by Lily Baldwin
“Have the others faded?” Diana asked when Joanie scooted on her knees around to Diana’s backside. Angry bruises in varying shades of red, brown, and yellow marred her back, buttock, and thighs.
“A little,” Joanie said, setting the stone aside. She reached into a basket of tins and pouches filled with various creams, ointments and powders. She took up the comfrey ointment. She scooped a great dollop of the greasy balm, then dotted it over Diana’s bruises before gently rubbing the soothing ointment into her skin.
“Geoffrey was in a particularly foul mood last night,” Diana murmured.
Joanie didn’t respond. When was the master not in a foul mood?
“Look at me,” Diana entreated her.
Joanie did as she was bidden.
“Your interference must stop. He was vexed with me, not you. He never would have touched you had you not stepped in front of me.”
Joanie lowered her gaze and continued applying the balm. “You cannot ask me to stand idly by while he beats you.” Then she stopped rubbing and looked up, locking eyes with her mistress once more. “I will not do that,” she avowed through gritted teeth.
“Joanie—” Diana began, but then a deep, wet cough stole her words and her breath. Her whole body jerked as if under attack from the inside out. Joanie jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around Diana to support her. When at last the coughing ceased and Diana caught her breath, she wiped at her eyes and smiled weakly at Joanie. “Thank you,” she rasped. Then she slowly reached out a trembling hand toward the hem of Joanie’s tunic. “How do your gifts from our master fare?”
Diana’s weakened state broke Joanie’s heart. Shaking her head, she implored, “Do not worry for me. Mine always heal quickly.” Then she scooped more salve and spread it over the fresh fingerprints on Diana’s arm. “You must save your strength. I’m nearly finished, then you can get into the bath.” Joanie glanced at the tub in front of the hearth. Steam curled in ghostly ribbons from the oily surface.
“It will do me good. I know it will,” Diana said. Then she smiled at Joanie. “I see your worry. It is etched on your dear face, visible even beneath the grime you refuse to let me help scrub away. This cough will pass.”
Joanie frowned. “I’m only permitted to bathe once a fortnight. I do not fancy being clean enough to attract the master’s fury.” She looked away before continuing in a gentle voice. “The cough is persisting this time.”
“I know,” Diana said.
The truth hung in the air between them for a moment like an ominous cloud, but Diana chased the storm away with her bright voice. “Anyway, you’ve always managed to cure me in the past.”
Joanie scanned Diana’s body. Unlike Joanie, who was shorter and slimly built, Diana had always enjoyed lush, full curves that drove men wild. But her cough had worsened over the last fortnight, and her body had begun to waste away. Joanie fought to keep her concern from showing. “The next time Simon checks in on us, I am going to have him bring up another meal for you.”
Diana shook her head. “I am still full after breaking our fast. I couldn’t possibly eat again so soon.”
“You will if you want to be stronger.” Joanie wrapped her arm around Diana’s waist. “Let me help you into the bath.”
“Wait,” Diana said.
Joanie stood still and looked at her expectantly.
“Could I have a mirror?”
Nodding, Joanie reached for the small, gilded compact on Diana’s bedside table and gave it to her. Diana held the glass up, scrutinizing her features. She pulled at the skin beneath her eyes and the soft lines framing her mouth. “I’m a disgrace.”
Joanie glanced up from the beauty mask she was mixing. “You are the most beautiful woman in London.”
Diana’s expression softened. “And you are forever my champion, even when I battle myself.” Then she turned back and continued studying her own reflection. “I was the most beautiful woman in London. But age is robbing me of the title all too soon. That is what happens when you turn thirty.”
“You are not yet thirty.”
“No, but I am eight and twenty.” Diana frowned again at what she saw in the mirror. “I may as well be a hundred.” With a sigh, she set the compact down. "At nineteen, Joanie, you can hardly understand.” Then she slid the robe from her shoulders and continued in a brighter voice. “Have you mixed the porridge mask?”
Joanie nodded, relieved for the change in subject. “Let’s get you into the tub first.” She helped Diana step into the steamy water. Joanie had poured liberal amounts of chamomile and lavender oils into the bath to soothe Diana’s bruises, and the heady scents wafted off the surface as the water rose to make room for her battle-wearied body. Diana groaned when she eased back. Joanie smiled, realizing by the contented look on Diana’s face that she voiced her pleasure rather than discomfort. Picking up the clay dish filled with a mixture of roughly cut oats and heavy cream, she smoothed a thick layer onto Diana’s upturned face.
“What will I do when my looks finally go, Joanie? Geoffrey will turn me out.”
Flashes of the master’s hulking fists and cruel eyes raced through Joanie’s mind, chasing her smile away. “Would that really be so awful?”
Diana opened her eyes and gave Joanie a hard look. “There are worse pains than fist or lash. Hunger. Cold. They are the real demons.” Her face softened. “I know you have suffered greatly at the hands of your masters and your father before he sold you. But, Joanie…” Diana shifted her gaze but not before Joanie saw the sudden sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. “You have never known true hunger or cold. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking you’d be better off somewhere else.” Diana turned back to look at her. Her tears were gone, and her eyes shone clear and strong. “Our master is rich.” She lifted a dripping hand from the water and made a sweeping gesture. “Look at this room, at the warm bed we share and in the king’s palace, no less. We are the lucky ones, Joanie. Out there, the streets are full of people a breath away from death who would withstand any number of abuses to have what we possess.”
