The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  Geraint smiled wryly and closed his eyes again. As an antidote to the woman’s birthpang shrieks and the pain that made it impossible to find comfort for his arm, he foolishly pictured Johanna naked in her bath. But the wound tormented him more than his imaginings. He felt the heat and palpitations visit him again as they had the night before and knew that the abscess must be dealt with lest the infection eat into the rest of him. Sleep only absolved him after the cry of a newborn baby rang out across the yard. It reminded him of heirs and expectations. His earlier instincts were right; he must be out of here within the week.

  THE KNOCK ON her bedchamber halfway through the morning was urgent, but before Johanna could answer the ring handle twisted and the large scholar suddenly filled her small realm. The Devil take the great lout! She glared pointedly at the fresh mud on the sides of his riding boots and twitched the uncut velvet to safety.

  He looked as though he had slept ill; the shadows beneath the blue eyes were excessive and the gold of his hair seemed unusually diminished. But even if he was last night’s hero, it was no excuse for today’s churlish invasion. And she was definitely at a disadvantage—on all fours in the middle of the flagstone floor with a large piece of blue fabric puddled out in front of her and a mouthful of pins. Well, something had to be said to force this Sir Galahad back into line. Sitting up on her knees with squirrelish alertness, Johanna blew the pins into the palm of her hand and drew breath to berate him for invading her privacy.

  “I have just been down to inspect the damage,” he informed her loftily without being asked, as if he had gone without her mother or Sir Geoffrey. “One of the old fishers says the Wharfe is higher than in the sixth year of our king’s reign when half of Christendom starved.”

  That corresponded with her own observation; after showing the little maid her own image in a silver mirror, Johanna had inspected the damage from the battlements with Yolonya and Amice.

  “From what we can see from the ramparts and the river bank, the weavers’ homes are flattened,” he continued.

  “Then we shall have work in plenty.” She did not tell Gervase that she had already been down in the hall with Father Gilbert and the villagers to discuss repairs. “Thank you for keeping me informed but now that you have played the town crier perhaps you would be kind enough to march off and ring your bell somewhere else. I am quite busy as you see and this needs concentration—”

  The man flung up an imperious hand to silence her. “I need your help,” he snapped, and glowered down at her as if he expected her to spring to attention.

  Johanna tipped the pins into a tiny alabaster box with sluglike tardiness while she announced with a tone which would have rivalled the north wind in January for iciness: “If you think you can just stride in . . .”

  But his mind had moved on. She no longer rated attention; he was viewing the bedchamber as if he was its lord determined on repossession. Johanna watched him note the wall-hangings, the empty cage, the pieces of weld yellow taffeta and scarlet samite folded upon her bed, the maid’s mattress trundled beneath it, a discarded mud-caked ball that was probably yesterday’s stocking which had escaped removal for laundering and the detachable sleeve that Agnes was placidly darning in the comfort of the windowseat, before his lapis gaze found her again and widened at the scissors, rule, selection of glass buttons, charcoal stick and fabric before her.

  He had been short with her. It was not that Geraint did not feel like observing niceties, but his shoulder was throbbing. He just wanted it attended to without Johanna behaving like an officious coroner and it was annoying him that apart from her bruises, she looked not only sweetly industrious but as though she should belong to someone. This spacious, comfortable bower with its soft-hued tapestries and femininity exuded a serenity he lacked in his life. It was an affront, a criticism. It made him discontent; by now he should have had land and sufficient fortune to command a haven like this.

  This industrious lady, he was learning, was dangerous to him in a subtle, unselfconscious way and he had no intention of letting the wench worm her way under his skin like she had last night. Squaring his shoulders with a wince, he dismissed his yearning for his own hearth and a woman legally obliged to be dutiful.

  “Stride in? Of course I can. I am married to you, remember. I said I need your help and I am here, my lady, because where else can I have some privacy in this damnable castle? Agnes, leave that and fetch me up some hot water—without inviting curiosity, if you please!”

  The maid tumbled the mending from her lap, all dimples and compliance.

  “Stay where you are!” Johanna grabbed the skirt of the girl’s plain surcote. How dare he march into her small kingdom and order her servant! “Is Watkyn sick then? You expect us to shave you?”

