Maris stepped forward, brushing one of Joanna’s thick braids back from her temple to look more closely at the bruising all along her face. “He deserves to die, he who would do this. Come, Joanna, I’ll tend you in my chamber.” When Bernard would speak, she looked up at him, “Nay, Bernard—you cannot attend her. You know that. Your task is to ensure that her husband does not return, looking for her, until midnight at the least. Start a fight with him if you must, but keep him away. Now go, you.”
“’Tis a good thing you do not wish to wed, Lady Maris—for I know of few men who would have a termagent such as you,” Bernard muttered.
Joanna drew back, insulted for her new friend and shocked that he would utter such words, but Maris merely laughed. “’Tis my own secret—and now yours—that that is the way I wish it to be. Now make haste!”
But Bernard ignored her command, and instead took Joanna’s hand in his large fingers. He raised it to his lips, brushing his mouth over her palm and the sensitive inside of her wrist. Prickles of warmth skittered up her spine, and she breathed a faint gasp at the unexpected pleasure. The soft bristles of his moustache, and the warmth of his lips pressed one last kiss on the back of her hand before he released it.
“Joanna, would that I could protect you now….But I cannot—not yet. I will find a way, my lady. Have a care tonight, and I will see you on the morrow.” He turned to Maris, giving a faint bow, and added, “My thanks, my lady, for caring for her. If only we could find a way to keep her from her husband.”
Maris had been watching the two of them, and now she spoke. “I do not wish her to be in his custody any more than you do, Bernard, but she is his wife. There is no means of interference. Yet, I will think on it, and see if there is aught that can be done to somehow arrange a reprieve.”
Bernard bowed and turned away. He took two steps, stopped, and turned back, holding Joanna’s veil. “I shall wear your favor on the lists tomorrow.” Then he strode off.
“Come, Joanna.” Maris once again slipped her arm through hers.
“’Tis dangerous for Bernard,” Joanna said as they paced along the corridor. “Ralf—my husband—bears ill will toward him.”
Maris looked at her, faint amusement showing in her face. “It would appear that Bernard can protect himself, Joanna. I am most concerned with you and your fate.” The humor faded from her expression. “Here.” She stopped in front of a door and opened it for them to enter. She spoke immediately to the young servant within. “Anna, do you sit out side of the door and knock should anyone approach.” As her maid hurried to do her bidding, Maris gently pulled Joanna into the chamber and directed her to sit on the bed.
“Now, let us get that gown off. I trow there is more anger hidden beneath it.”
Her bruises were so painful that Joanna was forced to allow Maris to assist her in disrobing, and when the other woman saw the marks and cuts on her back, arms, and legs, she knelt beside her, clasping her hand.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at Joanna. “How do you bear it?” she asked. “How do you bear it so bravely, so strongly?” A gentle hand smoothed down her back—the first touch Joanna had received on bare skin that was not designed to hurt.
She moved her shoulders in an awkward shrug. “I have no choice. ’Tis my lot.” She pressed her hand onto Maris’s. “I could hide in my chambers all the day—’tis true—or end my life, or cower and squeak like no more than a mouse. An’ there are times when I must try to be invisible, and there are times when the merest noise causes me to jump—for it might be him.”
She took a deep breath as Maris rose, and confessed the secret which burned deep inside her. “I am most likely damned, for I cannot accept my lot. I know that I must be obedient to my husband—that he owns me, and may do with me what he will….but I cannot accept that.”
“And well you should not.” Maris returned to the bed, carrying a thick leather satchel. She flipped it open, and it unrolled, exposing small pouches, packets wrapped in leather and parchment, and other utensils. “God helps those who help themselves, and accepting of such a life is foolish. You will be killed if he continues like this.”
Joanna drew in her breath deeply as Maris began to smooth a soothing salve onto her bruised face, and down to the shoulder that had been jolted by the man-at-arms in the hall.
She took some small, dried green leaves and, crumbling them in her hands, sprinkled them over the salve on Joanna’s shoulder where Ralf’s knife had cut her. “Woad. Dried woad will ease the pain and start the healing. Jesu, no man should be allowed to live after this!”
