The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  “Feel what?”

  “As stiff as a cloth soaked in glue, then I will quiver beneath the blasts of your rage. I knew I had to do something to lie between your sheets.” He tried to laugh at her frosted face, grimaced at the effort and groaned instead. “There is more choice of injuries now. Inspect them—please.”

  He was observing her face as she came forward diffidently and leaned down to peer at his flesh. The wholesome skin had become a macabre rainbow of hues. From what she could see of the old wound, it had reopened, but amazingly there was no yellowness around the edge that betokened foulness though the abscess cavity needed fresh dressing. She pushed him back onto the pillow and gently probed about his ribcage. His bones were astonishingly sound considering the beating.

  He swore concisely in peasant English. “I hope you are getting some satisfaction out of this,” he muttered. “Playing physician, I mean.” At least he was not accusing her of revelling in his bruises. “I have been trying to breathe normally like they said, but it is always—careful!—painful.”

  So being kicked in the ribs was not a new experience. Johanna shook her head at the male way of settling differences. She felt his chest and listened as he breathed in and out. “You do not seem to have flail chest, God be praised.”

  He watched the pelt of his chest rising and falling for the telltale signs of abnormality and tried to sigh in relief, but it hurt too much.

  “The ache is further down.” For a second he had her gulled, and then she turned scarlet and dropped the sheet down on him. “I met your husband,” he added swiftly.

  “Yes, I know.” She looked around, trying to find labour to stop her hands betraying her. Fulk would win. It was a miracle that he had been prevented from sticking a dagger between this great oaf’s ribs.

  “Gormless, I know. But if the man had a mind between his ears instead of a peapod, he would have let me go with a blessing instead of a beating. I cannot say I would have enjoyed sharing a bed with him.”

  Johanna stared at him suspiciously. Was he actually trying to make her laugh or was he behaving like a crass idiot?

  She sighed and fell back on practicalities. “You look abominable. Shall I send someone to shave you?”

  “Slit my throat, eh?” He slowly swung his legs to the floor, managing to keep himself modestly covered from knees to ribs. “You would not care to order a bath and dribble rosewater over me like a delectable handmaiden? No, I thought not.”

  She realised, the heat rising in her cheeks, that he was unclothed and the only items she could see belonging to him were a pair of metal poleyns, semi-spheres of steel, unaccountably left beside his saddlepack. One of them might have hidden his gender instead of his kneecaps, she thought, and surprised herself at wanting to giggle. What ailed her? Why should she be feeling absurdly light-headed when her real husband wanted to beat her to pancake consistency and her pretend husband had run away from her?

  “Where did you sleep?” His glance fell on a palliasse shoved to the side of the chamber. “Oh.” He seemed to be having trouble continuing the conversation.

  “Yolonya kept vigil, not me.”

  His eyebrows rose as if he was disappointed. “Two matters we must discuss, my lady,” he muttered, glancing around for the remnants of his clothing. He noticed the poleyns and seemed to be suppressing harsh language.

  Only two? His manner had knocked all levity out of her; she delivered him a glare which would have frozen the moat.

  “Yes, two things. What is your mother telling people about my . . . my absence?”

  “You went carousing—again.”

  “Hmm. Feeble. Did the proctor tell you the nature of our conversation?”

  “Oh yes, very forthcoming when it finally dawned on him that it was Mother who was paying for his services.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “So you now know his advice.”

  “Yes. Is that why you ran away?”

  “I do not belong here, my lady. There are matters elsewhere that need my attention.” He wanted to stitch together the tear in her confidence. “One of the reasons is that I thought Sir Ralph had plans to arrest me, and not only did that thought not delight me to the core of my being but also the possibility that you and your mother could be fined or imprisoned for helping me crossed my mind. I suppose that sounds rehearsed.”

  “Yes, very.” Johanna’s tone was testy. “Really, Sir Gervase. You do underestimate our capacity for cunning. Women are supposed to have the intellect of fleas. Mother would have merely pleaded stupidity at being gulled and I would have admitted paying you to fool the archdeacon.”

