Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Graeham was still watching her, the comb forgotten in his hand. “This isn’t her world,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  “No, she damn well doesn’t.”

  Graeham looked pointedly at Hugh. “Then what’s she doing here?”

  “She married beneath her.”

  “Prewitt?”

  “Aye.”

  Graeham nodded slowly. “She must have been very much in love with him, then.”

  Hugh studied his steepled fingers. It would hardly do for him to disclose Joanna’s true motivation for marrying Prewitt—that it hadn’t been so much a question of love, but of gullibility...and desperation, for she’d been sorely in need of saving at the time. Prewitt Chapman had been a handsome, smooth-tongued charmer, and she’d been as guileless and trusting as any fifteen-year-old girl. His many defects of character had eventually come to light, of course, but it would serve Joanna ill for Graeham Fox to become privy to them.

  Graeham assumed that Prewitt was still alive to throttle him if he overstepped himself—an assumption that served to protect Joanna. That protection would evaporate should Hugh divulge the truth of the matter, which was that any interest Prewitt may have once had in Joanna had vanished within days of their wedding. Even if he were still alive, Hugh doubted he would trouble himself to defend her honor, should the need arise.

  “Yes,” Hugh said without looking up. “I suppose she must have loved him a great deal.”

  Graeham’s eyes shifted once more beyond Hugh, toward the front of the house—toward Joanna. Hugh turned as well, and saw her sitting at her embroidery frame in front of the shop window, passing a tiny needle in and out of the blue silk. The sun shone through her veil; it looked as if she were wearing a halo.

  “Then why...” Graeham began, his gaze straying to the cot on which he sat as he doubtless wondered why Prewitt had been relegated to sleeping there. “Nay, ‘tis none of my concern.”

  “That it’s not.” Grimacing, Hugh picked up Prewitt’s razor; it looked dull. Reaching for the whetstone, he set about sharpening the blade.

  Graeham combed his hair in silence for a few moments, then said, “She runs the shop all on her own, does she?”

  “Aye. Prewitt never could bear the retail end of things. And, of course, he’s rarely home. I must say, Joanna’s done quite well as a shopkeeper.”

  “Then why is she so...” Graeham tossed the comb onto the chest and smoothed his hair back. “Forgive me. I seem to be full of impertinent questions today.”

  “Why is she so poor? I suppose because most of her trade is by barter, so it’s impossible to save any silver, and Prewitt...well, he’s been gone for quite some time.”

  Graeham dipped his hands in the wash bowl, scooped up a bit of soap and worked it into a lather. “I wondered why she wasn’t selling silks by the yard. She must be waiting for him to return with more.”

  “That must be it,” Hugh said without looking at Graeham. He was no more adept at lying—or comfortable with it—than Joanna was.

  “A pity,” Graeham said as he rubbed the lather into his half-grown beard, “for a woman as...well, for any woman...to be left alone by her husband for months at a time.”

  “She’s not alone now. I’m here.” Hugh put the whetstone down and ran his thumb along the edge of the razor’s blade; it was lethally sharp now, as keen as his sword. “If any man takes advantage of her in any way,” he said, capturing Graeham’s gaze meaningfully, “I’ll slice his ballocks off and feed them to him.” He held the razor out to Graeham, handle end first.

  Graeham didn’t so much as blink. “Well, you won’t have to slice off mine.” He took the razor, propped the little looking glass open against the wash bowl, and calmly scraped the blade over his chin.

  “Nothing personal, mind you,” Hugh said. “I rather like you, actually.”

  “And I you.” Graeham wiped the blade on a wadded-up wash rag and ran it over his jaw. “You saved my life, after all. I wouldn’t repay you by compromising your sister.”

  “You must understand my concern. You’ll be living under the same roof with her for two months or more, and she’s a beautiful woman.”

  “She’s a married woman. I make it a practice to steer clear of them. Too many complications.” Graeham contorted his lower face as he shaved his upper lip.

  Joanna was wise, Hugh realized, to keep Prewitt’s death a secret from Graeham. He must cooperate in the charade, though it vexed him to do so.

