by Anne Stuart
The dress exposed far too much of her chest, but her lack of hips made it hang down enough to cover her long legs. That was another failing, of course, as her father had often told her. Women needed broad hips for childbearing. But Elizabeth would be bearing no children, and after a night spent listening to Margery's full-throated screams she could only bless that fact. No matter that the arrival of Thomas's red-faced, squalling heir had brought her to unexpected tears. The arrival of a child always affected her that way—a bittersweet joy that was more powerful than anything else she'd ever experienced.
That was one reason she'd become proficient in serving at childbed, learning from the midwives at Bredon Castle. If she couldn't have children herself, and she was illogically fond of them no matter how annoying they could be, then she could at least assist in their delivery. Besides, she had little interest in easing the suffering of mankind—most of their ills were well deserved. But women needed all the help they could get.
After all, the child had come from an act that only men enjoyed. And while the mother would find joy and pleasure in the love of her children, in the meantime she had to put up with some huge, sweaty man invading her body, then months of discomfort as she grew larger and larger, followed by excruciating pain and more often than not, a bloody death. All for the sake of a man's pleasure.
There were ways to avoid conception, of course. She'd learned that from the midwives as well, secrets passed among women. If the church knew of such things it would be to court eternal damnation.
But the church was run by men. And if the good sisters at Saint Anne's were ignorant of such precautions then it made no difference.
Perhaps she'd still find ways to put her healing talents to work once she joined the holy sisters. Most orders divided their time in meditation and good works, and Saint Anne's was bound to include healers. With luck Elizabeth could continue on as before, bringing children into the world, without having to answer to her father or any overbearing man. And no man would ever have the right to force himself upon her in the name of marriage or any other excuse.
Bedding Thomas of Wakebryght wouldn't have been so horrible. He was handsome, kind and gentle, and so lacking in imagination that the act would be over quickly. And in the end there'd be children.
But that was no longer her lot in life, and if she had any sense she'd rejoice in the release from such carnal duty, rather than bemoan the loss of home and children.
Though if Thomas saw her in this green dress he might start to regret his rash decision. Lady Margery was none too pretty at the moment, with her swollen eyes and pale face. And Thomas had always had a weakness for pretty women.
She turned away from her troubling reflection. There was no question that she looked the best she ever had, despite lack of sleep. Perhaps if her father had seen fit to clothe her decently she might have found a husband. Be married to some coarse baron who spent his passion on her body and then left her in peace.
No, that wasn't what she wanted. She was happy with her future, and even the rest of the journey seemed less daunting with Dame Joanna for company. No one would look twice at her with the sublime Joanna at her side. Not even the dark prince with his deep, brooding eyes.
She glanced around the room for her cloak, but she'd left it in Lady Margery's bower. She would go fetch it herself, rather than send a servant. It would set her mind at ease to check on Lady Margery one last time, and to ensure the babe was thriving. And if she ran into Thomas at the same time, and he looked at her in her inappropriate, beautiful dress and found himself regretting his rash decision three years ago, then so much the better.
She glanced out the window before she left the room. The men gathered in the courtyard were her recent companions—she could see the angelic Brother Matthew among them, sitting on his fine horse a few paces away from everyone else. His head was down, and she couldn't see his expression, but she could well imagine it. The sweetness of his smile, at odds with Prince William's faint mockery. The gentleness in his soft hands as he held the reins.
Elizabeth gave herself a little shake as she turned away. Leaving her father's house had surely addled her wits. She was a woman who knew what she wanted in life to make her happy, and to be distracted by memories of Thomas and new thoughts of saintly Brother Matthew was not part of her plan.
Though both were preferable to the memory of Prince William's mouth brushing against hers.
He'd kissed her twice in as many days. The first on her brow, the second on her lips. If things continued as they had been, she'd be horrified to see where his next kiss landed. Or whether it would be nearly as chaste as the first two.
