He meant the gold, Joanna knew. She had spoken of it eloquently in her previous messages and the bishop was interested. But she would not hand it to a messenger.
“That is between my lord and me,” she said quickly.
Sir Yves frowned at her interjection: in his eyes, her function at this meeting was supposed to be decorative, nothing more.
Hugh nodded. “Agreed. So when will this exchange take place?”
Sir John looked at them one by one, a ghost of a smile suggested on his narrow lips. “Today at sunset, if it please you all. My lord Thomas is returning to West Sarum this very day and can break his journey here to resolve this matter.”
“Do you trust him?” Joanna asked Hugh later. They had remained in the solar by the ruse of Hugh offering her a game of chess. She had accepted, though she did not know how to play it, and now they were bent over the chessboard on one of the chests, their heads close together. A maid was sweeping a twig broom slowly round the chamber: Sir Yves’s idea of a chaperone.
“What now?” Joanna whispered, pointing to the maze of pieces.
“Move your queen, to the fourth square. There!” Hugh whispered. He was playing both sides, and to Joanna’s amusement she was winning.
Hugh rubbed at his chin as if deep in thought and lowered his head still more, as if studying the board. “I do not trust the bishop for a moment,” he admitted. “And now, after hearing that news of David spending time in the oubliette, I understand why you do not trust him, either. Hell’s teeth! It makes me livid to think of it! Such filthy behavior is against all forms of honor.”
Joanna waited, not daring to ask Hugh what he meant by her not trusting Bishop Thomas. Memories of their night together swept through her, making it impossible for her to think. She had to know one thing, however. Half-knowledge would drive her mad.
“Do you blame me?” she asked. “For last night? Do you see how I was—acted—as a betrayal of the bishop?”
He stared as if her question surprised him, his ready color fading from his lean features, and then he shook his head at her. “No, Joanna. You have betrayed no one.”
Hope flared in her. “Truly?”
“Truly, wench! But now we must play what we have. If Bishop Thomas is at all honorable, if the meeting goes well, then there will be an exchange: you for David.”
Unless the prisoner was her father, Solomon, Joanna thought, wishing with all her heart and will that it would be. Her father was older than David: he would fare less well in the donjon or worse, the oubliette. She was very sorry for David, appalled that he had been treated so, but her wish remained the same.
Hugh picked up his own queen and cradled it in his large hand, tracing the rough-hewn features of the figure with a thumb. “We shall all be back in our own worlds: my brother with the Templars, should he care to trouble with them, you with your elixirs, me with the joust.”
He replaced the queen on the board with a small snap. “If you ever wish for a change, send me another of those golden tassels and I will bear you off to a tourney. The life is interesting, though I do not think you could practice your arts, which would be a pity. I think in the end you would miss it too much.”
Joanna gave him a sharp look, wondering if he meant as the bishop’s leman, but his face was solemn.
“Send me word when you find gold, eh?” He looked deeply into her eyes. “I will be glad to know you have attained your heart’s desire, my lady alchemist.”
Say more, please! Joanna felt the passion in her heart brimming as tears in her eyes. But what could Hugh say? He was a landless knight with less treasure than he had begun with at the beginning of the year: he could support her but not give her a home. She was as he termed her: an alchemist. For her to continue her work she must have a constant place, not a traveling tent.
He took her cold hand in his and warmed her fingers. “This is a maze, but we may yet find our way out.”
“I pray so,” Joanna said, stopping before she broke down and wept.
Chapter 20
Hugh braced his shield before Joanna, amused that it hid most of her except for her eyes and forehead.
“Metal modesty,” he chuckled, humor sparkling through him as she winked at him over her iron “veil,” but in truth this was a serious matter. He was wary of archers, even here in the stout wooden watchertower of the bailey, scanning down over the woodland and water meadows surrounding Castle Manhill. He had hung a dark pelt across the entrance to the tower so that he and Joanna would not be nicely framed by the doorway and ensured she was standing next to the thickest beam on the walkway.
