The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  “If it was taut enough, I could walk across it,” Jankyn muttered proudly as Geraint tethered it on their side.

  “Well, it will not be, Watkyn,” his knight replied warningly, “but you can test it first.”

  The jester shrugged. “I did not sign any articles with you for this but so be it. Say a stout prayer, Father.”

  Although it was knotted well above the river’s surface, Jankyn’s weight immediately taxed the rope lower. The water surged around his thighs. He was as agile as a monkey, swinging himself along, jumping his legs out of the water as much as he could. It was wise to send him first. The lad Peter, myopic and awkward, would have had no inkling.

  Terrified, the boy hung back but Geraint taunted him. “Would you rather I sent my lady first to shame you?”

  The lad made heavy going of it, fearful lest it suck him down.

  “You may have saved a future bishop there, my son.” Crossing himself, Father Gilbert rose from his knees to venture forth. Lean and small-boned he might be, but his priestly habit was cumbersome.

  Johanna tried to pray for his safety, but her lips were trembling and her body was shivering hard. The Devil was at her elbow, whispering that it would be easy to let go in the water and end it all. You do not want to be a nun, the persistent voice said, and the man Gervase is anxious to be gone from you. God gave you to Fulk. He and Edgar are out there waiting. End it now! Preposterously she thought of practicalities. There would be no dilemma for Father Gilbert as to whether to coffin her in unhallowed ground. Strangers would find her water-battered body and some other priest would bury her in a churchyard she had never visited. Death by drowning was not an honest death, men said. How do they know? Forget the world, whispered the Devil. Only a cheer on the other bank ended the plausible reasoning.

  “Now, you, my lady! Move like Watkyn did, not like the others. They were too slow.” Gervase grabbed her chin and bestowed a kiss upon her rain-wet mouth. There was no sensation, it was a gesture.

  She was too chilled now either to feel bereft or waste her diminishing mental strength with curses as she waded out gingerly into the freezing water, her hand tight on the rope. As she felt the sound land fall away, she grasped the lifeline with both hands and began that frightening journey.

  It was her wretched skirts that dragged at her, catching in the water, pulling her into the torrent. The icy water against her belly snatched her breath away. She could not swim and the rope was slippery to hold.

  End it now! screamed Satan above the deafening torrent.

  “Keep moving, Johanna!” roared Gervase. “By Christ, woman, look out!” A log, as long as a man, was hurtling straight at her. With a prayer, Johanna put all her strength into one last effort to move along. It jolted her, grazing her side with its splintered end, swinging round to continue headfirst downriver.

  The shock of it revived her spirit and painfully she slid her left hand along again and again. Her arms and shoulders were aching to perdition before Sir Geoffrey blessedly hauled her in. Amice was on the bank to put her arms about her, and despite their difference in rank, they clung together sobbing. It was only when she felt the tension in the woman’s hands about her forearms that she knew Gervase had begun the crossing. But she was wrong. Suddenly the men around her were roaring at the top of their lungs.

  “Merciful Christ!” For an instant she thought that her scholar had been attacked by Enderby’s men, but she could see now that it was just one swordsman on horseback who was slashing at him. Edgar de Laverton had not gone to join his men. He must have been skulking in the shadows like a wraith. Thank God Gervase had taken his sword back from her. It was her fear for him that cleansed Johanna’s thoughts and the Devil finally fled from her. The Lord had not finished with her yet nor would she let Him abandon Gervase.

  And God had mercy. Gervase managed to pull the man from the saddle, then sent him sprawling backwards, and leapt for the rope. But their cheers were short-lived for he was a giant compared to the previous passengers and the line, though stout, tensed as though he was a drawn arrow at the centre of an almighty bow. His huge weight had him into the river up to his armpits and although the buoyancy of the water relieved his heaviness, the torrent sucked at him, urging him to let go. Of course, he was stronger and more determined than Johanna, his powerful fists edging him along, but the tethering began to feel the strain, the rope biting further into the tree. Several men took hold to ease the friction.

