by Lisa Shea
There was a gentle rap at the door; all three turned at the sound. The door pressed open. Joan’s heart thundered in her chest as a wizened, elderly man, an inch or two shorter than her, moved quietly into the room. His eyes swung to hers, and in a heartbeat she was kneeling before him, taking his wrinkled hands in her own, and moving her lips down to kiss them.
“Master Martin,” she sighed in heartfelt relief. It had been over a year since she had seen him. Tears came to her eyes with gratitude that she had been blessed with more time in his presence.
“My child,” he greeted her, drawing her up, holding out his arms. She moved into them with warmth, holding his body against hers. He was thin, but she knew within the frail looking exterior was one of the most skilled warriors she had ever met. She had certainly never even come close to beating him in the long years she had worked for him.
He stepped back at last, running his eyes down her body with a practiced gaze. “You have gotten thin,” he gently chastised her.
“Not enough figs in my diet,” she teased him with a twinkle in her eye.
Hugh looked between them with growing awareness. “Joan, you served with him in the Holy Land?”
Master Martin nodded. “She was one of my finest assistants.”
“I am a student who still has much to learn,” countered Joan with a fond smile. She turned to Hugh. “Master Martin, I would like you to meet Hugh Castillon.”
Hugh stepped forward to drop to one knee before the elderly man. “It is an honor and a privilege to meet you.”
Master Martin glanced at Joan for a moment, then nodded, touching Hugh on the head. “I am pleased to meet you as well.”
He looked over at Lord Weston. “The crowds are getting restless below,” he advised the man. “I think it may be time we move downstairs and begin our celebration.”
He held out his left arm to Joan, and she folded her hand into it with a tender smile, moving alongside her aging master as she had done for so many years. And then they were in motion, walking down the long hall, heading toward the main stairs into the lively throng.
*
Joan leant back in her chair, stuffed beyond belief with the delicious turnips, goose, roast boar, and apple tart which had come and gone along with myriad other courses. She looked fondly at Master Martin who sat to her left. He was deep in conversation with Lord Weston. It pleased her to no end that her master had made it safely back to England, could live out his retirement amongst familiar surroundings, as he had always dreamed.
She gave a quiet laugh. Familiar surroundings. To her, the keep was an odd mix of strange and normal. She had grown up thousands of miles away, but her homes had always been military bases and forts, keeps and castles. She was clambering over trebuchets and catapults before she could ride. And once she had gotten on horseback, the men could barely keep her off them. If she had been a boy, she could have joined the cavalry, lived on her steed, and life would have been all she had dreamed of.
Hugh leaned over. “And just what are you thinking about, that has you aglow?” he asked with a wry smile.
She blushed, looking down. “Wishing I were male,” she admitted.
He ran his gaze down her face and body, shaking his head. “Most women would wish they were you,” he gently countered.
“Most women did not grow up dreaming of joining the cavalry,” she pointed out. “The cavalrymen were all around me; the tales they told sang of glory and freedom.”
He nodded, understanding drawing onto his face. “I thought I heard a trace of an accent in your voice. You were the child of a crusader?”
“Yes. My mother insisted on going with him; she was a skilled herbalist and knew her talents would come in handy. I was born in Jerusalem and grew up in various camps and posts.”
He smiled in appreciation. “That must have been quite the life.”
“It was amazing,” she returned with enthusiasm. “The brilliantly colored sights, the cacophony of sounds, the constant throb of energy. It was like living in a whirlwind.”
“You did not want to be an herbalist like your mother?”
Joan shook her head. “My dear mother passed away from disease before I was seven, and even by then it was the stables which called to me. I would spend every moment I could on horseback. I thought, somehow, if only I became expert enough … ”
Master Martin turned and chuckled dryly. “Ah, my dear, would you so quickly give up your time with me?”
She fondly shook her head, leaning against him for a moment. “Not at all,” she vowed. “Sometimes one has to be disappointed in a lesser dream in order to open up the space in their life for what they were meant to be.”
Master Martin raised his glass to hers. “Never forget that,” he stated quietly. “Your work saved countless lives.”
Hugh’s voice came from her other side. “Undoubtedly that is true,” he added. “The sword students who went through your school often became Knights Templar or joined other protective orders. Those men became a foundation for safety throughout the realm.”
Joan nodded, drinking. Surely her official work at the sword school had done its share of good. But it was the covert work she did for the Master, the delivery of messages and coordination of information, which was far more instrumental in keeping their people alive.
Her stomach gave a rumble and she put a hand down to steady it. “I think I need to leave for a moment, if you would excuse me?”
Hugh and Master Martin rose to their feet. She made her way carefully along the back of the head table, pausing as maids and servants moved past with mugs and platters. She pushed through the throngs to the back hallway. Undoubtedly the garderobes in the main halls were quite busy, but she knew where there was a private one by the sewing room.
The hallway here brought a welcome stillness and she turned the corner to find only flickering candles and silence. She breathed deeply. As much as she loved Master Martin, she preferred quiet to the cacophony of the crowd. Too much of her training over the years had focused on the dangers of the masses, the threat hidden inside a mob.
