Hugh was outraged to find his gently-bred young sister married, abandoned, and living in squalor. He knew intuitively what Prewitt was and why he’d married her. Despite the silk merchant’s elegant dress and manners, he had nothing. He’d jumped at the chance to unite himself with Lady Joanna of Wexford, only to discover afterward that her father would slaughter them both if he got his hands on them. Hugh made inquiries regarding annulment, but the Church would not allow it.
Joanna, still fancying herself in love with her husband, and unwilling to believe he’d just married her to advance himself, declined Hugh’s offer to hunt Prewitt down and disembowel him for her. Hugh had to go abroad again, but before he left, he bought her the house on Wood Street so she’d have a decent place to live and a shop with which to support herself. It pained her to have to accept it, but she couldn’t remain in that hovel on Ironmonger Lane. She vowed most solemnly never to take anything from him again—ever.
Like a fool, she continued to believe the best about her ne’er-do-well husband even after he returned from Sicily that fall. He’d become distant with her—impatient, distracted. Joanna attributed his ill temper to shame over his inability to provide for her. After all, what man wanted to live in a house his brother-in-law had bought?
It was shortly before he was scheduled to go abroad again that she came home from marketing one afternoon thinking the house was empty, only to hear Prewitt upstairs, groaning. Fearful that he might be sick, or hurt, she dumped the capon she’d bought on the table and raced up the ladder, heart pounding.
Chapter 10
* * *
EVEN NOW, ALMOST five years later, Joanna’s stomach clenched at the memory of how she’d found him—how she’d found them, Prewitt and the poulterer’s wife.
Halfrida was on her hands and knees on their big bed, naked but for her striped woolen stockings. Joanna had always thought of her as being only somewhat plump, but without her clothes she looked enormous—white and fleshy and obscene, her pendulous breasts swaying in rhythm with Prewitt’s thrusts against her. He knelt behind her, his tunic discarded, his trouser-like silken chausses around his knees, his shirt gathered up in one hand while the other gripped Halfrida’s sturdy buttocks.
Halfrida had her head down, her coarse yellow hair hanging about her face. Prewitt watched himself pound into her, his face reddened, his breath coming in harsh grunts. They didn’t notice Joanna standing there at the top of the ladder, reeling with repulsion and the shock of betrayal.
Prewitt must have sensed her presence, because he looked up and saw her. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t so much as slow down. "Jesus, Joanna," he panted, "are you going to just stand there and watch?"
Halfrida looked up abruptly, squealing when she saw Joanna. But then Prewitt started laughing, and so did she, her big white body jiggling with her giggles as he continued tupping her.
Joanna stumbled down the ladder and fled outside. She walked swiftly down to Newgate Street, weaving her way blindly around pedestrians, horses and pigs, then east to Aldgate Street, growing breathless as the street rose toward the apex of Corn Hill. She turned right onto Gracechurch Street and followed it all the way down to the Thames.
The waterfront was a raucous hive of activity that afternoon. Sailors cursed as they pulled reluctant stallions up a gangplank and into the hull of a ship docked nearby; fishwives barked their prices; gulls shrieked.
Joanna set off across London Bridge, thinking it might be quieter over the water; it was. Halfway across the dilapidated old wooden bridge, she paused and leaned over the rail, shivering as the cool, river-scented breeze ruffled her veil and kirtle.
Hundreds of boats of all types were moored in the quays and in the huge river itself. The great white Tower of London rose in the distance, just inside the southeast corner of the city wall. Lord Gilbert and Lady Fayette had escorted her to the Tower last year, when Eleanor of Aquitaine was in residence, introducing her to the queen as their future daughter-in-law. Joanna had presented Queen Eleanor with an embroidered purse, blushing with pride when the queen praised her handiwork. She supposed she would never set foot in the Tower again.
