Silken Threads

by Patricia Ryan

  “Serjant?” The voice was an airy whisper, distant, pleading. But it was a woman’s voice, and women weren’t allowed in this part of the priory—ever, but certainly not at night.

  Graeham sat up on his little cot, one of many—hundreds, perhaps thousands, for he couldn’t see where they ended in either direction—lined up in two long rows against the dorter’s east and west walls. Moonlight poured through the narrow, arched windows, illuminating the cavernous chamber in strips of hazy silver-blue.

  He was all alone, he realized with a childish surge of alarm. The other beds—the innumerable little neatly blanketed cots—were empty, every last one. They were gone, all the other boys. Where had they gone? Why had they left him here alone?

  He drew his legs up and hugged himself, shivering; for some reason, his was the only cot without a blanket.

  Had the other boys taken his blanket? No—they’d never even been here. They hadn’t left him here. He’d always slept here alone. He’d been alone since the beginning—from as long as he could remember. How could he have forgotten?

  “Serjant?”

  A bench stood in the middle of the dorter, between the two rows of beds. There was something tossed onto it, something made of white linen. His night shirt?

  Graeham looked down at himself; no, he was wearing his night shirt. He squinted at the linen garment on the bench and saw that it was a lady’s undershift.

  He felt a quickening—down there. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered his Latin drill in an effort to make the feeling pass, as the brothers had advised. When he opened his eyes, the bench was gone. So were the cots, except for his. The dorter was filled with water; it lapped at the walls like a lake. His cot swayed slightly, and he realized it was floating.

  His sense of panic worsened when he saw that the stone walls no longer existed. The sky had turned dark and bruised and moonless; the water, which extended endlessly in all directions, was black as ink. His cot rocked on the suddenly bucking waves; he clawed at the straw mattress, trying to keep from falling in.

  A thick mist rose from the turbulent water, and from somewhere in its vastness, Graeham heard her again. “Help me, serjant.”

  “Are you drowning?” he called out.

  “I’m unhappy.”

  He had to go to her. He had to save her. He’d learned to swim in the horsepool, when he was a boy. He was a man now, and he hadn’t swum in years, but surely it wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot.

  Graeham seized his shirt—her husband’s shirt—and whipped it over his head. He tore off Prewitt’s braies and drawers, and the bandage around his ribs, leaving himself naked save for those damned splints.

  “Serjant? Please, serjant, save me.”

  With frantic haste, Graeham clawed at the linen strip that bound the splints together and began unwinding it. He unwound it and unwound it and unwound it, and still it kept coming, a neverending ribbon of linen that grew and grew into a great tangled mass. He would never get it off. It would never end.

  “Serjant...please.”

  Graeham leapt off the cot, heedless of the splint, which disappeared in any event the moment he hit the water. He’d expected it to be cold, but it was warm, like bathwater, and very still and quiet now. The mist lay atop it like a great, dense cloud. It was deep; he had to tread water to keep afloat.

  “Where are you?” he called through the mist.

  “Here.”

  Graeham saw a shadow up ahead; perhaps it was her. He swam toward her, the water strangely thick as he moved through it, like heated oil.

  “Is that you?” he asked as he approached the nebulous figure; in the dark and the fog, he could barely see her.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said, softly now. “I’ve come to you. I’ll make you happy.”

  Dimly he realized things had gotten turned around. Now it was she who’d come for him; she who was going to make him happy.

  She had her arms outstretched to him, luminous and beseeching, but her face was still obscured by the mist. “Come.”

  He reached out to her—she was right in front of him now, she was inches from him—but his hands slid right off her, she was so slick and wet.

  “Come to me.” He saw her more clearly now. She closed her eyes, her lips half-parted.

  Knowing it was wrong—she was a wedded woman—Graeham bent his head to hers, wrapped his arms around her, but she slipped from his embrace like a wraith. Her body glided against his as she floated away, buoyed by the syrupy water. He felt her stiff little nipples graze his chest, felt the sleek caress of a thigh against his, and instantly grew hard.

