Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  Every house and shop in West Cheap and Corn Hill—in fact, most of the dwellings in London—were bedecked with garlands of St. John’s wort, white lilies, green birch and fennel. Lanterns dangled among the boughs and branches, to be lit at sundown, along with the bonfires being built at regular intervals along the city’s major thoroughfares.

  The daylight hours were a time of feasting, the more affluent citizens having set out tables laden with sweetmeats, pasties and ale, free for the taking. Tonight would come the much-anticipated Midsummer Watch, an annual parade by London’s most prominent citizens.

  Joanna, standing with Hugh at the edge of the acrobats’ audience, shaded her eyes and peered farther down the street to see what entertainments awaited them. On a platform erected at the corner of Ironmonger Lane, two dancing girls in filmy silks leapt and spun. Farther down, in front of tiny St. Mary’s Church, was a fellow coaxing tricks from a trained bear.

  Joanna’s gaze was drawn to a momentary flash of red in the crowd surrounding the bear and his master. She instantly thought of Alice and her tattered red cap. Five days had passed since the morning the child had disappeared, and there’d been no sign of her since. Neither the ward patrol nor Holy Trinity’s Augustinian brothers had reported seeing her. It was as if she’d simply vanished. Joanna suspected the child wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be found, and she prayed nightly for her safety. Graeham was still morose about it; he blamed himself for driving her away.

  Joanna kept her gaze trained on the audience around the bear, many of whom were children, but the bit of red she’d seen before did not reappear.

  "What are you looking at?" her brother asked her.

  Joanna shook her head somberly. "Nothing."

  Later, while they were watching a trickster perform sleights of hand, she saw it again, a flicker of red at just the right height to be a child’s cap, about twenty yards down the crowded street. It appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. She stilled, her gaze riveted to the spot where she’d seen it.

  Hugh smiled indulgently. "Nothing again?"

  Robert, guiding Catherine by the hand, came up behind her. "My lady? Is anything amiss?"

  She shook her head, still staring. Presently it appeared again, a spot of red in the throng. It was a cap, she saw—a child’s cap. A moment later its owner turned toward her, just briefly, but long enough for her to see his face.

  Her face. "Alice," she whispered, her heart skittering.

  Hugh and Robert exchanged a look.

  "It’s Alice, Hugh—the little girl I told you about, the one who ran off last week."

  "Where?" Hugh squinted down the street.

  "There—see? The red cap." Joanna lifted her skirts and threaded her way swiftly through the crowd as the red cap winked in and out of sight. Should she call out to her or sneak up on her? She seemed to be moving away quickly. "Oh, God, I don’t see her anymore," Joanna said despairingly.

  "I’ll get her." Hugh sprinted off, disappearing among the swarming celebrants.

  "Who is she?" Robert asked.

  Joanna told Robert and his cousin what she knew about Alice.

  "A little girl sleeping on the streets." Margaret, still holding the slumbering Beatrix, curled an arm protectively around Catherine. "How awful."

  Hugh reappeared, holding Alice tucked beneath an arm like a kicking, thrashing little demon. "Put me down, you...you...damned mongrel !"

  "If you want to call people bad names," Hugh said mildly, "I’ll teach you some better ones than that."

  "Please don’t," Joanna said.

  The child ceased her struggles and looked up, wide-eyed. She was as filthy as ever; her cap was askew, one long braid trailing out of it. "Mistress Joanna."

  "Hello, Alice. I was worried I’d never see you again."

  Alice squirmed against Hugh’s grip. "Would you tell this...bastard to put me down?"

  "Bastard," Hugh mused. "That’s an improvement over mongrel, but I’m sure you can do better."

  "This gentleman," Joanna said, "is my brother, Hugh of Wexford. You may call him Sir Hugh. And this is Lady Margaret and Lord Robert. And I have no intention of asking my brother to put you down until you give me your word you won’t run away."

  "I give you my word," Alice said quickly.

  "Swear on this," Hugh said, taking one of Alice’s grubby hands and wrapping it around the crystal knob on the hilt of his sword. "There’s a bit of hay from the manger of Bethlehem in this crystal."