Hugh had been right all along, of course. Prewitt didn’t love her. He’d married her purely because she was the daughter of Lord William of Wexford, the irony being her sire’s complete renunciation of her as a result of that marriage. Now Prewitt had no use for her anymore, except for occasional sexual relief—a function it seemed she shared with others. She was nothing to him but a thing to be exploited for his own ends. First her father had used her for his purposes, and now Prewitt; it was as if she existed purely to facilitate the aspirations of grasping men. She burned with shame to think of how gullible she’d been, how easily led down the path to her own ruin.
Dropping her gaze to the water lapping against the piles below her, she wondered how deep the great river was here, in the middle. If she happened to fall in, would she drown? She couldn’t swim. She imagined some earnest undersheriff informing Prewitt that his wife had thrown herself off London Bridge in despair. Prewitt would sink his face into his hands. The undersheriff would offer fatuous words of comfort and then depart.
Alone, Prewitt would uncover his face. And smile.
The bells of St. Magnus Martyr, located at the London end of the bridge, rang vespers. Joanna retraced her steps down the bridge toward the little church, drawn by the comforting notion of sanctuary within its thick stone walls.
It was cool inside the deserted chapel, and dark, and blessedly quiet. Joanna knelt in the straw before the altar and crossed herself, beseeching God for strength and direction.
Direction toward what? she fancied the Lord asking her. What is it you want?
To be free of Prewitt. That was what she wanted with all her heart. Annulment was impossible, but perhaps they could live apart—although she hated the notion of leaving their home. In truth, it was her home; Hugh had deeded it to her. She couldn’t sell it without her husband’s permission, though, and he might choose to keep it for himself. It disgusted her to think of his having sole use of it, and besides, where would she go? Even if she’d been willing to swallow her pride and throw herself on her father’s mercy, he would never take her back. Neither, of course, would Lord Gilbert.
She could try to force Prewitt out of the house, but the law was on his side; if he didn’t want to go, he needn’t. He could live there forever, forcing her to share his bed, even beating her if he were so inclined, and no one would lift a finger to stop him. And if she could talk him into leaving, she would be left with no resources. The income from Prewitt’s silk importing was modest at best, but it was better than nothing.
Could life be made tolerable if they continued living together? Perhaps. After all, he would be abroad more often than not. But his visits home would be unendurable.
The sobering truth was that many women were forced to endure the unendurable when it came to marriage. No wonder so many widows had an air of contentment about them. If men knew how attractive many of their wives found the prospect of life without them, they might become nervous.
Joanna smiled at the crucifix above the altar as a possibility began forming in her mind. More than a possibility—a resolve. Whispering a quick prayer of thanks for the Lord’s guidance, she left the church, finding that night had fallen. Mindful of her newfound resolve, when she came upon a cutler’s shop in East Cheap, she spent all the money in her purse on a dagger in a tooled scabbard, which she hung on her girdle.
On arriving home, she discovered Prewitt sitting at the table in the salle in his shirtsleeves, his back to her, a ewer of wine in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder. "It’s past suppertime. Where have you been?"
Joanna fisted her hands in the skirt of her kirtle. "Is she gone?"
"Aye." He lifted his legs over the bench and sat facing her. Those striking brown eyes that had always captivated her so now lit with malicious humor. "But before she left, I worked up quite an appetite." Nodding towar
d the capon on the table behind him, he said, "Cook that, and be quick about it."
In the beginning, Prewitt had been adoring, almost worshipful; then apathetic. This new, brazen hostility made her scalp tickle with foreboding.
Licking her dry lips, Joanna said, "When you proposed to me, you swore you’d always be faithful."
Prewitt smiled as if at a dim-witted child and swallowed down some of his wine. "I tend to spout all manner of mawkish drivel when I’m in the throes of passion."
"You never felt passion for me."
Lounging back against the table, he said wearily, "Men aren’t subject to the same sorts of romantic infatuations as women. We have drives that are altogether more...elementary. If you weren’t so young and pampered and witless, you’d know that."
