by Jo Beverley
To run was hopeless. To stand was surely to die!
"Get off and head for Woldingham. To our left and as the crow flies." Edmund dropped the reins and drew his sword.
"No—"
"Obey me, Joan."
The Golden Lion had spoken, and after a heartbreaking moment, Joan slid off the horse. He couldn't fight with her on his back—but she wasn't running away.
She ducked into the cover of some evergreen growth and wove as quickly and silently as possible to somewhere else. Anywhere else. Yells and the clash of metal made her jump, and she peeped out from behind a big tree, to see a mess of men, horses and swords.
They'd kill him!
She only just stopped herself from running out in a futile effort to help.
Then Thor kicked backward and a horse went down, squealing, the rider tossed off and, at least, dazed. Immediately, he reared, startling another horse into shying away. Praise heaven, none of the attackers was on a warhorse. A mighty swipe of Edmund's sword unseated another rider.
Joan expected blood to gush, and when it didn't she realized the Golden Lion was trying not to kill. "Noble fool," she muttered, but she understood. Any new death would widen the rift between the families.
The two remaining horsemen were hovering, not quite so keen to get close. The one who'd been thrown was staggering up, however, sword in hand. Edmund could probably ride away, but he was trying to guard her flight. Should she go?
Then one of the horsemen turned to where she'd run into the bushes and called, "Lady Nicolette! Come out! It's safe."
A strange definition of safe, but she was thrilled that they still thought Nicolette was the stolen Virgin. If she sneaked back into Woldingham...
Then it occurred to her that these men could have been out all night. If Nicolette had been discovered, they would not know.
She hovered, uncertain, her mind momentarily wiped of all ability to make decisions, and before her, the men seemed motionless, too, no one knowing quite what to do.
Then, the man on the ground charged, his sword pointed. "He's murdered her! He's murdered the Lady Nicolette!"
As if goaded, the other two charged, and Edmund whirled in the middle, miraculously countering three blades, but blood suddenly gushed from his right arm. He still swung the sword, but for how long? She could not possibly run away and abandon him.
Urgent breath burning her throat, she ran back to the stream, heedless now of noise or secrecy, and gathered half a dozen fist-sized stones in her folded-up tunic. Then, with them bouncing bruisingly against her thighs, she ran back as close to the fight as she dared.
Just two on one now, and only one mounted, but Edmund was weakening, and the man on foot was creeping up on him. She fished out a rock, prayed, and hurled it as hard as she could at his helmeted head. The clang must have been enough to deafen him, and he wavered, then turned instinctively to face the new enemy.
Joan was behind another tree by then, watching Edmund ignore a perfect opportunity to run the man through. The moment let him wound the other man in the sword arm, however, disarming him. Then Edmund kicked him out of his saddle to the ground.
She hurled another rock at the man looking for her. She missed his head but by luck caught him on the sword hand. He howled and dropped the weapon. Concentrate. Concentrate. Her next rock found its exact mark in the middle of his forehead, and down he went.
The unseated man had remounted, but held his horse back, seeming not to like the odds anymore, but the first thrown one was staggering back to his feet. Joan hurled a rock at his legs. By luck, it took him on the knee, and with a howl, he collapsed down, hugging it.
When she looked back, the other man was unseated again, and when Thor reared up over him, he took to his heels. Edmund seized the nearest available horse. "Come on, my disorderly lady."
He was right. She was here in the open, hurling stones at her rescuers. She'd ruined all chance of a sneaky return. She scrambled up onto the big, nervous horse, and as soon as she was in the saddle, they raced off, one other loose horse driven before them. Edmund called, "Grip the mane!" and kept hold of her reins.
She obeyed, but screamed, "I can ride!"
He slowed for a moment, looking at her, then tossed her the reins. Side by side, they hurtled down a cart track, the free horse charging ahead. She dearly hoped they went in the right direction.
She could ride, but she'd never done that much flat-out galloping and the stirrups were far too long for her feet. She gripped as best she could with her legs, giving thanks that the saddle was high front and back, and took a firm hold of the pommel, as well.
She said a silent prayer of thanks, however, when Edmund slowed their pace, for she needed to catch her breath. Not for long, though, for their attackers might have regrouped, or the fleeing one might have found reinforcements.
When the warhorse came to a dead halt, she glanced a query at Edmund and saw him sway and almost fall. Bright blood poured from his leg. Thor must have stopped on his own, sensing his rider's weakness.
How much blood had he lost? How long could he keep conscious?
"Edmund!" she said sharply. "Look at me!"
His head turned, but she wasn't sure his eyes were focused.
Joan crossed herself. "Blessed Mary, help us." Careful ears caught no hint of pursuit, but she couldn't trust to a smooth journey. She wasn't even sure they were going in the right direction.
"Edmund, is this the right way?"
He shook his head slightly and looked around. "Yes. Not far now to Mountgrave." A spark of anger lit his eyes. "You should have done as you were told, and gone to Woldingham. You heard what that man said. Called you Nicolette."
