by Lily Baldwin
Unable to breathe, Joanie scurried back against the wall, but he snarled and lunged for her. She darted away, leaving behind her threadbare cloak and the coin and tore up the stairs while she gasped for air.
“Get from my sight,” the innkeeper shouted, racing up the stairs behind her.
She trained her eyes on the front door, fear and confusion fighting for domination in her mind. She did not know what she had done.
She grabbed the door handle the instant before the innkeeper kicked her from behind, and she tumbled out onto the streets. Pain shot through her as she looked up and met Diana’s kind eyes.
Hope suddenly filled Joanie’s heart, sweeping the pain away. Mayhap angels were, indeed, real.
Brows drawn with concern, Diana bent and offered Joanie her hand.
“Did I tell you to help it stand,” a harsh voice snapped.
Joanie’s eyes darted away from Diana’s, and she looked up and met another pair of cold, hard eyes. She knew in that moment that she was looking at her new master. And when Diana stood straight and obediently withdrew her offered hand, she also knew he was Diana’s master.
So much for angels.
Later that same night, Joanie learned that having felt her healing touch, Diana had persuaded Geoffrey to buy Joanie as her maid. And they had been together ever since.
“Tell me about how your grandmother kissed you goodnight,” Diana whispered again, bringing Joanie’s thoughts back to the present.
Joanie smiled. “She would first kiss my forehead. Then she…”
Diana’s cough returned. The pain shattered her beautiful features.
Joanie stood up. “I will wait no longer. Simon must be detained. I am going to the kitchens myself.”
Diana’s eyes widened in alarm. “Nay, Joanie. If Geoffrey catches you, he’ll kill you.”
“Do not worry, Diana. No one will see me. He is likely still sleeping off the drink from last night.”
Diana reached out and weakly gripped Joanie’s arm. “Please, don’t do this.”
Joanie pressed a kiss to Diana’s forehead, then one on each cheek just as her grandmother used to do. “Rest, my dearest, and I will return before you wake.”
Chapter Five
Joanie hunched over a little, keeping her shoulders up around her ears as she hastened through the castle corridors. She needed to find the servant’s entrance to the kitchens, but upon arriving at the king’s palace more than six months before, she had not once stepped foot from Diana’s room. She knew not the hour, but having yet to pass anyone other than a few of the upstairs maids in the hallway, she hoped it was still morning.
One of the maids she passed, who stood on a ladder, removing candle stubs from a candelabra, flashed her a quizzical look. But a moment later, she turned her attention back to scrapping at the remains of dried wax, which ran down the dangling silver in thin, meandering rivulets. To Joanie’s relief, although not to her surprise, the maid had clearly dismissed her from her thoughts. Joanie knew that in the forefront of the maid’s mind was the task she had been given and what would happen if she took too long to accomplish it. If other servants she might encounter were as equally occupied, they, too, would likely dismiss her just as quickly, which bolstered Joanie’s courage. She now had reason to hope that word of her journey through the keep would not reach her master’s ears.
A cold chill shot up her spine at the mere thought of him finding out she had left Diana’s room. She dared not even imagine the measure of his fury. He would beat her — this much she knew for certain, but would he stop? She doubted he would stop until she was dead. Doubtless, her actions put her life in jeopardy, but for Diana, she would traverse the very fires of hell. Diana was more than her mistress. She was her dearest friend, her sister. Joanie stopped short suddenly unable to breathe, feeling as if something had grabbed her heart and squeezed until it could beat no more.
“Diana is dying,” she whispered out loud.
Tears stung her eyes as she choked down a sob struggling to leave her throat. Shaking her head, she swallowed her sorrow. Diana was not dead yet. And Joanie was going to bring her every relief she could.
She turned the corner and stopped short again. A man, as straight and tall as a tower, strode down the corridor from the opposite direction. His fine tunic of rich, red velvet shimmered in the candlelight. Joanie looked away before her gaze reached his face. Her shoulders framed her ears, and she turned into the wall as she walked, trying to make herself as small and insignificant as she could. When the man walked by without uttering a word, she expelled a quiet breath. Still, encountering one of the nobles had rattled her to her core. She fisted her hands to stop them from shaking. Then her heart nigh burst with relief.