  Alice gaped at it.

  "An oath taken on this relic is binding before God," Hugh intoned, his manner so absurdly grave that it was all Joanna could do to keep from laughing out loud. "If you break such a holy vow, the Lord will find a way to punish you. Now, do you swear before Almighty God and all the saints that you’ll stay put after I release you?"

  "What’ll you do to me if I don’t?"

  "Find some rope and tie you up, I suppose."

  Alice sighed heavily. "I swear it."

  Hugh set her down and dusted her off. She jerked away from his touch and stuffed the braid back under the cap, her exaggerated scowl vanishing when she caught sight of Beatrix, blinking in wakefulness on Margaret’s shoulder. "A baby."

  Margaret smiled. "Do you like babies?"

  Alice nodded, transfixed by Beatrix.

  "She’s my sister," Catherine proudly announced.

  Alice smiled at the younger girl. "She’s very pretty. So are you. How old are you?"

  Catherine held up five fingers. "How old are you?"

  "Ten. What’s your name?"

  "Catherine. What’s yours?"

  "Alice."

  Catherine frowned in evident puzzlement. "You don’t look like a girl."

  Alice hesitated, then pulled off her cap and stuffed it under her belt; her untidy braids sprang free.

  Catherine giggled in delight. "Why do you dress like a boy?"

  Alice frowned, obviously at a loss as to how to explain it to such a young child.

  "I’ll bet I know." Robert squatted down next to his daugh¬ter. "Do you remember how your sister Gillian used to wear braies and shirts when she went for long rides?"

  Catherine nodded. "Mummy used to scold her for it, but you didn’t."

  "Yes, well, Mummy and I didn’t always agree about Gillian, but we both loved her very much. Gillian felt braies were more practical than skirts when it came to riding." Casting a meaningful glance toward Alice, he said, "Perhaps that’s why Alice wears braies—because they’re practical."

  Taking the cue, Alice said, "Aye, that’s just it. They’re practical."

  "Can I wear braies, Papa?" Catherine implored. "Please."

  Margaret arched an eloquent brow and looked at her cousin as if to say, See what you started?

  "Perhaps someday," Robert hedged as he rose to his feet. "When you go for long rides."

  "Do you ride much?" Catherine asked Alice.

  Alice shook her head. "I used to ride our mule sometimes, when I lived in Laystoke. I had a sister your age, and she rode behind me."

  Catherine pouted. "Papa says I’m too young to ride."

  "I just don’t want any accidents," Robert said. "I wouldn’t want you...getting hurt." From his grim expression, Joanna knew he was thinking of the wife and daughter he had lost.

  "What if Alice rides with me?" Catherine asked.

  Robert and Margaret exchanged a pensive look.

  "I don’t live near you," Alice told the little girl.

  "Where do you live?" Catherine asked Alice.

  Hesitantly Alice said, "Here in London."

  "Whereabouts in London?"

  Alice chewed on her lower lip.

  Joanna was wondering how to redirect Catherine’s interroga¬tion when Robert asked, "Who wants some sweet wafers?"

  "Me!" Catherine shrieked happily, clapping her hands.

  Beatrix slapped her pudgy hands together and squealed in jubilant imitation of her sister.

  Alice brightened and start
ed to say something, but swiftly collected herself, as if she weren’t sure the invitation had been meant to include her.

  "Alice," Robert said, touching her shoulder, "why don’t you take Catherine over to where they’re handing out the wafers —" he pointed to a table across the street "—and get three of them, one for each of you?"

  "Aye, milord!"

  As the two girls set off hand-in-hand across the street, Margaret turned to her cousin. "She even looks a bit like Gillian, doesn’t she, Robert?"

  Robert nodded slowly as he gazed at the grimy little girl in boy’s clothing. "A bit."

  ***

  "MAY I SPEAK to you alone, my lady?" Robert asked quietly.

  This was the moment Joanna had been waiting for uneasily all day. Now, as the setting sun stained the sky orange and the lanterns along Aldgate Street flickered to life one by one, he had evidently decided it was time for her answer.

  "Yes, my lord. Of course."

