Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  "I’d like to stay here," he said when she didn’t respond. "To live here for the next two months or so, while my leg heals. Instead of going back to St. Bartholemew’s."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "That’s all you’d want of me? To let you stay here?"

  "Well...no. There would be something more."

  She nodded, her jaw set. "I thought as much."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I should have used that axe on you last night," she said, fury making her voice quiver.

  "What?"

  "Instead, I gave you refuge. And this is how you repay me—insulting me in my own home."

  "By what manner did I..." His eyes lit with sudden revelation. "Oh." He stood; the towel dropped to the floor.

  She spun around and swept the leather curtain aside.

  "No, don’t leave," he said quickly. "I’m an idiot—I spoke clumsily. I didn’t mean...that. I would never make such a proposal."

  Joanna stood with her back to him, gripping the curtain in her fist. "You’re a soldier. Don’t tell me you’ve never paid a woman for her favors."

  After a slight pause, he said, "Never a wedded woman."

  Never a wedded woman . But he’d have no such compunctions if he knew she was widowed.

  "Turn back round," he said. "I’ve covered myself."

  She turned around slowly to find that he’d wrapped the towel around his hips. "What was the ‘something more’ you wanted, then?" she asked.

  He dragged a hand through his sodden hair; it caught in the tangles. "Well, meals, certainly, seeing as I’m to do naught but loaf about on this cot all day. And there might be the occasional small service or errand—I can’t foresee everything I’ll need. But I promise I’ll try to keep my needs minimal and not trouble you any more than necessary."

  Not trouble her? His very presence here troubled her. Seeing him standing before her, virtually naked, in all his dangerous, masculine splendor, made her heart flutter with quiet panic.

  "I don’t know, serjant. How would it look, to the neighbors, for me to keep a man in my home?"

  He sat on the bed and hefted his leg out in front of him with both hands, grimacing. "I can’t believe there aren’t other matrons in London who take in boarders. There must be hundreds in West Cheap alone."

  There were, of course; it was a common source of income for women, sometimes their only source. "Aye, but such arrangements sometimes lead to talk," she said. "I’ve managed to maintain an unblemished reputation all these years, despite my husband’s frequent travels. I can’t help but think it would be compromised if folks saw you about. You’re a young man, after all, and, well..."

  "I’m a young cripple—at least for the next couple of months. That should help to allay gossip. But who’s going to see me? I’ll be hidden away back here for the most part. I’m as eager as you not to let my presence here become too obvious."

  "Why?"

  He looked away, unsettled for some reason. "Let’s just say I’m looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet. I’ve spent the last eleven years of my life living in a barracks with a hundred other men, and before that it was the boys’ dorter at Holy Trinity."

  "You were educated at Holy Trinity?" she asked, surprised. The Augustinian priory, tucked against London’s northeast wall, near Aldgate, housed one of the most celebrated schools in England. An affluent, well-connected citizen might send his son there, but not if the boy was destined for soldiering.

  "I was brought up there," he said. "From infancy until the age of fourteen, when I went to Beauvais to serve Lord Gui."

  "From infancy! I...I thought ‘twas just a school. I didn’t know babies were sent there."

  "They aren’t, generally," he said, his expression dimming briefly, as if a cloud were passing over the sun. "I was the exception. This—" he indicated the storeroom with a wave of his hand "—is the first bedchamber I’ve ever actually had to myself."

  "Not much of a bedchamber," she said.

  "But it’s mine alone," he said. "Privacy is rare and precious thing to me."

  "If it’s privacy you want, you may be disappointed. Folks walk back and forth along that alley all day long, and they like to look in the windows."

  "I can close the shutters if I’m so inclined." Graeham lifted his purse from the floor and tugged open the drawstring the secured it. "I’ll pay you four shillings, in advance, for two months’ room and board."

  "Four shillings," she whispered incredulously. "It’s...too much."

  "Gui of Beauvais is a wealthy man," Graeham said as he spilled pennies onto the chest and swiftly counted them. "And generous. He would want me to pay you well. And, as I said, I’m compensating you not just for the room, but for various services as well."

