“What is it, Hugh? What are you working yourself up to say?”
“I have treasure. Not a vast amount, but some. I hoped Thomas would bargain with me for David, but to tell truth, your bishop will not let David go so long as he suspects my brother has relics hidden away somewhere. I think he may be happy to trade for your father.”
He took her hands in his. “Let us get one of our kin out of there.”
He would do this for her. Joanna felt a great wave of feeling rising in her chest and up her throat. She bunched her hands into fists, trying not to cry. He would do this for her. No one had ever offered so much.
“I—I—”
Now the wretched, blistering tears were coming, tearing out of her eyes. She could no longer hold anything back—the memories, the vileness was all rising in her mind again. She sat on his knee and sobbed, weeping with a passion she had never dared to show before.
“Sweetheart! Please, do not cry. We can do much, there is no need to cry.” Hugh cradled and rocked her, horrified at what he had provoked. If he could, he would wrap her into his own heart to soothe her. “Do not cry, please do not cry.”
She was talking, the words bursting out of her. It made him think of the bee swarm; a dark mass, hurtling through the air, faster than the flight of birds. She was incoherent: between the speed of her speech and her sobbing he could make out nothing. He waited until she had stopped shivering, and brought out his flask of mead.
“Drink.”
She did so.
“I have a pie in a cloth: I filched it for breakfast this morning from the kitchens and only ate half. You have the rest.”
She did so.
He clasped her, stroking her limbs as he might do a startled horse. He whispered a charm to calm her. When she sighed, he said, “Will you tell me?”
She shook her head. “It is a maze. All things, all together. My mother and the bishop and my father and our life.”
Her mother, who had died. Not easily, he guessed. “For how long have you and your father—Solomon? How long have you and Solomon been on the run? That is what it is. There is something different about you both, quite apart from the alchemy.”
She looked at his hands and then his face and said nothing. He sensed a long habit of silence and of flight.
“What is a puffer?” he asked, to break the silence. If she answered this, she might begin. “You told me once that you were no puffer.”
“Someone who plays at alchemy. Or worse, who fakes it.”
“Were you ever accused of being such?”
“There were other accusations.”
She lapsed into silence. Hugh waited, recalling a doctor he had encountered once at a tourney, one who was dark like Joanna and sallow like Solomon. The doctor had been highly skilled, setting limbs himself instead of reading from a text and leaving the work to others. His nickname round the camp was “Hands-Washer” but he was much sought after. His patients survived. Hugh’s own Jewish healer, Simon, was much the same.
He said the word Joanna had spoken in the moment of her rapture. “That is a Jewish word, I think. A Hebrew word.”
He saw her blush. “It is a holy word and I should not have said it,” she replied.
“You are Jewish?” Hugh asked. He wondered why he had not seen it before, her likeness to Simon. But Simon was off in France and he had always thought of folk as from somewhere: from London, from Winchester, from West Sarum. He had never thought of race.
“I think my family was. Father does not speak of it much, it upsets him too much. I think his grandfather was forced to convert. I know some prayers, some words. Not enough.” She put her head in her hands. “Father and I are part of the lost.”
The poignancy of the phrase brought tears to Hugh’s eyes. He felt ashamed of his own unthinking faith. The Jews had killed Christ: that was all he had been taught, by a priest. A priest in the same church as Bishop Thomas.
“And your mother?”
“She was small, like me, but very handsome. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A strong face. She could sing. She knew many songs, many Hebrew songs. I hear them in my dreams but I cannot remember them properly by day.”
“What happened to her?”
“We were living in York. My father sold herbs and cures, my mother sold books.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Joanna’s mouth. “She taught me to read. She once showed me the name of God.”
Without thinking, Hugh crossed himself, then wished he had not. Joanna, deep in the past, did not notice the gesture.
“One day a priest came to our lodgings and wanted a book. He would not pay for it. He said we were people who should give everything, because of what we had done to Christ. Father and Mother talked after that and packed their things, everything we could carry. Even as a child I knew it was time we moved on.
