“And I get you,” Geraint finished.
Twenty-six
THERE WAS MUCH she did not understand about God’s method of doing things or Gervase’s, Johanna reflected three days later, as she sat in her father’s chamber frowning over the new motif she had just sketched out in charcoal. With one hand, the Almighty was freeing her from Fulk; but with the other, He was rewarding that cruel devil with Conisthorpe.
As for Gervase, the wretched man had divulged nothing concerning the midnight interrogation at Richmond and had barely spoken on the journey back, as if he was already withdrawing in mind from Conisthorpe. And within days, he would be free to leave unless . . .
Win all or lose all! She drew in pine needles behind the great seed cone and understood what she must do. The Johanna, who through Gervase’s help, had crawled up from an inferno to glimpse Paradise—well, not exactly Paradise, for he had his faults—was resolute. Even though her mind rebelled at surrendering to a wifely duty, it was the only weapon she had left. If her body could endure Fulk’s nightly assault, the gift to Gervase of what he desired was scant recompense for his kindness to her. And there would be no humiliation in it. It would be on her terms. And, yes, she must ask him once more about Richmond.
“DO YOU MIND if I stand?” Geraint rose without permission, purposely dwarfing the examiner and the scribe. He was wearing half-armour to coerce them. The former scowled and staunched any comment. “Begin,” ordered their witness, spreading his hands openly. “Commence the articles.”
The examiner shook his notes, the only sign of his annoyance. “Sir Gervase, why was it you took so long to return and claim your wife?”
“I saw service in Gascony. I warned my lady Johanna that I might not be able to return for some time, not until I had acquired land and might claim her from her father.”
“Is there anyone who would verify this under oath?”
“Here in Yorkshire, no. But I can arrange for letters to be sent to obtain confirmation. I apologise, what with the flood, and then the coming of my lord Despenser, and the enmity of this other husband whose presence I had not anticipated, there has been no time to organise such evidence. You must take my word under oath for the nonce.”
“When you plighted your troth, what words did Father Benedict advise you to use?”
“Ego volo habere te pro uxore mea quantum vita mea durare poterit.”
He spoke it so fluently that the notary pursed his lips in surprise.
“You speak Latin?”
“Yes, and write it too. Lady Johanna does not, of course, but she can read and write a little. You saw the letter I sent her.”
The examiner nodded.
“I was going to be a priest,” Geraint observed. “There is no need to write this down, man,” he told the notary irritably and challenged Martin de Scruton to disagree, but instead the man was curious.
“Then what made you change your mind, sir? The temptations of the flesh?”
“No,” Geraint paced. “I felt confined. As you see, God has bestowed on me physical strength. I could have laboured in an abbey vineyard but there are other ways to serve God.”
“Would you take the Cross if it was offered you?”
Geraint threw the man a pensive look. “Rescue Jerusalem? If there was a good leader, yes, perhaps, and if I thought the enterprise would succeed. Master examiner, I should not be persevering in this suit had I not thought my arguments just and true. I need an heir.”
The examiner shifted. The natural river of words had been diverted and the initiative temporarily lost.
“You had every intention of returning for Lady Johanna?”
“My presence is evidence surely?”
“Was it not unfair to the lady to seduce her into consummating the handfast with you when you dared not confront her father and were unable to claim her?”
“It seemed sensible at the time. In retrospect, yes, it was a cruel decision and most unfair to my lady Johanna as time has proved.”
“Were you in love with the lady and she with you?”
“I was besotted with her. As for her affections, I cannot answer for her. If I did not love and honour her, would I have returned?”
“You first met in the forest?”
“No, in Bristol at the Earl of Winchester’s house and I became so infatuated, I journeyed after her.”
Oh he was enjoying this. For the next half-hour, Geraint made play of his status, his confidence, his height, his knowledge that Hugh Despenser had already jabbed a finger through the pastry crust, and when the examiner ran out of articles and would have dismissed him, he set his great hands upon the table.
