by Jo Beverley
When she was ready, the maidservants escorted her out past a reredos into a staggeringly noisy and brilliant great hall. Banners hung from the high-beamed ceiling, among coils of smoke from flambeaux, braziers and one great fire. The aromas of perfumes, spices and rich foods roiled in the air. Richly dressed people crammed tables all around, and servants lined the walls.
Waiting.
Waiting for her?
Embarrassed, she searched for her place, and Mabelle pushed her gently toward the grand high table to her right, raised on a dais.
Lady Letitia was there, and an older, even grander woman. A middle-aged man. Sir Almar.
Then she saw Edmund. Healthy?
No. Not Edmund, but the Golden Lion, sitting in the great central chair, dressed in crimson, with jeweled bracelets and a gold circlet on his hair—shimmering like a figure of gilt and jewels, scarcely human at all.
He was staring at her, too. Darkly.
He saw the toad.
Before she could panic and run, he pushed himself to his feet with his left hand—she could tell the movement hurt. Sir Almar, close by, and two attendants behind him, put out hands as if to help. When standing, Edmund bowed.
"Lady Joan. Welcome to my hall. Come, sit at my right hand."
To her breath-stealing panic, with rustles and scrapes everyone in the hall rose, even those at the high table. The knights bowed and the ladies curtsied, and the servants all went to one knee.
Joan stood there frozen.
Sir Almar came quickly down from the dais to her side and escorted her, dazed, up the steps and to the plain seat—but still a chair not a bench—at Lord Edmund's right hand.
She sat, and Edmund eased back into his seat. She noted that he accepted Sir Almar's discreet hand beneath his elbow to do it and that sweat glistened on his brow. He should be in bed. The hall sprang back into motion, but too many eyes lingered on her.
"I wish you hadn't done that," she whispered, head bowed, for she didn't know where to look.
His hand raised her chin and turned it to his pale face. She caught the flash of a number of large jeweled rings. "We do you honor, Lady Joan, that is all."
Once she met his eyes, he took his hand away, and, looking past him at the cool-faced older woman, she could only be glad. That must be his mother, the famous Lady Blanche de Graves, a grand lady in her own right, before marriage to his father. She was held to be at least partly responsible for the family's rise in fame and fortune.
The sort of woman he would marry next.
"I did not do so very much, my lord," Joan said.
"You saved my life, Lady."
"Thor would have brought you home safe, and you wouldn't have been in danger without me."
"You wouldn't have been in danger without me, Lady Joan, or still be in danger because of me."
"Ah," she said, breaking the disturbing connection with his eyes to look out at the hall. "Honoring the sacrificial victim. I see, my lord."
Liveried pages presented food, and Edmund silently selected choice items for her silver plate. She drank from a jeweled cup and began to eat, for she was very hungry. She wasn't entirely sure it would stay down, however.
Minstrels were concealed somewhere, playing peaceful, beautiful music, which would doubtless have delighted her in other situations.
She felt him lean back in his huge, magnificent seat.
"I have no choice now, Lady Joan, but to exchange you for my brother."
"I understand."
"It was your preferred course, if you remember." She could hear gritted teeth.
"But it's a shame I was forced to show my split allegiance so clearly."
"I didn't force you into anything. I ordered you to escape to Woldingham."
And it was clear he wished she'd done that. Perhaps it would have been better. They both would have been captured, but Lord Henry wouldn't have killed Edmund. To ransom the Golden Lion and his brother, Mountgrave would have had to give up the banner and all this would have been over.
But that wasn't true. If the de Graves lost the banner, they'd start a war to get it back. Their oaths demanded it.
"Lady Joan." She was startled into looking at his guarded face. "Tell your uncle that you helped me in order to prevent my murder by his men, because you knew he would not wish it, and does not approve of bloodshed at Christmastide."
After a moment she admitted, "That's clever."
"I am, sometimes."
Eyes say things that lips cannot.