Beside him Joanna was as still as ice—a trick he had seen her do before, in her work. She had been with him here for hours, long before sunset, without shelter from the steady drizzle or drink to warm her, but she did not complain. She knew it was vital they look out for the bishop’s party, be prepared as much as they could be.
“Here they come,” he whispered, aware that she did not see as far or as clearly as he did. In this gray, wet murk the galloping figures were drab and indistinct, only the pennants of their standards showing any color. He scanned the troop of men, counting two score guards, and felt a twinge of disquiet. Was treachery afoot here? He must ensure his father asked for many hostages before he and Joanna ventured out beyond the bailey walls; ensure too that his men were positioned on the walkway, armed with their bows.
Let Bishop Thomas feel some threat, also….
“Where is the hostage?” Joanna asked, her breath fogging his shield. “I cannot see in this rain.”
Hugh studied the horses, not the cloaked, bedraggled men. Picking out a spirited, very handsome piebald palfrey in the middle of the mass of horses and riders, he knew he had found the bishop. His was clearly the best horse, although he was far from the best rider.
Alongside him, not really flowing with his black mount, was a hunched figure, tall and slender enough to be David.
“There, just off to your left.” He gently guided Joanna’s head. “That man is galloping along with ropes tied about his middle; that is why he moves so poorly.”
“I cannot see his face,” Joanna lamented, standing up on tiptoe as she tried to see more.
Hugh swept the landscape for archers, glad that the rain was increasing. In this cloudy, muddy day it would be harder for a bowman to sight a single target, though there were always knives, spears, and maces, not forgetting long swords.
“I am useful to the bishop,” Joanna reminded him. “He has no reason to cut me down, least of all before witnesses.”
Her voice was breathy, as if she was trying to convince herself. If she was the bishop’s mistress, the cleric must have been with her only rarely—that, or the fellow was a brute. She had been unused to pleasure, that much was plain to Hugh. He felt no shame in what they had done last night. Joanna might think she had betrayed her loathsome master, but Hugh now knew she had been no volunteer in Thomas’s bed. When he thought of the man pawing her he went cold with rage.
“You cannot go back to him!” he burst out. He had been aching to say it for weeks.
“He has my father. He has David. I must.”
“But the donjon is not so terrible.”
It was not the wisest thing to say and his clumsy attempt to comfort failed as she turned her face to the timber column and shuddered.
“The oubliette is,” she whispered.
Ashamed that he had actually forgotten David’s brief stay in that prison, Hugh tried to clasp her shoulder, but she flung him off.
“Joanna.” He hated the hopeless bleaching of her face, the rain clinging to her eyelashes like tears.
“The prisoner could be your father,” he said, betraying his own brother by wishing, in that moment, that it was.
Another brief shudder ran through her, then she straightened. “How will this negotiation work?”
“We shall go down when my men are ready. Then we shall see.”
She was studying the prisoner. “I have not
seen my father ride for many years. It could be him, though why should my lord bishop bring him here? It makes no sense. The man looks tall in the saddle, as your brother would look.”
It amazed and humbled him that she was offering him hope.
“Unless it is another altogether. That fool Frenchman.”
He watched calculation slide across her pretty face. “Why should Mercury be brought forth from the donjon? It is clear he is rich: once he recovers his wits he will bring a huge ransom.”
“But your lord bishop is not a patient man.”
She nodded once, then started forward, almost breaking past Hugh’s shield. “See, see! That man there, that prisoner! He is hooded!”
Hugh had seen it already. The sight sickened him but, even as his mouth filled with foul bile, he swallowed it, and curses, in silence. Was Joanna not his hostage, too? He had no right to berate Bishop Thomas for any treatment of his captive, not when he had seduced Joanna. And, at the very beginning, gagged her with a glove.