“When I returned to Conisthorpe last week, I found my beautiful Johanna bruised and beaten by this Fulk. The scoundrel has attempted my life, abducted my wife’s servant who was one of our witnesses and killed a creature near to my lady’s heart. Now he has withdrawn his petition contesting his right to her. That is mighty fortunate for if there be any who imagine I would let her return to a life of humiliation and beating, they are mistaken.”
“I take your point, sir. The verdict will be just.”
HER HUSBAND WAS deep in thought during supper, chewing in silence, not that the topics—curing bacon and whether they would order the town lorimer in on the morrow to check all the horse bits and other metalwork in the harnesses—were thrilling in any case. Since they had returned to the castle, Gervase’s conversation had been about as stimulating as dinner time in a silent religious order.
“A silver penny!”
Johanna blinked in relief at the silver moonlet on the cloth. The old Gervase was there still. She gazed anew at the clean, golden hair maning the intelligent brow, the clever mouth, the straight, patrician nose that hinted at him being some noble’s bastard and made her own eyes wide, her lips inviting. She wanted this man beside her forever. The world without him would lack all hue and flavour.
“Is this a bribe?” she asked. “Or a yearly peppercorn rent?”
“No, a silver penny for your thoughts.”
“Losing you.” Strike while the iron was accessible let alone hot. She had to brand her name upon his heart.
“No frowns, sweetheart. Your toes have scarce touched the water. By my father’s soul, you cannot yet have waded in so deep.” So he was warning her off with light words. Desire but not love; friendship but not commitment; and kindness but not passion.
“Gervase, it can only take a moment. A child can drown in a thrice when no one is looking, and as for me, I cannot swim.”
His blue eyes, deep but wary, still were an ocean of compassion to drown in. “Must I teach you that as well, Johanna?”
God knows how she might have answered him had the steward not run up the hall, his dignity forgotten.
“Madam! Sir! The Enderby men have returned Agnes.”
WHILE THE HOUSEHOLD celebrated in the hall, Johanna rocked the weeping girl in the south tower. The women would be counting the weeks.
Told to go away, Gervase perversely let himself into Johanna’s bedchamber later with Jankyn and the minstrel at his heels. She glared at the trio in futile fury, but her tearful Agnes roused from her arms and she let them stay. Jankyn had been the poor songbird that Martin de Scruton had fixed his talons into after dinner, but he looked like a dog that had stolen a bone and was boasting that even Stephen de Norwood could not have given better answers.
A look from Johanna quelled him and he sat down goodnaturedly at the maidservant’s feet. Together the three men drove the conversation along as if life had returned to normal and the room became a tavern to be filled with music, sending the women’s feet tapping or bringing them to tears. They sang for Agnes until Father Gilbert marched across from his cell and shouted that this was the holy day on which the Blessed Saviour had driven the moneylenders from the temple.
“Is there anything in the Gospels about our Lord Saviour driving out musicians?” Gervase asked his companions, but the music ceased.
IT
TOOK HOURS of gathering courage to knock later on Gervase’s door. The mumbled answer scarce gave permission, but she lifted the latch quietly. The stealthy entrance was ruined; she fell over a pair of boots.
English words, blunt and concise, assaulted her noble ears and put paid to the trembling she felt. A wooden platter skimmed the top of her head and she squealed.
“Johanna? Hell’s fire!”
Strong hands fumbled for her forearms and pulled her to her feet, but her hem was trapped beneath her heel and Gervase had to keep hold of her.
“Could you strike a candle, please?”
“If you wish. Perhaps you would care to explain why you are here?”
He freed her, and holding a wick into the fire, he illuminated more than she expected.
“Ohhh!”
He was completely unclothed. The river of dark blond hair flowed down his broad chest—oh, that she had seen before—but her glance could not help following down the ripple to where it disappeared between his narrow thighs. Try to forget Fulk, she fiercely warned herself, or you will never be healed. Abandoning the natural modesty in her nature, she tried to behave like a worldly lady.