  "Aye." Joanna couldn’t wrest her gaze from the coins. She counted them in her mind as he slid them one by one into a separate little pile. ...Four-and-twenty, five-and-twenty, six-and-twenty...Holy Mother of God...eight-and-twenty...

  "In fact, I need to write to Lord Gui and let him know where I am. If you could provide me with a sheet of parchment..."

  "Parchment," she murmured. ...Seven-and-thirty, eight-and-thirty...

  "...and ink and a quill and some sealing wax, I’d be most appreciative."

  "Of course."

  "Six-and-forty, seven-and-forty, eight-and-forty." He scooped the pennies off the chest into his cupped hands and held them out to Joanna.

  Four shillings. Joanna couldn’t remember having had that much money in her possession all at once. Most of her customers paid her in bread and milk and the occasional hen, and now that she couldn’t deal in yard goods, there wasn’t even much of that. Four shillings was enough to live on for a very long time, if she was judicious in her spending. This money meant she wouldn’t have to sell her shop, at least not in the foreseeable future. It was a reprieve.

  It was a godsend.

  He was looking at her, his eyes translucent in the dazzling sunshine streaming in through the rear window.

  She took a step forward and held out her hands. He smiled and filled them with the coins. They felt remarkably heavy, and cool. She had nowhere to put them, she realized. Her purse—empty, of course—hung on her girdle, but she couldn’t open it with her hands full like this.

  "Here." Leaning forward, Graeham reached out with his long arms and loosened the drawstring of her purse. It felt strangely intimate for him to be doing this; perhaps it was just his state of undress that made it seem so. He slid his fingers inside the purse and pulled it open.

  She carefully poured the pennies into the purse, so as not to drop any; he cinched it closed.

  "Oh," he said, "and I’d be grateful for a penknife and some cord, in addition to the other."

  "The other?" She rested a hand on her bulging purse, savored its weight against her hip.

  "The parchment and ink and so forth."

  "Ah, yes. Your letter. Are you sure you need just one sheet of parchment? Isn’t there anyone else you should write to? What about your family? Have you a...a wife back in Beauvais?" Most military men were unwed, but there were exceptions. Would a married soldier continue to live in a barracks, though? Perhaps; how could such a man afford to maintain a home? The life of a soldier’s wife must be even more miserable than that of an impoverished merchant’s widow.

  Graeham looked away, snagging his fingers in his hair again when he tried to push it off his forehead. He lifted Prewitt’s comb from the chest and rubbed his thumb over the teeth. "Nay, I’m not married. I’m more or less...I’m alone. I’ve no family."

  "No sweetheart?"

  "There’s no one."

  "What about your family in Oxfordshire? You said you were just passing through London on your way to visit kinsmen."

  "They weren’t expecting me. There’s no need to write to them."

  "Very well. I’ll bring you what you need, but first I must open my stall."

  "Of course." As she parted the leather curtain, he said, "Mistress?"<
br />
  She turned to face him.

  He gestured with the comb toward Prewitt’s shaving gear laid out on the chest. "Are you sure it’s all right for me to use your husband’s things...to wear his clothes? He won’t mind?"

  He glanced up at her, his gaze so penetrating, so astute, that she had to look away.

  "Nay," she said as she turned to leave. "I’m sure he won’t mind."

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  JOANNA WAS OUTSIDE opening the shutters of her shop window when Hugh drove up in the two-wheeled cart he’d borrowed from the inn where he was staying. He wondered why she was so late getting set up. The other shops overhanging Wood Street—those of the furrier, the rope maker, the apothecary, and the many silk traders—were open for business. The narrow dirt lane was swarming with pedestrians searching for a bargain, street peddlers hawking their wine and milk and soap, and the occasional pig snuffling for breakfast in the refuse littering the drainage channel.

  "Good morrow, little sister."

  "Hugh." Joanna nodded at him and glanced in a distracted way toward the cart.

  Hugh reined in the mules harnessed to the cart, jumped down and kissed her on the cheek. "Fine morning, eh? Not a cloud in the sky."