  He grabbed her, pulled her to him, felt her legs open for him fleetingly before she drifted into the dark and the mist. Thrashing in the thick water, he cried, “Where are you?”

  She touched his back and he spun around and seized her, or tried to; she was so slippery, so elusive, and he needed her so desperately, needed to join with her so they wouldn’t be alone anymore. Their legs pumped slowly in the viscous water, touching and parting and touching again. He tried to grip her hips to pull her to him, but his fingers wouldn’t hold her.

  Graeham clutched at her, frantic now, hard as steel, quivering with the need to pierce, to push. Sweat ran into his eyes as he struggled to capture her, to wrap her legs around him and ram himself into her. He thrust against her, his hands slipping and sliding as he grappled for purchase, every light brush of his erection against her driving him closer...closer...

  “Please,” he begged, writhing in a frenzy of need as his urgency mounted. “Please...”

  Her gaze filled with melancholy, she dissolved, leaving him splashing in cold water, all alone.

  “Joanna.” Graeham sat up in bed, panting. “Jesu.” His ribs throbbed from the abrupt movement; he lay back down, swallowing a groan of pain. “Jesu,” he breathed raggedly, dragging trembling hands through his sweat-dampened hair.

  He lowered a hand to his groin, hissing through his teeth at the sharp jolt of arousal that greeted his tentative touch. His cock strained painfully, its tip leaking through his drawers.

  Swearing under his breath, he sat up—slowly this time—and muttered his Latin drill until his erection had mostly subsided. He listened carefully for sounds from the salle but heard nothing. It must be midnight by now, or even later.

  Taking up his crutch, he got out of bed, crossed to the leather curtain and peeked through. It was dark in the salle; Joanna had retired for the night.

  He made his laborious way down the back hall, leaning against the wall when he got to the end. It was black as pitch back here, but by reaching out, he could feel the iron-reinforced oaken door. The bolt was secure in its slot, as it should have been. He felt around for the latch string and threaded it through the hole so it hung outside.

  Returning to the storeroom, Graeham fumbled around in the dark until he located the Roman de Brut on the chest next to his bed. Sliding out the string he’d been using as a bookmark, he unshuttered the alley window, double-knotted the string to one of the window bars, and relatched the shutters.

  Then he set his crutch on the floor and lay back down to wait.

  * * *

  Joanna awoke to a muffled scraping from below, which she recognized as the bolt lifting in the back door. There came a muted squeal of rusty hinges, and then a thump as the door swung closed.

  Graeham must be visiting the privy. She wished he would use the jake instead. After that night he’d fallen coming back inside, she worried about his moving around on his own, especially in the dark. He could easily lose his balance in the privy. If took a bad fall out in the croft, he could end up lying out there all night.

  She decided to listen until she heard him come back in, so she’d know he was all right. If she didn’t hear him reenter the house within a minute or two, she’d go downstairs and check on him.

  * * *

  “Serjant.”

  Another dream? “Nay...” Graeham moaned, shaking his head. The first dream had been ma
ddening enough.

  “Serjant, I’m here.” Soft hands on him, stroking his face, his chest, lightly fondling him between his legs; he stirred, grew rigid. “Wake up, serjant.”

  “Joanna?” He reached for her in the darkness as he opened his eyes. But even before he touched her, he knew by her thickly sweet scent that this wasn’t Joanna. And then he remembered. “Leoda.”

  “Would you like to call me Joanna?” She was sitting on the edge of the bed, caressing him nonchalantly through his drawers.

  “Nay.” What point was there in pretending? This woman wasn’t Joanna. He would never have Joanna. She belonged to Prewitt, and he was destined for Phillipa. He must stop thinking of her, stop dreaming about her.

  He closed his hand over Leoda’s, molding her fingers around his thickness, encouraging a firmer caress, a steadier rhythm.

  “That’s quite the fierce cockstand you’ve got there,” she said approvingly. “Have you been thinking about her all night, then?”

  “Don’t talk about her.”

