolfhound Beowulf growled softly.

  “That, and also that her lord is most eager for her return.”

  “And the gold?” Hugh prompted.

  Before Hugh could admit that she had gold now—and then the priest would demand to take it, the one thing she dared not allow to happen—Joanna pointed over the crenellations. “See! My lord’s standard!” She clapped her hands, allowing the priest to think she was in bliss merely at the sight of the flapping pieces of flag-cloth displayed below them in the bailey yard, where even now the horses of the priest, messenger, and guards were being tended.

  “I will tell our lord that you are looking forward to returning to his service. And that you, sir”—the priest bowed stiffly to Hugh—“are ready to go ahead with the hostage exchange for your brother.”

  “Most ready,” said Hugh, touching his sword belt. “But I see my father waving—we should go down to the hall.” He glanced at Joanna. “Will you come?”

  She shook her head. She had no time for a formal greeting and meeting and now, as they walked back along the narrow walkway, the priest muttered in Latin, “You have until the full moon, Joanna. Our lord told me to remind you of that.”

  “I have it always in my heart,” said Joanna, feeling sick again as her stomach rolled with anxiety and her mind tumbled with dread.

  Afterward, Hugh returned to her chamber earlier than usual, a few hours after lunch but before sunset. He leaned against the wall, watching her using her small bellows to tease the furnace into a steady, baking heat.

  “I am no fool, even if I cannot read,” he said. “I would not have told that priest about the hoard. He would have then taken it and you gained no advantage. What did he say to you on leaving? And do not give me the name of a song.”

  “He told me again that my father is well,” Joanna lied. She laid aside the bellows, ashamed of her deception but feeling she had little choice. Her first concern had to be for her father, just as Hugh’s must be for David. At times those desires worked in tandem, but there might be an occasion when they were in conflict. However much she longed to share with Hugh, she dared not.

  She sighed, rubbing at her aching head.

  “Come out with me today,” Hugh said. “At Manhill-de-Couchy, over the hill, the villagers have sent word to me asking for help. Why not leave this for a space and take a Sabbath?”

  Joanna flinched at the word, wondering if he had guessed that aspect of her past, but his face was thoughtful and still. “The break will do you good,” he said, inhaling deeply and frowning.

  She breathed in, too, and almost choked: the fume here was so dense.

  “I have just readied the furnace,” she murmured. “It would be a sin to waste it.”

  “Do what you can, so it can be left, then bar the door. I will set a guard and we can go. It is not far to ride,” he added.

  I shall be riding with him, pillion. My arms around his waist or his around mine.

  Joanna nodded and so it was agreed.

  “What is this quest they want from you?” she asked later as they rode out of the keep’s long gatehouse and longer shadow, pillion as she had hoped, with her sitting on the saddle before Hugh.

  “The lad would not say before my father, for fear of his demanding payment, or wary of his ridicule, but I know. It is the season for it.”

  Ridicule Joanna understood, and Sir Yves was a master of it. Yesterday, going to the kitchen for a pail of water, she had found Sir Yves berating the cook, scolding
the bald, harassed, skinny man for scorching a curd flan.

  “Can you not even do a simple dish?” Sir Yves had asked, hooking his fingers into his belt as he hitched it over his bulging belly. “Is it a new fashion now? Will you be frying my pottage next?”

  Joanna had interrupted the tirade by deliberately stumbling across the flagstones, but she had remembered it, and now she thought of Hugh, of his having to endure such scorn when he was a child.

  Spare your pity, he is grown up, she reminded herself, but she could not help touching his hand, a silent comfort that he would not even know was such. “What is it, then?” she asked.

  He squeezed her waist. “You will be surprised.”

  “A wolf, raiding stock? A wild boar? A deer in the wheat? What?”

  She sensed him smiling.

  “You will see.”

  He hugged her again—any excuse—and reluctantly spurred Lucifer on. The village lad had been pale and in a hurry, even refusing a bite to eat in the kitchen in his haste to return to tell the elders of Manhill-de-Couchy that help was coming.

  And if it was what he suspected, he would need his wits about him, not be distracted by Joanna’s warmth, the scent of her hair, the dazzling rush of inner light and weightlessness that exploded in him each time her thighs brushed slightly against his. He tried to gather himself.

  She is your lady and you are her knight. Treat her with all courtesy.

  He asked after her health. Was she warm enough? Too hot? Would she like a drink of mead from his flask? Did she have any questions for him? Would she like him to do anything for her?

  “Tell me the local name of that flower,” she answered, swinging about and fixing him with a steady look, as if she knew very well what he was about.

  He stared at the thistle she was pointing at, growing out of a cart rut like a spear from a fallen warrior, and gave a grunt of laughter. “Shall I pick it for you, my lady?”

  “Only if you wear a glove.”

  “When are you going to stop mentioning gloves?”