“We went out of the city before curfew but the priest came back. He was on horseback and he rode ahead of his congregation. He wanted all my mother’s books. He pursued us.
“It was evening. A bloodred sunset. The trees were bare, I think. No, that cannot be right: there were burning haystacks. I cannot remember. I remember my mother running, Father running, me running. I do not know where we ran. I only knew we must not let the mob catch us.
“We came to a village where a troop of men drank at a tavern. They joined in the chase, and more: they burned parts of the village and sacked the bigger houses and burned their haystacks. Those people lost everything, because of us, and we were still running.”
Hugh could picture it too well. With shame he thought of his own men firing crops in Picardy, simply in high spirits. Why had I never thought of the farmers?
“In the end my mother dropped her sack of books and we finally escaped the troop and the raging priest, although our clothes were black with fire smuts. But on the road south of York she collapsed and died. Father said later that her heart must have burst with the effort.”
Joanna closed her eyes. “That priest must have all her books.”
She leaned her head on Hugh’s shoulder, turning her face toward him. He held her, breathing very slowly, very carefully. He wanted to smash that priest and even more smash himself, for being so thoughtless in his own past, and so blind to hers.
They sat together in silence, while birdsong returned to the woodland.
Chapter 25
Later Joanna stirred. “Love me,” she whispered. “Love me, Hugo. I did not know what loving was, until I was with you.”
Pity and desire warred in him, the one dampening the other, but then she began to kiss him and burrow her fingers into his tunic.
“Teach me, Hugo.” She was coiling her fingers over his flanks, tugging his body hair. “Show me more.” She giggled. “Show me your lance.”
He raised his eyebrows at that and she laughed afresh.
“Please, Hugo?”
He heard the tension in her voice, and the inexperience. How had he ever thought her a mistress of any man? She was a babe in such matters.
Still, it was gratifying to have her asking him to teach her, and he was glad to go along with her game. “I would see you first,” he countered.
Instantly she blushed a fiery red and her hands flew between her legs.
“My lady is not going first?”
She shook her head, adorable in her confusion. All that intellect, squirrel, and you know less than a young tavern lass.
“Then you must pay a forfeit of my choosing.”
He clasped her wrists. “Perhaps I should tie you up in ribbons, harem girl, and then release you at my pleasure.”
He meant it as a jest, no more, but she stiffened in his arms and suddenly he had a girl as unyielding as a log in his lap. Instantly he released her. “Did I hurt you?”
She was breathing quickly, her color fading. He brushed her arm and found it cold, her face the same. “Whatever it is, I do not blame you,” he said urgently, keen to reach out to her through whatever hell she was now reliving. “Whatever was done to you
, whatever act you were forced to do, I do not blame you. Tell me or not. Whatever brings you ease.”
Joanna looked into his anxious, loving face and was ashamed. She had told no one. But she wanted Hugh to understand.
She closed her eyes. “He forced me. One night he summoned me. I was so naive then! I thought I was going to him to answer questions about the movement of the stars. I never expected what I found.” Joanna lowered her head. “My father never knew. Why give him grief over what he could not stop?”
Bishop Thomas had ordered her into his bed. He had bound her wrists and gagged her—not to stop her from struggling or crying out, because she would have dared do neither, but because in some way seeing her tied thus had excited him. He had used her in that way for a month, then cast her off.
“He called me cold.” She had almost believed it. How could she do otherwise? Until she had met Hugh, Bishop Thomas had been the only man she had known in an intimate way. “Cold and useless in a man’s bed.”
“You are none such.”
“I know that now.” Joanna opened her eyes and looked at him. “I was never his true lover.”
“Nor was he yours.” Hugh kissed her hands, one after the other. “If he were, he would not keep you, or your father, in doubt of your safety.”
“It is worse than that,” Joanna admitted. “The reason I have been so keen to work, the reason I have tried to—to leave, has been because of this.”