  “And then have been sent back to Fulk?”

  “Only in a coffin.” He did not know whether she was in earnest.

  “We need to talk properly about. . . about us. A pox on it! Where in Hell are my clothes? This is your mother meddling again. Am I supposed to attend the court hearing in a fur coverlet?”

  Folding her arms in a deliberate imitation of him, Johanna smiled coldly. “Talk properly about whom? Us or the two people who fell in love two years ago?”

  “Both, I suppose.” His expression was starting to become exceedingly sulky. Perhaps he needed to relieve himself, or did he feel at a disadvantage if he could not loom over her like a giant? “Which brings me to the second matter. How soon is the poxy hearing?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! For God’s sake! That does not give us much time and we have not finalised the details with Ja—with Watkyn and Agnes yet. Tomorrow!” He suddenly slapped the bed impatiently, making her start. “Upon my soul, Johanna, I wish you would be angry and have done. I cannot bear surly women who only grumble behind a man’s back, and I will swear you and your mother have had a feasting of that.”

  “Oh, I will be angry with you,” she promised.

  “Well, do not be too long about it, my lady,” he snorted and looked about him. She made no move to go, enjoying pinioning him for once.

  He noticed the untouched food from yesterday’s supper and, scowling, looked at the palliasse once more. “Not eating again? My fault, I suppose.” Johanna did not answer him. It was none of his business. His blue eyes were examining her almost with the objectivity of an honest physician. “What will the court think? You need to look as plump and happy as a sheep with cloverbloat.”

  She turned away to the window. “I do not think you would begin to understand.”

  “Try me, lady. Talking to a stranger may be easier than you imagine.”

  Talking? Did he think he could lick her into a normal state of enduring womanhood like she-bears tongued their unformed babes into cubs? “I am sorry,” she said softly after a while, raising her eyes to the stone carving round the window.

  “Johanna.” He knew that she was not talking about confidences and she felt like crying because he had said her name with gentleness. “Johanna, I cannot pretend that I am glad to be back and yet . . . There were times on the road when my conscience pricked me so painfully because of what you would feel, and I hoped you would understand it was nothing to do with you.”

  “No? Ha, what kind of addlepate do you think I am, sir? Do not lie to me. The proctor tells you to get me with child and you flee as if—”

  “Will you not interrupt! I am perfectly happy to do whatever is necessary . . .” His gaze deliberately slid over her body with such lusty roguishness that she felt the tips of her breasts hardening. Her lips parted in protest at his teasing but he forestalled her with a less harmful, almost bashful, grin. “Well, enough said. . . we know what is necessary . . . but six months, my lady! I feared for my life and Jank—”

  “Who on earth is Jank?” she spoke breathlessly, quickly, glad to have a question to hold on to, words to anchor her mind since her body was caught by a fearful wave beyond her control.

  “Oh,” he sighed, having turned away his magician’s stare, “what harm is there in only you knowing? Watkyn—that is, Jankyn—was Thomas of Lancaster’s fool.”

  That mors
el hit her like fast poison to the belly. “Christ preserve us!” She turned away, biting her lip. How much more was there unrevealed? And who in God’s name was this man sitting on her bed? She inadvertently swung round at the thud of the coverlet on the floor. Save us, what now?

  He had managed to stand, and was knotting the sheet about his loins in the fashion worn by the holy prophets. His smile was wry. “See, I am here with you, manacled with silken embroideries.”

  “Hardly,” she retorted, wondering how she could find him so exhilaratingly dangerous and yet worthwhile company. With swift modesty, she lowered her gaze only to find she was staring at strong muscular legs sheened with golden hair but not overly. With an inward curse she lowered her study further; feet were not sinful and his were quite different to Fulk’s—comfortably fleshed with a scattering of glint above the instep. “They will be holding auditions soon in York and the Salome wagon might have a vacancy for St. John the Baptist. Mind, you would have to apply very—”

  “My lady.” His voice compelled her to meet his glance. Oh, that feigned sheepish smile would make her insides melt if her mind had not been damaged beyond repair. “I cannot give you my promise that I will stay until the hearing is completely over, but I will stand with you for the next week. You might have to prop me up but I doubt it.” He took a step towards her, his draperies precarious, and Johanna gave a squeak and fled to fetch the moss for his shoulder.

