Lady in Red - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 8)

by Shea,Lisa

  A way parted for her through the dense throng. She walked steadily toward Berenger, drinking in his strength, his sturdiness, his gaze of love which never wavered.

  She caught sight of a gentle movement. Behind Berenger, on the mirror smooth surface of the pond, the pair of swans drifted. They seemed completely unruffled by the crowd which had come to visit their contented home.

  And then Berenger was reaching down to her, taking her hand, helping her to step up to join him on the rock. She moved to stand alongside him, their feet nestling into the two halves of the carved fish image. Her heart glowed as she took in the sight. Berenger had worked carefully, attentively, and had filled in the empty space with a matching fish, the two sets of curves matching up, the two creatures filling in each other’s hollows, the whole creating a complete circle. The two were together, always, acting as one.

  His fingers moved to gently touch the love token which she wore openly on the front of her breast. His breath caught for a long moment, and then his eyes drew up to hold hers.

  Jessame became lost in his warm gaze. Suddenly the quote resonated in her very core.

  Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

  She could feel the other half of her soul reaching out to join her, to merge with her through Berenger’s eyes, and she knew that nothing would ever draw them apart again.

  Chapter 24

  Three weeks later.

  The covered wagon sat on the docks of Dover, the fresh ocean breezes blowing back the cloth curtain. Jessame gave Berenger’s hand a fond squeeze, then poked her head in to her father. “The ship’s docking now. Are you sure she’s on this one?”

  He eagerly nodded his head. “Her father and I were good friends in the Holy Land. The lass was born there, and from what he used to write to me before he was killed, she thrived in the open atmosphere of the camp. But now both her parents are dead and she wants to see what England is all about.”

  He looked between Jessame and Berenger. “I never would have thought I’d be able to come and meet the ship myself. But during these past weeks I have felt younger than I have in years.”

  Jessame gave his mittened hand a tender squeeze. “I am so pleased. Maybe we have finally found a combination of medicines which will keep your energy levels stable.”

  His eyes shone. “I think it is having you happy again which has helped. And having Berenger home with us. It has made all the difference.”

  Jessame leaned against Berenger, contented beyond all words. “Yes, it has.”

  A young woman, perhaps a year or two older than her, stepped off the ship and looked around with bright interest. She had chestnut brown hair and her grey dress had a rough-worn look to it, as if she’d traveled quite far. Her eyes drew up the white limestone cliffs with fascinated interest.

  Jessame waved a hand. “Joan? It’s me, Jessame.”

  Joan’s eyes opened wide and she ran to Jessame, drawing her into a warm hug. “Jessame! I’ve heard so much about you! And is your father really here with you?”

  Jessame waved a hand. “He is, indeed! He’s found his second wind and wanted greatly to make this trip to meet you. He said, if it’s to be his last hurrah, then he would enjoy every moment of it.”

  Joan leant into the wagon and took both of Terric’s cloth-wrapped hands without reservation. “At last. At long last. I have enjoyed your letters. My father spoke of you often, before he was killed in Acre.”

  Terric nodded his head. “Your father was a great friend. I was saddened when that news came.”

  Jessame waved a hand at the nearby inn. “I’ve gotten us a private room, so we can relax with my father and spend some time together. We can hear all about your time in the Holy Land and your long journey.”

  Joan glanced around. “First, if you don’t mind, I want to take a quick look at any swordsmiths in town. It’s a long story, but I need to get a new sword for myself. I feel sort of naked without one. My father always said -”

  Terric chimed in in harmony. “Si vis pacem, para bellum!”

  Joan laughed. “You did know him well.”

  Berenger smiled. “If you want peace, prepare for war. A motto for many who served over there.”

  Joan winked. “Over there, indeed. That was where I was born. For me, it was simply home.”

  Her eyes grew distant as she looked around her at the dockside structures. “I suppose I will have to get used to a new kind of home. And a new way of living.”

  Jessame felt a buzzing at her hip, and she looked down. At the sword given to her by Mary. She had been so sure, at the time, that it was the white lilies which had drawn her clear to the other side of England. But it had not been the lilies which had healed her father. It had been Berenger’s return, her own joy, and the rebuilding of their happy home.

  The finding of justice for the women who had been slain.

  Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. What was it that Mary had said?

  Do not become too fond of Andetnes. When you have at last found contentment, there will be another whose fate balances on the point of a pin. You will know when it is right. And the sword will have a new mistress.

  Jessame looked between Berenger and her father, and her heart swelled with joy. She had everything she could hope for in life. And before her was a woman who was just embarking on her new journey.

  Jessame took Joan by the arm. “Trust me. Come and have some good English ale with us. I have a feeling that we’ll have just the sword that you need to help you reach your dreams.”

  *

  The Sword of Glastonbury series continues with Book 9, In A Glance –

  http://www.amazon.com/Glance-Medieval-Romance-Sword-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00GCE9W0W/

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  As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for reading this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of In A Glance.

  In A Glance Chapter 1

  England, 1200

  “If it is not right do not do it;

  If it is not true do not say it.”