Hugh said nothing but waited patiently.
Joanna took another deep breath and told him of the dreadful sentence she and Solomon were under. “I know I am your hostage, but I am in truth also the bishop’s. My father is out of the bishop’s donjon for the moment, but my lord made it clear that if I do not give him gold or the elixir to everlasting life within this month, then he will take Solomon away from his work and cast him into the prison pit, the oubliette.”
Hugh’s brows drew together in a frown. “Where is this pit again?”
“It is under the donjon floor. There is a trapdoor—”
“Truly, then, an oubliette,” Hugh muttered. “The worst kind of prison. And he cast David into it for a time.”
Joanna said nothing. She was thinking of her father and of the month. How many days now did she have left? How much longer had Thomas allowed her? She could not remember.
“This pit. How many are in there?”
She shook herself. “I do not know. I try to pass them water, bread, when the guards allow me to. The guards think it a great jest to open the trapdoor to a hand-span and have me drop things down into the dark.”
“Hell’s teeth! And David was down there. My dreamer of a brother, cast into that dark.”
“Yes. It must be a kind of hell.”
“We must stop this. There must be a way.”
“How?” asked Joanna. “How? I can use my skill to unlock the doors of the donjon, if need be, but I do not have the strength to fight the bishop’s guards. I could drug them, but they will be wary of my potions and perhaps ordered by my lord not to drink them.”
“Leave that to me,” Hugh said, and his mouth set into a grim line.
Chapter 26
The following day, Hugh gathered his men, put Joanna’s things onto a cart, and told his father they would be leaving.
“Excellent!” Sir Yves made no attempt to disguise his relief. He patted his large stomach, his pale blue eyes already looking past Hugh to the kitchen. “Thank Joanna for her excellent cordials and gold and such.”
“You could thank her yourself.”
“I think not. She might cry. I cannot cope with a weeping woman.”
That evasive answer was no more than Hugh had expected.
“You will take care of the Frenchman?” He distrusted Mercury and did not want the man with him and Joanna on their risky mission, but he seemed too lazy to do much harm at the castle. Ever since he had come here he had spent his days lolling in the solar, in Sir Yves’s private chamber, flirting with the maids and playing chess with the pages. Mercury spoke of fine wine and good food and, to Hugh’s private disappointment, Sir Yves was much taken with him.
“Oh, he is no trouble. Did you know he told me yesterday of a wine that aids the digestion? He is a fascinating fellow.”
“That is good,” Hugh answered, stroking the top of Beowulf’s shaggy head. He felt an old pain stir deep in his gut but ignored it: Sir Yves would never change.
“Are you leaving soon, then?” Sir Yves asked, looking over Hugh’s men and the cart. “You have not purloined anything of mine?”
“You ask each time, but you should know by now I do not do such things.”
“It is a jest, boy! Only a joke.”
Hugh moved toward him to embrace his father but Sir Yves backed off, his stocky frame radiating alarm. “You should be off. It is a long ride to where you are going.”
“It is,” Hugh agreed, as the feeling of a rusty knife in his gut increased. His father had not asked where they were going; he never did. “Give Nigel my good wishes, when his next messenger comes.”
“I will.” SirYves was smiling now that his younger son’s departure was close. “I will.”
“Does he always do that?” Joanna asked, when they were on their way. “Let you ride off without waving good-bye or giving you a blessing?”
“He has never done that for me, or for David. Only for Nigel.”
Joanna touched Hugh’s arm, wishing she could hug him. “Where are we going?” she asked. “You did not like to talk before.”
“My father’s castle has ears,” Hugh replied tersely. “I wanted no sermons on my foolhardiness. But I thought—well, Thomas can hardly hurl your father anywhere if he cannot have you. He would be an alchemist short.”
Joanna smiled, touched by his practicality. “There is more, though, is there not?” she persisted.
She felt him tug at her sleeves, then her skirts.
“Are these your grandest clothes?”