And she was making a fuss over nothing. Prince William was a devil—he'd only kissed her to disturb her, and he'd succeeded full well in doing so. In the future, though, he'd doubtless find distraction with Dame Joanna far more appealing, even if he truly planned to spend the journey in celibate penitence. After this morning, he would barely notice Elizabeth of Bredon, and she could breathe a sigh of relief. Surely she could.
She had to ask for directions back to Lady Margery—when Joanna had first brought her away she'd been too tired to pay attention to her path. The door was closed to keep in the heat, and she pushed it open without knocking, secure in the knowledge that Lady Margery had no secrets from her erstwhile midwife.
She stopped just inside the room, in shock. Thomas of Wakebryght lay curled up beside Lady Margery, holding her hand, looking at her pale, bloated face with such unquestioning adoration that it was painful to see. The wet nurse sat in the corner with the young heir, coaxing him into feeding, but Thomas had no eyes for anyone but his decidedly unpretty wife, and all Elizabeth could do was stare in astonishment.
He must have felt her eyes on them, for he looked up, and a beatific smile swept across his handsome face, a face she'd once thought she'd die for. Now she realized that his chin was a bit weak, his nose too pretty, and his brow without resolution. She would have led him a merry dance if he hadn't abandoned her for his wife.
He jumped off the bed and rushed over to her, and she braced herself, not sure what she was expecting. Certainly not his powerful embrace.
"Bless you, Bethy," he said in her ear, his voice thick with unshed tears. "You've given me my life."
She pushed him away, gently, and if he saw the pretty dress that hugged her curves he didn't take notice. He was already looking back at Lady Margery's peacefully sleeping body. So much for Thomas's regrets, she thought ruefully.
"You're a lucky man, Thomas," she said in a calm voice. "She fought well for you and your child. You chose wisely."
He didn't even seem to understand her reference. He simply smiled at her in an absent fashion before moving back to the bed. "My whole family blesses you, Bethy," he said.
"Even your mother?" she asked rashly.
"Even my mother," Thomas said, climbing back on the high bed, moving so carefully he didn't disturb his sleeping wife. "It was nothing personal, you realize. She just knew she'd have a hard time keeping you in order. Margery is a great deal more docile, and we let Mother do as she pleases."
"No one could have ever said I was docile," Elizabeth conceded. Looking at the entwined couple should have pained her, but instead she merely felt resigned. At that moment the baby cried, and she moved toward it, looking at his red little face. Reaching out a finger to touch the tiny little hand.
"I hope you do well at Saint Anne's," Thomas said doubtfully. "I expect you'll learn to be properly demure once you're there."
It sounded like a sentence of death. "I expect so," she said absently, then turned away from the baby who should have been hers, away from the couple entwined on the bed. Her cloak lay draped across the table by the window, and she picked it up, pulling it around her shoulders and hiding her newfound curves.
She was more herself now, plain, tall Elizabeth, on her way to her new life. "God keep you all," she said in a steady voice.
"And you," Thomas said, but he'd already dismissed her from his
mind. And she closed the door silently behind her.
Dame Joanna stepped out into the morning-bright courtyard, breathing in the fresh air. When she was a child she'd loved being outside—it was all her nurse could do to keep her charge in bed at night. It wasn't that Joanna of Kimbrough had been a headstrong or willful child. She'd been a loving, dutiful daughter, a good sister, and had viewed her future as a good wife and mother with calm pleasure.
But the woods called to her, at all hours, and for some reason she could never resist their silent lure. No matter how hard her nurse beat her, no matter how her mother wept, no matter how determined she was to ignore its siren call. Each time she stepped outside, she disappeared into the peace and stillness of the dark woods.
They'd married her off as soon as they could—a child of thirteen with no more knowledge of men than she had of alchemy. Her first husband was much older, and gentle with his child bride. He'd been more interested in companionship than sex, and when he died she'd truly grieved. Not knowing what was in store for her.
