The Shattered Rose

by Jo Beverley

  Perhaps the boar knew it. Unusually for that animal, it had backed away and fled, perhaps dismayed by the tall, white-skinned, pale-haired woman snarling at it, sword in hand.

  Galeran had dissolved into laughter, and the next he knew, Jehanne was back, driving him into another, more wonderful dissolution.

  A form of dissolution he longed to experience once again.

  No. Not just once...

  He urged his mount to greater speed, wondering if their marriage would be as if he had never left.

  Or better?

  He knew he'd changed while away. He'd been twenty-two when he'd taken the cross, and had generally led a pleasant life. Now, at twenty-five, he was leaner, harder, and callused on body and soul. He'd seen marvels to strengthen his faith, and horrors to sour it.

  Jehanne must have changed too.

  Perhaps she would have plumped up after having a child. He'd always admired her slender elegance, but bigger breasts and a cozy armful might be good too.

  Jehanne in any form would be good.

  Raoul was right; he should have sent warning from Bruges. He should stop and send warning today.

  He wouldn't, though.

  With an anticipatory grin, Galeran realized he wanted to surprise her. He wanted to catch his cool wife in her working clothes, skirt kirtled up, her fine hair escaping its braids as it always did. He wanted her to look up and gape with shock, then flush with joy.

  Jehanne didn't like to be caught unawares, so every now and then he liked to do it. Like when he gave her the rose...

  He wasn't a man for giving fancy gifts, and up north they didn't see many, but on a trip to York he'd spotted the rose on a merchant's stall, wonderfully carved out of ivory, each petal edge fine as a real one. It was an impractical thing, too small to decorate a room and too big for jewelry, but he'd bought it anyway because its sharp-edged beauty made him think of Jehanne, and after just a few days away he missed her.

  When he'd given it to her, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes had shone, perhaps even with a hint of tears. Jehanne rarely cried.

  She'd cried, though, when she broke it. He smiled ruefully at the memory of her grief over the accident. Other losses had been met with fierce composure, but the rose—sent flying off its shelf in a careless moment—had melted her to tears. They'd stuck the broken petals back with wax, but one was chipped and another cracked and it had never been as perfect as it was.

  Ah, well. He'd brought her gifts from the Holy Land. Perhaps one of them would be the equal of the rose.

  He thought he might have some bed tricks, too, that would catch her unawares. He'd kept his vow, but other men had explored the Eastern women and brought back stories. Jehanne would be interested. She liked to experiment, and now that there was no anxiety about barrenness she would be happy to play again.

  Tonight.

  Jehanne.

  Jehanne in bed.

  Or on the bed so he could feast on the sight of her—pale blond hair spilling loose over the mattress, supple body his again to touch, to taste, to finally, finally enter...

  Such thoughts were not wise.

  He was hard as a rock, bulging, throbbing, as if he might prove Raoul's words true and explode.

  He'd controlled lust and frustration for over two years, so he should be able to do so for a few more hours, but he had to adjust carefully in the saddle to find a tolerable position as he rode.

  He realized then that he was into familiar land at last—his own valley land, the strip fields rich with summer, the fells dotted with plump sheep. The sun was setting and the dun was beginning to tire, but now was no time to stop. He kicked him on, galloping through familiar villages, scattering geese, chickens, and people. The cries of "It's Lord Galeran! Lord Galeran!" fell quickly behind like the cries of the startled birds.

  Then he saw the square stone keep of Heywood Castle beyond some trees and reined in sharply. He'd dreamed of this so many times that it almost felt like another dream. He needed a moment to convince himself that it was finally, blessedly, real.

  It looked no different. It was as if he'd ridden away yesterday.

  Raoul reined up beside him, his horse foaming with effort. "So, we made it, though your men are straggled out behind for a league. Do we wait for them to gather and ride down quietly, as if there had been no hurry at all?"

  The thought had crossed Galeran's mind. Trust Raoul to read him so well. "No," he said, and kicked into a canter to ride around the curve of the road and into full view of his home....