  For an instant, he blinked down at her in utter surprise and then his expression shed some of its hardness. “No, he is not, and you think that I would let you near me with a freshly stropped blade?” His voice was ripe with irony. “Heaven forbid, lady!” The attempt at humour fell on stony ground and his tone gentled a little. “No, I require a tender cleansing hand . . .” He hesitated and addressed Agnes, “Napkins too, and fresh clean moss, but pray fetch the water first. Discretion, Agnes, hmm?”

  The maidservant, still tethered, was diplomatically waiting for her lady’s permission. Clearly, the scholar did not trust her nursely qualities, thought Johanna, kicking her foot free of her kirtle so she might stand up. Moss! She let go of Agnes. “Oh, do as he says!”

  The maid beamed at Gervase, curtsied and scampered off.

  “What are you doing?” He peered down at the fabric.

  Johanna regarded him suspiciously. Was this a lick of words to put her in sweeter temper? If anyone needed sweetening, it was him.

  “Making you a cote-hardie since you ruined yesterday’s apparel.”

  His jaw slackened. “Me!”

  Ha, that was a blow that winded him below the belt.

  “Yes, master scholar, your grandeur at the hearing is deemed important. We thought you would like the colour. Do you?”

  He suddenly remembered his manners and offered her his hand to help her up. “Yes, I do, very much.”

  The courteous, firm touch of his fingers inflicted a return blow on her. For an inexplicable reason, she felt deprived of breath again.

  “We-we have not cut it for you yet but there is a tawny or a honey-suckle if you . . .” Why was she babbling like this?

  The irritation above her had utterly vanished to be replaced by a charm of expression that could unseat the less wary. “I suspect I was not to be allowed a choice.”

  “The. . . the blue will become you well with your fairness.” There was an intensity about his gaze that suddenly had her foolishly tongue-tied. Swiftly she looked down at the velvet at her feet. What was the matter with her? Was it the sudden intimacy of having this stranger in her bedchamber? Reorganising her wits, she lifted her face to his. “W-why do you need the hot water?”

  “You may see for yourself if you will help me off with this.” He started to unbelt his tunic. The gesture was familiar enough to make her flee but she staunched the rising panic Fulk had always invoked in her.

  “Sit down on the bed. Let me move these.” As she stacked the material neatly on the windowseat, her practical compassion—enforced by curiosity—regained mastery, and with a demure expression of wifely compliance, she managed to help him remove his tunic. The crumpled shirt beneath was stained and bloody. So he had been injured last night.

  One arm free, he was trying to ease down the other sleeve. She took over and slowly inched it back, gasping as she recognised the purulent fluid beneath the surface of his skin and beheld the jagged meshing below it in horror. However had he done this? She hardly heard his words.

  “Not for the fainthearted, eh? Can you and Agnes manage? If not, perhaps your mother could send for the healer in the woods. My lady . . . are you listening? You are not going to swoon, are you?”

  “No. Yes,
I can manage.”

  Something had ripped into his shoulder and opened up some of his back as well. The lower part was healing, but it would have taken several days for this mustering of pus close to his collarbone. “Upon my soul, master scholar! This was not done last night!”

  He had paled beneath the tan. “Nor with ink and a sheath of goose quills. Have you not worked out the riddle yet? I met an outlaw with better qualifications.”

  “Wait a trice, Sir Ralph said . . . Dear God, are you one of the Boroughbridge rebels?”

  “Boroughbridge, my lady! Your imagination has sprouted fairy wings. Do you imagine if I had managed to reach here from Boroughbridge, I should indulge in this outrageous scheme of your mother’s? Better to stay hidden, for God’s sake! Would a rebel be sitting here meekly like a lambkin?”

  Johanna raised her gaze from his wound in mild curiosity. “What would a rebel be doing?”

  “Why, threatening to strangle you if you breathed a word of your daft suspicions and, as you see, I am not. Although I have no doubt I shall feel like throttling you very soon. I have come close to it several times already.”

  “You could be pretending about not being a rebel,” she countered, wishing Agnes would not take so long. “Why else did you come to me privily with this?”