The garderobe was empty; in a few minutes she was standing outside it again, her shoulders finally easing. Perhaps she would take the walk back to the main hall at a slow pace. She was sure the raucous attendees would barely notice her absence.
There was a movement up ahead. A large, tow-headed man stumbled drunkenly toward her, his rough clothing disheveled. She shook her head. Another reason she disliked these types of gatherings. She eased to her left to let him by.
His eyes brightened as he took her in and his legs tilted toward her. His breath was so strong that she wondered if she could set it on fire and turn him into one of those performers she’d seen at the street carnivals.
“What a pretty lass,” he chortled, his eyes glowing, sweeping down her form. “Gimme a kiss, won’t ya?”
She looked up at him evenly, her hand settling down on the knife at her hip. “You really do not want to press me,” she advised him in a low voice.
“Ah, but I do,” he countered with growing enthusiasm. “It is just you and me here. Just one little kiss.”
“Be on your way,” she advised him. “There are plenty of other women who would be open to your offer.”
“Ah, but you are not like other women,” he insisted, his eyes drawing down her form again. “I think I will just have a taste.” He reached out an arm toward her.
There was a movement behind him. His arm was grabbed, twisted, and wrenched high up behind his back. Hugh’s voice came smoothly from behind the drunk.
“You will head back to the main room immediately. If you come near this lady again, I shall see you thrown into the mud pit before the gates,” he stated with calm intention.
The drunken man opened his mouth to protest. Hugh twisted the arm up higher, causing the drunk’s words to mangle into a cry of pain. With a push the man was weaving uncertainly back in the direction of the main room.
Hugh looked after him f
or a moment, then stepped before Joan.
“You are all right?”
Joan nodded, releasing the hilt of her dagger. “I am fine.”
Hugh’s eyes flickered to the dagger, and then back at Joan, his smile widening. “I forget that you trained with Master Martin. Perhaps you were not in need of rescuing?”
“I am always grateful for a friend,” she returned, “no matter what the circumstance. You never know what twists lie ahead. Even the simplest fight can hold untold dangers.”
He nodded, then offered his arm. “Shall we return to the fray?”
She smiled. “Lead on.”
*
The room was finally settling down into quiet. Half of the men had curled up to sleep near where they ate. Servants moved quietly around them, gathering up empty tankards, crusts of bread, and well-gnawed bones.
Hugh looked at the mass of snoring, belching drunks and then back to Joan, his eyes shaded with worry. “I hope you are not sleeping down here for the night?”
She smiled at that, patting his arm. “Master Martin has a room upstairs and I will sleep there as well. For a night, at least, it will be like old times.”
Master Martin looked over with a twinkle in his eye. “Let me guess – you had Lord Weston set up a thick fur rug in front of the fire.”
She blushed, and he laughed out loud. “Ah, my child, will we never break you of that habit? Beds exist for a reason.”
“I am fine with beds,” she retorted with a grin. “But there is something to be said for the heat of a blazing fire on you after a long night of riding.”
“I would agree,” added Hugh. “The cold can seep into your very bones on a brisk night’s ride. A good fire is just what is needed to ease it out again.”
“See,” called out Joan with triumph, “here is a man who understands me.”
Master Martin rose to his feet, putting out his arm to her. “Well then, my dear, let us get you to your fire.”
She turned her eyes to Hugh, and for a long moment she was drawn in to them, to their strength, their courage.
“Good night,” she offered, her voice going hoarse.
“Sleep well,” he returned, and it was only Master Martin’s arm at her side which had her turning and walking away from him.
Chapter 3
Joan leant forward, her eyes glowing with excitement, soaking in the warm morning sunshine and the brisk breezes dancing across the jousting list. The squires were leading the horses around the ring to warm them up, carefully staying clear of the inner two tracks which were meticulously raked and ready. Joan ran her eye over each steed as it passed, assessing its form with focused attention.
There was a movement to her right, and Hugh came up the steps to the covered viewing box, smiling and nodding to himself. “I should have known I would find you here,” he mused. “The joust does not start for an hour yet.” He looked around at the empty stands, then back to her. “You get a private viewing, apparently.”
She grinned. “Just the way I like it!”
He came over and took the seat next to her. “Did you sleep well?”
“The best I have in ages,” she enthused with a smile. “Master Martin brought his cook back with him. The man made us fresh hummus as a bedtime snack.”
Hugh’s eyes brightened with appreciation. “As much as I love English food, I do sometimes crave those flavors of the Mediterranean.”
“It was comforting having Master nearby as well,” she added. “For so many years that was the way we slept – him on his bed, me curled up in the thick fur rug by the fire. It soothed my soul to do it again, if only for one night.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. “Surely there was room for a bedroom for you at the sword school?”
She shrugged, looking back out at the horses being drawn past, at the collection of dark brown, glossy black, and grey-white. “I was only eleven when I first visited. Often I would stay so late that I would fall asleep in a corner, watching the men spar. The Master would tuck me into his room for safe keeping.” A sturdy grey caught her eye and she followed him for a long moment, noting his gait.
