Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  She surfaced, choking, and kicked out. Drowning might be easy, but she had never been one to take the easy way out. She tried to swim, but the weight of her clothes dragged her down again, and the water closed over her head. Three times and you went under for good, she'd heard, fighting her way to the surface, breaking free into the blessed air for a brief moment. And then she went down again, and she knew that this time she wouldn't be coming up again, as she sank down, her body caught in the swirling current, pulling her deeper. She would die, and she knew it, and it would be her choice to pick what her last thought would be.

  And without hesitation she thought of William's hands on her body, strong and powerful, and she gave in.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  It had been years since Joanna had been free to run in the forest. It didn't matter that she was running for her very life—a strange exhilaration filled her as she raced through the thick morning air. The noise of the pitched battle faded as she ran, and she closed her ears to the cries of pain and the clash of metal.

  When she was young she would run for the sheer joy of it, racing through the countryside for hours on end. There should be no joy in her escape today, with the dead and dying left behind, but the sense of strength and freedom coursed through her body and spurred her onward. She ran until she could run no more, then she collapsed in exhaustion, curling up in a ball and hiding beneath the bushes.

  Were they all dead? What bandits would attack such a large party, composed of monks and knights? There would be little of value in the party—scarcely-worth such a full-scale attack. She knew that Prince William had many enemies, but who would dare try to kill the only son of the king of England? Who would be fool enough?

  She doubted anyone else could have escaped. The marauders had approached silently enough, but they must have made noise enough to rouse her. She woke in the predawn light to stare around her at the sleeping forms. Lady Elizabeth slept wrapped up tight, and the sounds of snoring from the knights filled the air with soft cacophony. Even the knight posted as sentry dozed as he leaned against a tree.

  She'd struggled to her feet, heading into the bushes to relieve herself, and she'd just been about to return when the attack came. She didn't hesitate. Too late to warn them, too late to save them. She could only save herself.

  Slowly her breathing came back to normal. Her heart had been slamming against her chest so hard that it was painful, but as daylight spread over the forest, calm returned, and she thought of poor Lady Elizabeth. She could only hope she'd died quickly. Men could be very brutal indeed, and even the marriage bed was an unpleasant experience. Rape and murder at the hands of outlaws would be unspeakable horror.

  She rose, brushing the leaves from her cloak, brushing the tears from her face. What was done was done—there was nothing she could do to change it. If she had any sense at all she would keep going the way she was heading. She could tell by the position of the sun that she'd been running due west, and if she continued on that way she would reach the sea sooner or later.

  She still had her paltry jewels in the sack at her side. As a precaution she pulled the tiny pouch from her waistband and hung it around her neck, tucking it between her breasts. If a man got his hands there she'd be past help, anyway.

  Strange to think of them all dead back there. The tall prince didn't seem the kind of man to die easily, though Joanna knew that death was swift and impartial. And Lady Elizabeth had been so young, so naive, so determined.

  For some reason the image of Brother Adrian flashed before her, with his downcast eyes. He had the wrong mouth for a celibate, she thought. Even though he'd tried to hide it, he had the mouth of a sensualist. A mouth made for kissing, and he would never kiss. It shouldn't have saddened her, but it did. She'd always had a weakness for kissing, a weakness not shared by the men in her life. It was only what came afterward that was unpleasant and unsatisfying.

  She looked west, toward the sea, toward eventual help, then back into the murky depths of the forest. Were they all dead? Had the marauders abandoned their bodies without making certain that some of them could still be helped?

  If she had any sense at all she would continue onward, accepting the fate of her fellow travelers as she accepted most things.

  But at that moment she seemed particularly lacking in sense. She knew she was going back, at least partway, close enough to see whether or not there was anything she could do. Close enough to know that in truth, they were all dead, and she had no choice but to move on.

  Her pace was slow, circumspect, as she retraced her mad dash through the forest. What had seemed to take her mere moments was now taking her hours. Part of her dreaded what she would find, and her pace slowed accordingly. There would be nothing she could do but pray over them and depart.

  The smell of blood and death reached her, and she stopped, clutching her stomach to keep her reflexive gagging from overtaking her. The sun must have hit the bodies. Before long the animals would come, and the thought of Lady Elizabeth's poor body being savaged by wild boars was somehow unbearable. If she could do nothing else she'd somehow manage to bury Lady Elizabeth. It was too cruel a death for one so young and preternaturally brave.

  The scene of carnage came as a shock. She was closer than she'd realized, and she almost fell over the outstretched body of one of the monks. He'd been running, and he lay dead in a pool of blood, his tonsured head smashed by a mace.

  They lay all around like scattered bits of kindling. Monks and knights, they were all dead. She moved forward, picking her way through the bodies, a sense of strong foreboding filling her. There was no woman here. No swath of flame-red hair, no length of green fabric. No sign of Elizabeth at all.

  Which left one of two choices. Either she'd escaped, or they'd taken her, and God have mercy on her soul.

  Logic told Joanna that it could only be the latter. That Elizabeth, if she wasn't dead yet, would be praying for it soon enough. And Joanna could only add her own prayers that her end would be swift and merciful.

