The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  The hall watched and the burble of conversation slackened. Imperiously, he held out his wrist to her. “Come! I would break my fast.”

  For an instant he sensed the waywardness in her, but the chin framed by the snowy barbette lowered demurely and she glided forward to set her hand meekly upon his sleeve. Then she faltered, raising her head, as if her glance swept round the expectant faces in the hall beyond his back.

  “It is easier not to look,” he advised kindly, mollified by her obedience. He was hoping that nervousness rather than mischief might render her more malleable this morning, but he could not resist adding provocatively as he conducted her to the table, “I was waiting for you to curtsey in apology. My servant is still grumbling.”

  She mistook his humour but the poke of language awoke her voice.

  “Be glad that your face is more resilient than mine,” she retorted, her tone disrespectful for a wife, the veil rising and falling with her breath. He did not answer her effrontery. Like salted herring, she would keep.

  A page materialised at his elbow with a ewer and napkin and, thankful for the formality to mend the silence, he dabbled his fingers in the perfumed water and hoped that everyone would stop looking at him as if he had six heads and a demon’s tail.

  Lady Constance waved him to be seated and the tension eased. Somehow both the ladies Constance and Johanna conveyed the sense of keeping the lid on a bubbling broth. The household discreetly received the message and gradually the rumble of conversation resumed, softer of course—they were all straining like spring grass shoots towards the sun to hear what he was saying.

  Freshly perturbed by the stranger’s return, Johanna was startled to find he was just as large without his armour and quite as unpleasant as the day before. With her composure in utter disarray, she watched in astonishment as Gervase de Laval, without hesitation, unbuckled the baldrick carrying his sword and complacently slung it upon the back of the only chair as if he belonged in the castle. It was her father’s chair of estate.

  Her mother was taking a risk in accepting the gesture so meekly. Forgetting her veiling, Johanna sent her parent a querying look, but Lady Constance, unable to see it, sat down stonily, pretending she disapproved of the entire matter and could not do a thing about it.

  To do him credit, Johanna’s supposed husband courteously saw her seated upon his other side before he calmly made himself comfortable. She perched tensely on her stool, wondering how the man beside her could be so much at ease if he was a poor scholar. In his shoes, she would have been apprehensive of her manners, but this rogue was enjoying every instant of it, swanning like a true knight. Perhaps it was the clothes that made the difference to a man’s confidence.

  He had discarded the chainmail, gauntlets and other protective bits and pieces that knights strapped on for the gorget of dark blue and the soft fustian tunic of madder dye that Yolonya, the speediest seamstress among them, had been secretly labouring upon in her mother’s bower two days before. The hood was lined cunningly with tawny taffeta, so too were the hanging scalloped sleeves, reaching to his calves. But it was not all borrowed splendour, she conceded, for he had also taken pains with his person; his chin was shaven skillfully without a cut and his fair hair, unsettled about his face, had been freshly washed.

  Now if she had exchanged marriage vows with a man such as this two years before—no, what was the use of such imaginings, of maybes, when Fulk’s cruelty lay encrusted like a festering sore upon her spirits. Firmly, briefly, Johanna closed her mind against the memory of the beatings and endless haranguing, rationalising that this arrogant scholar might be just as great a tyrant in the bedchamber. All men were. Many a time she had heard her father berate her mother behind the bedcurtains. No, she would trust no man, especially not this upstart. And he, curse him, was glancing about with a very smug air.

  This pleases me well, Geraint was thinking. The respect he saw in people’s faces was very satisfying and the chair felt comfortable against his back as if it had been carved for him. After all, if he really had given his vows to Lady Johanna, with Lord Alan incapacitated and the boy he assumed to be the heir still a minor, this castle was his to command. And—he paused, his alecup halfway to his lips—to carry matters to extremes, if the archdeacon’s court approved this so-called marriage, he could dig himself into this burrow permanently. The thought amused him, but beside him Lady Johanna fidgeted with the food set before her and he changed his mind. In any case, he was not going to abandon the Mortimers who had given him employment since he had fled the monastery, and the sooner he was out of these women’s clutches, the better.

  Lady Constance cleared her throat. “As you can imagine, Sir Gervase, I slept little for worrying about this matter and my head truly aches from thinking on it, so I have asked our chaplain whom you met yesterday to hear what you have both told me.” She sighed, drawing her fingers down her face with seeming weariness. “It is my opinion that you have each spoken the truth, but I will follow Father Gilbert’s judgment. . . and, of course, your wishes, Johanna, in this. I am informed there is an archdeacon’s court session due this week, so if my chaplain agrees that you are in the right, you, sir, will have to bring a petition before it against Johanna.”

  “Who is this man?” Before he could answer her, the dark-haired boy pushed in between them. The glass buttons marching down a fustian cote-hardie and the oak-leafed oversleeves confirmed Geraint’s impression that this must be Lord Alan’s son and heir, though what he was doing still at Conisthorpe at his age was questionable. “Why is he in my father’s chair?” he demanded shrilly. “You said I could not sit in it though it is my right, so why may he?”