  “Watch out, sir!” Watkyn roared, jumping up and down, waving his arms frantically and pointing. Johanna gasped, her knuckles to her mouth. Edgar was back on his feet and hacking at the rope with his sword. Gervase turned his head, saw the danger and shifted his grip along as fast as he could. He was halfway across when it gave, swinging him out into the centre drag of the river, but he had a coil around his wrist and swiftly took hold above it with his other hand as he tried to free his left hand. For an instant, he disappeared from their sight and then as Johanna ran along the bank shouting, his head emerged from the water.

  The men on the bank hauled at the rope, their heels sliding in the mud, finding little anchorage. It was Gervase’s determination and strength that got him ashore downstream from them and he heaved himself up by his own efforts, one hand favouring his shoulder.

  The sputtering torches, as the hallooing men gathered around him, showed the rope burns on his forearm. He modestly fended off the thumps of congratulation. God save him, but the man never stopped giving orders. He commanded Sir Geoffrey to return to the castle with all speed and Johanna found herself being flung up onto a packhorse with Father Gilbert behind her. She was cold and as sodden as a vat of soaking washing, but something had changed inside her, as if in the risk of losing life she had gained some purpose. It was she who insisted they take up a small child in front of them from one of the slow crocodilus of weavers and fisher folk trudging up to receive shelter at the castle and friary.

  Her supposed husband rode up, his face shiny and cheerful in the cresset lights as they arrived at the open portcullis to a concerned castle. The dogs were barking as if they had been forced to keep silence for a week.

  “Tha’s not something else they haven’t been tellin’ us about, is it?” Johanna heard the porter mutter as she passed under the archway with the mewling child cuddled against her. Gervase, riding alongside, sucked in his cheeks and burst into a fit of coughing.

  He reached over and took hold of her horse’s bridle as they reined in at the stables. “I think your porter has decided the matter of whether we lay together, lady,” he chuckled, with a grin at Father Gilbert.

  “I might well take issue with you for such levity, my son, save that tonight you proved a hero.”

  In equal dilemma, Johanna sighed. Gervase might find the servant’s jape amusing, but clearly her reputation had become as fragile as eggshells. Best leave the issue until the morning, her tired mind advised.

  Someone cheered, and around them the puddled ground of the bailey reflecting the moving torches was rather like she imagined Hell without the torment; the shadows of the horses, knights and raggle-taggle villagers monstrously huge upon the speckled walls, while poor Sir Geoffrey strove to bring some order to the confusion.

  Her mother was waiting for them on the steps of the new hall, solemn above the hurly-burly, like a niched saint over a cathedral porch. Had she not been a noble lady, she might have whistled at their dishevelled state. “All are accounted for! I congratulate you!” she exclaimed above the tumult. Though as she herded them up to the steamy hall which smelt as though a pack of dogs had been drying off before the hearth, she added cheerfully, “Mind, if you were both under five, I should smack you each soundly and send you to bed supperless.”

  Johanna dripped into the rushes before a fire in the great chamber, shoeless and muddyfooted, but extremely cheerful as she wrung out her hair to the annoyance of her mother’s monkey which was competing for the heat. Did a dog feel like this, she wondered as Agnes towelled her head, when
it slunk home after a night of sport? The sense of achievement was there in full measure; yet guilt, too, that her pleasure in being useful had come at the expense of others. Oh, she had a fine bedchamber to return to, whereas who knew what possessions would be left to many of the villagers by dawn. Gratefully, she sipped the hot mulled wine that her mother had summoned and cradled the beaker in her hands as she felt the gorgeous warmth seep outwards to her toes and fingertips.

  “Oh, my lady, ’tis a fine sight you are,” clucked Agnes.

  As terrible as Gervase? His fair hair hung in hanks, dirt streaked his cheeks, the hanging sleeves were no longer in existence and his cote-hardie and steaming hose looked as though they had been used to wipe down the flanks of a mud-spattered horse. Jonah emerging from the whale’s belly would have looked more respectable, but Johanna was able to gaze on him with admiration. She doubted even her own father could have done so well in ordering the villagers to safety. Perhaps being a schoolmaster, her stranger had merely treated the commoners like schoolboys, sending them hither and thither for their own good.