His mother broke the silent connection, leaning forward to speak around him. "You have my deepest gratitude, Lady Joan, for assisting my son." Her heavy-lidded eyes missed nothing, and her thin-lipped smile did not warm them at all.
"I would not wish anyone to die over a piece of cloth, my lady."
The woman's fine nostrils flared. "It is not merely a piece of cloth, girl."
"No," said Joan, meeting her eyes. "It has been forged into a shackle for the men of two families. Doubtless in time, Lord Edmund will require a binding oath of his son that he never bend, never negotiate on the matter."
Edmund's right arm must have been heavily bandaged, but even so, he managed to grip her wrist. "Joan, be silent."
Joan saw his mother's features pinch, and it wasn't at her words. It was at Edmund's plain use of her name, and the tone in which he'd spoken. It had been a firm warning, but the tone had been almost intimate.
She saw him realize it. He removed his hand and pointed with his left hand, pointed to the right of the high table, where a length of dull cloth—faded reds and browns with some sort of stitchery on it—hung on a huge carved and gilded stand. "There it is."
The Bethlehem Banner. It hung like a figure of Christ on a golden crucifix.
War banners were rarely glorious after use, but this one was particularly faded and torn. Which, in a way, gave it additional power to move. She could believe that it had been carried into Jerusalem generations ago, had been stained with blood, then laid on the ground where Jesus had been born.
Or perhaps it was the suffering and blood through the subsequent years that gave it power.
Then she noticed how all the servants bowed to it as they passed.
She turned back to him. "Does it live there all the time?"
He was frowning at her tone. Perhaps everyone was, but she was intent on him. "Of course not. We have a special and secure chapel in the keep where it is kept, except at Christmas."
"It is locked away?"
"Six monks live close by to pray before it night and day, Lady Joan."
To pray for forgiveness, or to pray for yet greater glory for the de Graves, she wanted to ask. Seeing the grandeur in which he lived, sensing the reverence in which he was regarded, she understood better why the de Montelans believed the banner earned mystical power. Why they wanted it for themselves.
But it was all wrong. She felt as if that banner was trapped on that cross, as much a prisoner of coldhearted men as she would be tomorrow.
He touched her again with his right hand, gently. "Joan, what is it? No need to curb your tongue, you know that."
A hint of a smile in his eyes invited her to another place and time, but that was past. Done. His mother's watchful eyes told her that. She owed him some honesty, however. "If we can speak together before I leave, my lord—speak alone—I will tell you my thoughts on this."
After a moment, he nodded. "So be it. For now though, as a kindness to me, enjoy the feast."
Since there was nothing else to do, Joan obeyed, taking particular comfort in Sir Almar's presence to her right. Though a quiet man, he spoke easily on a number of simple subjects, and encouraged her enjoyment of tumblers, magicians and riddlers. From time to time, Lord Edmund claimed her attention, too, with some polite comment or question, or to ply her with yet more delicacies, but that was all. She knew why he gave her this limited attention. He was the center of his world, and always watched, so he must not seem too fond with her. However, it would raise suspic
ions if they were to ignore each other entirely.
He had no choice. She knew that. Even if he truly wished to, he couldn't marry her, and without the exchange, his brother would languish in prison, or perhaps face torture and death. She knew without assurance that Edmund would try to bargain for her safety, to mitigate any penalty, but he had to give her over to her uncle, and once Christmastide was over, Uncle Henry would not be merciful.
And Nicolette, of course, was likely confined on bread and water even now.
She wondered if any kind of feast was taking place at Woldingham.
She wondered if Nicolette had been forced to confess the true and greater sin.
All appetite fled, and Joan began to feel sick.
A warm hand covered hers again, concealed by the rich table coverings, but he said nothing. She glanced at him, and his eyes met hers briefly, full of the same knowledge that lay bitter within her. They were both powerless within a pattern of events created by others but made more tangled by themselves.
Then the music picked up pace and entertainers ran laughing from the center space to leave room for dancing.