Joanna laughed bitterly. “Aye. There are many a night when I contemplate ways to send him to his death. But ’twould be almost as much of a sin—more, aye—than what he does to me.” She passed a shaking hand over her hair, pushing a thick lock from her face. “But I’ve dreamed of it.”
“You are a better woman than I—for I would have done it after the first moon of enduring such treatment, damnation or nay.” Maris pressed a strip of cloth onto the herb-sprinkled salve. “Can your father not help? Can you not flee to him for protection?”
“’Tis my father who gave me to Ralf. He does not care—he says what all men say: that a wife belongs to her husband.”
“Another reason I shall never wed,” Maris said, dabbing something onto another fresh cut. It stung, but not so much as the leather whipcord had, and Joanna barely flinched.
“You shan’t wed?”
“Nay. My father will not force me, and I do not wish to be bound to a man.”
Joanna shook her head slowly. “I do not mind being wed—but to a man such as Ralf, ’tis hell. When I leave, I shall have no—” Realizing what she’d said, she bit back her words and froze into silence.
“Leave?”
Joanna said nothing, cursing herself for letting her tongue relax.
“Is Bernard to help you to leave? Do you run off with him?” Maris looked sharply at her. “Do not tell me you are Bathsheba to his David.”
“Nay, oh nay! I would not allow it of him—or anyone. If Ralf does find me, he’ll kill me, and whoever would be with me, and whoever might have helped me along the way.”
Miraculously, Joanna’s pain began to ebb, and her head to clear as she continued to speak. “Ralf does not allow me to leave the keep at Swerthmoor, but he could not keep me from coming to my sister’s wedding celebration, so I have this chance—this one chance—to run from him. I have been saving gold pieces, waiting for such an opportunity. He does not notice the small amount missing.”
“Where will you go?”
“I know of an abbey nearby—as I grew up here. The sisters will take me in, and hide me, I am certain. I shall live in a cloister all the rest of my days. If Ralf does not find me, and follow me, I shall be safe. And….” she hesitated.
“Is there more?”
“Aye. My father has a map of this keep, for there is a tale of great treasure hidden in the warren of secret tunnels beneath it. I plan to take the map during the tourney on the morrow, and it is with its help and through the tunnels that I’ll take my flight. Thus I will get outside of the walls unseen.”
“If it is so legendary, does not your husband know of the map?”
“Aye, and therein is my trick. Ralf has demanded that I obtain it from my father, but he will not ask for it on his own. He knows my father will not give it to him.” Joanna’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I will make a false copy and to give to Ralf—and use the true one for my own purposes.”
Maris stopped her work to grin at her. “Clever girl. For even should he attempt to follow you, he will be lost.”
“Aye.”
They were silent for a moment—Joanna enjoying the touch of a healer and the moment where she need not fear that her peace would be interrupted. Maris worked quickly and with great efficiency.
When she finished her work, Maris carefully rolled up the leather satchel and walked to a large trunk beside the fireplace. As she turned, she spoke. �
��What of Bernard, Joanna? How does he figure into this scheme?”
’Twas a question Joanna had avoided in her own mind, and now she was face to face with it. “I do not know. Any involvement with me will anger Ralf….but Bernard has promised to free me from my husband. In sooth, I do not know how he would—other than to murder him.” She looked at Maris, who stood solemnly watching her, aware of her earlier question regarding David and Bathsheba. “Nay. He is an honorable man. He would not do that.”
“Do you care for him?”
“Aye.” Oh, aye. She could not think of him without a smile starting to rim her face, and a warmth bubbling within—and a sadness that he’d come into her life so tardily.
She stood, thrusting those thoughts away. “I must take your leave now, Maris. I am so very grateful that we have met—and I thank you for tending to me.”
There was an awkward moment before Maris stepped forward to embrace her gingerly—but even so, Joanna drew in her breath at the pain.
“Have a care, Joanna. I would sit with you on the morrow to watch the jousting.”
