In a Glance

by Lisa Shea

  Hugh was nowhere to be seen.

  A flickering glow came from the entryway to her bedroom.

  No. No. No.

  She was not ready for him to have seen the tapestry. Not yet, not before they had time for a drink, for a conversation, for her to put in place the final pieces to span the two points in time. She was frozen in place, her eyes pinned on the entryway, wishing with all her might that she could unwind time, draw it back, hold him here in the room with her.

  A long moment passed. At last she took a step forward, then another. She moved to stand in the doorway, knowing what she would find.

  Hugh was standing alongside her bed, staring at the tapestry which covered most of the far wall. She knew every warp and woof of the piece, every detail of the scene it portrayed.

  There, to the right, a pair of men sat at an open-air café. The marble table-top, the grey cobblestones beneath, all were exactly as she remembered them. One man was looking down at the table, his attention focused on an item there.

  The second had glanced up, and was staring off to the left.

  She followed his eyes, across the expanse of grey stone and turquoise waters, along the line of the wall that edged the area. There, dancing along the wall, barefoot, clothed in a tangerine, flowing dress, was a young woman with flowing auburn hair. Her mouth was lit by a smile and a seagull hovered at her side.

  A sense of joy eased through Joan, as it always did when she stared at her masterpiece.

  Hugh turned. For a moment she was shaken with confusion as her memories and the tapestry and his physical presence all merged and dissolved. The candle in his hand had dripped wax down his fingers, but he appeared not to notice at all.

  His voice was hoarse. “The girl was you?”

  She could barely nod in response, so caught she was by his gaze.

  Then he was putting the candle down on her shelf, he was taking a step forward, and she had tumbled into his arms. She was kissing him. All sense of time and place was lost. He was carrying her to the bed, they were shedding clothes, and still the wonder of it all glowed within her. She laughed out loud, and he stared at her for a long moment, lost in her.

  The world fell away.

  *

  Joan blinked her eyes open, the golden strands of dawn stretching through the closed shutters, sending dancing light across the tumble of man and dogs. Remus and Romulus were nestled up against Hugh, creating a warm, tumbled mound of love and comfort.

  She almost could not believe that this was real. Surely it was a dream; surely another blink of her eye would dissolve the scene.

  Hugh mumbled something, gave a stretch, and his hand brushed along Remus’s thick fur. The animal nuzzled into him in delight. Hugh’s eyes opened at a snap, going to the animal and then across to Joan. They widened in surprise, and then resolved as memory and awareness swept over him. He put out an arm.

  She folded herself into his embrace wordlessly, becoming lost in the cocoon that they created.

  *

  Hugh was lying on his back, gazing up at the tapestry, while Joan sprawled contentedly across his chest. Remus and Romulus’s excited barks drifted in through the closed shutter, and she knew they were tracking down the hares which lived in the eastern woods. She wished them luck in acquiring their morning meal.

  Hugh’s eyes sharpened as he looked closer at the two men in the weaving, and his arm drew her in against him in a reflexive action. She drew her gaze to his. “What is it?”

  For a long moment it seemed as if he would not speak. Then, at last, he gave his head a soft shake. “You were his,” he murmured.

  Her cheeks reddened. “Yes, I was,” she agreed softly. “Although we had never formalized it, it had been the dearest wish of our fathers since we were quite young. I took it for granted that, once his assignments were over, we would be joined.”

  He shook his head again, as if trying to clear a lingering fog. His voice was rough. “When I saw you in that courtyard, it was as if …” He ran a hand through his hair, at a loss for a moment. “As if I had lost a piece of myself, and suddenly it was returned,” he whispered. “I felt, for the first time in my life, complete. At home. How things should be, now and forever. And as I gazed at you, I remember saying, ‘she is just right.’ ”

  He looked at the tapestry for a long moment, taking in its weave. “Michael gave a snort – you know how he could be. But then he looked up to see. For a moment he seemed sharply annoyed, almost angry. It angered me, that he could be disturbed with such an innocent joy as yours. I was defensive and protective of you all at once, and I had never even met you.”