Her second husband was a brute. Cruel enough to make even Owen of Wakebryght seem like a thought-ful lover. Harald was rough, hurtful, and had no interest in the begetting of heirs—he had innumerable sons, and he was far more interested in habits he'd picked up while on Crusade in the Holy Lands. Joanna had never met a man less suited to Christian acts—he took pleasure from inflicting pain, and he enjoyed sharing his wife and watching as other men used her.
She sometimes thought that if he hadn't died she might have killed him herself.
Twice she'd been a second wife without issue, and therefore had taken nothing from the marriages, not even security. Her parents were long dead, their estate passing to distant kin. Since then she'd moved from man to man, though there'd been no more marriages. She had been unable to give either husband children, therefore she was of no use as a wife. As a leman, however, she was compliant, warm and an object of physical beauty, or so men always insisted. There were worse ways to survive in this world, she always told herself. Better than the streets.
But she would cherish the next few weeks of privacy and solitude. If the Sisters of Saint Anne were kindly enough, she might decide to join, as well. She had enough money secreted away to pay her dowry, and she truly liked Elizabeth of Bredon. At least there'd be someone she could talk to, unlike the household at Castle Wakebryght. Even Thomas was no more than a pretty dullard, and Owen had recently grown more demanding.
No, a period of rest and reflection would do won-ders for her peace of mind. And if Owen found celibacy not to his liking and decided to replace her, then so be it. The thought of a life without men pawing at her seemed like heaven on earth.
No one in the household seemed interested in seeing her off. She'd left Owen naked and snoring, a happy man for at least the time being. At the last minute she'd taken all of her meager jewelry and wrapped it in a linen fold and tucked it in the embroidered bag that hung from the waist of her gown. That way there would be no need to return if she didn't want to. The proceeds from the paltry gems wouldn't last her long—her lovers were not inclined to be that generous—but it would give her time to think. And perhaps the abbess of Saint Anne had a tender heart for a fallen woman.
She could see Lady Elizabeth at the far end of the courtyard, as alone as she was. She had her plain brown cloak pulled tightly around her, but Joanna could see the rich green of her own dress beneath the hem. Joanna had chosen it on purpose, wondering what the girl would look like if she were decently dressed. Lady Elizabeth had beautiful eyes, wickedly lustrous hair, and the kind of mouth that made a man think of sin. She'd managed to avoid that kind of attention so far, by the grace of God, and Joanna would be doing her no favors by lending her pretty dresses and showing her how to wear her wicked hair. She was headed for a convent, and the only alternative seemed to be the wandering eye of the dangerous prince of England.
And he was a dangerous man, Joanna had no doubt about that. A man who had killed before, and would kill again.
But for some reason the prince didn't strike her as a despoiler of innocents, or the murderer of young girls, no matter what she'd been told. Despite the rumors, he struck her as someone who knew how to love a woman. How to give pleasure in an act that wasn't designed for a woman's joy, if such a thing were even possible.
She wanted to do what she could to keep Elizabeth safe. But Joanna had survived on her wits and on her back, and for the next week she would be in the company of a man who wielded a great deal of power in England. He had no interest in her—Joanna could tell such things with absolute certainty, just as she could see his hidden fascination with Elizabeth of Bredon. If she had any sense at all she would throw them together, no matter what the cost. If she were to deliver a much desired innocent to the bed of the only son of Britain's monarch, gratitude would follow, and the gratitude of a wealthy and powerful man was not something to be tossed aside. It would be a boon to have a friend at court.
The idea of delivering Elizabeth up to the hungry beast was intrinsically abhorrent. A life lived entirely without sex was not a bad thing, and in the few hours she'd spent with Elizabeth she'd found much to like and respect. She'd fought hard for the life of a woman who'd supplanted her, and triumphed.
But there was no changing the way the world worked. Joanna had had to put up with it—there was no reason why the cherished daughter of a baron should be able to escape. Sex was a woman's burden and a man's pleasure, and it was only a few lucky women who could escape it. And the possible rewards of handing Elizabeth over were too great to dismiss.