  “My word!” came a woman’s voice from the alley. “Look who’s home from his adventures.”

  Hugh looked toward the window to find a sloe-eyed wench in a provocatively low-cut red kirtle peering through the bars. Her great mop of hair, dyed severely black, tumbled loose about her shoulders; her vermillion-stained lips were curved in a coquettish smile.

  “Leoda.” Hugh rose and crossed to the window. She offered her cheek, which he kissed, noting that she still wore that oppressively sweet perfume. She’d aged over the past year, he thought, dismayed to see little creases beneath her face powder, and a slight jowliness he’d never observed before. Or perhaps he’d simply never seen her in bright daylight. Nevertheless, she was still one of the prettiest whores in London.

  “Isn’t this awfully early for you to be up and about?” Hugh asked her.

  She yawned. “I spent the night with a customer up on Popes Lane. He was gone when I woke up, so I never even got paid, and he’d had me twice, the greedy bugger. I’m heading back to my place now, to beg a bit of bread off my landlady. My belly’s growlin’.”

  “Are you still living in that garret over on Milk Street?”

  “Aye.” Giving him her most lascivious, sleepy-eyed smile, she reached through the bars to brush a fingertip across his lower lip. “You ought to come by sometime so I can show you how much I’ve missed you.”

  “A tempting invitation. I might just do that.”

  Her gaze lit on Graeham; she appraised him with marked interest as he wiped his now clean-shaven face with a towel. “Who’s this, then? A mate of yours? He’s glorious. Don’t he have the loveliest eyes.”

  “Breathtaking,” Hugh said dryly. He introduced the whore to the serjant. “Graeham is renting this room from my sister Joanna.”

  “You can bring him along, too, if you’re so inclined,” she suggested. “We’ll have us a jolly little romp, all three of us.”

  “Alas,” Graeham said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t even make it as far as Milk Street.” He hitched up the left leg of his braies, uncovering the bottom of the splint.

  “You poor helpless pup,” she cooed. “Well, if you can’t come to Leoda, you must let Leoda come to you.”

  Graeham glanced toward the front of the house. Hugh looked, too, and saw Joanna chatting with a passerby without pausing in her work.

  “Not here,” Graeham said. “‘Twould be...” He shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Ah, the sister,” Leoda said. “Are you and she...”

  “Nay,” said Graeham and Hugh simultaneously.

  Leoda looked back and forth between them with strangely insightful amusement. “Yes, well, if you change your mind, serjant, I pass through this alley at least once each night. You need but tie a bit of string onto the window bar to let me know you’re in the mood for a little company. Oh, and leave the latch string out in back. I’ll be quiet as a mouse. She’ll never know I was here.”

  Graeham sat forward. “I really don’t think—”

  “It’s tuppence for the usual,” she said, “an extra penny if your taste runs to somethin’ a bit fancier.” She surveyed him from head to toe and back up again. “You’re darling. And you, Sir Hugh—do come see me. We’ll make up for lost time.”

  Hugh bowed. “I tremble in anticipation.”

  “Lying dog.” She blew him a kiss and started sauntering away.

  “Wait!” Graeham called out. “Leoda!”

  Hugh looked at him curiously as he lifted his purse from the floor and r
eached into it.

  Leoda reappeared at the window, smiling in a self-satisfied way as Graeham handed four pennies to Hugh and asked him to pass them to her. “Change your mind already, serjant?”

  “Fourpence,” Graeham said. “That’s what he owed you, right? The man from Popes Lane?”

  She rubbed her thumb over the coins. “You’re payin’ me for him?”

  Graeham shrugged a little sheepishly. “A woman as beautiful as you ought not to be begging for her breakfast.”

  She stared at him for a moment in evident shock, then blinked and slipped the pennies into her purse. When she looked up, her eyes were soft. “I’ll be lookin’ for that string tied to the window bar, serjant.”