  Catching her stare, he grinned at her over his beaker, though as usual there was that hard intelligent shadow behind the charm. Of a sudden, she wondered if he had deliberately seized the opportunity to make himself a hero, but she dismissed the sinful notion, cursing herself as unworthy for even letting it enter her thoughts.

  “You are looking like an old-world goddess, my lady.”

  “Yes, of the privies and sewers, no doubt.”

  A roguish smile lit his scratched face. “Bedaubed enough to lure a discerning river god.” The beaker was raised to her teasingly in a toast before he downed the heated wine in a few gulps. For an instant she felt beautiful, her damaged face forgotten, then she put up exploring fingers and found the tenderness in her hair where Edgar had hit her. Remembering the lechery in the ribald’s eyes, she raised her face to the scholar, certain of discovering the signs of betrayal there also. The humour had gone from him and there was a sudden stillness about his expression that made her catch her breath.

  Geraint had the foolish desire to frame her face within his hands and celebrate their survival with a kiss that would tell her he needed a woman and he wanted her. Such folly was prevented. Her mother came between them with her usual briskness and handed him a cloth to mop the moisture from his tangled hair. “I have had a bath prepared for you in your bedchamber,” she told Johanna. “Do not tarry! Agnes is waiting to disrobe you.”

  “Large enough for both of us, I trust.” Geraint threw the remark to her like a ball behind her mother’s back. Lady Constance’s jaw fell in astonishment at his presumption and Johanna, with a little gasp, stepped back as if the air between them burned her. “I shall keep my drawers on,” he assured her.

  His pretend wife was looking at him speechless. She recovered herself, aware that Sir Geoffrey and Lady Edyth had followed her mother in. “Of course, sir,” she said demurely for their benefit and removed herself from the great chamber.

  He bade the others goodnight and caught up with her in the hall. Her frown of displeasure was edged with nervousness. Her agreement had been mere lip service. Only a fool could think otherwise.

  “You can go in first or have it to yourself, I care not,” she snarled.

  “Afraid of me?” He squared up to her; his smile would have entertained babes.

  “No!”

  “But you agree it is customary for lovers to share a tub.”

  “Sir Gervase, this is not . . .” Lady Constance had followed him out and was evidently searching for words to match her thoughts.

  He shook his head, laughing. “No, I was gulling you, mesdames. In truth, I am so weary that were a whole pack of dragons to attack tonight, I doubt the hubbub would arouse me. Watkyn’s good offices will be sufficient, I assure you. Goodnight to you both.”

  “No wait, Gervase.” Lady Constance’s fingers brushed his arm. “Did Sir Geoffrey remember to tell you? We have had tidings that the archdeacon’s officer for the hearing is held up by the floods, but fortunately the proctor has arrived in good time and I have summoned him to come and speak with us tomorrow.”

  Geraint groaned. If the court officials would not arrive until after the river level had dropped sufficiently to make the nearest ford viable, he was going to be stranded in this disguising even longer. That was unless they chose to ride miles out of the way to a bridge that had held.

  Mind, to look on the bright side, Sir Fulk and Sir Ralph were beyond the swollen river so neither could lay hands on him and he could leave the castle at will—come and go as he pleased—until the water could be crossed. It seemed an eternity since he had not been hunted. Perhaps he should neglect the matters of the kingdom for a few days and play at manorial master. Come morning, he would ride down like a dutiful lord should to inspect the damage. And he must speak with the proctor too.

  Lady Constance set a hand on his sullied sleeve. “I must not tarry. Father Gilbert tells me one of the weaver women is having birthpains. Oh God give me patience, here comes Edyth again, but no matter.” With great show and care not to dirty her kirtle, she kissed Gervase on the cheek as if he was indeed an acquired son and did the same for her daughter. “Sleep well and thank you both. I am coming, Edyth!”

