Her senses faded, and she slipped into the depths of darkness, buffered from the pain.
She heard the voices again, and they pulled her from her deepest, safest place. They tugged her relentlessly from the numb cocoon that kept the agony at bay, and as she became more aware, the heaviness of her hurts throbbed and battered her body, even though she lay still.
This time, she managed to pry her eyes open—the only part of her body that moved without pain—to see Ralf holding something in his hand, something flowing, and white. His face was a mask of fury, and even as she watched, he whirled in anger upon another figure in the room—a woman—and turned upon her, grabbing her shoulders and tossing her aside.
The other woman screamed, then fell to the floor, silenced.
And Ralf rounded upon her, Joanna, in her bed.
“Wake up, you cock-spittle bitch!”
Hands seized her shoulders, and she was jerked up, her head snapping back as a scream choked in the back of her throat. Red-hot pain stabbed her head, her abdomen, and flashed through her body like fire. She could not control the wail that erupted from her abdomen and burst from her mouth.
“What is this? What is this?” he was shrieking. Somehow, through all of the hazy pain, she felt the spittle fly from his mouth, flecking her face. “Whore!” He released her, and she fell back onto the bed, her teeth jarring together.
She struggled to make sense of what he raged about, fighting to focus her eyes on the white cloth that he brandished whilst she prepared herself for the blows and pain yet to come.
“You thought to cuckold me?”
He raged about the room, not yet deigning to take his fury out on her physically…but she knew ’twas only a matter of moments before the blows fell. What was he angry about?
“My squire heard you in the stable—with your lover! He saw you make the whore of yourself—and ’twill be the last time you do!” He leaned forward, menacing, over her. His eyes were wild and yellow in his face, and Joanna nearly fainted as his words penetrated.
His hand closed around her throat, squeezed and released, so that she coughed in agony. She gathered all of her strength, trying to twist away…but in its battered state, her pain-filled body was no match for his iron grip. His fingers closed again, and she reached to claw them away as spots of black light flashed at the corners of her eyes.
Death. ’Twould be welcome—’twould be heaven compared to living her life in this fear.
Bernard.
His face flashed before her as the life began to seep from her body.
And suddenly, Joanna realized she had one last chance. She forced herself to form the single syllable that might save her life.
“Map.”
As though ’twere magic, the word, grating even to her ears, caused Ralf to lessen his grip. She sucked in a huge breath of air, her body shuddering with the effort, and gasped the word again. “Map.”
“Where is it? Where is the map, Joanna?”
As she’d hoped, greed proved a stronger force to Ralf than anger. She managed to nod her head, barely.
“You have it?” His hands flew to grip her shoulders and she gasped in pain. “Where is it, bitch? Tell me and I might spare your life!”
“Fire…place,” she whispered, streaks of agony catching her breath and making the words nearly unbearable.
He was on her in a moment. “You burned it?” The rage turned his face into a grey stone mask with burning yellow eyes, and he reached for her with clawed hands.
With all of her effort, she half-rolled away, her denial little more than an agonized moan. “Nay!”
He whirled away from her, toward the fireplace, and began to pull on the stones, kicking them, shoving at them. “Is it here?”
Joanna stifled her sobs of pain as she struggled to rise from the bed.
She managed to pull herself up to sit, her head spinning crazily and her mouth dry with pain, when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. If she’d had any strength, she would have screamed in shock and fear…but when she saw Maris of Langumont pull to her feet from the floor, Joanna’s fears subsided.
She watched as Maris moved quickly and silently, taking a heavy wooden bowl and, stepping behind Ralf, brought it down with a loud crack! onto his head.
He slumped instantly into a heap at the fireplace hearth.
Maris turned to Joanna, staggering slightly as she made her way to the bed. “Come, we must go.”
She slipped an arm around her, and eased her off the pallet. Joanna tried to find her feet, but the room spun and she sagged against the taller woman. “Come,” Maris puffed, half-dragging her to the door. “Come.” ’Twas as though she said the words to keep herself moving.
They made it to the door, and a moan from Ralf nearly caused Joanna to faint. Maris managed to prop Joanna against the wall, and Joanna, for her part, kept her knees from buckling whilst her friend got the heavy door open. They fairly fell into the dark, empty passageway out side of her chamber, and Maris shut the door behind.
Joanna summoned more energy and managed to wrap her arm around Maris’s waist and to actually take a step. They paced slowly down the hall until they came to another corridor. A small alcove recessed behind it, and Joanna pulled away toward the dark corner. “Go. You cannot…carry me….” she gasped. “I will stay. Safe.”
Maris hesitated, then, seeing the wisdom of searching for someone who could carry an ill woman, gave a quick nod and stepped back, looking carefully to see if Joanna would be noticed should Ralf erupt from their chamber. “I’ll get my father.”