Joanie shifted her gaze away from Diana’s stubborn resolve wondering whether her friend was right. Were they, indeed, better off with the master? More than once, she had asked Diana to run away with her, but she had always refused and warned Joanie not to dream beyond survival. But Joanie couldn’t help wondering — was it really a choice between beatings and abuse or starvation and freezing? Couldn’t there be another life for them — one without the constant threat of pain or death? She dipped her finger into a pot of honey and willow oil and worked the mixture into her hands before gently weaving her fingers through Diana’s wet hair.
Her mistress sighed as her elbows came up on the sides of the tub. “That feels so good. I’ve had such a headache.”
“You should have told me sooner,” Joanie scolded. Then she cupped her hand and closed her eyes, imagining a ball of light at rest in her palm. Curving her palm over Diana’s forehead, she closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths and imagined heat radiated from the light in her hand, surrounding Diana’s pain. She stayed there for a long while, confronting the darkness with her healing touch.
Diana sighed. “You’re an angel.”
Joanie opened her eyes. “You don’t believe in angels.”
Diana smiled. “For the moment I do.”
“Then the pain’s gone. Good,” Joanie said, happy to have alleviated at least a little of Diana’s suffering. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of a small copper pot and dipped it in the bath water to rinse Diana’s hair. But a sharp rapping on the door startled her, and she dropped the handle, losing the pot beneath the surface. Jumping to her feet, she came around the screen that shielded her mistress, just as a barrel-chested man of great height with thinning brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a red nose from too much ale walked into the room.
Joanie expelled the breath she’d been holding. “Thank God it’s you, Simon.”
Simon was their master’s man
servant. To most people, he was gruff and hard — full of bite, but beneath his coarse surface, hid a gentleness only shown to Diana and thus to Joanie by default.
He motioned toward the screen and mouthed the words, how is she?
Lips pressed into a thin line, Joanie only shook her head in answer.
“Damn it,” Simon cursed.
Straightaway, Joanie’s heart started to pound. “What is it?” she whispered. Then she heard the water slosh and knew Diana had sat up.
“Is that Simon? Is something wrong?”
His powerful shoulders sagged. Sad eyes met Joanie’s. “Geoffrey wants you in the hall tonight,” he said loud enough for Diana to hear.
Joanie’s eyes widened. “But tonight is Anabel’s night to entertain.”
Simon put his hand up, silencing her protest. “She doesn’t have to perform, but he insists she attend the evening meal and stay for the entertainment following.”
Water sloshed again. Joanie hurried around the screen.
“I must get out,” Diana said, struggling to stand. “My hair will never dry in time. And my gown still needs freshening. Joanie, what will I — ”
Joanie’s chest tightened at the sound of Diana’s sudden cough, which racked her shoulders. She white-knuckled the sides of the tub to keep her face out of the water. Joanie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Diana, supporting her. Wet hacking subsided into strangled wheezing and finally gasps for air. When, at last, the cough ran its course, Diana turned her face up to look at Joanie. Joanie’s heart ached at the sight of her red, tear-streaked face and wide, terrified green eyes. She trembled in Joanie’s arms. “Let’s get you dry,” Joanie said, her voice soothing. She helped Diana step from the tub, then dried her off and swept her robe around her shoulders.
“She is decent,” Joanie called. “I need your help, Simon.”
Simon appeared an instant later, his face drained of color. He scooped Diana into his arms.
“Simon’s got you.” Joanie heard him whisper.
Joanie hurried around the screen and rushed to the bed, grabbing pillows and blankets, which she then arranged near the hearth. “Lay her down and fan her hair out so it dries,” she told him. Then she hurried to the table and seized a small pouch of mustard powder from a basket, which she quickly mixed with flour, warm water from the bath, and vinegar. Then she knelt beside Diana.
“Make sure she is ready,” Simon said to Joanie.
She nodded and carried on mixing the mustard paste while she watched Simon gently stroke Diana’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Then he stood and strode from the room.
Joanie gave the thick paste a final stir. Then she opened Diana’s robe, exposing her chest.
“No,” her mistress said, waving her away. “I will stink. Just lay your hands on me. Your touch alone has healed me before.”
Joanie shook her head. “I promise it will wash away, and lavender oil will hide the smell. It will hopefully stave off another attack for some time, allowing you to regain your strength.”
Diana closed her eyes. “Fine, but just a thin layer. Then you must ready my face.”
Joanie thickly coated her chest with the foul-smelling mixture, despite her protests. Then she set to work combining a fine white power with vinegar and egg white. Using a bristly brush, she made sweeping strokes across Diana’s mottled complexion, until it gleamed white. Then she dabbed soft pink rouge on the apples of both her cheeks. Taking a step back, she scrutinized Diana’s appearance.