  She mumbled something unintelligible.

  Hugh reached up to hold the upper shutter open while Joanna braced it on either side with two shorts poles, forming an awning. "I trust our new friend was no trouble for you during the night," he said.

  His sister, preoccupied with lowering the bottom shutter, which served as a countertop for her wares, didn’t answer him. Hugh propped the shutter in place with two more poles and followed her into the shop.

  "He wasn’t, was he?" Hugh asked.

  Joanna crouched down to unlock a sizeable chest with one of the keys on her chatelaine. "Wasn’t what?" She withdrew from the chest a folded length of white silk, prettily embroidered around the edges, which she shook out and spread on her display counter.

  "Trouble." In an effort to be helpful, Hugh plucked a jumble of embroidered ribbons out of the chest and shook them out onto the silken cloth.

  Rolling her eyes, Joanna separated the ribbons and arranged them in a tidy row, smoothing them down. "No trouble to speak of."

  Which meant there was something she was choosing not to speak of. Hugh knew from long experience that he’d have no luck badgering it out of her, so he said, "I’ll fetch him and have him out of here quicker than you can draw your next breath."

  He smacked a palm on the wall for emphasis and turned toward the rear of the house, but she stopped him in his tracks by grabbing a handful of his leather tunic. "He’s staying here."

  Hugh turned around slowly.

  She said, "‘Twas a waste of your time, I’m afraid, bringing that cart." She laid three embroidered girdles next to the ribbons and reached into the box for a scarf. "He offered me four shillings to rent the storeroom for the next two months, and I couldn’t turn it down."

  "Four shillings! That’s ridiculous. It’s too much."

  "I know. He doesn’t seem to care." At last she looked directly at him, in that obstinate way of hers. "I accepted the money. He’s staying. You’ll have to take the cart back to wherever you got it from." Looking away, she muttered, "Sorry for your trouble."

  Hugh leaned against the wall, rubbing his prickly jaw. "I don’t mind a bit of trouble. What I mind is...well, the notion of your being alone with this fellow, living with him, for two whole months. You don’t even know him."

  She turned to glare at him as she spread the rest of her merchandise out on the counter. "You brought him here, Hugh, or don’t you remember? You talked me into letting him spend the night."

  "Yes, but—"

  "‘He’s a decent fellow,’ you said."

  "I said he seemed decent."

  "You said you were sure he was harmless. Well, now that decent, harmless fellow has offered me four shillings—four shillings, Hugh—to sleep in my storeroom, for pity’s sake, and I bloody well intend to let him."

  "‘Bloody well’? Since when has my lady sister started saying ‘bloody well’?"

  "Since I stopped being your lady sister and started being the wife of a—widow of a—silk merchant. And not a very —"

  "Not a very prosperous one, I know."

  "That’s another thing," she said, a bit wearily, as she squatted down to lower the lid on the chest. "He thinks Prewitt is still alive. I’d appreciate it very much if you wouldn’t disabuse him of that notion."

  Hugh closed his eyes and massaged his suddenly aching forehead. "And why, exactly, is it that he thinks Prewitt is still alive?"

  "Because I haven’t told him that he’s dead, obviously."

  "And why—"

  "Because it’s wiser to let him think I’m a married woman."

  Hugh opened his eyes to find her staring him down, hands on hips.

  She glanced toward the drawn leather curtain at the rear of the house and lowered her voice. "Do you remember what you were telling me last night? About how most men steer clear of entanglements with married women? About how marriage protects a woman, shields her from unwanted attention?"

  He sighed. "You think Graeham Fox will pester you with unwanted attention unless he thinks you’re married?"

  "I...I don’t know."

  He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "What happened last night, Joanna?"

  "Naught of any import," she said resolutely.

  "Did he..."

  She wrenched her chin out of his grasp. "Nay. He did nothing. I would just feel better if he didn’t...entertain any ideas. He’s not...the type of man I should be encouraging."