  His brow furrowed. “But then his look changed. He was accepting, almost amused, as if a beloved child had done something mischievous. And he said, ‘she is quite a delight.’ ”

  His hand clenched. “I was swept with such a rage. I had seen you first! I had been the one to connect with you. And here he was talking as if he would have you. It was not right! And when I turned back to you –you were gone.”

  Years of heartache and loss rang in his words. Joan waited, watching him relive the tumultuous emotions.

  At last he turned to her, his face harrowed. “All this time I resented him for his words; I growled over how he had kept me from you. How, if only I had turned back more quickly, or he had not distracted me, I could have found you.”

  He gave a soft shake of his head. “But all this time, I had misunderstood the situation completely. You were his. You were his.” He sounded as if, even now, he could not quite believe it.

  “At the time, I was his,” she agreed softly.

  His gaze moved back to the tapestry. “I went back to that courtyard every day for a month, hoping against hope that you would return. That we could talk, could share ourselves, could connect the way I knew we would.” She watched as the air left him, as the tension rippled into his face. “But I see now that you were meeting him clandestinely, so no one else would know.”

  Joan’s throat constricted with iron bands. It took all her strength to force the word past her lips. “No.”

  His gaze swung to meet hers, confusion creasing his brow. “No?”

  She shook her head. “That moment on the wall, with the tang of salt air and the sharp cry of a seagull in my ear, that was the last time I saw Michael alive. I turned away, and you both were gone, and then you both were gone …”

  The tears came, hot and heavy. His strong arms embraced her, holding her close, and the pain and torment flowed out of her like a cleansing rain after a long, parching drought.

  *

  Joan stretched against Hugh on her front door step, soaking in the late afternoon sun. Remus came trotting up, a battered oak branch in his mouth, dropping it with a grin at their feet. Hugh drew his arm back and sent it sailing over a mound of tangled raspberry bushes. In a heartbeat Remus and Romulus were in hard pursuit, Romulus pushing hard to beat his brother to the prize.

  Joan laughed out loud, the beauty of the moment soaking into her. Hugh’s arm around her waist felt so natural. She was pleasantly full from the venison stew, and the sky was easing into crimsons and ragwort-yellows.

  Hugh’s voice was soft, almost hesitant in her ear. “Do you mind talking about him?”

  She gave a wry smile, shaking her head. “After all these years, it is a relief,” she admitted. “For so long everything was such a secret. And then, when it wasn’t, there was nobody to tell, no one who would understand.”

  His fingers ran gently along her side, and she wondered if he was reassuring her or himself.

  She forced herself to continue speaking. “Master Martin was truly a father to me. But all those years, without anyone to really understand what I was going through, without someone to confide in – I did feel lonely. I was alone with a retinue of soldiers.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Well, you and Agatha,” he commented.

  She glanced up at him. “Who?”

  His grin grew wider. “I think we are past secrets,” he remind
ed her. “When the messages changed, when the parchments metamorphosed from strong, block letters to a gentler, scrawling script, suddenly Michael foisted the duty of staying in touch with base on me.” He gave a shake of his head. “There was something subtly different about the phrasing of the messages, something softer. I asked him if they were written by a woman, and at last he broke down and admitted the truth. That they were done by Agatha, an elderly nun with whom he’d had trouble in the past.”

  Joan could only blink at him. “Agatha?”

  Hugh nodded, drawing her in against him. Remus bounded up, eyes bright with pride, bearing the branch trophy. Hugh retrieved the saliva-strewn stick and lobbed it into a copse of thin birch. The dogs were after it in a tawny streak.

  Hugh’s voice held amusement. “Agatha,” he agreed. “Withered and hunched she might be, but her messages showed a mind as sharp as a chef’s knife, and a flirtatious side as well.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I wonder if, in her dreams, she still imagined herself a young woman, seeing life’s potential stretched out before her.”