  He hauled the dun to a rearing stop.

  An army seethed around Heywood.

  His castle was under siege!

  "By the five wounds, who?"

  Raoul shaded his eyes from the flare of the setting sun. "The pennant shows red and green."

  Raoul's eyesight had always been remarkable, but Galeran could scarcely believe it. "That's my father's pennant."

  "Then your father is besieging your castle."

  Chapter 2

  Galeran couldn't deny Raoul's words. By now he, too, could make out the familiar banner of William of Brome fixed by the handsome main tent. He even recognized the tent. It was his father's pride and joy.

  All joy dissolved into dread. He stared at Heywood, at the simple square keep, and at the solid curtain wall, newly completed just before he left. They bore no marks.

  Heywood was one of the strongest castles in the north. Who had taken it without a battle? And what had happened to his wife and child?

  Ice on his heart, he surged down the slope into the camp, ignoring cries and attempts to bar his way. He was aware of the sword in his hand only when he almost used it on a man.

  He halted the action just as the guard stopped his attack, shock on his face. "My Lord Galeran!"

  "It's Lord Galeran."

  "It's the lord of Heywood."

  The words whispered about him strangely.

  Shocked.

  Disbelieving.

  Horrified.

  Then his father pushed through the crowd, still massive and ruddy-faced, but grayer than Galeran remembered. "Galeran! Is it you? Christ be praised! We thought you dead."

  A groom had run to hold Galeran's bridle. His father almost dragged him from the horse into a rib-crushing, back-pounding hug. "Welcome home! Welcome home! We thought you dead! Praise be to God. Praise be to God!"

  Galeran tore from the embrace. "Who holds my castle?"

  Silence fell.

  Joy drained from Lord William's heavy features. "You'd best come in the tent, lad."

  Galeran realized then that he was surrounded by brothers and uncles, and that none of them was truly meeting his eyes.

  Jehanne.

  She was dead.

  The conviction grew in him like a sickness, dizzying him, making him want to vomit. He let himself be steered into the tent, aware of his family cramming in behind, but with eyes only for his father. "Jehanne?"

  Lord William poured wine into a goblet and held it out. "Drink."

  Galeran almost dashed it from his hand. "Where is she? "

  His father placed the goblet on a small table between them. "In the castle."

  Galeran almost collapsed with relief. A prisoner only. Thank God, thank God. "Who holds her?"

  There was something like a snort from his uncle Thomas. "That's a good question."

  Galeran stared around, alerted by tone more than words. It was only when his younger brother, Gilbert, stepped back, hands raised, that he realized he still had his sword in his hand. He lowered it slowly and just as slowly sheathed it. "What is going on?"

  "I'm sorry," said his father. "It's not good. Your wife has installed Raymond of Lowick as master of Heywood. Since she refused to send him away, we've come to insist on it."

  Just then the tent flap was swept back and another big man entered—Galeran's oldest brother, Will. His whole bloody family was here.

  "Little brother! You're a sight for my eyes, though this is a hell of a situation to
come home to."

  Since he couldn't avoid the fierce hug, Galeran endured it. It gave him time to think anyway, to have things settle about him.

  Jehanne and Raymond of Lowick.

  No. He couldn't believe it. Certainly Lowick had been her father's squire, and she'd fancied herself in love with the handsome young knight he'd become, but that had been years ago....

  When he was free of Will's hug, he turned to his father. "I thought Lowick married in Nottinghamshire."

  "His wife died childless and he ended up with little of her property. Around that time your seneschal took a fever and died. Next I knew, your wife had taken him on here."

  The air was like gall, but Galeran had to keep breathing. "That is her right. I left her with control of Heywood. Lowick was always a sound knight."

  Lord William's jaw worked side to side as it always did when he didn't want to say something. The silence stretched until blunt Will revealed the truth. "Just over a month ago, your wife bore him a child."