Up ahead, a young man carrying a tray of dirty mugs and bowls passed through a door. Rushing behind him came a serving maid, also bearing a tray of stacked wooden bowls. Joanie surged forward, forgetting her diminished posture in her excitement. At last, she had found the servants entrance to the kitchens. Cautious again, she slowed her pace and curved her spine to reduce her height. She paused in the doorway entrance, her eyes darting left, then right. Long stone corridors stretched on either side of her, empty but for dancing shadows made by flickering candlelight. Looking straight ahead, she peered down narrow stone steps. Din from the kitchens reached her ears. Several different voices shouted orders, followed by the scurry of rushing feet. With a deep breath, she descended.
The narrow passage opened to a wide, bustling room. Several large cuts of meat were roasting in preparation for dinner. Two massive iron cauldrons bubbled with stew. She hurried past a young boy dumping a bucket of water into a deep, stone sink. Weaving through rows of tables, lined with servants chopping vegetables and plucking fowl, she kept her head low, but her eyes darted around the room. Then she saw it, the herb cupboard.
On the far side of the room, a tall woman with a slim build had flung wide two slatted doors, revealing shelves of pots in varying sizes. The kitchen maid ran her finger along the top shelf, gently grazing each vessel until she reached a round, red-clay pot. Taking it down, she set it on the table behind her and scooped a large handful of what Joanie recognized as rosemary into a bowl. Then she returned the pot and shut the cupboard doors before hastening over to one of the large, steaming cauldrons.
Wanting to be certain the maid did not plan on returning to the cupboard, Joanie held her breath and watched while she deftly stirred the rosemary into the stew. When she set down her spoon and joined another table where several servants stood kneading bread, Joanie shifted her gaze back to the cupboard. She counted to three in her head to find her courage, then set off across the busy room, dodging servants with teeming trays.
Her heart pounded and her hands shook as she eased open the cupboard doors, fully expecting at any moment for someone to bark at her from behind … What do you think you’re doing? You don’t belong here!
Each pot had a label fixed on with wax, but she could not read. Her heart threatened to break free from her chest, it pounded so hard. Still, she pushed on, grabbing one of the many pots and looked inside, returning it to the shelf a moment later. Eleven pots later, she suppressed a desperate squeal of triumph that came unbidden to her lips and scooped two handfuls of Coltsfoot, filling the pouch she had brought in her satchel before she returned the pot and closed the doors. Turning on her heel, she dropped her head low and took another deep breath before she set out across the bustling kitchen.
The doorway loomed before her. She skirted around another boy with a bucket of water and took her first step up the stairs when a voice she knew boomed throughout the kitchen. Silence followed in its wake as everyone froze, including Joanie.
“My master did not enjoy his meal. Nothing was salted properly,” the man growled.
Joanie’s heart sank. It was Simon. She did not mean to glance his way. In fact, she was certain she had told her feet to run, but instead they locked eyes. His nostrils flared and his face grew red as he narro
wed his eyes on her and crossed the room. Joanie stood her ground, knowing it was pointless to run. She fought to keep her fear at bay as she watched his approach. After all, Simon was not a cruel man. He had always shown Diana true compassion and Joanie gentle indifference, which was the next closest thing to kindness she had ever experienced. When he reached her side, he grabbed her arm and pulled her half way up the stairs.
“Speak quickly. And by all the saints, please have a good reason for being here.”
“Diana—” she began quietly.
He grabbed her shoulders. “What about Diana?” he hissed.
“She … she is worse than ever. She suffers. I needed Coltsfoot to ease her pain, but my stores were out.”
Simon raked his hand through his thinning hair. “Were you able to the find it?”
She nodded, her heart still racing.
“The master has already finished eating. He could be heading back to the wing as we speak. If you value your life at all, you will race back to the room.”