"I wish I could lead you into a dance, Lady Joan." It was a polite nothing, but she hoped she read a touch of honest sadness in his expression. She needed to believe that his feelings had some truth to them, some lasting quality. That it had not just been the cave and the night.
"I am in no mood to dance, my lord."
Lady Blanche leaned forward again. "There are many men here who would be honored to be your partner, Lady Joan."
Joan smiled at her. "I would rather not, my lady."
Lady Blanche smiled back, but her eyes flashed a clear message. Harbor no foolish thoughts, girl.
Joan watched the dance start, then said, "I assume your wounds are not too serious, Lord Edmund."
"Just painful and awkward, Lady Joan. They might have been worse without your skill with a stone."
She couldn't help a fleeting grin at him, though she controlled it quickly. "It was a game my brothers and I played, my lord."
She allowed him to draw her into talking about her home, her brothers and sisters, and the rough-and-tumble years of growing up with parents too harried by ten children—all of whom miraculously survived—to be keeping close watch on any of them.
"Of course, the boys left to be trained in other households, but they were replaced by other men's sons. Not many, my lord," she added deliberately, "for Hawes is not a grand holding."
Mountgrave bubbled over with pages and squires who had won the privilege of serving the Golden Lion.
"And none of these hopeful young men courted you, Lady Joan?"
"A few did. They were not to my taste, however. Too young."
"Ah yes, I remember now that you favor a sober, older man."
With that, carelessly or deliberately, he summoned the memory of their night together, and as she had said that night, she whispered, "Don't."
His left hand lay on the rich cloth covering the table, and she saw it clench briefly. She also saw, made herself see, the three precious rings he wore, the worked gold bracelet around his wrist, and the heavy silk of his robe, embroidered red on red. He did not need to trumpet his wealth with gaudiness.
And then, she wondered suddenly how hard it was to be Edmund de Graves, the Golden Lion, at only twenty-five. She remembered him speaking of how wearying it was to be reverenced all the time.
Impulsively, irresistibly, she squeezed gently on the hand that still rested on her. He turned sharply to look at her, then carefully away. But beneath the cloths, his thumb gently, almost sadly, whispered against the back of her fingers.
After a moment, he eased his hand free and turned to his mother. "My lady, I fear I am too weary to preside over this feast any longer. May I beg you and Sir Almar to take my place?"
Lady Blanche put her hand to his face and kissed him. "Of course, dearest. You know I wished you to keep to your bed."
"I could not disappoint everyone." He turned to Joan. "Be free, my lady, to stay or retire. You share my sister's room for the night."
Joan colored. She'd not even thought of where she would sleep. "I don't like—"
"It is no imposition, is it, Letty?"
Lady Letitia, on the far side of Sir Almar, cheerfully agreed.
Lord Edmund raised her hand with his left, and gently kissed it. "I wish you good rest, my lady. Be assured that I will do my best to assure your safety as you did mine."
Both kiss and words were suitable for a hundred pairs of eyes and ears, and yet Joan bit her lip to force back tears. She watched as he was assisted to his feet by two strong servants and helped to limp away, obviously in serious pain. Under the floor-length gown, there was no way to know how badly he was wounded, but she didn't think he put much weight on his left leg at all. Even so, before the banner, he paused to bow.
For a little while, last night, that body had been hers.
Hers to play with. Hers to care for.
She caught Lady Blanche's thoughtful eyes on her.
"How seriously is he wounded, my lady?" Joan asked directly. No point in trying to pretend she didn't care.
"As Lord Edmund said, Lady Joan, painfully, but not seriously."
"I bandaged his calf, but there seemed to be blood from higher. There was no time to deal with that."
"A blade slid up beneath the mail," said Sir Almar, and Joan turned to him. "Not a trick anyone could pull off, one on one. He was lucky it didn't penetrate all the way or he could have spilled his guts instead of a barrelful of blood."