  Lord William picked up the goblet and pressed it into Galeran's hands. "Drink."

  Galeran drained the cup in a haze of disbelief. Had he fallen from his horse and lost his wits? Was he, God forbid, still lying raving by the walls of Jerusalem?

  "We heard you were dead." Lord William's voice seemed far away. "Near a year ago word came that you'd fallen in the taking of Jerusalem. It wasn't much to go on, and none of us took it as a settled thing, but it did set off a fine debate about Jehanne's future. Who would hold Heywood. Who would have guardianship of the babe...."

  Another silence fell, and Galeran stared at the solid tent pole. One thing at a time. Don't think about Jehanne with another man. Don't think about her squandering her hard-won fertility to produce a bastard.

  "By what right does she refuse you admittance?"

  "By no right," growled his father. "She just knows—they both know—that it will go hard with them when I'm in there."

  One thing at a time.

  Galeran placed the goblet back on the table. "It will go with them as I say."

  He turned and walked out of the tent, aware of his father and brothers following, of the eyes of all the camp on him He didn't even try to look at Raoul.

  All his rapturous praise of Jehanne was ashes, and yet...

  And yet.

  She'd thought him dead. There was a grain of comfort in that.

  He took his reins from the groom and mounted his weary horse. His father grabbed the bridle close by the bit. "What are you doing? If you want to lead an assault, we'll do it tomorrow."

  Galeran didn't try to force the horse forward. "Let us first see if they'll open to their rightful lord."

  "By Peter's toe, lad, they'll shoot you on sight! It would suit them fine to kill you."

  "If my wife wants me dead, I would be better off so." He met his father's angry eyes, and after a moment Lord William released the horse.

  Galeran rode toward his castle bareheaded. He had no pennant, but enough people should be able to recognize him when he was close. There were guards on the walls.

  Heywood was built on a natural rise of heath-covered rock, which was kept clear of all larger growth so the watchman at the top of the keep always had a clear view of anyone approaching. As Galeran rode up the long, sloping road at a walk, he heard the man blow his horn. In moments, new people hurried onto the ramparts over the gate.

  One was Jehanne, accompanied by a tall man in armor. Presumably Raymond of Lowick, though it was impossible to tell.

  Lowick had always been a handsome man, and Galeran could see no reason why that would have changed now that he was close to thirty. He'd always been a skilled warrior too, both in battle and personal combat.

  Galeran could tell nothing of how Jehanne looked, or how the two people looked together. In fact, he thought dispassionately, the figures could be another blond woman and another tall knight, and he would be none the wiser yet.

  Would an arrow fly? He was wearing mail, so the chance of it killing him was small, but it could take him in the eye. For that matter, if they had the brutal crossbow, a bolt could pierce his mail. He found he didn't care. At this moment, living or dying seemed immaterial.

  Unopposed, he rode near to the closed gates. By then there could be no doubt that the woman was his wife.

  She had not changed. She was still slender, and her fine blond hair escaped as usual to blow in unruly wisps. She looked pale, but that was to be expected. She met his eyes steadily, but he expected that.

  Jehanne would stare down Satan at the gates of hell.

  A flare of rage almost shattered his control.

  Why?

  He wanted to bellow it at her here and now, for he knew there had to be reasons. He knew his wife. He still loved his wife, but his image of her was like the fragments of that shattered rose. Did the wax exist to cobble his life together again?

  He looked away to scan the armed men on the walls. They, too, looked pale, but the pallor could have been from the rapidly failing light. "I am Lord Galeran of Heywood," he announced in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, "rightful lord of this castle. At first light tomorrow I will approach with my men and my family's men and expect admittance. Deny me at your peril."

  He waited a moment in case there would be a response, but there was none, not even defiance. The only movement was Jehanne's blue scarf blowing in the chilly wind.

  Galeran swung away and rode back down to the camp. There he dismounted and turned his weary horse over to John.

  "Why tomorrow?" his father demanded. "If they'll let you in then, they'll let you in now!"