The convent would still take her, once the prince was finished with her. They might demand recompense for damaged goods, but that would be no problem. From what she had heard, it was clear that Prince William was constantly being delivered from the results of his lechery by a doting father and the treasury of England. It was only when he'd gone so far as to kill someone that he'd had to inconvenience himself long enough to pay penance.
No, someone would be around to pay off the good sisters and quiet any complaints Elizabeth of Bredon might make.
And in the meantime, Joanna would have gained something in power.
She would do what she had to do. Or at least she would try. Despite the rumors, she had no doubt that the prince was not the savage lover he was deemed to be. And perhaps life didn't have to be as bleak for everyone.
She would wait and see. In truth, despite her worst, most selfish intentions, she probably wouldn't be able to go through with such a ruthless plan. Most likely she could no more sacrifice an innocent for her own gain than she could become innocent herself once more. She might not even try. And with any luck Lady Elizabeth would reach the shrine in as pure a state as she set out.
The wind was cool and damp, swirling around her heavy cloak, and Elizabeth pulled it tighter about her, cursing the gown she wore beneath it. She'd had little choice, but at that moment she was regretting not putting up more of a fuss. Surely Lady Margery would have had a plain gown that would have been more suitable to a future nun. Granted, Margery was a tiny little thing, but in retrospect it was far preferable to expose too much leg than too much breast. Particularly since her overlong legs were a major contributor to her general plainness.
The courtyard was filled with activity—Prince William's knightly escort was already mounted, and the monks were in a huddle, all but Brother Matthew. The gentle monk stood off to one side, head bowed low. She could see his lips moving in silent prayer, and her instinctive start toward him was halted. She wasn't sure why she thought he'd be any particular protection against the prince—she wasn't sure why she thought anyone would be much help. She could see Dame Joanna across the courtyard, her shoulders thrown back, her rich blond hair tumbling down her back, wearing her bright colors without shame. In the cold light of day Elizabeth was no longer so certain Joanna's companionship would do any good, either. She drew the eyes of every man present, with the exception of the devout Brother Matthew, and if Eli
z-abeth were to stay by her side, that attention could possibly spill over onto her own narrow shoulders.
She looked around for her mount. There was no way she would ride with Prince William again—she'd die before she'd admit weariness, she'd throw herself off a cliff rather than have him put his hands on her. Not that his hands had been cruel, or even demanding. Nevertheless they disturbed her so deeply that the very thought of coming in reach again was more than she could bear.
And then Brother Adrian appeared, and she could have wept with gratitude. He was accompanied by a covered cart, pulled by four strong horses. The cart would be bouncy and uncomfortable, but she didn't care if her bones rattled apart. At least she wouldn't have to climb back onto a horse. Or have Prince William hold her against his strong body.
By the time Adrian had reached her Joanna had joined her. "That's the most miserably uncomfortable cart," she observed calmly. "I've ridden in it before. I'm not surprised Thomas was willing to part with it. It's an instrument of torture after a few hours. We'd be better off on horseback."
Before Elizabeth could protest Brother Adrian spoke. "His Highness prefers you both use the cart." He kept his gaze on the ground.
"Why?" Joanna asked. "It will slow you down."
The very question Elizabeth had wanted to ask but didn't dare, for fear they'd change their minds and put her back on a horse.
"Prince William is on a journey of penance, and the sight of women could be dangerous to his immortal soul," Brother Adrian replied, staring at his feet. "It's better if you ride behind the curtains."
"I think his immortal soul has already been compromised," Elizabeth murmured. "If someone wants to transport me, who am I to complain? We'll distract each other, Dame Joanna, from our aches and pains. We can share our life stories."
Brother Adrian made a choking noise, and his head jerked up to look at Dame Joanna. "Don't worry, Brother," Elizabeth said with a soft laugh. "I imagine she'll skip all the good parts."