~ * ~
Bernard raged into the great hall, pushing past revelers and serfs, using his bound elbow as a battering ram. His eyes focused on the dais where Joanna’s father sat…and where Ralf had also eaten his meal. He saw immediately that Ralf was no longer at his father-by-law’s side, and worry for Joanna propelled his feet even faster.
“Lord Wyckford,” he bawled, charging up to the high table, caring little that he interrupted a jongeleur at his tricks. “Lord Wyckford, I must speak with you!” He nearly leapt upon the dais, and was at the man’s side in one quick stride.
“Who are you to accost me so boldly?” The Lord of Wyckford shot a disdainful glance at Bernard, and buried his face in his goblet.
Bernard restrained the urge to knock the cup from his hand and instead planted his one free hand on the table next to the man, bringing his face into his. “Your daughter Joanna lies near death in her chamber—”
“What say you?”
“And ’tis the fault of her husband that she has been beaten near to her grave. You must place guards at her door to keep him from further harming her.”
Wyckford looked at him and blinked slowly. “Do you not give me orders in my own home,” he grunted. “And I cannot interfere betwixt a man and his wife—for ’tis the law of the church that the wife is the chattel of her lord.”
Bernard’s rage blinded him. “She lies near death, man! She is your daughter!” He curled his fist into the table and splinters pierced the skin under his fingernails.
Wyckford glanced over Bernard’s shoulder and seemed to reconsider. The hall had grown quiet and all appeared to listen for his response. “I shall send guards as you have requested. But I do not relish coming between a husband and his wife…and you, sirrah, should have a care for yourself, else you are accused of worse. Now begone!”
Bernard’s teeth creaked as he turned away, clamping his jaw in fury. He would send his own men, damn the man! He spun on his boots, jumped off the dais, and began to push his way out of the hall with the same force as he’d arrived.
The crowd melted away as he stalked through them, his face a set, still mask that likely brought fear to more than one man’s heart. In a haze of anger, he started for the quarters of the men-at-arms in search of his own men…then again spun on his heel and started back down a long corridor.
Foolish! Whilst Bernard berated Wyckford and sought his own men, Ralf was nowhere t
o be found…and with a lump in his throat that threatened to choke him, Bernard had a fear that he knew where the man had gone.
He ran down the corridor, through the twisting passageway lit by flickering torches and silent as a tomb. As spirited as she was, Maris would not be able to stand up to Ralf should he appear…and Joanna was so weak that one blow could send her to her grave.
His footsteps rang with hollow thuds as he dashed down the corridor and around the corner to the hallway leading to the chamber where Joanna lay. He stamped to a halt when he reached the room and saw that the door was slightly ajar.
A heavy fear settled over him as he prodded the door open with his toe, uncertain of what he would find. The door swayed open, silently, baring the chamber to his gaze. Bernard stepped onto the threshold and saw that the room was in shambles: stools overturned, the bed empty, clothing strewn about, the only light from a sputtering fire.
He started into the dim room, fear clutching him. Joanna was nowhere to be found, nor was Maris….
He did not know what alerted him, but aught caused Bernard to swivel just as something dark and fleeting whooshed toward him. Instinct propelled him out of harm’s way, and Bernard groped, one-handed, for the dagger that he wore at his waist.
“Whoreson!” Ralf’s grating voice reached his ears just as the man made his appearance from behind the door. “You thought to steal my wife from beneath my nose!” He brandished a long sword that gleamed in the flickering firelight. “Bastard—you will learn better from me now!”
Rage and satisfaction surged through Bernard….at last he would have his opportunity. They were well-matched—Ralf with two working arms and a sword, and Bernard with one arm, a dagger, and the might of chivalry on his side. He would relish the opportunity to fight the bastard to his death.
The slice of the sword cut through the air, stirring Bernard’s hair, even as he drove a quick thrust of his short dagger at Ralf’s shoulder. A squeal of rage told him he’d hit his target even as he whirled from the sword’s upswing, narrowly missing being caught by it.
Spittle flecked the corner of Ralf’s mouth as he charged toward Bernard. Fury drove his movements, making him careless, and ’twas simple for Bernard to feint aside at the last moment and allow Ralf to lurch past. The man turned and Bernard was waiting with his dagger poised, just ready to bury it in the man’s throat, when there was a choking cry behind him.
Bernard saw his beloved…and it distracted him only for an instant…but it was enough for Ralf to bring the flat of his sword down, knocking the dagger from Bernard’s hand, sending it clattering to the floor.
Joanna shrieked again, but Bernard had seen that she stood sagging in the doorway and knew that he could not be distracted again. The sword came down, slicing through the tunic on his good shoulder, and with a roar of pent-up rage, Bernard launched himself at Ralf whilst the sword was on that downswing.