  "Perhaps I need time to think before meeting my wife."

  With that, Galeran walked away, away from the camp, away from everyone.

  And, thanks be to God, they let him go.

  * * *

  He stopped after a while because there wasn't any point in pushing onward unless he wanted to walk all the way back to Jerusalem—which was strangely appealing. He leaned against a tree, slid wearily down to sit, then rested his head on his knees.

  Dear Lord in heaven, what was he supposed to do now?

  He knew what he was supposed to do. Kill Lowick, banish Jehanne to a convent, probably after beating her black and blue, put her aside, and find a more virtuous wife.

  Or perhaps even give her to the courts to be executed.

  He fought down the need to vomit up that cold mutton pie.

  What about the children? Gallot and the bastard. Perhaps they were young enough to come to love another woman as their mother, but Jehanne would never recover from losing them.

  He'd been surprised when his cool-headed, quick-witted wife had revealed a passionate maternal longing, but once established, it had become the ruling force in their lives.

  Her desire for a child had eroded their sexual pleasure and made her silently miserable every month of the year. That misery had driven him to do the one thing he had no wish to do—leave her and take the cross.

  Their childlessness had not mattered at first. Betrothed at sixteen, married at seventeen, life stretched before them like an open road, and the tangled pleasures of fighting and bed play absorbed all their attention. After a year or so, however, the questions started—well-meaning questions about when Jehanne would quicken. Galeran was even taken aside by his embarrassed father to check that the young couple were actually doing all that was necessary.

  They certainly were, and enjoying it so much that they were in no great hurry to have the fun interrupted by pregnancy and birth. The concern of all around began to affect them, however, so they took measures.

  Herbs were recommended, and dutifully used. Prayers were offered. Jehanne even agreed to wear an amulet to keep away the evil spirits that could eat a woman's children before they started to grow.

  Still, it was all more a matter for amusement than concern. At eighteen they lived in youthful optimism that everything would come in time, and in the meantime they had much to absorb them.


  Jehanne had already perfected her skills as chatelaine and was an industrious, efficient manager. Galeran was continuing to develop fighting skills as well as the administrative abilities he would need to run the barony when Jehanne's father died. He was entranced by the power and prestige of Heywood. After all, as a younger son, he had never expected to become a landed lord so easily.

  The unexpected marriage had come about because Jehanne's brothers had died, leaving her heir to her ailing father's estates. Fulk of Heywood decided to marry her off quickly to a suitable young man, one old enough for responsibility but young enough to be trained by him.

  He naturally looked to the large family of his neighbor, William of Biome. Will, the eldest son, was already married. Eustace, the second son, was nineteen and all a man could want in a son-by-marriage.

  The betrothal negotiations were well advanced, when Eustace threw everything into disorder by announcing that he felt called to become a priest, a fighting priest opposing the Moors in Iberia. Fulk howled, Lord William raged, but Eustace held his ground as firmly as one would expect of a holy warrior.

  Thus Galeran found himself the focus of dynastic plans. Just sixteen and more interested in horses and hounds than women, he was not consulted. He was summoned from Lancashire, where he served as squire to Lord Andrew of Forth, stuffed into unusually fine clothes, and taken to Heywood to be betrothed to a frosty girl a few months older and a few inches taller than he. Scarce over that shock, he was told he would live at Heywood and complete his training in arms under Lord Fulk, while learning how to manage property.

  Despite the shock, Galeran recognized his good fortune. He was being handed a castle and estates of his own and was likely to have them soon, since Lord Fulk was ailing. The only mold in this tasty loaf was his betrothed wife.

  The Lady Jehanne made no secret of the fact that she would prefer to marry another, Raymond of Lowick. Tall, handsome Raymond had been her father's squire, and was now known throughout the north for his skill with arms. At her father's command, she had accepted that she was to marry Eustace of Brome, who was equally tall and handsome in a rough-cut way, and who had also proved himself in battle.