  He looked about twelve years old, but to measure him by his manners instead of inches, the brat must be somewhat younger than his height suggested. Lady Constance slid an arm about the boy’s waist but he shrugged her off with unconcealed embarrassment.

  “Not now, Miles,” muttered Johanna. “Go and finish your bread.”

  “I said who are you? I have not seen you before,” the boy persisted.

  “No, but I have,” snapped Johanna, “and that is enough. Madam!” Lady Constance calmly sent him back to his seat, where the child sat petulantly, glaring at Johanna.

  “I will find time to talk with you later in the day, young man,” Geraint offered recklessly. “After I have had speech privily with your sister and the chaplain.” Hopefully that would staunch the imp’s questions for now, else he would be bound to ask what no one yet had dared to.

  “My elder brother, Hal, God rest his soul, died on the field of Bannockburn.” Johanna sadly crossed herself, adding “That is why Mother spoils Miles.”

  “Yes, I can see she has not learned from her mistakes,” he answered. Clearly not used to banter, the lady was not amused. “No, do not throw wine over me this morning, my love,” he added hastily. What would it take to make her smile? He raised his cup to her, drank and then challengingly turned it so she might drink from the same place.

  He watched her hesitate, like a swimmer caught between Scylla and Charybdis, obviously hating the intimacy of the gesture but conscious that the household was watching them as keenly as dogs slavering for tidbits. She lifted the cup, however, and, raising her veil economically, appeared to take a sip.

  Now what was expected? Johanna wondered, unused to the part of loving wife. The silence lay between them like a mother-in-law. The stranger made no effort to break it, merely attacked the bread with white, strong teeth. In fact, thought Johanna enviously, it looked as though he had most of them. He certainly was one of the most comely men she had ever set eyes on. However was she going to manage him? She gave him another pensive glance from beneath her lashes. That nose was unquestionably the sort that she imagined had landed with the Conqueror. As for his strong jaw, she wagered he would not take insults lightly.

  Insults! What was wrong with her? she chided herself. She should be drooling over him with gratitude, but instead she found him alarming. Oh Maman, sh
e thought apologetically, she and the scholar had no more chance of pulling this cart along together than a lamb yoked with a donkey.

  She realised he had been staring openly at her with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Of course, being her long-mislaid husband, the wretch could bestow his stares wherever it pleased him. Dear Heaven, she thought, this rogue might soon abuse the situation.

  “I am most displeased you called me a whore last night,” she told him softly with dangerous sweetness.

  The blue eyes studied her unblinking. “For what you did, lady, you are fortunate that I did not set you across my knee before your servants.”

  Johanna panicked, recoiling as though he had struck her and would have risen had he not grabbed her wrist.

  Damn her! Geraint had not realised how genuinely sensitive she was. “Pardon, my lady.” With contrition, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm.

  Johanna fumed inwardly. Yes, he was supposed to behave like this to convince everyone they had been in love, but the knowledge that he despised her made his every gesture an affront. Well, it needed two for a tournament. She had bested him last night and she would win this also. Jerking her hand away, she sprang to her feet, her voice tearful and loud.

  “Where were you when I needed you? No one believed me. Two years!” She cast her gaze towards the high beams. “What was I supposed to think?”

  The servants, hurrying through the body of the hall, halted in mid-stride, agog at the entertainment provided by their betters. Her brother’s jaw dropped like a portcullis whose rope has frayed.

  “I am here now, lady.” Her father’s chair scraped back as Sir Gervase rose and towered over her. “I gave you my word I would return.”

  As if mollified, she slowly lowered herself onto the stool, dabbing a napkin beneath her veil.

  Geraint returned to his repast, wondering whether he would prefer to strangle her now or later. He ate, as if in sulky silence, but not sure what to say or do next. His supposed wife was giving him no help whatsoever.

  With relief, he saw Father Gilbert striding up to them. Exchanging greetings with Lady Constance, the priest nodded to them. “Sir, my lady, if you would both accompany me to my cell after your repast, I shall be happy to hear your testimony.”

  “That pleases me well,” exclaimed Geraint wholeheartedly, summoning the page with the ewer. His fingers cleansed, he thrust out his hand for the shrew to take. “Come, madam,” he barked.

  The lady huffily rested her fingers on his wrist. He did not know that behind her veil she put her tongue out at him and wished he would suffer a plague of boils before the week was out.

  FATHER GILBERT’S CELL smelled of wax and ink, quite different from the apothecary aroma which Geraint had been expecting. There was a narrow room leading from the chamber which was simply furnished with a trestle and forms. A small illuminated tome, propped on a stand, lay open on the table and the low stub of the candle explained the priest’s tired look. Beneath the mullioned window a stone sill boasted an array of plants, a saucer of galls, a pair of scales and a pot with “Copperas” scratched upon its paper label in spindly writing.

  “Now, my children, I will leave you and say my prayers. Use this time to think back on what happened between you two years ago. When you are resolved, we shall go through it together as if I was the archdeacon’s officer.”

  Not for the first time, Geraint wondered why the chaplain was helping them, but the priest met his suspicious glance with the sort of beatific smile that only a few churchmen manage to acquire, and closed the door of the inner room, leaving them alone.