Joanna glanced at herself. She had dressed as she always did, in clean fresh under-linen and whatever gown was handy. Today, to her own private pleasure, it was the red gown that Hugh’s maid Mary had passed to her.
“You gave this to me, or leastways the younger Mary did. Are you saying it is poor?”
“Not to me, but it is not grand.”
“Fine gowns and sulphurs do not blend, Hugo. What is amiss?”
“Naught for me! But Templars are rich, and those at the Somerset house very rich, so we need to make a show. Before we reach Templecombe, we must change.”
“Where you sent messengers and have had no reply?” Joanna craned about to look at him. “Is that wise?”
“Let them refuse to my face to help their brother monk,” Hugh said, spurring on Lucifer.
At midday, when the troop stopped at a river ford to water the horses, Hugh’s squire Henri raised the question of her clothing for a second time.
“Sir, your good lady will not do, dressed as she is.” Henri spoke bluntly, man to man, his round face radiating honesty. “The Templars act as though they are higher than God.”
“I know, and ’tis no grief to me,” said Hugh.
“But our lady is too plain!”
“I know, and I have the remedy.”
“Might I speak?” Mortified, Joanna tried to break in to the exchange, but Henri, legs akimbo and hands on hips, was fixed upon Hugh, who was checking Lucifer’s hooves. Neither noticed her.
“Lady Elspeth is Joanna’s height. We are less than three leagues from her manor,” Hugh went on as Joanna fought to keep her temper. “She will give us a gown and stuff.”
“Then let Elspeth wear it!” snapped Joanna, scandalized afresh as knight and squire looked at each other and smiled. “And if you would dress something, let it be a partridge!”
“Oh, lady, lady!” Laughing, Henri sat down in the river, grinning more as the men-at-arms erupted in mirth.
Hugh grabbed her by the waist, half tugging her off Lucifer as he smacked a
kiss onto her mouth. “Enough complaint, squirrel. We go to Elspeth’s and she can dress you in her finest.”
Joanna was still seething two hours past noon, although she hid it, especially from the lady Elspeth. She told herself grimly it was necessary, that Hugh and Henri were right, that she should not fret while their main goal was in sight. But afterward, she decided, and once her father and David were secure, then Hugh would have a severe reckoning with a pail of cold water.
“Joanna? Do you like this gown?”
Too late, she realized she had been frowning and tried to show her genuine gratitude to Elspeth, who had welcomed her into her manor as if she were a prodigal daughter.
“It is beautiful,” she said automatically, then looked truly and gasped.
The gown laid over the plain wooden chest in Elspeth’s modest solar was a sunburst. A rich deep color, it shone back into Elspeth’s thin, freckled face, turning her golden and her narrow braids of red hair a luscious red-gold. It had sleeves as wide as sails, each sleeve trimmed with ribbon of the brightest blue, and a scooped neckline edged in blue. It shimmered like mercury, a thing of eastern glamour in this English, butter, cheese, wattle and roses house.
“It was gifted to my grandmother by her husband, Sir Thomas.” Elspeth sat on the chest beside the gown. “There is a story in the family that he brought the cloth back with him from Outremer, intending it as a gift for a bride.”
“What was his full name?” Hugh asked, speaking for the first time in an age. He was standing by the window shutters with a hand half-raised, as if dazzled by the gown.
“Sir Thomas of Beresford. He returned from the Holy Land much scarred, it is said, and in doubt that any woman would agree to wed him.”
“But your grandmother did.”
“She did, Joanna, although in truth the match was a scandal of the district.” Elspeth looked at her steadily. “She was a widowed smith’s wife, claimed by some to be a serf, by others that she was a Jewess.”
“I have heard of Thomas of Beresford,” Hugh said, parsing his thoughts. “A doughty fighter in his time. The Jews, too: they had Joshua and David. She must have been lovely, your grandma,” he added, surprising Joanna.
A Knight's Enchantment Page 19