  — Marcus Aurelius

  Joan smiled in contentment as she crossed the village green in the easing crimsons of late afternoon, walking across a carpet of ethereal white primrose flowers. May had brought a gentle warmth with it, finally chasing away the chill of the long, rough winter. She ran a hand through her chestnut brown hair, brushing it back in the breeze, then turned to the blonde at her side.

  “Muriel, while the flowers you have here may be different from the ones I grew up with near Jerusalem, they are just as beautiful in their own way.”

  Muriel smiled in appreciation. “Someday I would like to be able to see the Holy Land,” she mused, pulling her cloak closer against the soft chill. “But to have lived the life of a military child must have been rough on you.”

  Joan shrugged, a twinkle coming to her eye. “My father gave me free rein, and the entire camp was my playground. I would say my childhood was fairly idyllic.”

  Muriel raised an eyebrow. “And yet, when you turned twenty-three last year, you decided to return to a ‘homeland’ where you’d never set foot before.”

  “Lucky for you I did,” pointed out Joan. “Who would you have turned to with this current problem?”

  Muriel’s gaze became serious. “I am grateful you are willing to lend a hand with this,” she admitted. “I have heard good things about Hugh and his band, but I would still feel uncomfortable going in there alone.”

  Joan ran her eyes over the rough-hewn wal
ls of the tavern before them. It was far from the finest she had seen in her years of travel. One of the shutters hung askew and the oak door was nearly split down its center. “Your elder sister is on a dangerous quest,” she gently reminded the woman. “These men will ensure she gets safely to the other side.”

  “You are sure of that?” Muriel’s voice was hesitant. “Maybe we should go to the sheriff.”

  Joan sharply shook her head. “It’s true I have only been on English soil for a year. Still, that’s been long enough to know to avoid the sheriff at all costs,” she ground out. “No, Hugh’s men are our best bet. They hold court in a private room at the back of this … choice establishment.”

  She stared at the door for a long moment, then glanced at the sky.

  “It is not quite time yet,” she informed her friend. “Let us go around to the side window and listen for a few minutes. The more information we can gain before we engage them, the better.”

  Muriel nodded. In a moment the two women had slipped through the weeds at the side of the aging structure. Joan picked up a stick and used it to detach a large, intricate spider web from the shutter. She then carefully eased the sagging wood open just an inch. Slowly, cautiously, she drew close to the opening.

  Four people were seated around a large, circular oak table, with room for at least two more. Mugs of ale sat before each person. As Joan watched, a buxom waitress with stunning honey-blonde hair came pushing her way through the door, a large ceramic pitcher cradled in one beefy arm. She gave a warm smile to the group as she moved from mug to mug, filling each to the brim.

  She stopped solicitously by a raven-haired woman. “Sybil, my duck, would you like that stew now, or later?”

  “Later,” snapped Sybil, not looking up. “You know I would not interrupt business with pleasure.”

  The waitress looked over at the person next to her, a middle-aged, greying man whose thick biceps reflected an active life. “You hungry for some stew, Norman?”

  “Certainly,” he agreed, glancing up and nodding. “With some steamed turnips on the side.”

  A thin, wiry man at his side eagerly leant forward, his gaze sweeping down the waitress’s form. “You know what I would like,” he called out in a suggestive tone, his eyes twinkling.

  The waitress’s mouth quirked up in a grin. “Stew is all you shall be getting,” she advised him.

  She turned to the fourth man, shook her head, and then headed back toward the main room. She closed the door behind her with a gentle thump.

  Joan took in a long, deep breath, and then turned her gaze toward the last man at the table. It had been five long years since she had seen him. She could vividly remember that summer’s day on the coast near Jaffa, with the fragrant smell of olives wafting from the kitchens of the seaside restaurant.

  She had watched him for an hour, drinking him in as a dying woman submerges wholly, gratefully, in a desert oasis. And then she had turned her back and left. It had been the first time she had seen him in person – and she swore it would be the last. Her heart yearned for him too strongly. She was not free to follow the passions swirling within her.

  And yet, with the twists and turns of life, the forks in paths and the cul-de-sacs, somehow she was here. She was watching him again, how he ignored the ale before him and stared steadfastly at the door, as if his focus could cause it to open before the scheduled time.

  He had become sturdier in the past five years. His short-cropped hair was still light brown, but somehow it seemed darker in the depths of the gloomy inn, rather than out beneath the glowing sun of an azure Mediterranean sky. His dark eyes seemed shadowed, and she wondered if her own held that same burden. His arms and shoulders still held the muscled, toned readiness that she remembered, and she had read enough reports of his prowess in battle over the years to know he was an expert with the sword at his side.

  God’s teeth, she still craved him with all her being.

  He suddenly looked straight at the window.

  Her years of training served her well – she stayed stock still, only flicking her eyelids shut to hide the gleam. He would have noticed any sudden movement; instead all he could see would be a muddle of shadows, nothing to bring concern. After several long moments she risked opening one eye a fraction. He had returned to his perusal of the door. His fingers began a slow, rhythmic drum against the table.