  That was true, certainly, and Hugh found it reassuring that she had the good sense to see it. Graeham Fox, regardless of his character, good or bad, was a professional soldier, without property or prospects. He was the very last type of man with whom Joanna should become involved, especially given her dire straits—for it was clear that she was all but penniless, despite her assertions to the contrary. A woman who was "getting along fine," as she’d claimed, would not be lighting her home with lumps of kitchen fat. She would have wine and ale in her kitchen, and ample food.

  She would take no more charity from him, he knew—she’d made that abundantly clear six years ago. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all, for Graeham to rent the storeroom from her. His four shillings would go far toward making life bearable for her, at least until Hugh could get her married off to the right sort—Robert or someone like him. And even if he were the type to take advantage of the situation —which Hugh doubted—his grievous injuries would render him harmless enough.

  For the time being. He’d be on the mend soon enough; what would happen then? Hugh had best have a little chat with the good serjant and get some things straight right from the beginning.

  "Very well," he said. "I’ll go along with your little mystery play, given that it’s for a good cause. I hope you manage to pull it off, though. You’ve never been any good at lying, sister."

  "‘Twouldn’t be lying," she said indignantly. "Precisely. I mean, I never actually told him my husband was still alive, so —"

  "It’s lying, Joanna." Hugh patted his sister on the cheek. "At least be honest with yourself."

  Joanna opened her mouth to deliver some retort, but Hugh cut her off by saying, "You’ve got a customer, I think."

  She turned toward the fat matron scrutinizing her wares, and smiled. "Good morrow, Mistress Adeline."

  Hugh strode to the rear of the house and knocked on the frame of the storeroom door.

  "Fear not, mistress," came Graeham’s voice from within. "I promise I’m not naked this time."

  After a moment’s pause, Hugh pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Graeham, sitting on the edge of the bed tugging a comb through his damp hair, looked nonplussed to see him. "Hugh. I thought you were..."

  "Evidently."

  To his credit, Graeham didn’t scramble to explain the
"naked" comment; in fact, he might even have looked slightly amused. "Did you bring the cart?" he asked.

  "Aye." Hugh scraped a wooden cask away from the wall and sat on it, facing Graeham across from a chest set up with a wash basin and shaving gear.

  "Did your sister tell you it wouldn’t be needed?"

  "She did."

  Graeham lifted his purse from the floor, whereupon Petronilla darted out from beneath the cot to take a swipe at the belt that still dangled from it. "I’d like to reimburse you for whatever you paid for it."

  "‘Twas free. A friend lent it to me."

  Graeham observed Hugh thoughtfully as he resumed combing his hair. "Do you disapprove of my staying here?"

  Hugh shrugged. "‘Twould matter little if I did. Joanna is her own woman. She’s always done just exactly as she pleased." And been sorry about it afterward, more often than not.

  "You do disapprove," Graeham said.

  Hugh leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "In truth, I’m torn in two directions. On the one hand, I’m concerned for my sister—for her happiness as well as her reputation. On the other, I don’t quite see you as the type who would exploit her trust —and mine. I’ve fought alongside enough men over the years to be able to tell the scrupulous ones from the blackguards."

  "You’re some sort of mercenary, I take it."

  Hugh nodded. "A stipendiary knight. I wield my sword for whoever will pay me the most."

  Graeham’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. Hugh knew what he was thinking: How did a knight, stipendiary or not, come to have a sister living above a shop in West Cheap?

  Hugh noticed that Graeham had not only cleaned himself up, he was dressed differently than he had been yesterday, in a voluminous white shirt and russet braies. "Are those Prewitt’s clothes?"

  "Aye. Your sister’s been most generous."

  "Joanna’s a compassionate woman. She was that way as a girl, too. Used to take in wounded animals and tend to them. She has a good heart."

  Graeham nodded, gazing at something through the open doorway. Turning, Hugh saw that, with the leather curtain open, the serjant had an unimpeded view of the entire length of Joanna’s long, narrow house. In fact, through the big shop window he could see across Wood street and into the apothecary’s shop. Three gilded discs hung above its door. Inside, a redheaded girl was measuring powders on a scale.