I am perverted, he thought, as he took Joanna into his arms again and held her, trying to reassure her when nothing he did or said would make any difference. I am no better than Thomas.
With that bleak thought he guided her back through the doorway, under the wolf-skin pelt, and down the steps, taking care that she did not slip on the narrow wooden treads of the walkway staircase. He gestured to his men and walked her to his horse.
“We shall ride pillion, as always,” he told her. “But first we must get you ready.”
He did not trust the bishop. Whoever was beneath that black hood, be it David, the Frenchman, or a crazed assassin, he did not trust Lord Thomas.
Joanna sat before Hugh on Lucifer, feeling hopelessly conspicuous. He had assured her that the padding made no difference to her shape but he had not seen page Peter’s knowing smirk in the bailey yard, when she had been helped into the quilted coats.
“This is what knights wear under their mail,” Hugh remarked cheerfully. “These two little quilted jerkins belonged to a young squire, so they should fit.”
Joanna suspected that he had been the young squire, but could think of no tart response. The reunion with her lord loomed in her mind. She could dwell only on their forthcoming meeting and the poor prisoner. To ride bound and hooded—the idea and indignity of it, swaying about helplessly on a huge horse, not knowing where one was being led—was the stuff of nightmares. She did not think the wretch was her father, but whoever it was, she pitied him with all her heart.
Hugh squeezed her round her middle. “When we meet them, do not lean forward even if he whispers,” he warned.
“No, Hugh.” He had said this earlier. They were cantering now toward the mass of riders on the open meadows, Hugh’s own men flanking them in a huge defensive arc, and she was feeling increasingly hot in her extra clothes: two padded quilts and a heavy cloak over them.
“Keep your hands on Lucifer’s mane.”
“Yes, Hugh.” If she pointed, she could be vulnerable to a sword or spear thrust, coming up at her from a soldier on the ground and jabbing into her side. Hugh had spoken at length on her need to be steady and safe on the horse.
“I am no knight!” she protested, to which Hugh replied, “And if it were up to me, you would not be taking part in this. It is your bishop who insisted you be present.”
Joanna touched a hand to her forehead, feeling the cap of mail digging heavily into her skull. Hugh had insisted she wear this hat of chain mail, too; another piece of squire armor that made her head and neck ache like the devil.
“How do you stand this weight, Hugo?” she had whispered, when he “crowned” her with the cap and began arranging her veil about the hideous headpiece.
He had shrugged. “In time and with practice they seem as light as spiders’ webs.”
“To you, maybe.”
That remark had won her a brief smile then, but, as they rode, one end of her blue veil had become unpinned from the heavy metal links, flapping against her cheek and Hugh’s chest. Briefly she wished she were the silk, as she longed to smack Hugh for placing her in this position, Hugh and Lord Thomas between them.
The bag of gold hanging visibly amidst her skirts bounced against her thigh where, if she survived until tomorrow, she would have a bruise.
She had left some gold behind in her chamber for Sir Yves. “Always pay your debts,” Solomon had taught her and, whatever happened, she wanted Hugh’s father to respect her, and her skill.
The rest of the gold, the river gold and Orri’s hoard, was divided into two bags. One was hung about her middle. The other lay along her lower spine, padded and disguised with a shawl under her skirts. If she was searched, this second bag would be swiftly discovered, but she had done the best she could. She had to keep some gold back. If she gave Lord Thomas the bag on her thigh, she wanted to be able to promise more and, if need be, produce more gold later.
Hugh, if he suspected anything, was saying nothing. She did not know whether to be relieved or indignant. Did he truly think her as broad-hipped as this? But then, why did she care? She might be riding to West Sarum tonight, with the bishop.
It worried her that, quite apart from the gold, the mail cap and quilted jerkins were valuable. She was carrying a goodly ransom on her back, but it belonged to Hugh, not her.
“This mail,” she began, but Hugh understood without her saying more.