  When she was gone, Hugh grinned and shook his head. “You’ll have to bed her now. She won’t leave you in peace till you do.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth, but she’s been making a living on her back for enough years to have learned how to do it right. And from the way she just looked at you, my guess is she’ll give you the tumble of your life.”

  “It’s not her age, it’s...” Graeham shook his head in apparent bewilderment. “Jesu, Hugh, first you threaten to slice my balls off if I take advantage of your sister’s hospitality, and then you suggest I bring a whore into her home?”

  “Do it late at night, after Joanna’s asleep, and she’ll never know.”

  Graeham chuckled disbelievingly. “You’ve got a strange notion of propriety, my friend.”

  “Look.” Hugh sat on the cask again and addressed Graeham squarely. “I know you promised to...keep your distance from Joanna, and I know you mean well. You strike me as a man of honor. But it’s been my experience that prolonged abstinence, when it’s the result of circumstance and not of free choice, tends to rob a man of such scruples. Most of the soldiers I’ve fought with, if they go too long without a woman, they’ll tup anything their cocks will fit into.”

  “Give me credit for some small measure of self-control, Hugh.”

  “I’m not blind, Graeham. I see how you look at her.”

  Hot color tinged Graeham’s cheekbones. “Brotherly concern is making you imagine things.”

  “Come, now. How could any normal man live in the same house with a woman like Joanna and not become tempted? ‘Twould go far to reassure me of your good intentions if you’d tie a string around that window bar every once in a while instead of trying to store your seed the whole time you’re living here. Besides—’tisn’t healthy to go that long without easing your lust. When I’ve had to do it, it’s damn near made my balls explode.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me stop pestering you.”

  “Is there anything I can say to make you stop pestering me?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  Graeham laughed tiredly. “‘Twill be a long two months, I think.”

  “It will if you persist in playing the monk the whole while. Listen, I’m going to pay a call on Leoda this afternoon...”

  “Oh, yes?”

  Hugh grinned. “She really is most...inspired when she’s been missing me. I can ask her to stop by here tonight—”

  “Nay.”

  “Graeham—”

  “But there is something you can do for me when you’ve got the chance. A couple of things, actually. Next time you’re out by way of St. Bartholemew’s, would you mind collecting my baggage?”

  “Gladly.”

  “And do they still trade horses out at Smithfield every Friday?”

  “I should say so—except on feast days.” The Friday fair, held weekly in a sprawling, grassy field outside the city walls to the northwest, remained the high point of the week for most folks in London.

  “I’ve got a palfrey stabled at St. Bartholemew’s. If you could arrange to sell it at Smithfield, I’d be most grateful.”

  “A palfrey.” It was Joanna, standing in the doorway holding a deerskin-covered lapboard on which was laid out a sheet of parchment, a quill, a penknife, sealing wax, a clay jar of ink and a tangle of coarse string. She looked puzzled but amused. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to ride a palfrey, serjant.”

  Looking discomfited, Graeham said, “‘Tis a...long story. Are those things for me?”

  “Aye.” She laid them at the foot of his cot. “This isn’t proper cord for sealing a letter,” she said, indicating the string, “but ‘twas the best I could come up with.”

  “‘Twill serve me perfectly well, mistress. Thank you.”

  She studied Graeham—his face—with an interest that made Hugh uneasy. “You look different,” she said.

  His gaze locked with hers, Graeham rubbed his smooth chin. “I shaved.”

  She nodded, her gaze lighting on his hair, which had looked dark last night, but was drying into light brown waves with a hint of rust. It seemed to Hugh as if there were something more she wanted to say, but instead she turned and glanced back toward her shop stall to find two women perusing her wares. “I must see what they want. I’ll be back to empty the wash bowl later, and then perhaps I can get you something to eat.”

  After she left, Hugh said, “I must be off as well. I promised I’d get that cart back to Southwark before nones.”

  “Many thanks for all your help, Hugh. But as for your advice about Leoda...” He shook his head, smiling.

  Using the penknife, Hugh cut off a piece of string and handed it to Graeham. “Just think about it,” he said, and left.