  The reedy man at his side gave him a nudge, following his gaze. “Hoping for Ada to come back and spend more time on you?” He shook his head vigorously. “I saw her first,” he insisted. “I get first rights.”

  Hugh’s fingers stilled for a moment, a ripple of tension moved through his shoulders, and then the coiled muscles forcibly released. The fingers went back to their even thrumming. “You can have her, Ymbert,” he stated without interest.

  Ymbert’s smile grew wide. “She is surely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he extolled. “Such curves, such hair! How she ended up in a slime-pit like this is beyond me.”

  Sybil’s laugh was harsh. “Better get her quick, then,” she advised the thin man. “Before she comes to her senses.”

  Ymbert’s face shadowed with worry for a moment, then he shrugged it off. “Another will come along, even more beautiful,” he promised. He turned to Hugh. “You were off in the crusades; you have seen the world,” he prodded the man. “Who was the most beautiful woman you have seen?”

  “Not now,” retorted Hugh, his gaze steady on the door.

  “Please?” wheedled Ymbert. “I have never been more than thirty miles beyond this tavern. What are the women of the south like?”

  “We have a client – ”

  “We have at least fifteen minutes before our client arrives,” prodded Ymbert eagerly. “The church bell has not even rung yet. Tell me, are the women of the Holy Land tall and slender like angels? Are they round and soft like pillows? Are they …”

  Sybil rolled her eyes. “God’s teeth, Hugh, just tell him something. Anything. If he whines any more I swear I will run him through myself.”

  Hugh looked down at his ale for a long minute, then brought the mug up, taking a long draw. “Fine,” he said, bringing his eyes back to the group. “I will tell you about the most stunning woman I have ever encountered.”

  His gaze drifted for a moment and he looked off into the distance. “She was wearing a flowing silk dress of tangerine and gold that rippled in the late afternoon sun. I remember she was barefoot, dancing along the waist-high stone wall which separated the cobblestone courtyard from the sea below. Seagulls, glossy white against the blue, were hovering at her side. Every once in a while she would turn and throw a bit of crust to one, laughing in delight when they picked the food out of the sky by maneuvering with just a subtle twist of the wing-tip.”

  Ymbert leant forward, his eyes wide. “What was her beauty? What did she look like?”

  Hugh gave his head a soft shake. “Michael and I were sitting at the far side of the plaza, at one of the small tables near the restaurant. She was across the cobblestones. I could barely see her face in the summer glare. She had long, dark hair which fell in waves past her waist. She was young – perhaps eighteen – and slim. But it was not artfully made up eyes which caught me, or abundant curves, or pouting lips.” He drew his gaze down to his ale again. “It was her lightness of being, the dance in her step, the sheer pleasure she took in the natural beauty of the day. And then she looked at me …”

  Ymbert was practically lying on the table now. “And? And?”

  Hugh took another draw on his ale. “And nothing,” he cut out shortly. “And I turned to Michael, and by the time I looked back, she was walking away. She was gone.”

  Ymbert shook his head in bewilderment. “Why did you not go after her?”

  Hugh’s eyes moved back to look at the door. His voice was curt. “I was on business, as we are now.”

  The somber bells of the church across the green began tolling; Muriel gave a nervous tug to Joan’s sleeve. “It is ti
me,” she murmured.

  Joan nodded, drawing in a deep breath. She forced herself to come back from the window, to gently ease it shut again. She had not realized that the one glance had meant as much to Hugh as it did to her – but thank all that was Holy he never got a good look at her. She needed the next few days to unfurl as carefully as a field mouse peeling a nut near a sleeping cat. There was enormous potential for disaster. One misstep could plunge her hopes into an icy river, to be swept downstream, her chances lost forever.

  She had to lay each stepping stone with perfect precision.

  She pulled her cloak closer, drawing the hood over her head. Her years of training taught her to reveal nothing, to give away not the slightest hint beyond what was necessary.

  The two women moved to the main door and Joan shouldered it open with a shove. The room within was fairly dim, with perhaps six oak tables scattered, populated with a collection of rough-looking men in leather and sword. Ada, the buxom beauty, wove easily between them, carrying a platter with several mugs balanced on it.

  “Sit anywhere,” she called out as she turned to wait on the table before her.

  Muriel pressed closely against Joan’s side with a nervous shiver. Joan patted her reassuringly on the arm before moving toward the door in the back. She could feel the attention of Hugh’s gaze on it, could feel the focus of his stare before her, and she laid her hand against the oak for a long moment.

  It had begun.

  She lifted the latch and eased the door open, drawing Muriel along with her into the room, then turned to slide the door shut. She deliberately slouched her shoulders, blending into the background, allowing Muriel to take all their focus.

  Norman stood, smiling at his guest. “My dear Muriel, welcome. Please, have a seat. My companions here are Sybil, Ymbert, and Hugh. I am Norman.”

  Muriel settled nervously into the chair while Joan leant back against the wall by the door. She took a pose of quiet obedience, her eyes lowered, a non-threat. The others barely glanced at her.

  Norman steepled his fingers, his weathered face gentling. “We hear you have a problem we can help with. Please tell us about it.”