  As if a master of the tournament had tossed the cloth to begin, Johanna began the gallop.

  “How very sensible,” she applauded, flouncing past the shelf of plants. “Well, sir, the hunting season is now upon us and we may privily tear each other to shreds since we are both reluctant to be part of this mummery.”

  Geraint frowned. There was little time to make their plans, and he would be cursed if he would give her his blessing to quarrel further. It was necessary to keep to the essentials.

  “I am in your hands, lady. This is your demesne. You must tell me how and when we met.” He sat down on the form resignedly, which creaked in objection to his weight. “I take it you have given the matter some thought?”

  Ignoring the jibe, Johanna paced around the table. “Mother and I decided on two years ago because that was just before our parish priest died and we could pretend that you and I took our vows before him. It would have been—”

  “Do you think you could take off that ridiculous veil?” he interrupted testily. “And stop pretending to be a horsemill. My head is not on a swivel.”

  His remarks brought her to a suprised halt. “I . . . I do not like other people seeing my bruises.”

  “I am not other people. It irritates me. For the Lord’s sake, lady, it is like talking to a curtain blowing in a draught.”

  “You think it does not annoy me?” she growled, but she rearranged it over her parted hair, tucking it behind the crespine. As there was only one form, she reluctantly sat down at the other end of it.

  To her dismay, he shifted closer. He was on the bruised side of her and it startled her to have him take her chin in his hand. “I would keep the bruises ripe for the court and in the common view if I were you. It will help our case.” He inspected her hurts as if he were calculating their worth.

  Johanna’s breathing swiftened at his proximity and the unprovoked familiarity. She did not dare to look into his face but she could smell the pleasant musk he wore and a warning went off in her mind like a bird shrilling danger. She mistrusted the way this man had an impact on her senses. Lifting her face haughtily from his fingers, she answered, “True. I will try to find the courage to do without it. Would you prefer that we change places so you will not have to look at my bruises?”

  “That bespeaks vanity. But, yes, if it pleases you.” He slid back to the other end and stood up.

  In an embarrassed silence Johanna wriggled further along the bench. He sat down in her former place, moved the bookstand back so he might prop his elbows on the table, and spoke, not looking at her, but running his forefinger along the rough grain of the trestle.

  “I realise you are very sensitive about your appearance, my lady, but try to forget about it now. We have much labour before us.”

  “Very well,” she agreed.

  In profile, Geraint was disturbed to discover that she really was quite beautiful, like a coin that was freshly minted on one side and bludgeoned on the other. It gratified him too that she dressed with care. Now that her veil was set back he could see her glossy raven hair was neatly braided, not tightly but with a gentle fullness that emphasised her femininity. He was amused to note her skin grow right rosy under his study and chivalrously let his attention fall upon the chaplain’s leatherbound tome instead.

  “Let us continue, my lady. Pray, describe the priest to me.”

  With a rabbit of thought to chase, Johanna became less inhibited at being closeted alone with the stranger.

  “The parish priest’s name was Father Benedict and he was about three score in years. He had sky-blue eyes, and three warts—here, here and here.” Aware of the man’s eyes upon her face again, she pinkened further and lowered her gaze modestly to the table. “He . . . he had wispy white hair round the back of his head, the rest was bald. His hands were veined, even more so than Father Gilbert’s.” She continued to itemise the priest’s appearance and then made him repeat it, counting off the points on her fingers.

  “When did we meet?”

  “In the wild wood. You were making camp. You had come to St. Robert’s spring because you had heard the saint performed miracles and you had a very bad rash and feared it was leprosy and a friend of yours had his skin trouble cured by the saint so—”

  “Dear God preserve me,” Geraint crossed himself.

  “And you fell in love with me at first sight and decided to become be
tter acquainted so you stayed two more days in the forest and waited for me each afternoon.”

  “And how was it you managed to contrive our meetings, my lady?”

  “Agnes, my maid, told everyone I was indisposed.”

  He sighed. It sounded feasible.

  “I borrowed her hood and kirtle for a disguise.”

  “Could we not have met in London or somewhere else distant from here? In another household? At the king’s court?”

  “I visited the household of my lord Despenser when King Edward and Queen Isabella were there, yes, that was over two years ago.”

  The man’s shoulders stiffened for an instant. “You meant the castle at Caerphilly?”

  “No.” She looked puzzled. “Ah, you are talking about his son, Hugh Despenser the younger. No, I meant the older Despenser. He has a fine house in Bristol, but perhaps you—”

  “A remarkable coincidence. Yes, I have actually been inside the older Hugh Depenser’s house in Bristol, and his messuage in London too. I once did some notary work for him.”

  “For a scholar, you are much travelled.” She gave a little sigh of envy. “But I have been to Westminster too. We were at that Feast of Pentecost when the king was shamed by a strange letter and—”

  He cut her short. “I think we are making progress at last. So perhaps Sir Gervase met Lady Johanna in Bristol when the king was visiting. Was there an opportunity for dalliance while she was there?”