  For a moment he regarded her with admiration. “Because, madam wife, you are supposed to minister to my needs. Who else should a husband turn to?” She felt like smacking him for his wicked smile but the seriousness of the wound concerned her. It had been made with two different weapons, she was sure of that, and she doubted that one assailant . . . With an oath, she sprang back from him, crossing herself. “Jesus save us, you were at Borough—”

  He was on his feet, grabbing her fingers away from her lips. “One word of this to anyone save your mother and I will . . .”

  The lack of trust stung her more than the painful manacle of flesh around her wrist. He was hurting her and, dear God, he was strong! Stronger than Fulk. The old fear came rushing back with a vengeance and with it the reflex to quickly mollify.

  “W-what do you imagine I will do, b-bid a pair of coopers nail you in a barrel and d-dump you on the sheriff’s doorstep as a gratuity?” She struggled to free herself. “You are s-supposed to be my husband . . .” The full implications struck her. “God ha’ mercy, if anyone takes you for a rebel—”

  “Yes, you will suffer for it,” he answered grimly, releasing her at last, “but not as much as I. You will be carried back to Enderby in a litter for private chastisement, but I will be dragged on a hurdle through the streets of York to finish on a scaffold.”

  Johanna gazed at him appalled, imagining such torture. “Then . . . then you were in great peril yesterday if Sir Ralph had believed Edyth . . .” And to think she had thought the skittishness was because he must play the knight amongst his betters.

  Agnes, calling to be let in, broke the antler-lock between them and Gervase sat down heavily on the coverlet. “It is your decision,” he said with a sigh, jerking his head towards the door. “Admit her. If we are to trust her as a marriage witness, I shall trust her in this.”

  Johanna nodded, tight-lipped, and let her tiring woman in. Agnes set down the ewer of steaming water, unloaded the napkins draped across her arm and inspected the wound without surprise as if she was a barber-surgeon.

  “Agnes, this must not be spoken of,” Johanna whispered.

  “Aye, I know, the battle. ’Tis why Father Gilbert bested you, is’t not, Sir Gervase?”

  “Aye, little nurse, you are no fool.” He sighed, “I thought it would have healed by now.” Easing himself free of his shirt completely, he tossed it at his feet.

  “Well, pardon me for saying so, sir, but what do you expect if you will go frisking at the quintain showing off to my lady and then rescuing Peter? Was it a sword or a lance, sir?”

  “A pitchfork did that one.” He ran his fingers over his gashed arm carelessly. “Or was it a pike?” he wondered nonchalantly. “A pike, I think. I was too busy parrying blows to my right.” They gazed at him in horror. “But this? A flail. From one of my own side,” he added with bitterness. “He wanted my horse. I remember—it was in the field by one of those great Devil stones and there was a priest trying to clamber up upon it like some ancient prophet. He was haranguing us, telling us to go back, the fool.”

  Agnes examined his inflamed shoulder and glanced across him at her mistress. “Shall I go down and heat a knife then?”

  “Use this.” Gervase unsheathed his own. “I have whetted it.”

  Johanna took it with quiet authority and tested the blade. “It will suffice. If you prefer, sirrah, I could first try a poultice to draw out the poison. I have known it to work.” She plunged the steel into the steaming jug and raised grave eyes to him, awaiting his decision.

  “No, lance it!” Geraint answered fiercely. If Christiana had recommended it, it must be done. His vehemence startled her and he gentled his tone. “Who taught you such matters, the healer in the woods?”

  “Yes, Christiana. A grumpy old harridan she is too, but very skilled. Be assured I shall send for her if . . . if need be.”

  So she did not know he had come from the holy widow’s. Her mother at least was no blabmouth. “Harridans make excellent teachers when they have a mind to it.” He was trying to make light of it, but it was going to hurt damnably. His so-called wife had the haft in her hand now.

  “Gervase, this could kill you if we do not rid it of the poison. You should have come to me yesterday. Keep still!”

  He stared up at the wall opposite. “You, you hostile wench! You would have hurled a burning hot cockatrice at me for my impudence. That is why I went to the wild wood. To try and find the healer. Oh, Christ . . . keep me!”

  “Go quickly, Agnes! Fetch moss from my mother, and see that it be clean and wholesome.”