His timing was perfect, and the two men fell to the rough stone floor, the sword pinned between them. Bernard was at a disadvantage, now, with one arm bound to his side, and Ralf, fueled by crazy rage, drove his knee into Bernard’s middle, then with a great shove, pushed him off. Bernard rolled to one side with a grunt, gasping for air, and his head slammed against the stone wall.
He struggled to roll back, but Ralf had already leapt to his feet and retrieved the grip on his sword, trapping Bernard against the wall.
“Prepare to die, whoreson.” He raised the sword with both hands, and drove it down.
At the last moment, Bernard pushed away from the wall, knocking into Ralf and unbalancing him just as the sword’s point slammed into the floor, shattering. A scream of rage erupted from Ralf and he slashed the broken tip of the sword down again just as Bernard caught sight of his dagger lying on the floor. Joanna saw it, and staggered forward to kick it toward him.
The sword missed Bernard’s throat by a hairsbreadth and, pulse thrumming wildly, he rolled again, closing his fingers over the coolness of his knife.
He became dimly aware of newcomers to the scene, crowding in the doorway, but Bernard was too ensconced in the fight for his life to note who they were. He tightened his grip on the dagger and prepared to strike.
Ralf towered above him, brandishing the sword—all the more deadly now with its jagged edge—and Bernard tensed, ready.
It happened at once. The sword came down, Bernard thrust up, his dagger found its mark, and the sword clattered helplessly to the floor. Ralf screamed and collapsed in a heap next to it.
Bernard leapt to his feet and, bracing himself, looked down at the fallen man. He lay unmoving, blood oozing from the wound in his neck, his eyes closed in death.
“Joanna,” Bernard said, never taking his eyes off Ralf, but opening his arm for her. She moved swiftly, nearly falling into his embrace, and she clutched him as they stood staring down at her husband.
A loud clearing of the throat brought Bernard’s attention to the audience that had clustered in the doorway.
“Aye, Merle, it appears that our plotting has all been for naught.” Bernard’s father, Lord Harold, coughed into his hand. “My son has a mind of his own.”
“Aye, and my daughter, too,” responded Merle of Langumont, tucking said daughter’s arm through the crook of his elbow. “Now, let us help Bernard in ridding himself of the remains of this vermin.”
VII.
After all of the events during Ava’s wedding celebration, Lord Wyckford represented himself as the outraged father, angry at his son-by-law’s treatment of his daughter—much to Bernard’s disgust.
However, the man made no argument when Bernard informed him that he would wed Joanna, for Derkland’s lands would be a valuable asset to the lands Wyckford already controlled through his own demesne and those of Swerthmore.
Lady Maris stood witness to the wedding a se’ennight later, and Bernard’s brother Thomas performed the ceremony. Bernard’s other brother, Dirick, was absent from the ceremony as he still traveled with the king… but Bernard hid some hope that mayhap he would some day meet Lady Maris of Langumont.
He suspected she would be more than a challenge for his wild, devil-may-care brother.
When he wed Joanna, Bernard refused to allow a bedding ceremony, for he would not subject his wife to the indignity of being stripped. But in the privacy of their chamber, when he gently lifted the fine linen undertunic and bared her body for the first time, he nearly wept at the sight of her green and blue bruising, along with the barely-healed cuts from Ralf’s leather whip.
“If he weren’t already dead,” Bernard breathed, his trembling fingers sliding lightly over her hip, “I would make him wish he’d never laid so much as a breath on you.” His face was stricken, for this was the first he’d ever seen the full extent of her injuries. “Joanna, how can you suffer any touch? Does it still pain you?”
“Your touch is a most welcome balm,” she told him, her gaze steady and calm, easing his fears. “Though if you tell Maris I have compared you to her medicines and found them lacking, I must deny it.”
A little chuckle at her jest surprised him. “Lady Maris is rather serious about her medicinals, is she not?” Bernard said, still trying not to think of what had been done to the delicate woman next to him. Surely his very touch would be nothing but pain!
Smiling, Joanna pulled him close, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of his trembling mouth. His eyes closed and he relaxed into her.
“Ralf is gone,” she murmured against his moustache, “and in the best of ways, he brought us together. Can we not celebrate this new life and forget the evil of my old one?”
“Aye, beloved,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “There is nothing else I would rather do. Now and forever.”
About the Author
Colleen Gleason is the international best-selling author of the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, a historical urban fantasy series about a female vampire hunter who lives during the time of Jane Austen. Her first novel, The Rest Falls Away, was released to
acclaim in 2007. Since then, she has published fifteen novels with New American Library, MIRA Books, and HarperCollins (writing as Joss Ware). Her books have been translated into seven languages and are available worldwide.
She loves to hear from readers, and can be contacted through her website:
http://www.colleengleason.com
or via Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/colleen.gleason.author
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