“Thank you again. I will find my own way to my chamber.” And with that, Joanna slipped out the door and back into her life of hell.
4
As it was most often, Bernard’s instinct was accurate. He made an early visit to the stables and found Joanna within.
She halted in the act of climbing a ladder into the loft of the stable when he approached, and for the barest moment, a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. But then, she gestured for him to join her as she continued her ascension.
“Good morrow, my lady,” Bernard said in a low voice as he stepped onto the thick hay, joining her in the loft. He ducked nearly double to walk toward her, finally sinking into a spot next to her.
“Good morrow, my lord.” She glanced briefly at him, then, as though shy in his presence, turned her attention to Cleome—who nestled comfortably in a pile of straw. As he watched, she withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel, unfolding it to reveal a bit of meat and cheese.
“Are you well?” he asked, scrutinizing her as well as he could in the dim light. “I had to see that Ralf did you no further ill last eve.”
“Nay. He returned to the chamber very late, and fell asleep immediately. ’Twas strange, as he had not had much ale to drink at dinner.” She fed Cleome from her hand.
Bernard could not keep a satisfied smile from his face. He’d taken care to keep Ralf from returning to the chamber by soundly defeating the man in a very long game of dice. ’Though Ralf’s parting words were an angry threat to meet him on the lists this day, Bernard gave little thought to the warning. “Good.”
He reached for her hand, gently taking the remainder of Cleome’s food from her fingers, and turning Joanna to face him. “Come hither, my lady. I wish for a token from you before I joust this day.”
“But you have my favor,” she replied in confusion.
“I speak not of that favor, but of another, sweeter, one.” With a gentle tug, he brought her shoulders and face closer to him. “Now, where we cannot be seen, might I take a soft kiss from you, my lady? As though I were going into battle?”
Her lips curved softly, and her cheeks warmed. “Aye, my lord, though I am not well-practiced in the art of kissing. I would that you should teach me.”
Her simple statement caused a great surge of affection and desire to course through him. In what other arts would she need tutoring?
“Joanna….” He fitted his hands around her face, cupping her chin with his palms and curving his fingers about the back of her neck. Her braids rested heavily against his wrists, and her sweet, fresh scent filled him, even before he brought his mouth to cover hers. She raised her eyes trustingly, and for the moment, he was taken aback that she—who had been so abused by a man—should so easily come to trust him. He was humbled, for he would never have been able to open himself thus.
Her lips parted as he covered them, and the hint of warm moistness tasted as it had before—of strawberries and freshness. This time, however, Bernard took more than the faint brushing of lips in the garden. He fitted his mouth to hers, nibbling on her lips, delving into her mouth, inhaling the essence of Joanna.
She gave a soft moan that vibrated against his lips, sending a new wave of arousal through him. She lifted her hands from their place in the hay, shifting so that she leaned into him, and brought her fingers to gently touch the curls on his head. His scalp came alive at that unfamiliar touch, tingles shooting down the back of his neck and along his spine. Then, as she kissed him with growing fervor, her hands smoothed down over his ears and to his shoulders, where their heat burned him, but their weight was barely noticeable.
Pulling her to his chest so that their torsos fit together as they knelt in the straw, he deepened the kiss—fighting to keep from frightening her with his desire, but needing to get his fill. It was the softness, the gentleness, the clean womanness of her scent that he held and wanted…and through the haze of irrational desire, vowed he would have.
At last, she pulled away, and he opened his eyes to see whether he’d taken too much from her. But the swollen curve of her lips, and the soft light in her eyes told him that, nay, she had been plundered no more than what she herself had desired. When she raised her hand to touch his cheek, smoothing the bristles of hair that grew there, he smiled and her fingers slipped near his mouth. She traced his lips, hidden by the moustache, before he captured her hand for a last kiss in her palm.
“Enough, now, my lady—else I shall not be at my best on the lists this day.” With reluctance, he set her away from him and moved himself back so as to be out of easy reach of temptation.