  Hugh and Margaret, standing with the three children in the crowd surrounding a raging bonfire, glanced toward them as Robert led her around the corner of St. Mary Street. Hugh caught her eye and winked, apparently gratified that his scheme to betroth her to Robert was bearing fruit. Margaret looked away, her face horribly void of expression.

  St. Mary Street was lined with houses that leaned so far out over the rutted dirt lane that it seemed as if they were holding each other up on either side. It was dark here, and much quieter than Aldgate Street. Two little boys sped past them on their way to the festivities; otherwise it was deserted.

  They walked slowly, and in silence, until Robert touched her arm and they turned to face each other. He took a breath. "Have you thought about...what I asked, my lady?"

  She nodded and looked down, her arms wrapped around her middle. "I’m deeply honored that you want me to be your wife, Lord Robert. I like you very much, and your children are delightful. But I can’t marry you."

  After a long, hushed moment, he said softly, "May I ask why?"

  Graeham Fox’s image materialized in her mind’s eye...Are you happy? But this wasn’t about Graeham. She wouldn’t let it be. Mostly it was about Margaret.

  Joanna looked up and met Robert’s gaze. "Your cousin."

  Robert briefly closed his eyes. "Margaret...I told you, she’ll be leaving Ramswick after I get—"

  "I know." Joanna rested a hand on his arm. "She’ll be taking holy vows. But you still won’t stop loving her."

  He just stared at her. "I..." He shook his head. "Nay, you don’t understand. It can’t be that way between Margaret and me. She’s my cousin."

  "Your third cousin. And I know you wanted to marry her once."

  "The Roman curia refused to sanction it."

  "You should have married her anyway. You still should."

  He shook his head, his expression conflicted. "My parents, ‘twould kill them."

  She allowed herself a wry smile. "I somehow doubt that."

  "No, you don’t know them, my lady. They’re terribly devout. They’ve been talking about taking vows, both of them. If I were to disregard the Church’s authority in this matter, it might literally kill them."

  "I thought it might kill my father when I married Prewitt Chapman. It made him angry—furious—but he’s still alive."

  "And still not speaking to you." Robert looked abashed. "Forgive me, my lady. ‘Tis none of my affair."

  Joanna took both of Robert’s hands in hers. "Just because my father repudiated me doesn’t mean your parents will do the same. William of Wexford has yellow bile flowing through his very veins. He lives for spite. From what I know of your parents, they seem like good people. They will forgive you."

  "But they’ll be shocked, hurt...angry."

  "Are you worried that your sire will disinherit you?"

  Robert shook his head. "All I care about is Ramswick, and he deeded it to me outright. It can’t be taken from me."

  "Then let them get angry. They love you. They’ll get over it."

  "What if they don’t?"

  "Have you never done anything against their wishes, even when you were a boy?"

  "Nay—never."

  Joanna laughed. "Then I think you’re a bit overdue. You must make up for the oversight in some significant way. Marrying the lady Margaret should do it."

  "If I married her," Robert said, "‘twould be like betraying my mother and father."

  "So instead you choose to betray Margaret."

  He blanched and withdrew his hands from her. "Betray her!"

  "You’re betraying the love you share with her—a love that will never die, no matter how much you want it to. How do you think she feels right now, knowing you’ve asked me to marry you?"

  "She accepts it. She told me."

  "Just as you would accept it if she were to marry someone else, I suppose."

  "She’s not going to get married. She’s going to become a nun."

  "But if she were planning to marry—to unite herself with some other man, to speak vows with him, to share his bed —"

  "She isn’t!"

  "You’d not feel so complacent then, I’ll wager."

  "I’m not complacent, for pity’s sake," he ground out.

  "Accepting, then," Joanna said, finding it interesting to see the phlegmatic Robert’s face begin to flush, a cord to swell on the side of his neck. "You wouldn’t like it if she were to consent to a marriage proposal from, say...Hugh."

  "Hugh!" Robert exclaimed, looking so stricken that Joanna was tempted, but for only a moment, to reassure him with the truth— that Hugh was far too free-spirited to ever bind himself in matrimony to anyone.