  The poison oozed out. Again and again Johanna applied the napkin, pressing it over the outside of the skin to make the abscess suppurate. His lower lip curled in distaste. It was as well he could not watch her ministration.

  “My lady, I am sorry that you must do this labour for me,” he apologised, gritting his teeth. By Heaven, how much more would she squeeze out of him? She merely shook her head in answer, her cheeks sucked in with concentration.

  Agnes brought the moss in a clean towel and her mistress with admirable foresight sent her off to fetch mulled wine.

  “I think that is an end to it,” Johanna murmured, satisfied that the purulent fluid had given way to a watery blood, and began to pack the hollow with the moss. “You will need rest.”

  Geraint shook his head despairingly. He had not even a decent bed to call his own. The stark chamber in the keep depressed him whereas here above the new hall was sun-dappled. “And to think Mother let you sleep in the hall that first night.”

  “That was my choice and you had your door stoutly barred,” he goaded, but she refused to rise to that challenge. She was studying her handiwork, frowning.

  “Well, you must have good bedding and quiet. Perhaps Yolonya should sleep within call.”

  “It must be high tide and my laden ship is in,” he retorted witheringly, and rose stiffly, gently flexing his shoulder.

  “Sit down. I have not finished yet.”

  “In a moment, I beg you.” Gervase drew a sharp breath, his face still ashen. His blemished side half-turned from her, his left hand palming the cavity of his shoulder, the man’s warrior body jolted Johanna’s senses. Did Psyche feel like this seeing her lord Cupid for the first time? No, Psyche would have longed to brush her fingers across the broad triangle of golden hairs which lay between his nipples and plunged downwards over his belly but . . . but Gervase’s bared flesh reawoke her revulsion; she saw again Fulk lowering himself onto her and she started to her feet, almost knocking the bowl over in her haste, trying to quell her shaking. Oh, she could tend Gervase’s wounds without a qualm but . . .

  “What is the matter?”

  M
iserably, she searched for an answer that would satisfy him, but she could not tell him the truth—that she was tainted. Not rusted like a neglected sword blade but bent, distorted, hammered into an ugliness she shuddered to accept. “Nothing,” she lied, not looking at him, hastily stooping to gather up his discarded shirt. “I will ask Agnes to soak this before we give it to be laundered.”

  “Destroy any evidence, yes? What is it, my lady?”

  She kept her face averted, conscious of his bare flesh, like a wall filling her vision. Why could he not move away, cover himself?

  “I . . .” Dear God, let him take her confusion as a surfeit of modesty, but an honest answer to satisfy him rose at last unbidden. “I-I have just realised you cannot p-possibly be a schoolmaster.”

  A grim laugh reinforced her self-chastisement at her blindness. “No, my lady, I am not a schoolmaster.”

  She felt the heat in her cheeks. Oh, God forgive her, she had used that so unkindly as a weapon to goad him.

  “Will it please you sit again so I may finish this?” Dressing his wound, she would forget Fulk and the torments of the sexual act. Mercifully the man sat down once more. “You must be a knight.” She busied herself, pressing more moss firmly into the cavity. “It . . . it comes so easily to you.” Now she was able to look at his body, to worry about the scar that would mar those proud, fine shoulders after—God willing—the wound had dried and sealed again.

  Geraint was thinking fast, weighing honesty against discretion. “No,” he lied softly, “I am too poor to be a knight.”

  “Ah, an esquire then. You fought with your lord at Borough—”

  “I wish Agnes would hurry,” he muttered. “This is throbbing like . . .” He bit back the scurrilous tourney language and fell silent. He did not want more questions coming at him like crossbolts and mercifully she made no comment. “This will keep, my lady. Another time I will tell you the why and the how.” It was his turn to look at her because she bestowed no answer.

  “You will have to believe it will work—the moss, I mean.” The words came finally as she stared down at him with the tormented look that usually clouded her face whenever Fulk’s name was spoken and made Geraint feel compassion anew for her. She had suffered, was suffering. Save for the bruising, there was no colour in her face. Too wan, too thin, too frightened but capable and bravehearted. What had Christiana said? I had lief have her on my side in trouble than the rest at Conisthorpe? So would I, he decided. Poor wench, she deserved better from Fortune. Physician, heal thyself.