“Think no more of it. If you leave with the bishop tonight and the mail goes with you, ’tis no grief to me.”
He had not used that expression for a while, Joanna thought, wondering why his comment now should trouble her. Indeed, why was she fretting at all? If the prisoner was David and she returned to West Sarum, she would be with her father again. Once she was back with Solomon, she could work to free him from the donjon.
And for how long? How long before your bishop decides you have not provided enough elixirs, enough gold? What then?
Chapter 21
The rain had increased. It dripped in a steady stream off Hugh’s hair and trickled down the back of his neck. Lucifer snorted and pranced below him, delighting in the mud. Beneath knit and knotted brows, his men scanned the gray skies for signs of a storm—everyone knew lightning and armor was no good mix. Looking at their mail and helms, Hugh saw them furtively glance at his bare head and simple shield. Though none would dare say it to his face, he knew they thought his lack of armor madness.
Perhaps it was, but if treachery was afoot he wanted himself to be a big, juicy target, an obvious one, and not Joanna.
Damn you to hell and damnation, Father, for not giving me more men! Another two score soldiers and some good archers, and he would have settled this mess without Joanna needing to set foot out of the castle. Yes, a fight on these water meadows would have been risky, but more for the bishop’s men than his own, who knew the lay of the land. Yes, the hostage would be at risk in a skirmish, but he could have been snatched away, too. Besides, it was a man, and a man should expect conflict and danger in his life.
But his father had not budged on the matter of men, and Joanna had begged him not to change what had been agreed between him and the bishop’s messenger. “Would you have it said you are forsworn?” she asked. “Please, Hugh. I must speak to my lord. If there is news of my father, I must know it.”
Her pleas, even her tears, he could withstand, but not the likely horror and disgust that he would see in her face if he ignored her, went his own path, and then saw his attack on Bishop Thomas go amiss. In such a case, and in pure spite, the bishop might even order his hostage to be killed before the castle walls, in Joanna’s sight.
So, because he wanted to spare her such a deathly vision, because his father would take no chances except in the meat he would eat at dinner, they were all dancing to Thomas’s tune.
Here he was, waiting on a small rise in the sodden water meadows with his men encircled around him. Hugh could spot no weapons beneath the long capes and gloves and cloaks, but that meant nothing: h
e had his sword and daggers and a visible shield.
Here he was, unholy man of the church, prince of the grasping, of the venial and the accursed. Hugh wanted heaven to strike him down, but the rain continued to fall without thunderclaps, and the bishop, clothed in a cloak of sable and wearing a hat with a brim as broad as an ancient shield, was as pale and sleek as ever. Under his hat his face was dry and his voice seemed coated in the dust of old, unopened chambers.
“Manhill and his men. Disgustingly hearty as ever. We should conclude this business as swiftly as possible, then I can complete my journey.”
Hearing her lord’s voice for the first time in weeks, Joanna did not move. Hugh felt her pressed back tight against him, as snugly as when their bodies had been coiled together in bed. The memory steadied him, reminded him again what was at stake: her and David’s safety. He squeezed his thighs gently about her stiffened figure, trying to offer what support he could.
“Before we go on, I need to see the face of your hostage. I want to know who I may be getting.”
He watched the hooded and roped figure slumped in the saddle. It could be David. The man was the same height, weight, and lean shape as his brother. At the sound of his voice, the man had swiftly raised his hooded face as if he knew him. The man’s clothes he was less sure of, having little interest in what men wore, only in how they fought. He could not even remember the color of the tunic or cloak David had been wearing the last time he had seen him.
He scanned the hostage’s empty sword belt, his shoes, his neck. David had a red scar on his neck…but no, the hood obscured too much.
“I am waiting,” he said, glancing at the man’s hands. They were gloved, but he wore a silver ring on his smallest finger, a ring Hugh knew well. It had been his, his “lucky” tournament ring, his first gift from a lady. He had given it to David for luck, before his brother went off to Outremer.
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