  Johanna definitely tarried.

  “Go, lady, to the delights of rosewater.”

  “I want to thank you as well,” she said softly.

  Geraint raised his head from ruefully inspecting the ruined embroidery of his shirt sleeves, so admired by Edmund.

  “I suppose it would be useless to say, my lady, that by leaving the castle you put your life at considerable risk from Fulk.”

  “Yes.” She looked adorably soggy, like a lapdog that had been in the puddles.

  “Here, let me.” He made a gesture in the air above her head with both hands.

  “What are you doing?” It was satisfying that he had her concerned, uncertain of his mood.

  “Adjusting your halo. You were an angel of mercy, brave and uncomplaining. I salute your courage.” He carried her damp fingers to his lips.

  She laughed, clearly relieved that he was not going to lecture her. “Your reputation will have fared well too,” she answered huskily. It was the first time that he had heard her laugh or seen her hair loosened about her shoulders. As if unable to meet his intense gaze, she bit her lip and looked away. “I have to apologise for being so ungrateful this morning.”

  So the man-shy doe was coming to his hand. Given time he could heal the injuries inside her. He sensed the growing friendship between them, but to let the burgeoning trust ripen into intimacy, no, that could not be. He must be free to walk away from Conisthorpe and, unlike Orpheus, not look back. To do otherwise would hurt this young woman beyond measure and greater matters than hers needed his swordarm.

  “Sir?”

  He could not help enjoy looking at her, this dishevelled Johanna who had partnered him tonight, lady to his lord, without questioning. He had to end this conversation before he did something foolish. “Your bath is waiting.”

  She untangled a leaf from the hair curling over her breasts. “I . . . do understand how much effort you are making and that it is not easy to play a role to which you are unaccustomed.” Now was that a slap or a compliment?

  “Are we talking about prancing around as a knight or playing your lord?” He watched the little chin rise defiantly, but she could not find the words. “No matter, lady, I am sure you will behave better or I will slip my collar like the disobedient cur I am.”

  “I never called you that,” she protested and the dark, lustrous lashes curled down hiding the hurt.

  He waited until he had her silvery-green gaze again upon his face.

  “Oh, believe it for both our sakes. That is exactly what I am.”

  Fourteen

  HE BOWED AND left the hall. The lady was growing softer. By all the Saints, he might have got away with sharing the bathtub but he did not want an interrogation on his
shoulder wound and it was hurting damnably, curse it! Something jagged had torn at him beneath the bridge, or was it when Fulk’s man had charged at him? In the candlelight of the chamber adjoining Sir Geoffrey’s quarters, after Jankyn had helped him off with the tunic, he paled at the dark stain spreading into the surrounding damp of his shirt.

  “I would Dame Christiana were here, great one. I have filched a clean dressing, but what healing skills I have are made of words.”

  “No matter, Jankyn, patch me as best you can.”

  He was too tired to seek out the brawny Yolonya’s help tonight; besides, the tiring woman had her hands full—the wailing of the woman in childbirth rose above the other noises outside the keep walls. Bandaged and with clean towels bound above the wound to staunch the bleeding and a hot brick for his feet, he lay down thankfully but sent Jankyn out again to fetch him more mulled wine.

  The jester stretched out on the palliasse at his feet. “You did much good, friend, and the lady too. She was happy tonight.”

  “Aye, until I offered to sponge her back. I suppose it would be foolish to ask what worm cankered your brain to allow her into danger.”

  “Hayforks.”

  “Numbskull! If no one takes an ague from this day’s work, Jankyn, I shall light candles of thanks, I tell you.”

  “We made excellent horses in harness, the lady, you and I.”

  “I could not want a better esquire and I will pat you on the head again in the morning. Sleep like the blessed, Jankyn!”

  He was still awake when Sir Geoffrey tiptoed through later like an incompetent ghost trying to find his way to a grave before sunrise.

  “Is all well?”

  “Aye, lad, all settled. A pity you are not staying longer.”