  Instead, she found herself saying, "I shouldn’t have men¬tioned anything. Forget I—"

  "Hugh?" Robert seized her by the upper arms, actually hurting her with the violence of his grip; interesting. "Has he asked Margaret for her hand?"

  "Nay. My lord, let go of me. You’ll leave bruises."

  He released her abruptly and stepped back, his expression one of outrage. "Is he going to?"

  Joanna averted her gaze. "I shouldn’t have said anything. ‘Twas indiscreet of me."

  "Is he?" Robert’s hands curled into fists. Joanna hoped Hugh and Robert didn’t end up coming to blows over this little game of hers, but it was a chance she was willing to take.

  "My lord, please," Joanna said, backing away. "I shouldn’t have spoken."

  "Tell me!"

  "I can’t." That was no more than the truth, of course, inasmuch as there was nothing to tell.

  "Jesus Christ," he muttered, pressing his fists to his forehead. The profanity surprised her, coming from the highly principled Robert of Ramswick.

  "We must be getting back to the others," Joanna said.

  He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

  "My lord?"

  "Go," he said. "I’ll meet up with you."

  Turning, she lifted her skirts and sprinted back to Aldgate Street.

  ***

  "THEY’RE COMING! THEY’RE COMING!" squealed Alice and Catherine as the distant thudding of drums grew steadily louder, signaling the approach of the Midsummer Watch down Aldgate Street. The procession had commenced at St. Paul’s on the city’s west side and passed through West Cheap along Newgate Street. Now it was proceeding through Corn Hill along Aldgate, to terminate in front of Holy Trinity on the east side.

  Night had fallen some time ago, the bonfires serving not only to dispel the darkness, but to impart an atmosphere of pagan wildness to the revelry. The wine and ale flowed freely. Whores, cutpurses and mischievous boys wove their way through the masses lining the parade route. Young men and women danced in the streets, kissing openly and pairing off in darkened doorways and alleys when the kissing wasn’t enough. It was a night of riotous celebration and unfettered passions.

  Alice and Catherine had been inseparable all afternoon and evening. Seeing Alice interact with the little girl—playing with her, herding her here and the
re, wiping her face—made Joanna realize how much she must miss her younger siblings, and how she must have relished the role of big sister.

  Robert had been edgy and remote since rejoining them after his conversation with Joanna. He’d drunk two cups of fortified wine, glaring at Hugh when he’d made some jest about Robert’s low tolerance for spirits. The festivities seemed to interest him not at all; he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Lady Margaret.

  "Robert doesn’t look very happy," Hugh whispered to her as the parade drums grew louder, accompanied now by the trill of Panpipes. They were standing with Margaret and the two girls right at the front of the crowd, where they’d have a good view of the procession. Robert, who’d professed no interest in watching it, sat on the steps of nearby St. Andrew’s Church with Beatrix asleep in his arms. "He ought to look happy."

  "Why is that?" Joanna asked with feigned innocence.

  "Because you accepted his proposal of marriage."

  "Ah. Yes...well, about that..."

  "Joanna..." Hugh groaned. "Oh, bloody hell."

  "It’s them! It’s them! Gog and Magog!" Catherine shrieked as grotesque representations of the legendary giants crested Corn Hill and advanced toward them, surrounded by drummers, flutists and youths bearing torches. The giants, twice the height of the men beneath their painted plaster forms, roared as they swayed and lurched down Aldgate Street.

  Now came the city’s most prominent citizens, led by the three men who represented London’s interests with King Henry—the justiciar and the two barons, Gilbert de Montfichet and Walter fitz Robert fitz Richard—in their bejeweled finery, sweating beneath ermine-lined mantles.

  Lord Gilbert had aged over the years since Joanna had served his wife at Montfichet Castle. He was as tall and regal as ever, but his great shock of dark hair had turned snowy, and his face was far more weathered than she remembered. He noticed her as his piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd, and for a moment he seemed almost nonplussed. They hadn’t spoken since she’d run off to marry Prewitt six years ago after balking at a union with his son. She wondered if he knew anything of the course her life had taken since then; would it matter if he did?