  Joan still could not quite wrap her mind around the concept. “Agatha? A decrepit crone?”

  Something in her voice finally had Hugh turn and look down at her. Awareness crept into his gaze, and his arm around her stilled.

  At last his voice came, hoarse with surprise. “It was you writing us?”

  She nodded mutely. It was a long moment before she could put breath behind her thoughts. “I pleaded with Master Martin to let me take over the writing. It was hard enough having Michael away for so long. At least I could be the one sending out the orders and advice. Surely it could not hurt any. After a few months he finally gave in.”

  She looked down for a moment. “I admit I was quite upset when it was not Michael who wrote back. I knew his writing; I knew his formal style. It was clear from that first message that he had asked you to take over. I felt rejected. Once again I had been left behind.”

  Hugh gave a gentle shake to his head. “He was following protocol,” he stated, half in wonder. “He was keeping the distance between you two, so that the relationship could not be used against either one of you.”

  Joan gave a disheartened smile. “I know that logically,” she agreed. “But at the time it hurt deeply. I almost asked Master Martin to take the job back. If I couldn’t communicate with Michael, I didn’t want to do it at all.” She gave a low chuckle. “But my pride interfered. Having pleaded for the task, I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. So I kept at it.”

  Hugh’s voice took on a distance. “You were writing to me,” he echoed.

  She lay her head against his chest, and he drew her in closer, the setting sun’s gleam gilding the edges of the birch leaves, sending a golden frosting across the meadow. “I wrote to you,” she agreed, “and your responses were delightful, amused, insightful, and …” She let out a long breath, at a loss for words. “They were just right,” she ended finally. “Soon all I could think about was receiving your next message and memorizing it completely. Master Martin made us burn each one, of course, for security reasons.” She tapped a finger to her head. “But I made sure each one was safe, for me to peruse and delight over at my leisure.”

  Hugh’s voice was low in her ear.

  “Tangerine branches were laden with opulent spheres;

  Imagery blinds me undimmed by the passing of years.”

  She glanced up in surprise. “I wrote that about the period my family stayed in Acre,” she recalled. “Even now I could almost reach out and touch the fruit, it was so fragrant and alive. The texture of each one was stunning, as if their skin held a secret message for me.”

  He ran a hand in wonder along her cheek. “We burned our messages, too,” he murmured. “And I made sure to store each one of yours safely within my memory before that ephemeral parchment dissolved into ash.”

  His brow creased, and he gave a shake of his head. “But if you were writing me, how did Michael know you were coming to visit him? I don’t remember any news of that in your later messages.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she turned to look out at the sun’s lowering orb, now resting gently on the distant forest of oak. Layers of clouds were sending waves of deep magenta toward the edges of her world.

  Her voice was a whisper. “I did not go to visit Michael.”

  His body stilled, and it was a long moment before she felt him breathe again, before he gently turned her within his embrace so she looked up at him. And yet he waited, his eyes half-hope, half-disbelief, almost unwilling to break the silence.

  She gave a soft nod, her eyes locked on his. “I came to see you,” she admitted. “I knew we could not talk, not even meet, and that when I left I would have to put you out of my mind completely. I hoped that seeing you in person would dispel the fantasy I had spun and allow me to return to the life I had built.”

  She gave her head a shake, lost in his gaze. “But the moment I saw you, I knew. I knew in every part of my body, from the core of my heart to the depths of my soul.”

  He groaned, drew her in, and then they were kissing, tumbling, losing themselves in each other.

  Chapter 6

  Joan blinked her eyes open. The night was pitch black; only a faint, flickering glow emanated from the fireplace in the main room. Remus and Romulus were sprawled at the foot of the bed. Two pairs of eyes shone in the night, staring toward the doorway, ears swiveled to match. The blanket pulled slightly, and Joan realized that Hugh was awake, his hand carefully reaching for his sword at the side of the bed.