God’s bones, she was beautiful, all plump-lipped and heavy-eyed, with her hair still perfectly braided and coiled in swirls on her head. Bernard nearly pulled her to him again, but caught himself in time.
“I shall carry that favor in my heart, and this one”—he pulled a scrap of white from the sleeve of his tunic—“on my lance.”
“Oh, Bernard, you had best not. Please, should Ralf see it….”
“He would recognize this piece of cloth as yours?” he asked, pulling it through his hands. It was soft, as she was, and smelled of her—and well he knew, for he’d slept with it on his pillow the last eve.
“Oh, yes, Bernard. Ralf has the most discerning eye for such things.” She looked at him with such fear in eyes that had been dazed with desire only moments before.
“Then I shall wear this favor near my heart,” he told her. With a quick jerk, he had his over tunic off, and then his sherte, leaving him bare-chested. At the sight of him, she drew in her breath deeply and Bernard could not help but the swell of pride that she should react thus. After all, she had been the victim of a man as powerfully as he.
She watched him as he wrapped the white linen veil around his hirsute, muscular chest, and, as though she could not remain away any longer, moved forward to take the ends of the veil and tie it herself. Then her hands slipped boldly—so boldly for his shy, demure Joanna—up through the thick coarse hair and over the top of his shoulders, sending the same searing heat that came from her gaze.
“You are wondrous,” she told him. “And ’tis all the more miraculous that you have the gentleness of a mare about you. With such strength, you could rule the simple life of anyone.”
Touched, and shamed that his fellow man should be the cause of such grief, Bernard reached to stroke her face, gently, over the purpling bruise. It took great effort not to ruin the moment by allowing the cold fury he felt toward her husband to burst forth. “One with my strength has no need to prove his power at the expense of a weaker one. Nor should any man need have that urge. I am sorry that you should have experienced this yourself. Joanna, I will protect you. I will find a way.”
She tipped her face to touch her mouth to his, then drew back before the kiss could deepen. “Aye, Bernard….and God be with you on the lists today—for Ralf does bear you ill. You do not intend to meet him, do you?�
��
His eyes jolted wide in surprise. “But of course I will meet him, Joanna. Knocking the whoreson on his arse will be the greatest pleasure for me. Would that I could do more damage, but of course, I cannot in such a tournament. But I vow that you’ll have naught to worry you on this eve, for Ralf will be in no shape to raise a hand to you.”
Sweat trickled down his back and along the sides of his cheeks as the noon sun beat down upon him. Bernard shifted the heavy, straight lance in his hand, testing its weight even as he reined back Rock from his eagerness to leap forward.
A roar of approval rose from the crowd that lined both sides of the jousting lists as a lance found its mark on a second pass, dumping an unfortunate jouster onto the dusty ground. The victor raised his lance and galloped along the front of the stands, kicking up more dust and causing a greater shout from the crowd.
“Lord Bernard of Derkland…challenged by Sir Marven de Hanover.”
A thrill of anticipation shot through him as Bernard wheeled Rock forward to take their place at one end of the list. His squire, Rowan, handed him first his helm, then his shield. Bernard glanced briefly at the crowd, in hopes of locating Joanna, but did not place her before the signal to commence was given.
Bernard did not know Sir Marven, and he did not care why the man challenged him—’twas likely for no other reason than the opportunity to gain a greater purse. He looked down the list at his opponent, noting that he was a solid, well-built man who rode a passable mount. Though size was helpful in most competitions, in jousting it was not as important as skill and balance. A large man could easily be unseated by a skilled jouster, regardless of whether the opponent was of his size or nay.
Bernard snapped to attention as the signal sounded and dug his heels into Rock’s straining body. The destrier was ready for his first action of the day, and leapt forward, taking one bounding step where the opponent’s mount took three. Wind rushed over him, cooling Bernard’s sweaty face and neck, as he positioned the lance, aiming it for his opponent’s right shoulder. One good hit with the blunted lance, which not meant to injure, only to unseat, and Sir Marven would tumble to the ground.
Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 32