  LADY CONSTANCE DID not look up as he entered the keep room where the muniments and manor rolls were kept. The atmosphere was cold despite the stand of hot coals—frosty with unspoken grievances. Geraint did not care that she was busy checking a ledger with Sir Geoffrey nor that there was a trio of reeves waiting outside the door with their weekly tidings.

  “Can this not wait, sir?” She did not deign to look up.

  “I can make my point rather loudly and jettison your plans for tomorrow if you prefer, madam.”

  His employer gave a sigh. “The impatience of youth. He has come to apologise, Sir Geoffrey, so let us have it over and done with. Do you intend to grovel for long, Sir Gervase?”

  Staunching an oath that would have brought a blush even to the seneschal, Geraint growled and turned his back, angrily folding his arms.

  Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat unnecessarily and rose. “Do not be too hard on the lad, madam,” he advised, with a chuckle calculated to inflame further.

  Geraint turned as the door latched. Lady Constance had folded her hands on the board and waited.

  “Where is he?”

  “Your peevish friend? Safe.”

  “Curse you, madam, where?”

  “Remember Aesop’s tale of the sun and the moon. Strong language does not move me, Gervase, so perhaps you should sheath that tongue of yours. I have arranged for the lad to be moved, in comfortable stages, I might add, further south. You will be pleased to know he makes good recovery.”

  “You should have consulted me.” He glared at her. Manipulative, interfering . . .

  “I have decided not to raise the matter of your desertion. I shall not mention the terms ‘cowardice’ or ‘treachery’ because I have observed it is still in your nature to be impulsive. Presumably the wisdom that comes with age and experience will smooth out these wrinkles in your character.”

  She rose, tidying the quills as she spoke, taking care not to look at him. “I can sympathise with your reaction to the possibility that the hearing may take longer than any of us had anticipated. I do not share the proctor’s prognosis, nor should you.” Her gaze rose to inspect him chillingly as if he was a villein before his manor lord. “I think we are agreed now—and even. Take up where you left off.”

  He unknotted his arms and paced away to the brazier, his shoulders heaving. He should have had a whole quiver of arrows to spend on her but what was the use, and, yes, he was as guilty as Judas. Johanna’s forbearance had made him feel worse. But there was more.

  “This matter of living in wedlock and begetting a child. How may we remedy this without causing my daughter further grief?”

  He glared at her. “Upon my soul, madam, what had you in mind? Shall I ask the archangel Gabriel to make representations on my behalf? I am afraid my influence does not carry that far.” He watched the thin mouth twitch admiringly at the blasphemy. “What would you have me do? Seduce her? Is that what you are saying? Make a whore of your own daughter?” At least she looked affronted at that. “Or is there another motive behind this? A happy ending? You dream, madam.”

  “No, there is something else. It needs to be resolved,” she answered cryptically. “See to it!”

  THE MEN STOOD as Johanna, accompanied by Agnes, entered Father Gilbert’s cell. Gervase raised his eyebrows in surprise as the maidservant placed the cushion on the bench for her ease. Well, let him think she was a milksop. Someone coughed and she realised that Father Gilbert was waiting for her attention and dutifully closed her eyes while the chaplain prayed that God would guide and keep them in His wisdom.

  He drew a cross over them in the air and gave Johanna a small bow. “I shall be with madam your mother, my lady, should you require my advice.” Johanna rejoiced he was absenting himself for he seemed to watch over her with the disapproving air of a mistress of novices, waiting for either her or Gervase to err. Besides, Stephen de Norwood was expected later to help them practise their testimony and present the written libel for Gervase to sign.