  “As you wish. Shall we have us a nice little tumble, then?”

  “Nay.” Rising onto an elbow, Graeham felt around for his purse on the floor.

  “Poor pup,” she said. “You’re worried about your leg. I can be on top, and I’ll take care not to hurt you.”

  “‘Tisn’t that.” Graeham wouldn’t be able to pull out with her on top. Leoda was probably still young enough to get with child, and he’d promised himself a long time ago—when he’d first discovered the circumstances of his birth—that he would sire no bastards of his own if he could help it. He extracted three pennies from his purse, found her hand and pressed them into it.

  There came a pause as she counted the coins; he heard a soft clink as she slipped them into her own purse. “Threepence. So you’re wantin’ somethin’ out of the ordinary.”

  “Take me in your mouth,” he said.

  “‘Twould be my pleasure, serjant.”

  Leaning over him, she tugged at the cord to his drawers.

  Someone gasped. Graeham looked toward the leather curtain to find it being held open by Joanna, radiant in the glow from the candle she held. Bright spots of crimson bloomed on her cheeks as she stared at Leoda’s hands, stilled in the act of untying his drawers.

  Graeham bolted upright, flinching as pain spiked through his ribs. “Mistress...”

  The curtain fell closed. He heard her rapid footsteps in the rushes, and the squeak of the ladder as she climbed it, and let out a low, virulent curse.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Joanna dressed with excruciating care the next morning, in a kirtle of snowy linen with intricate smocking along the neck and sleeves. Over this she layered her best tunic, a fitted gown of gleaming honey-colored silk, delicately pleated in the sleeves and skirt—her wedding gift from Prewitt, which she’d worn but the once. It laced up the sides with golden cords; she had the devil of a time getting the two sides to look even and still have the tunic fit right. The sleeves, which she left detached beneath the arms for mobility, hung in points to the floor; she wrapped them around her arms to get them out of the way.

  She glanced toward the uneven little looking glass nailed above her wash stand and flinched, seeing, in lieu of her own image, that of Graeham Fox lying on her storeroom cot with the whore Leoda casually untying his drawers. A sick pain squeezed her stomach; it hurt her to think of him taking his ease with that woman. Recognizing the ache inside her for what it was—jealousy—Joanna felt chagrined to still be capable of harboring such naive romantic impulses for any man.

  Don’t think about it now, she told herself, sliding her feet into the gold-dyed goatskin slippers that had come with the gown. She was going to the Friday fair today. It was to be a day of pleasure and relaxation, a precious rarity, and she had no desire to ruin it by ruminating on what had transpired during the night. Tonight would be soon enough to deal with Graeham Fox.

  Joanna tried on the wide, elaborately beaded girdle she’d worn on her wedding day, but rejected it as unseemly for a respectable widow. The tunic, although elegant—and flattering—was a shade of brown, and therefore acceptable, and the shoes would barely show, but that girdle was too ornate. And, as she recalled, hellishly uncomfortable. She looped a narrow sash around her hips and hung a small embroidered purse from that, dispensing with the chatelaine; she was trying to look like a princess, not a shopmaid.

  Now for her hair...Your hair’s your best feature, Hugh had said. A proper widow didn’t go out and about with her hair uncovered, but there were permissible compromises.

  Joanna brushed her hair until it crackled, parted it neatly down the middle and gathered it in two long sheafs, which she wrapped tightly in gold ribbons. She draped a half-circle of the sheerest linen over her head, securing it with two discreet pins so that it fell in pleasing folds around her face and shoulders.

  Did she need a mantle? The cloak that matched this dress had long ago succumbed to moths, and her everyday one wasn’t regal enough. She’d just have to do without; ladies often dispensed with their mantles when it was warm out, as it was today.

  She inspected her image in the looking glass. Even discounting the mantle, something was still missing. “Earrings,” she murmured. She hunted up her only remaining pair, having sold the rest, and put them on. “You’ll do,” she informed her reflection.