“Eleven is rather young for a girl to become a fixture at a sword school,” Hugh commented evenly.
Joan looked closer at the grey’s stride, then stood, stepping forward to lean against the rail of the platform. “You there, squire on the grey!”
The lad looked up in curiosity.
“Check his right front hoof; I think he has a stone in it.”
He dutifully moved to the side of his horse and gave a gentle heft to the lower leg, bending the horse’s hoof back to take a look. In a moment he was nodding, pulling the dagger from his hip and working the stone out. Then he was patting the horse’s shoulder, taking up the reins again, and starting forward.
Joan settled herself back in her seat, her eyes attentive on the grey. “I am sorry, you were saying?”
He smiled. “That eleven was quite young.”
“Well, Michael was sixteen,” she answered distractedly, “and I went to watch him spar.”
His eyes were steady on her. “And who was Michael?”
Hearing Michael’s name on Hugh’s lips shook her back to awareness. She closed her eyes for a minute, holding in the wave of emotion which swept over her. She had not meant for it to begin like this, so casually, not about the man who had been such an important part of her life. But it was done, and she would find a way through.
She blinked her eyes open. His gaze was sharp on her, and she remembered suddenly that this was no civilian she was attempting to hide her feelings from. He was trained, just as she had been, in reading people, in drawing out their innermost secrets.
His voice was a low murmur. “I apologize; he died far too young. I am sorry for your loss.”
God’s teeth, the man was good.
She nodded, looking away for a moment.
His voice was somber. “The holy lands were not an easy place to survive,” he commented. “I know many good men who never returned from there.”
Long moments passed. The only sound was the gentle fall of hoof in dirt, the soft whoof as the steeds let out a breath, the steady parade of squires making their circuits in the warm spring sunshine.
Finally Joan ran a hand through her hair, easing her shoulders. “We grew up together,” she explained. “His father served with my father. It seemed we were always running along the wall of a keep, climbing up the chains of the portcullis, or racing our horses along the nearest patch of clear ground. He was like a brother to me; I followed him everywhere.” She looked down at her hands. “When he started attending Master Martin’s sword school, it never occurred to me to stay away. I simply went.”
His mouth quirked up. “And stayed, apparently.”
She smiled at that. “You have met Master Martin; there had always been something soothing and wise about him. I felt contented in his presence. He was the best of teachers – patient, skilled, and attentive. Being in his school was like being in another world.”
Her throat tightened. “When I was sixteen, my father was killed in battle at Acre.”
Hugh’s eyes shadowed. “Your childhood was not an easy one.”
She gave a wry smile. “You know as well as I do that life was not gentle in the Holy Land. With me now an orphan, Master Martin took me in for good.”
“It sounds like he valued your assistance,” mused Hugh.
“I considered every day at that school to be an honor; I poured my heart and soul into being worthy of his tutelage.” Joan felt an ache of homesickness as she thought of the polished wood floor of the school’s main room. “Anything he needed done, I would do it. Any skill I could learn along the way, I studied, to be the best trainer and assistant that I could be.”
Hugh’s voice was low. “And Michael?”
She looked down. “He was gone, much of the time, on assignment. We could only see each other once a month or so. And then …”
She remembered vi
vidly the day the messenger had burst into the sword school’s main room, sweat from the hard ride streaming down his face. She had been sparring with Master Martin and turned at the sound. She had taken one look at the sorrow in his eyes and known instantly. The pain had speared into the centermost of her being …
Hugh’s voice was a low murmur at her side. “Again, I am sorry for your loss.”
She nodded, running a hand through her hair, turning her gaze out to the steadily moving horses. “Life goes on.”
*
Evening was streaking the sky with violet and magenta; the last jousters of the day came forward to take their bows and receive their accolades. Many in the stands were already heading indoors to the lush feast which undoubtedly awaited them.
Joan turned to look at Hugh, smiling in appreciation at the man’s patience. Clearly he had been interested in going in to the keep while the weapons exhibit was open for viewing. He knew that those doors would close at sunset. And yet he had remained steadily by her side, refilling her mug of mead, talking with her about the jousters and horses, never once trying to draw her away from her passion.
His eyes warmed as he looked at her, and he nodded. “A good day, then? Was the joust all you had hoped for?”
She sighed with pleasure. “I enjoyed it immensely.” She looked to her other side, where Lord Weston sat. “And your food is delicious,” she praised. “No wonder your events are so well attended.”
“I shall let my kitchen staff know of your praise,” he thanked her with a smile. “They will be pleased to hear their efforts were noticed.”
Joan looked back at Hugh. “Shall we go for a walk?”
He stood, putting a hand down to her. “Absolutely,” he agreed. “Lead on.”
She tucked her hand in his arm and they strolled through the soft evening breezes back toward the keep. Lord Weston and Master Martin came along behind them. Joan’s shoulders eased. “A perfect day,” she sighed. She glanced up at Hugh. “Would you not agree?”
He smiled, nodding. “Absolutely perfect,” he concurred.
Her mouth tweaked into a grin as they moved through the entry gates of the curtain wall and crossed the courtyard.