  Chapter 7

  Graeham looked up from his second reading of Wace’s Roman de Brut, his gaze automatically searching through the open storeroom doorway and the empty salle to the shop stall, seeking a glimpse of Joanna. He saw her standing at the display window exhibiting her wares to a customer, an ethereal silhouette in a haze of afternoon sunlight.

  A full week in this place, and still he had not tired of watching her as she went about her daily business. He liked the way she moved, the languid elegance of her gestures. He liked hearing the soft scrape of her voice as she chatted with passersby while laboring over her embroidery frame. And he especially liked the ephemeral perfume of newly sprouted grass and damp earth and wild blossoms that lingered in the storeroom after she’d been back there—which wasn’t nearly often enough.

  His leg still hurt, as did his ribs, but the pain had diminished into a sort of tedious ache, more annoying than tormenting. The surgeon had been by yesterday to check his splint and sell him a fine wooden crutch custom-built to accommodate his height—a vast improvement over either the sledge-hammer or the broomstick he’d been resorting to. Of course, given that Graeham dared not show his face out of doors, and was still too infirm to do so even if he wanted to, the crutch languished at his bedside for the most part.

  Saving his place with the piece of string Hugh had cut for him last week—the one he was supposed to use to summon Leoda, but had pressed into service as a bookmark instead—Graeham closed the Roman de Brut. He set it on the chest atop the other volumes—a mixture of history, verse and epic tales—that Hugh had been kind enough to obtain for him from a used bookseller.

  With the exception of his one isolated offer to sever Graeham’s testicles and serve them up to him, Hugh had proven himself quite a congenial and useful friend. During the daylight hours, when he wasn’t visiting his sister, the amiable mercenary seemed more than happy to run the occasional errand for Graeham. At night he occupied himself as did any furloughed soldier, in wenching and carousing till dawn, he and his mates staying one step ahead of the ward patrols charged with keeping London’s streets clear after curfew. Graeham listened with envy to Hugh’s tales of his nocturnal adventures; if he weren’t confined to this bed, he’d have joined in at least once by now.

  Graeham heard distant voices raised in argument and looked outside, his gaze automatically homing in on a large second-floor window in the stone house next to le Fever’s. They were at it aga
in—a stout and opulently garbed fellow of middle years and a dark-haired young man, his son, no doubt, quarreling once more about whatever it was they quarreled about on a nearly daily basis. This time the birdlike wife was in on it, too, her voice a shrill, cajoling contrast to the masculine wrath of her husband and son.

  Graeham was tired of listening to them fight. He was tired of the incessant cries of the street vendors out front, the rumble of cartwheels, the squeal of pigs. He was tired of re-reading the same books. And he was sick to death of having to lie here on this cot all day like a bloody invalid, his critical mission at a standstill for God knew how long.

  The only activity he hadn’t grown weary of was watching Joanna Chapman. His fascination with her had nothing to do with boredom, and everything to do with her.

  Peering through the house toward the shop window, Graeham saw her hand a wrapped parcel to her customer, a sturdy woman who reached into the wicker basket on her arm and thunked a bundle of what looked like candles onto the countertop.

  Aside from his books, which he read sitting up in bed with his leg propped on pillows, all the while keeping one eye on the rear window, there was little to keep Graeham occupied. He’d opted to recuperate here because of the location, but so far his observations of the le Fever house had yielded few insights that might prove helpful in the discharge of his mission.

  Byram, Aethel and the kitchen maid appeared to perform their chores as dutifully as any servants, although Rolf le Fever ranted at regular intervals about all manner of real and imagined transgressions on their part. It seemed to particularly incense him when he caught the plumply pretty kitchen wench flirting with Byram. Graeham wondered how the guildmaster would react if he knew that most mornings, after he left for the market hall, the couple closeted themselves in the stable; it was always some time before they emerged, disheveled and festooned with straw.

  In the afternoons, le Fever would often hold court in his sitting room for visitors, other mercers presumably, who came to transact business with him; documents would change hands, and sometimes silver as well.