Joan remembered the man on foot who'd charged with his sword. So close to death.
"But he will suffer no permanent harm?"
"If God is kind, Lady."
Infection. The ever-hovering danger. "He should not have left his bed. Surely he will keep to it now."
"He insists on delivering you to your uncle, Lady, and seeing his brother safe. But do not feel it is your fault. It must be done in person, on the neutral territory between the two lands. And no one wishes to delay matters."
"Neutral territory? I thought the lands met."
"They do, but at the start of this mess someone had sense to set apart four acres where the opposing parties can meet, honor-sworn not to spill blood. It's hardly ever used for that purpose, so the local folk use it as a common. They call it the Bethlehem Field."
She remembered a dark landscape and a flaring bonfire. "Do they light a fire there on Christmas Eve, Sir Almar?"
"They do, my lady. Peasants from both sides."
She looked at the banner and wished someone would throw it into the neutral fire.
"No, my lady," the man said as if he could read her thoughts.
She rose. "If you will excuse me, my lady," she said to Edmund's mother, "I would prefer to retire."
"Of course, Lady Joan. I will send some maids to care for you."
"There is no need."
"We would not want to fail in any courtesy."
Joan found herself accompanied by three younger maids, who she was sure resented being taken from the festivities, but who all insisted on remaining and settling to sleep on straw mattresses on the floor.
Alone in the bed she'd share with Lady Letitia, Joan smothered a grim laugh. Lady Blanche was clearly making certain that Joan engaged in no tryst with her son. It was flattering to be thought worthy of such measures, but a dismal confirmation that she was, after all, merely a toad.
Chapter 7
Joan was awakened the next morning by early sun slanting through shuttered windows. It was warm under the heavy covers beside the sleeping Letitia, but the air nipped at her nose.
Though she didn't look forward to the day, she'd get up if she thought she had any clothes. She could hardly wear the feasting finery when she was taken to her fate.
Very soon a servant popped in to wake the three maids, and as they quietly began to dress and put away their mattresses, folding blankets into a large chest, she asked one to find her
something to wear.
As she waited, Joan slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in one of the blankets. Then she opened the shutters a little and looked out over the castle complex and across the countryside that lay between here and Woldingham. Her breath puffed white, but she welcomed the sense of space, for even in this luxurious room, she felt imprisoned.
Perhaps an awareness of future imprisonment.
What would her uncle do?
She'd not just switched places with Nicolette for the Christmas play. She'd attacked, perhaps seriously injured, some of his men to defend a de Graves, and very actively helped Lord Edmund to escape. What was worse, if she'd not allowed herself to be brought here, there would be no hostage to exchange for Gerald de Graves, except the banner.
She'd try Edmund's clever suggestion, but her faith in it was weak.
She hugged herself against a chill deeper than the frosty morning. Poor, poor Nicolette, whose situation grew worse with every twist of this tangled event.
The door opened and she turned. It was one of the maids with an armful of cloth. Clearly no silk, this time, and not too bright of color.
"Thank you," Joan whispered, and waved the woman away. She began to dress herself in a sensible brown wool gown and a heavy tunic of russet color. Practical. Warm.
Letitia stirred and opened her eyes, obviously taking a moment to remember who Joan was. "Oh." Then, in a different tone, she said, "Oh, I'm sure we can find something better than that for you, Lady Joan." She began to scramble out of bed, but Joan waved her back.
"These are fine. I'll be going out, so something warm is welcome."
Letitia huddled back under the blankets and furs. "If you're going out, you need more. I'll lend you my fur cloak. I insist."
Joan thought of arguing but didn't. It was a loan only. And she rather suspected Lady Blanche would prevent it.
She was tying the woven girdle when Letitia asked, "What happened between you and my brother?"
The question no one else had asked. "You know what happened."
Letitia shook her head. "He's in a strange mood over you."
Joan didn't want to create trouble here. "He considers me under his protection. He doesn't want to hand me back to my uncle."