Joanna had never felt the sixteen-year difference in their ages more keenly, for if he thought of her as a witless child, it was only because she’d behaved like one—until now. She forced herself to walk right up to him, chin high. "You didn’t marry me to serve any drive other than your cold ambition. I’m not so witless that I haven’t figured that out."
He reached behind him for the ewer and poured some more wine into his cup. "Are we going to have supper or not?"
Joanna drew in a steadying breath. "I’m not going to make supper for you anymore, Prewitt. Or breakfast or dinner."
His eyes widened. "You damn well will."
"And you can’t sleep with me in the solar anymore," she added, struggling to keep her voice even. "From now on, you’ll sleep in the storeroom."
"The storeroom." He laughed harshly; there was a hysterical edge to it. "You insolent little bitch. Who do you think you are, ordering me out of my own bedchamber?"
"It’s my bedchamber," she said quietly, cursing the strain in her voice. "This house belongs to me."
"You’re my wife," he gritted out between his teeth, the wine cup trembling in his hand. "You belong to me. You’re required by law to bend to my will. I damn well will sleep in the solar if I’m so inclined. And I will fuck you morning, noon and night if I’m so inclined. And in between, if I choose to fuck someone else, I will fuck her when and where I please, and you have naught to say about it."
"This is my house," Joanna repeated shakily.
"Over which I exercise complete authority. If I decide to oust you from here and keep it for myself, I can. Or perhaps I won’t keep it. Perhaps I’ll rent it out instead." He raised the cup to his lips again, looking around the salle as if appraising it. "After all, I spend most of my time abroad—what need have I of a house like this? Or even the shop—I can sell my silks out of the market hall, as I did before. I’d make quite a tidy profit. Don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before."
"Because it isn’t your house to rent out." She took another bold step toward him. "It’s mine. You have some control over it, but you’re not allowed to dispose of it without my consent, and you can’t make me leave here, either—Hugh told me so."
"Husbands dispose of their wives’ property all the time without their consent."
"Aye, but if the husband dies, the wife can get her property back. It’s the law."
"I’m young and healthy."
With a feigned display of composure, she said, "Young, healthy men have mishaps all the time."
"Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?"
"Perhaps I would."
"You goddamned spoiled little bitch." Prewitt flung his cup aside, wine spraying into the rushes. He seized her by the waist, slammed her to her knees in front of him. "How dare you?"
Joanna’s head whipped to the side as he slapped her. Her cheek burned. Don’t cry. Keep your head. She tried to get up, but he dug his hands into her shoulders to immobilize her. His legs pressed against her on either side; she felt trapped.
"You think you’re still Lady Joanna of Wexford, don’t you, you coddled, impudent—"
"Let go of me." She tried to pull his hands off her shoulders, but he was too strong.
"Well, you’re mine now, milady." Prewitt tore her veil off and grabbed a fistful of her loosened hair. "Mine." He squeezed her breast hard; she cried out.
Still clutching her painfully by her hair, he pulled his shirt up and started untying the drawstring of his silken chausses, snug over his erection. Joanna knew what he wanted. She’d done this for him before, at his insistence, not particularly enjoying it, but considering it an act of love.
This would be no act of love.
"You’re mine to do with as I please," he said breathlessly, drawing her head down toward his lap. Joanna smelled Halfrida’s musky scent on him, and the bile rose in her throat. "And right now," he said, "it pleases me to give you something better to do with your mouth than threaten me."
Joanna slid her new dagger out of its sheath and aimed it at her husband’s groin. "Take your hands off me, Prewitt." Meeting his astonished gaze, she added, "You wouldn’t want a mishap."
He released her and sat back, eyeing the steel blade with wide-eyed outrage, his erection rapidly waning. "Where the bloody hell did you get that? Get it away from there!"
"As you wish." Joanna rose to her feet, removing the blade from his groin and resting its tip lightly against his throat. She leaned in just a bit, forcing him to bend backward over the table. "The more I think about widowhood," she said conversationally, "the more I like the idea of it."