Save for the ribbon of scarring, his was not the milk-hued skin of ancient Fulk or the fair-headed groom, but shone golden and lustrous. Think as an artist. Yes, that helped. He could have commanded a fee as a model for the depiction of David at King Saul’s court in Holy Jerusalem. No, David must have been slighter. Her mind turned secular—a naked Lancelot? Now there was a thought.
“Would you like me to move slowly round for you?” Geraint was trying not to laugh. Thoughts were tossing across her face like reflections on a wind-scuffed pool. Surprise and panic had given way to scientific study. Was she planning to stitch him an embroidered loincloth?
“I-I . . . your pardon.” Blushing enchantingly, she averted her eyes to the empty palliasse. Her excuse surfaced huskily. “I-I did not know you were already abed.”
Geraint shrugged, unabashed by his nudity. “Jankyn is carousing with the pantler—he never sleeps soundly.” His tone was sardonic, challenging her to look at him again.
“Could you cov—do return to your bed. I am sure you must be cold. I came to ask you something—out of friendship, I might add—so please do not be alarmed.”
He made no move to obey her. “Why will the matter not wait until morning?” he asked arrogantly and stood at ease before the dying fire.
Damn him, Johanna fumed, the pose was calculated, giving her a shameless chance to stare sinfully at the broad shoulders tapering to the perfect buttocks and the wonderful gilt-hazed limbs that supported him.
“You are being vain,” she whispered.
“No, I have other reasons, but I can fetch you a ewer if you feel like being sick.”
“I am not going to—oh, for Heaven’s sake, Gervase.”
“It is cold, my lady. Is there a long preamble or would you care to come to the peroration of your midnight visit?”
“P-please will you stop being so . . . so brittle.”
“I can guess what you have come to say. Would you like to get it over with?”
Yes, she did have her speech ready and there was not an alternative version for contingencies like this. A pox on him! “You will be leaving soon and we will probably never meet again.”
“You run before me to market, my sweet. I was not thinking of going without breaking my fast.”
“Just be quiet, please. I should like to have a child.”
That wiped the smile off his—well, off his back. Every bit of him tightened and an angry oath shook him but then he laughed.
“Now I have heard everything. The planets must be in strange alliance for this is out of character for you.”
Geraint’s words belied his inner turmoil. Gazing up unseeing at the dark crevasses of mortar, he fought the desire to take her in his arms and lead her into a false paradise. He had dreaded this, watching her day by day unfurl her courage and learn to trust again. And having freed her from the girdle and shown her kindness, it was inevitable that this fledgeling love should seek some bond with him.
A child? Oh no, this was but the outer, rational form of her argument; the woman inside her was trying to bind him with desire, to cast a net of love over him and tether him to Conisthorpe. And it would be so easy to love her with his mind and body.
He glanced over his shoulder at her dark head, bowed by his unkindness, and pitied them both. He needed time to think.
“I gave the matter much thought on the journey from Richmond.” She looked up from her twisting fingers to find he had turned and was scowling.
“I see.” Gervase strode across to the bed and grabbed up the coverlet, flinging it over his shoulder so that its dark brown folds gave him some modesty while he faced her like some ancient Druid god. “You want me to lie with you.”
“Well, yes, if you please.”
“But, Johanna, is it not written that women only conceive if they feel pleasure? Did you not tell me on several occasions that you find the carnal act repulsive?” Was he laughing at her or hiding his scorn in practicalities?
“Well, I thought if I tried not to think or . . .” His jaw clenched at her clumsy words. “This is not easy for me, Gervase, but I-I want to have something left to love. I know we are barely acquainted but . . .”
“Depending on the phase of the moon and your fecundity”—it was as if he found the word poisonous—“not to mention your admission of indifference, the process may need to be repeated several times and even then may not be successful.”