Her brows were plucked to thin, pale crescent moons. Her hair cascaded across the floor in thick waves and shone almost white, it was so blond. She did not require onion skins or lemon juice to lighten the color, unlike so many of the women at court, whose dull hair looked more orange than blond as a result of their efforts. Everything about Diana was naturally built to seduce, from her curvy figure to the throaty tone of her voice. And when she sang, men stopped and stared with hungry eyes. Joanie chewed her lip as she impatiently waited for her mistress’s hair to dry.
Simon returned a few hours later. “That will have to do,” he said, his voice strained. “The hour for supper is almost here.”
He gently helped Diana to her feet and wrapped his arm around her waist.
“No,” she said, not unkindly. “I can manage.”
Tears stung Joanie’s eyes as she watched her mistress gracefully cross the room to sit at her table where a gilded mirror reflected her ethereal beauty. Knowing the pain she must have felt tore at Joanie’s heart, although Diana let none of it show.
Joanie crossed the room and took hold of Diana’s comb and pulled her long bangs back to lengthen her brow. When her hair was pinned in place, she arranged the sides so that golden waves spilled over Diana’s shoulders past her waist. Then she helped her dress.
“Will Geoffrey approve?” Diana asked nervously, smoothing her hands over the intricately embroidered bodice of her pale green tunic.
Joanie doubted anyone could ever fully meet with the master’s approval. Still, Diana’s beauty was unmatched regardless of the passing of time. “You look stunning. Mind you do not overdo it. Hold your tongue so that you do not strain your voice. Remember, you have to perform tomorrow night.”
Diana nodded. “I will remember. I am hoping to get away as soon as I can.”
Simon filled the doorway with his large frame. “It is time.”
Diana stood and kissed Joanie on the cheek before she crossed the room and left on Simon’s arm.
Joanie stared at the closed door for a moment. Then she numbly turned and stiffly sat in Diana’s seat and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Her greasy black hair hung limply past her shoulders. Her brown eyes looked back at her, dull, void of joy and life. As ever, her face was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and grime. Her master didn’t allow her a bath of her own. None of the ointments, oils, or perfumes on the table were for her use. She wore the same worn, tattered tunic every day. Once a fortnight, she was permitted to wash herself and her clothing in Diana’s used bath water. Not for her own benefit or health, but only so that the master didn’t have to smell her. Geoffrey Mercer’s cruel, twisted smiled came to the fore of her mind. Unlike Diana, she at least did not have to face him every day. Diana went to his room to perform her duties as leman. But whenever he did enter their room, it always meant the worst. The sound of his footfalls and that of his guard, who followed him everywhere, would echo through the stone corridor like thunder. A shiver shot up Joanie’s spine just thinking about the din of their master’s approach. She closed her eyes. Her heart pounded. Her breaths came short.
“Help us,” she whispered to no one, for who would hear the pleas of someone as insignificant as she?
Joanie whirled away from the sad creature she saw in the mirror, stood up and started to clean the room. She would keep moving, keep doing, despite her fatigue. She couldn’t stop. If she did, she would be forced to face the truth about Diana who was her one light in the dark. Her beloved mistress’s health had been failing for months, but she had managed with Joanie’s help. Still, the past fortnight had taken its toll.
“No,” she said out loud and fought back her tears.
After all, Diana continued to fight. She carried on, bravely surviving, and so would Joanie. That is what life had always been. It was what life would always be — a desperate fight for survival.
Here is the link to keep reading ~ Alec: A Scottish Outlaw
Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws, Book 1)
Freedom is not won…it is stolen
Jack MacVie and his brother are thieves, robbing English nobles on the road north into Scotland. They’re about to attack the Redesdale carriage when another band of villains, after more than Lady Redesdale’s coin, sweeps down and steals their prize. Despite his hatred for the English, Jack’s conscience forces him to kidnap the lady to save her life.
In the aftermath of the Berwick massacre, Lady Isabella Redesdale’s world is shattered. Her mother
is dead, her father lost to grief, and she’s risking it all, journeying north into war-torn Scotland to be with her sister.
Although they come from different worlds, Jack and Isabella are more alike than they first realize. They both crave freedom from war and despair, but in a world where kings reign and birth dictates one’s station, freedom is not won, it is stolen.
Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws, Book 1)
He is an outlaw and the only man she can trust.
Quinn is a Scottish rebel and outlaw to the crown--not the sort of man for a proper English lady. But when Lady Catarina is accused of a horrific crime and is forced to flee Ravensworth castle for her life, the only man she can trust is the one man who believes she is innocent, Quinn MacVie.
Join Quinn and Catarina as they disappear into the wilds of the Scottish Highlands where danger follows at their heels and desire burns in their hearts.
Other Books by Lily Baldwin
The Isle of Mull Series
Three generations of Highland Brides and the warriors whose hearts they capture.
To Bewitch a Highlander (Book 1)
Isle of Mull, Scotland 1263
She will protect her identity with her very life if necessary. Who will protect her from herself?
Shoney's lightning speed with a bow captures Ronan by surprise, and their chance meeting ends with him lying unconscious at the bottom of a ravine.