His eyes rolled white, like those of a spooked horse. Suddenly his expression transformed, rage sweeping in like a storm cloud to banish his fear. "You bitch."
He rammed a fist into her belly, dropping her to the floor. The dagger flew from her hand. For a panicky moment she couldn’t breathe, but then her wind—and her resolve—returned. Fighting pain and nausea, she fumbled in the rushes and found the dagger. She scrambled to her feet, gasping, her hair in her face, one arm wrapped around her middle.
He sneered at the weapon quivering in her hand. "You’re sorely mistaken if you think that protects you. I’m half again your size, and I can defend myself as well as any man."
"I daresay you can." She smiled. "When you’re awake."
His eyes slowly widened as he absorbed her meaning.
"If you even think about making me leave here," she said, "I suggest you sleep lightly at night."
In the end, Prewitt not only abandoned any idea of casting Joanna away, but chose to sleep in the storeroom. For five years, whenever he was in London, he shared her home, but kept largely to himself. They ate separately and rarely spoke. Many nights he never came home, which was fine with Joanna. Their relationship became one of commerce, and was actually quite mutually beneficial; he shipped the silks to London, she sold them, and they both lived off the modest proceeds.
Joanna could have carried on like that for many more years. But then had come that package from Genoa, wrapped tightly in crimson silk—how strangely appropriate—and sealed with the insignia of the city government. Prewitt was dead. God knew she didn’t miss him, but she missed his damned silks. Until Graeham had arrived, with his four shillings, she’d been at her wits’ end, wondering how she’d manage to keep her home...
Until Graeham had arrived.
Joanna recalled the sordid and all too familiar little scene she’d encountered last night after she’d come downstairs thinking he might need help. She still was a witless child, at least when it came to men. We have drives that are altogether more elementary.
Joanna hated for Graeham to remind her of Prewitt, but when it came to sex, it seemed men—most men, anyway—were insatiable and indiscriminating. If a woman was convenient and a man felt he could get away with it, he’d use her to assuage his lust and not think twice about it.
Use her... Shivering, Joanna wrapped her arms around herself. Never again.
Hugh seemed to think marriage to the right sort of man would solve all her problems. He had a point in that a man of means wouldn’t be using her for her family name, as Prewitt had. And not all married men strayed; some took their vows to heart. Hug
h had told her that Robert had been a faithful husband to Joan. The right husband could save her from penury and ease her aching loneliness. The right one. Not another charming silk merchant.
Nor a certain equally charming but unlanded serjant, with his earnest blue eyes and reckless curiosity.
Are you happy?
No, not him. Certainly not him.
***
"HUGH—IS THAT YOU?"
Hugh turned from the fine destrier he was admiring to find Robert of Ramswick grinning at him. "Rob!"
The men greeted each other with slaps on the back. In his black, unadorned tunic, Robert looked rather like a fresh-faced young deacon. He’d never been one to advertise his wealth.
"I thought I might find you with the beasts of war." Robert glanced around. "The lady Joanna, is she..."
"Right over there." Hugh pointed through the crowd toward his sister, sitting on a tree stump, her chin in her hand, her eyes closed. One sleeve was still rolled around her arm; the other dangled in the grass. Her linen veil was askew, one of the pins that secured it having come loose. And on top of it all, she was in her stocking feet.
Robert shaded his eyes as he studied her. Chuckling, he said, "She was that way as a girl, wasn’t she? Something always a bit undone."
All Robert knew of Joanna since he’d last seen her years ago was that she’d married a silk trader who’d died. He professed not to care that Joanna had married beneath her. His primary concern was finding a good mother for his children.
It seemed odd to think of Robert as a widower with two daughters. Although he was three years Hugh’s senior, his boyish face and close-cropped sandy hair made him look younger. And, too, there was a rather appealing unworldliness about him, with his devotion to the land and deep-rooted sense of right and wrong. In many ways, he was Hugh’s complete opposite; strange that they’d become such fast friends.
"I thought you were going to bring your girls," Hugh said, looking about. "Where are they?"
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