Eyes wide with fear, Joanie nodded her head. Then she turned and sprinted up the stairs. Blindly, she raced down the corridor, fear tightening her chest. She turned the wrong way and found a wing with a garderobe but no further stairs. A sob escaped her lips when she realized her mistake. Turning on her heel, she charged back the way she’d come. Tears blurred the path. Panting, she turned the corner and raced down a long corridor with a tapestry that looked familiar. Her master occupied the rooms of the southern wing, and she felt in her heart she was almost there. But just then a hand grabbed her arm. It didn’t pinch or hurt, but it brought her race to a halt.
She gasped. Craning her neck back, she met the coldest, blackest eyes she had ever seen. Long, ebony hair hung past his shoulders, and his face was smooth, stark white and expressionless. She cried out, turning her eyes away while she frantically struggled to yank her arm free.
~ * ~
Alec could not believe his eyes, although he guarded his surprise behind his usual façade of indifference. Still, it was she, the lass from his vision. He held her in his grasp. Her wide eyes filled her small, pale face like bright amber moons. Fear raged through her like wildfire, hotter even than the stone suddenly scorching his skin. It was her fear, in fact, that had drawn him to her. He had felt it in the hallway before he had even glimpsed her from a distance. He followed, not suspecting she was his mystery lass, but to ensure the girl did not face real danger. It was not until the very moment he looked into her familiar eyes and the stone around his neck nigh erupted into flame that he realized who she was.
“’Tis ye,” he said aloud.
The very fear that had led him to her, only grew the longer he held her arm. Her eyes widened further, and her heartbeat pounded harder until he thought his head might split.
“I will not hurt ye,” he whispered.
“Let go of me,” she cried. Her body began to tremble. Panic threatened to claim her, which he knew would put all reason out of reach. He had no choice but to let her go.
The moment he released her hand, she darted away toward the southern wing.
He stared after her, his mind still reeling with the might of her fear and the reality that the lass from his vision was, at that very moment, in the king’s palace. When he had touched her, he saw the flash of an old woman’s face with kind, faded blue eyes, but that was all. Usually, he experienced an assault of feelings and images when he touched someone. Now, she was gone from sight, but still he could feel her fear. Who was she? Why did the stone respond to her presence? She was an English servant — how could she be important to the cause? And why was her soul seeking his?
He pressed his hand over the chard, feeling the heat through his tunic. He needed answers. For a moment, he considered questioning some of the servants, but then he thought better of it. Most of the palaces’ servants feared him. What’s more, he could not trust their tongues not to wag. He stretched his neck to the right, then the left, realizing there was only one way to find the answers he sought. He would have to attend supper that night in the great hall.
Chapter Six
Joanie threw the door open, her heart pounding, but she quietly shut it to not alarm Diana. She rested her back against the door and closed her eyes, overcome with relief that she had not been caught — at least by the master. When she gained control of her breathing, she crossed the room to where Diana lay. She sat down beside her on the bed and gently rested her hand on Diana’s forehead. She felt a little warm, but at least she was resting soundly. Joanie took the pouch out of her satchel and crumbled some of the dried green leaves into the bubbling kettle, which simmered over the fire. Waiting for the leaves to steep, her mind drifted back to the strange man in the hallway. He had been so tall, leanly built, and achingly beautiful, but his eyes had been so bleak. She had felt as if she stared into a great shadowy abyss where no light could ever shine. And when he touched her, she felt currents of heat flow from his body into hers as if he had tried to invade her very soul. What sort of man had such power?
Diana groaned in her sleep, pulling Joanie to the present. She pushed the stranger from her thoughts. He did not matter. Joanie had no intention of leaving Diana’s room again; thus, she would never again see his black eyes or feel his blazing touch.
After a few hours, a knock sounded at the door, and a servant from the kitchen came in. She did not look at Joanie or Diana — they never did. She simply walked in, set the tray down, then left. Joanie glanced at the food. As always, it was a tray for one. Joanie looked over at Diana, still sleeping. So she moved the tray over to the hearth to keep the broth and meat warm. At different points, Diana awoke and coughed up more phlegm and much to Joanie’s alarm even more blood. Then she would fall back down onto her pillow and immediately succumb to sleep.