  But there was always the possibility she had escaped. She had long legs that would carry her far and fast, and a bright, inventive mind that would aid her. There was always hope.

  There were too many bodies to be certain, but she couldn't identify the prince. There was no way she could, of course—some of the wounds inflicted by the bandits had been savage and disfiguring, and blood turned the clothing black. She went to each one, touching them briefly, saying a quiet prayer, closing the eyes of one poor soul, but she couldn't bring herself to turn them over to check their identity. In the end, what did it matter?

  She went to the fallen monks, following the same pattern, a soft prayer for their souls and a brief touch, until she came to the last one who lay facedown in his own blood. He was off away from the rest, as if he'd been running for his life, and yet there was no wound on his back. He couldn't have been struck down as he fled.

  She touched his shoulder with gentle hands, but it was warm and pliant, not stiff and cold like the others. And he groaned.

  She jumped back, startled. And then she fell to her knees beside him, turning him over carefully.

  It was Brother Adrian. She gazed down at him in wonder. His eyes were closed, his chest was red with blood, but he lived. As she'd somehow known he would, when she made the insane decision to turn around and come back to this place of death, instead of seeing to her own safety.

  She put her hand against his heart, and it was beating strongly. His color was good, as well—the loss of blood was not as bad as it seemed. "Brother Adrian," she said in an urgent voice. "Can you hear me?"

  His eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, staring up at her, trying to focus. "The prince…" he whispered.

  "The prince is dead. We have to get away from this place—they may come back. Do you think you could walk if I helped you?"

  "No," he said. But he put his hand on her shoulder, pulling himself to his feet, almost toppling her in the effort.

  He
swayed, and she immediately put her arm around his waist to support him. He tried to pull away, but he hadn't the strength. "Stop fighting, boy," she snapped, nettled. "Save your strength for getting away from here."

  "I'm not… a boy…" he managed to say.

  "Be quiet!" She moved forward, guiding him, terrified he'd collapse again and she'd be unable to lift him, but he somehow managed to move forward.

  It was slow, painful going, one stumbling step after another. Joanna didn't stop to think how heavy his body was, how her own ached, how empty her stomach or how warm the day was becoming. They simply walked, step by step, farther and farther away from the scene of carnage.

  It must have been hours later when Adrian stopped to lean against a tree. "I need to rest," he gasped.

  "If we stop I may never get you moving again," Joanna said. She felt like an anxious mother with a hurt child.

  "I'm not certain I can move anymore. You should go on, see to yourself," he said. "Either someone will come and find me, or I'll die. It's God's will. I have failed in my task. I was to watch him, make certain he didn't harm anyone else…"

  "Who?"

  "The prince," he muttered. "I tried to stop him. When the marauders came I went after him. Better he should die at their hands than escape. But he was too strong, and he had a knife."

  "You're saying the prince hurt you?" She couldn't believe him.

  "He hoped to kill me. He may have succeeded," Adrian said, closing his eyes. "Go on without me."

  "No," she said. "I was well away from here when something stopped me and sent me back to find you. It could only be the will of God, and I am not about to contravene it. Neither should you, Brother Adrian, if you have any sense. There's no guarantee you won't die, but you shouldn't die defying God's will."

  "Who says it wasn't the Devil who sent you back after me?" he whispered.

  "I don't take orders from the Devil," Joanna said firmly. "We can argue about that later. In the meantime we need to keep moving. I promise you, as soon as we find some sort of shelter we'll stop and I'll see what I can do about your wound."

  "No!" he said, sounding very young. "You shouldn't touch me…"

  "I'm already touching you, Brother," she said, feeling oddly maternal. "And if you don't step forward I may very well kick your arse, as well. Move! With luck we'll find a monastery to aid us, but otherwise you're stuck with me. And stop arguing. I told you to save your strength."

  She wasn't sure what else she could do. He was almost at the end of his endurance, and she had no notion of how far she could push him. He walked for another hour, and then collapsed, unconscious, at her feet.

  She fell to her knees beside him, terrified that he was dead, but his heart was still beating strongly, though his skin was warm to the touch. Too warm. She had to get his wound cleaned and dressed; he had to rest and regain his strength, or the fever would overtake him and she'd have no choice but to sit and watch him die.

  They couldn't stay there. She tried tugging at his shoulders, but he groaned at the pressure on his wound, and he was too heavy. In a moment of inspiration she pulled off her cloak and lay it on the hard ground, then managed to roll him onto it. Taking the hem of it, she began to pull, and slowly his body began to move.

  It seemed like hours later when she saw the tiny cottage, and she felt a sudden surge of hope. Drop-ping the edge of her cloak, she ran forward, calling out for help.

  It was long abandoned. Part of the roof was gone, and it was not much better than a shed. But a cool stream ran nearby, and the place would provide shelter and time to let Brother Adrian rest. A few hours would make all the difference.

  The last few moments of the journey were the hardest. He seemed to have doubled in weight for such a slight young man, and Joanna was so weary she wanted to sit on the ground and weep with it. But he was growing weaker, and now wasn't the time to give in.