  A sharp pounding came at the front door. Joan rolled for her weapon, coming up at the same time Hugh did. Each wrapped a robe around their body in silence. The dogs trotted at their side as they eased into the main room. She noted that they were not growling, not bristling their backs in a sign of aggression.

  She put a finger to her lips before coming up against the front door. “Who goes there?”

  A high, reedy voice was half-muffled by the thick wood, but she could make it out in the crisp night air. “It is Jake,” called the visitor. “Sarah is in trouble!”

  Joan undid the latch, pulling the door open, revealing a scrawny teen nearly her own height. His breath came in long heaves, and his flaxen hair was strewn in every direction imaginable. Even in the low light of the fireplace it was clear that his rough clothes were more mending than fabric.

  She drew him in by the arm, settling him down on the long, wooden bench. Hugh placed a mug of ale down before the lad, and he gratefully drew it down before turning to Joan.

  “Tobias and at least six of his wolf’s heads are at Sarah’s mill,” he warned, his voice nearly breaking. “Sarah was hiding in the attic, last I saw, but they will find her soon enough. When they do –” His voice broke off, a look of wild panic sweeping over him.

  Joan gave him a pat on the arm. “You did well,” she praised him. “You get home and stay there. I will take care of everything.”

  He was on his feet before she finished. “I can help!”

  She shook her head. “It’s important for your family that you not be involved. Tobias could burn down your house with your mother and father in it. It’s critical that you get home to protect them. Can you do that for me?”

  He appeared torn between wanting to protect his family and wanting to ride out at Joan’s side, but at last he nodded in acceptance. “You be careful too,” he warned her. Then he was in motion, streaking out the door and into the black night.

  Joan turned, striding back toward her bedroom. “This is not your fight,” she informed Hugh, half distracted while she pulled on clothes. “You should stay here so that someone can still go after Linota.”

  He shook his head, taking her by the arm, turning her to face him. “If we were in my home, and Ymbert scrambled in shouting about a dangerous mission, would you lounge in bed until I returned from it?”

  “God’s teeth, no,” she snapped. “But this is –”

  He held her gaze steadil
y, and she faltered. At last she blew out a breath. “All right,” she reluctantly conceded. “There is no time to argue the point. Sarah needs us.”

  She finished tugging on her boot, then turned to face the tapestry. With a sweep of her hand, she slid it along its wooden rail so it bunched up at the left.

  Hugh shook his head in surprise. Tucked in a nook behind the tapestry was a trio of shelves. They were stacked with a variety of throwing knives, short swords, caltrops, and other weapons. “I should have known,” he chuckled.

  “Stock up now,” advised Joan, stepping forward to select a pair of knives. She tucked one into the lining of her leather boots. Other blades eased into the back of her belt, the bracers at her wrist, and anywhere else they could get a purchase.

  It seemed only seconds before Aquila and Accipiter were riding hard through the night, streaking like quicksilver beneath the sliver of moon that had risen over the horizon. Joan knew the path by heart, and Hugh stayed close at her side. She was warmed by the complete trust he put in her to guide them safely through the shadows.

  It was only three miles to Sarah’s mill, but to Joan it felt as if a lifetime had passed before they drew up in a stand of elm just out of sight of the structure. Long moments passed as the horses’ breath eased and her heart’s pounding settled into quiet. At last she could hear the soft burbling of the stream, the rustling of the wind through the birch.

  She slid off Aquila, and they tethered the two steeds to a sturdy young oak. Hugh came to her side, his voice a low whisper. “What is the layout of the building?”

  She picked up a stick and sketched the mill’s outer walls, showing the doors on opposite walls. “Two outer doors,” she explained. “The lower floor is open, with the grinding stone taking up the eastern half. The stairs up are in the center.” She drew another rectangle. “Second floor has four bedrooms, and again the stairs in the center.” She glanced forward, in the direction of the mill, her heart constricting. “And then there’s the attic.”