  “Be seated.” The rebel, taking charge now, preferred to pace around as if he was delivering a lecture. “First of all, Agnes, you must understand what may be required of you. There will be questioning about your lady by an examiner. It is his duty to discover whether all of us are telling him the truth. He will ask you what you remember of our marriage two years ago and questions about how my lady and I deal with one another now. What we each tell him must be our individual version of the same truth.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “It will be perjury, Agnes. We are all doing it to free your mistress from a cruel marriage, but if we are found out, we shall all be excommunicated and denied the sacraments of Holy Church.”

  “You are frightening her,” protested Johanna.

  “No, I am telling her the facts, my lady. If she feels uncomfortable with this, then she must withdraw now.”

  Agnes shook her head. “No, ’tis for a very good reason and anyhow, sir, I couldn’t refuse to help my lady. ’Twould be on my conscience to send her back to such a heartless devil and I am sure the lord God will know that on Judgment Day. ’Sides who else will do the office, sir? You need at least two witnesses to prove a marriage contract.”

  “Agnes, thank you. We are in your debt. Now before we go into the wheres and whens of our handfasting, let me tell you what we have agreed upon so far. I met my lady when the king’s court was at Bristol.”

  “Oh yes, sir, we accompanied my lord Alan down because of the Lady Alicia’s wedding.”

  “My second sister,” Johanna explained to Gervase, giving him a chance to gather the reins again.

  “I later followed Lady Johanna to Yorkshire and met her secretly twice here in the wild wood. Both times she left the castle disguised in your hooded tunic, Agnes. I persuaded my lady to agree to become contracted to me and I sent her a letter saying so. Father Benedict read it to her and agreed to marry us. My lady met me for our trothplight.

  “Agnes and Watkyn, you witnessed the vows. You will both have to remember the words of the oaths that my lady and I spoke to one another—we will rehearse them in a moment—as I am assured that it is extremely important that I am reported as saying, ‘I will have thee as my wife’ rather than, ‘I will take thee as my wife.’ Apparently the latter is less binding. Where was I? Ah, then we went to the dwelling where Dame Christiana now lives. It was unoccupied at the time. My lady and I consummated our marriage.” He spoke swiftly and without emotion as though he were discussing repairs to the walls. “Yes, Agnes?”

  “Please you, sir, where were Watkyn and I
while you were pleasuring my lady?”

  Gervase’s cool gaze moved to Johanna’s face. Choose a commoner word and the nuance became erotic. His lips tightened slightly, sinfully. She felt the telltale blush rise to shame her cheeks. Why was it this man could quicken her blood just with a different way of looking at her?

  For his part, Jankyn looked askance. “Dear me, Agnes, sweet damsel, I imagine we stayed below like good and faithful servants.”

  “No.” Johanna, embarrassed that they would have heard every sound even if it was just a story, shook her head. “No, you . . . you sat outside, yes, there is a tumbled tree.”

  The esquire ran with the notion. “Where I, dearest Agnes, told you tales of ladies wooed and won, with my thoughts on nothing but—”

  “Oh, go your ways, Watkyn,” Agnes swatted him and turned a smile upon the knight. “Now, how long would you have taken, sir? My lady would have had to be back by sundown, leastways I would have.”

  Johanna bristled at the girl’s impudence and the fact that the maidservant’s eyelashes seemed to acquire amazing speed whenever she spoke to Gervase.

  He seemed hard put to staunch his laughter as he dragged his gaze away from Agnes’s coy posturing to regard Johanna with a disturbing speculation. If he dares ask me, Johanna fumed, I shall leave the room this instant. As he drew breath, she answered hastily, “There would have been a short dalliance, no more.”

  Her supposed husband was having difficulty controlling his pride. “Speaking for myself, I do not dally,” he retorted. “Where in this dwelling did you dally, my lady?”

  “What is that to the point?”

  “Let me tell you. There is, as is common in such hovels, a simple ladder, one piece of timber, the rungs nailed to its center, that takes you to a narrow upper floor beneath the beams. There is no room to stand, in case you are unaware of it, madam. What did we lie on, my lady?”