  By the time she managed to half push, half drag him into the hovel she was ready to collapse herself. The bed was covered with straw, and she could only hope it wasn't infested with vermin. At that moment all she could do was get his heavy body up onto it. And then she fell into the narrow space behind him, closing her eyes.

  For a moment Elizabeth thought it was sheer force of will, the hand that reached down through the water for her. The hand of God, plucking her up into heaven? She surged upward, back into the blessed air, but it wasn't God's face she looked into, it was the Devil's. The prince wasn't dead, he was treading water beside her, hauling her toward the shore.

  "Fight me and I'll let you drown," he said, but she was past the point of resistance. He was a much stronger swimmer than she was, and he wasn't ham-pered by long, heavy skirts. He reached the shore, keeping a manacle grip on her wrist, pulled himself up and dragged her after him, dropping onto the ground. Since he hadn't let go of her she had no choice but to collapse next to him, and no will to do anything else. She lay on her back, winded, staring up at the towering trees overhead, listening to the sounds of the forest. The river was running wildly nearby—why hadn't she noticed it was no gentle stream? Birds were making a racket overhead, a good sign. It meant no predators were trying to sneak up on them. She could hear the man next to her struggle to catch his breath, and she turned her face to look at him, now that her own breathing had returned to normal.

  He still hadn't released her wrist, a fact she was uncomfortably aware of. He may not have even realized he was still touching her. He simply lay there, his eyes closed, as rivulets of water streamed down his face from his wet hair.

  He must have felt her eyes on him. He turned to look at her, a blank expression on his face.

  "Where did you come from?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse from the water she'd swallowed and then coughed up, and she cleared her throat.

  "The same place you did," he replied. "Don't you remember?"

  "The last time I saw you, you were battling the bandits. What made you turn and run?"

  Not the most tactful way to put it, but he didn't even blink. He simply shrugged. "Perhaps I saw it was going to end badly and decided to escape while I still could."

  "They were after you, weren't they? They weren't ordinary bandits—their horses were too fine, their clothes too good. They were sent by the man whose daughter you killed."

  "I have more than one enemy," he said, seemingly unconcerned. "He's just one of many who'd like to see me dead."

  "So instead everyone else died."

  "You didn't," he pointed out.

  "Because I ran."

  "Because I told you to run. Perhaps you should have picked up a sword and fought them yourself."

  "I don't know how to use a sword."

  "Ah, yes. Well, you'll need a knife and a sword where we're going. I'll teach you how to use one."

  She sat up. She was chilled, soaked to the bone, and a breeze had picked up, sending tendrils of ice down her spine. She tugged at her wrist, but he didn't release her.

  "Where are we going?" she said.

  "To the Shrine of Saint Anne, of course. You to join the holy sisters, me to perform an act of contrition. Perhaps I'll travel the last few miles on my knees to show my repentance."

  "Like your grandfather."

  "What?"

  "Everyone knows your grandfather made a pilgrimage on his knees after he had Saint Thomas a Becket killed. You come from murderous blood, don't you?"

  "Ah, yes. My grandfather. I'm not so good on family history—I prefer to live in the present." He sat up, shaking his head like a wet dog so that the water sprayed everywhere, including into her eyes. "You run too fast. I had the devil of a time catching up with you. I was almost too late. What happened—did you slip on the bank of the river?"

  "I jumped in."

  He was silent for a moment. "Suicide is a mortal sin."

  "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I was covered in blood—I couldn't stand it anymore. I thought if I just jumped in it might wash the worst of it away."

  "And instead you almost
drowned. I thought you were smarter than that. You don't jump into a river without testing the depth and the current."

  "I'm not in the habit of jumping into rivers at all. I've spent most of my life in my father's household, protected from danger."

  "And now you have the horror of discovering how dangerous life can really be. Much more terrifying than a bullying father, I expect. You must be shaking in your shoes."

  "I left my shoes on the riverbank when I jumped in," she said, glancing up the swift-flowing stream. "If I'm shaking, it's because I'm cold. And I'd rather be dead than spend the rest of my life trapped in my father's household."

  "And the danger?"

  She knew what her answer should be. But there was something about the prince that cut to the heart of the matter. She said things to him that she never said out loud to other people, only thought.

  "I liked it."

  "You what?"

  She'd managed to astonish him. "I liked the danger. Oh, I didn't like people being hurt, people dying. But there's something… invigorating in running for your life, isn't there? I imagine it would be just as stimulating to fight." She turned to him eagerly. "Would you really teach me how to use a sword? I imagine I could stab anyone easily enough with a knife, but a sword seems a great deal more complicated."

  He stared at her for a long, perplexed moment. "You never fail to astonish me, my lady," he said. "You should be weak and fainting with horror."

  "Then you'd have to carry me, and I'd just as soon you didn't touch me." She looked down at her wrist pointedly. His long fingers still encircled it, and he made no effort to release her.

  "We would all like a great many things that we'll never receive. And let me assure you, knife fighting is far more complicated than you might imagine, and requires brute strength. The only way you'd succeed is if you depended on the element of surprise."