  Joanna came downstairs half-thinking Hugh might already have arrived to escort her to Smithfield, but he wasn’t there. The curtain across the storeroom door was closed; Graeham might still be abed—not surprising, given his nocturnal escapade. She had time to run across the street and visit with Olive for a spell before she left for the fair.

  The poor girl had taken to confiding in Joanna about a year ago, when her mother began her gradual retreat into herself. Joanna hated to think of Elswyth as unbalanced, having known and liked her for years before her sorry decline.

  For her part, Joanna was happy to lend an ear when Olive needed it. She recalled all too vividly how it felt to be buffeted about by fate and have no one to share her fears with, no one to counsel her.

  Joanna left her shop by the front door and crossed Wood Street, stepping carefully across the drainage channel and holding her skirts above the rutted roadbed to keep them from getting dirty; at least the ground was dry; it hadn’t rained in days.

  The rope maker, Halwende, appraised her appreciatively as he propped open his shop window. “Good morrow, mistress. You look like the queen herself this mornin’.”

  “Thank you, Halwende.”

  A carter hauling bolts of multicolored silks turned to gape at her as he drove past.

  She knocked on the front door of the apothecary shop, which was still closed up. “We’re not open yet,” came a girlish voice from within.

  “Olive, it’s me,” Joanna said, not too loudly, lest she disturb Elswyth. “Joanna Chapman.”

  The door squealed open. Olive peered out, her pretty young face framed by that bright froth of hair, uncovered and unbound as usual; ah, to be a maiden again. “Mistress Joanna! What brings you across the street this morning?”

  “I wanted to talk to you. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Olive opened the door and stood aside. “Mistress, look at you! You look so grand.”

  “Thank you.” Joanna glanced about the shop, similar to hers in size and layout, but fitted out with floor-to-ceiling shelving, on which were arranged myriad jars and caskets. Bundles of roots, garlic and dried herbs hung from the rafters, scenting the air with their earthy bouquet. In the center of the room, half a dozen kettles hung from a toothed rack over a tile-lined fire pit, cold at present. A work table in front of the shuttered shop window was laid out with mortars and pestles, scales, and a stack of thick little blue glass phials.

  “Is something wrong?” Olive asked. Usually it was she who sought Joanna out, not the other way around.

  “Nay...perhaps. I suppose that’s what I’ve come to find out.” Joanna
lifted a phial from the stack and turned it over in her hand; a ribbon of sunlight from between the closed shutters ignited the bubbly blue glass like a jewel. Lowering her voice, she said, “You were speaking to a man in the alley yesterday afternoon, and you became upset.”

  “Olive!” The deerskin tacked over the doorway to the back of the house parted. Elswyth, in a rumpled sleeping shift, stood glaring at her daughter with her intense little dark eyes. The apothecary was heavier than Joanna recalled from the last time she’d seen her close up, which was several months ago. Her face was puffy and sallow; her hair—wiry and red, like her daughter’s, but rapidly graying—hung raggedly about her shoulders.

  “Mum.” Olive wrung her hands. “You’re awake.”

  “Aye, and the shop’s not open.” Elswyth’s gaze darted toward Joanna, taking in her opulent attire with an expression of leeriness.

  Joanna inclined her head to the older woman. “Good morrow, Mistress Elswyth.”

  Elswyth pointed to the phial in Joanna’s hand; her fingernails were ragged and black with ingrained dirt at the tips and edges. “That’s ours.”

  Joanna set the phial atop the others. “Yes, mistress. I know.”

  Elswyth speared her daughter with her half-mad gaze. “Why is the shop not open?”

  “‘Tis early still, Mum.”

  “Open the shop.”

  “But I never open it this—”

  “Open it, you lazy girl, or I’ll take the paddle to you.”

  Olive sighed. “Yes, Mum.” She looked bleakly toward Joanna.

  “I’ll help you with the shutters,” Joanna offered, stepping outside.

  “Thank you, mistress.” Olive unlatched the big shutters from inside and then joined Joanna on the street. By the time they got the awning buttressed and the countertop braced, Elswyth had retreated into the house again.