Long after the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Diana awoke.
“Joanie,” she rasped.
Joanie pressed her hand to Diana’s forehead. “I’m here,” she said.
“I’m glad,” Diana breathed.
“Do you think you could sit up a little?”
Diana nodded and started to lift her head, but then she winced. “I ache everywhere.”
“Keep still then, but you must drink some broth.” Joanie supported Diana’s head with one hand, and tipped the bowl to her lips.
After swallowing barely a thimble’s worth, Diana signaled she’d had enough. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Joanie gently set her head back down on the pillow and returned the bowl to the hearth.
“What have you had to eat?” Diana asked, her voice raw.
“Don’t worry about me,” Joanie said.
“It is not worry, Joanie. It is love. You are my family, my sister.”
Tears welled in Joanie’s eyes. “Just rest, Diana, you need your strength.”
A slight smile curved Diana’s lips. “I think I will.” She closed her eyes, a look of peace shaping her features only to be marred by panic an instant later. “Saints above, what is the hour?”
“It is nones?”
“Why did you not say?” Diana cried, straining to sit up.
Joanie rushed to her bedside. “You cannot get up.”
“But Joanie, I must.”
Joanie shook her head, gently pressing her hands into Diana’s shoulders to keep her still.
“I need to get ready. I am singing tonight.” Diana’s eyes darted around the room wildly.
“Diana, look at me,” Joanie said softly.
Diana held Joanie’s gaze for several moments, and then tears flooded her eyes. “I can’t sing, can I?” she whispered.
Joanie pressed her lips together to contain her own tears, and shook her head in reply, not trusting herself to speak.
“What am I going to do?” Diana cried, covering her face with her hands.
Just then a knock sounded at the door. Joanie looked up just as Simon entered and hastened to Diana’s bedside. “How are you?” he asked.
Joanie
backed away to give them space. Mayhap, Simon would know what to do. She watched as he sat down and covered Diana’s hand with his. Stepping farther away, she retreated to where she would not hear their whispered words.
“No,” Diana snapped, drawing Joanie’s gaze. She stood and returned to the bed, crossing her arms over her chest, ready to do battle with Simon if need be.
“There is no other way,” Simon said, his voice strained with frustration.
Diana looked away. “My answer is final.”
Simon withdrew his hand and stiffened in his seat. “It isn’t really up to you.” Then he turned and locked eyes with Joanie.
“You will be singing tonight,” he said simply.
Joanie felt her limbs tremble. Her arms fell slack at her sides.
“Don’t listen to him, Joanie. He…” Diana said, straining to raise her voice. Her last words were lost to her cough.
Joanie reached for Diana’s shoulders. “Help me lift her head,” she said to Simon.
When her cough subsided, Diana lay in a weakened state as if lost in a thick fog.
Simon grabbed Joanie’s arm. “You will sing in her stead,” he said, his voice harsh.
Joanie winced. “I cannot … I am not like her. I’m not beautiful. I’m not—”
“Your voice is,” Simon interrupted. “I’ve heard you sing to her. And though you are not beautiful in the same way, you are unique. There is a boldness to your features, and your voice … I’ve never heard anything like it before.” He grabbed her hands, his voice now pleading. “She can’t do it. She will collapse on stage and be ruined.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Diana croaked.
Joanie yanked her hands free from Simon’s grasp and hastened to Diana’s side.
“What Simon will not tell you is that he is only seeks to spread out Geoffrey’s fury among us all, so that I alone do not bear the brunt of it. But I am the one who is unable to fill my role. I alone should be punished.”
Now Joanie understood Simon’s intent. She certainly would invite the master’s anger were she to take Diana’s place. In fact, her offense would be so great, and Simon’s, too, for allowing her to sing, that Diana’s absence may be overlooked entirely. She bent and pressed a kiss to Diana’s cheek. Then she turned to Simon and said without hesitation, “I’ll do it. I will sing.”