He was marshalling his arguments like a lawyer and Johanna, who had taken all day to come to this resolution and all darkness to force herself to ask him, could only stand there close to tears, feeling as though she was a tiny beetle and he was about to crush her beneath the heel of his boot.
Stand firm, she told herself, do not let him rile you.
“Sir, I came to ask you out of friendship.”
“Friendship?” He weighed the word with wry tenderness. “What you desire goes by other names.”
She trembled beneath his shadowy gaze but not with fear. “It would be easy for you.”
“No,” his voice was a tired whisper as he turned away but the denial was not over, “I do not have command of my emotions like you do.”
“But I—”
She did not see the quiver of his hand as he pressed the heel of his palm against his closed eyes. “My lady,” he held his voice steady as if words might spill unbidden, “Johanna, you offer me a gift I cannot accept.”
“But you will think about it,” she said as he strode to the door and set it open for her to leave, his face unreadable.
“How can I not?” he answered darkly and closed the door behind her.
Twenty-seven
IT WAS SAFER to stay in her bedchamber next morning and lick her wounds. He had been right to reject her.
“My lady!” The whistle on the other side of the door came from Jankyn. Johanna smiled at the still sleeping Agnes and unbarred the door herself.
“My master says that since the day is fine you are to go hawking with him.”
“Tell him to go hang, Jankyn!”
“My sweet lady, the primroses have unfurled their skirts these last three weeks and lack admiration before they wither, the skylarks are singing an anthem to the risen sun and you are sulking—your pardon—skulking here like last night’s wine bibbler with a headache wasting the precious hours.”
“Go to, Jankyn. I am displeased with your master.”
“But your master he is, or so the world must see, and he says that if you come not, he will set you across his saddle upon your belly and bear you hence.”
Agnes stirred and blinked. “He is your husband, my lady, and it be a lovely day.”
“You will please do as I say.” Gervase halted outside her door, his saddlebag over his shoulder. For answer, he received a humphy jerk of her shoulders. “Very well, madam. I am not ordering, I am beggin
g you for your company and I will take it very ill if you respond to my short-lived humility with less than feminine courtesy.”
* * *
APRIL HAD GROWN gentle, the wind changed to a kindly westerly and although the sky was lacy with clouds, none of them clustered defiantly. A knight and his lady, they rode out with Sir Geoffrey and a full escort through the fields and along the stony lanes into higher country where flocks rambled. It was too perfect. Even the lilting reed pipe of a shepherd boy coincided with their passing and the thanks of a silver penny arced, glinting, through the air from Gervase’s gloved hand.
But the spring weather could not be mocked and Johanna, who delighted in the dales whatever the season, was proud of the valley’s beauty. The slight white flowers of the blackthorn lit the edges of the ploughed fields and the hawthorn and bramble thickets fell back giving way to the yew that ribboned the skirt of the hill. The edge of the moor was fringed with gorse and bracken, flattened and dried by the winter snows. To the south, sheep pasture velveted the hillside, descending to a church and a scattering of dwellings, folds and byres.
Gervase flew her mother’s merlin and Sir Geoffrey tried out his young long-winged hawk for the first time. Then, as the sun moved close to its zenith, the men unpacked leather bottles, soft white bread and ripe cheeses from the saddle panniers. Johanna, happy and exhilarated, was invited to be seated upon an unstrapped packsaddle. The rest of the company sat on their cloaks about her and the sated birds dozed within their tufted hoods upon their stand. Beneath her feet, the moss was tinted with dried grass and wondrously softer than any carpet. Lured by its texture, she took off her glove and stroked it, wondering at the dry surrender beneath her fingerpads and how this curious turf mede welcomed her.
Gervase sprawled upon his back at her feet, one arm flung across his face, and Johanna, looking upon him, despite last night’s irresolution, felt such overwhelming love that she was hard put not to weep, not only for the day’s joy but also in sadness that her pleasure in his company must be so fleeting. This hawk would fly and she had no lands to lure him nor jesses strong enough to tether him.
The Knight And The Rose Page 40