She tersely made her point about them being out of touch. "And anyway, it's an issue no longer. They saw me. You might as well use me as a hostage. If you can stay on long enough to get home. Can you get on this horse? The saddle will help."
He eyed it, and shook his head. "Better to stay on Thor. You get up behind to help."
Joan much preferred a saddle, and she wasn't quite sure how to get up on the big horse without Edmund lifting her there, but she slid off her mount. With relief, she saw a hump of ground ahead and led Thor there. Blood still flowed down Edmund's leg, so she used her head-cloth to make a hasty bandage. More seemed to be coming from higher, though, from under his mail. No time to find that wound, or to treat his right arm.
From the hillock, and with some wincing help from Edmund's left arm, she managed to scramble up astride and behind. She heard him murmuring to the big horse, and having seen Thor in battle, she could only be grateful.
She could feel the horse's tension, however, a kind of seething need to act, probably because of the smell of blood. She looked down and saw too much of it on the earth and grass below.
They had to get to safety.
She kicked the horse's sides—far higher than it was accustomed to, she was sure, for her short legs were spread over the top of his mighty back. Nothing happened.
She glanced frantically behind. "Edmund, get him to move!"
Edmund jerked as if he'd been slipping into unconsciousness, but he said something and shifted his body slightly, and Thor began to walk. She wanted to scream for speed, but that would toss them off.
She twisted to stare down the road behind. All was quiet. As they made their way slowly, she strained for sounds. Then she heard it. Pounding hooves. Out of sight as yet.
"They're coming. We have to go faster!"
He was clutching the mane, half-collapsed forward now. He couldn't stay on at any speed. If he didn't, she couldn't. She virtually perched on top of the huge beast and wasn't used to riding bareback, even at the best of times.
"I'll get off," she said, but he said, "No!"
He collapsed down, arms around Thor's neck. "Mount me, and take the reins."
Spurred by a raucous cry that meant their pursuers had caught sight of them, she scrambled forward so she was astride his waist. He choked a cry, and she alm
ost retreated, but she looked back and saw the enemy. Five men with death on their minds.
She leaned forward to grab the reins, and screamed, "Go, Thor! Go!"
By a miracle, the mighty horse lunged into action, iron-shod hooves chipping frosty ground beneath, each pounding beat rattling her bones and threatening to shake both riders free. But it was almost as if the horse worked to keep his riders on, and she had only to grip with her legs and try to keep everything balanced.
Then she felt Edmund begin to slide. His left leg must have been painful or even numb, and his right arm hung useless. She shifted, trying to counter his slide. Thor stumbled, out of balance. An arrow whistled past, making her yelp in fear. A few inches left and it would have been in her back!
Perhaps that was why it was the only one.
Then Thor squealed and bucked. The whistle seemed to come later, so Joan only realized the horse had been hit by an arrow as she and Edmund began to slide off. She grabbed for the mane and fought it, and the brave horse stilled, shuddering, trying to help.
The hunting cries were almost at their back now.
They were taken.
Then, ahead, a true hunting horn.
Precariously balanced, she looked up and saw Mountgrave on its hill and an army pouring out. Too far. Too late.
But when she risked a twisting glance, she saw the five men behind had halted, staring at the rescuing force in frustration. One had a bow, and he nocked another arrow, aiming right for her. Another man pushed the arrow to one side, but he looked into Joan's eyes and promised retribution.
The men whirled and raced away down the path, back to safety, back to Woldingham with a tale of treachery.
Joan eased off Edmund's unconscious body and burst into tears.
The next little while passed in a daze, as release from immediate terror turned her almost faint. She was lifted onto another horse and carried back to the castle at a walk, faintly aware of somber concern all around, and not for her.
A reverent, whispering concern for Edmund de Graves. Dear Blessed Mary, was he dying? What terrible wound had caused all that blood? What harm had she done by sitting on top of him?
When they clattered into the castle, they were swarmed by another small army, this time of servants, some quick to help, others there to stare at their lord with distraught eyes. Joan, still carried in her rider's arms, saw Edmund being carefully eased off Thor's back.
He was silent and immediately submerged in a sea of caring bodies. He could be nobly suppressing pain. Or still unconscious. Or dead.
No, not dead. They'd be wailing if he were dead.
"Lord Edmund," she said to the man holding her. Older, with intelligent, experienced eyes. "I must go to him."
Did those eyes see too much? "No need, Lady. He will be well cared for."
"But..." Joan forced herself into silence. Her feeling that she should be by his side was nonsense.
"I am Almar de Font, Lady. And you, I think, are not Lady Nicolette de Montelan."
"Joan of Hawes. Lady Nicolette's cousin." Then she added helplessly, "The Almar de Font?"
His lips twitched. "If there were another, my lady, I'd be forced to fight him for possession of the name." He turned and called something to the people around, and in moments she was carefully handed down and assisted, with fussing care, to stand.
He swung off and stood beside her. "All a man truly owns, my lady, is his honorable name."
Joan looked around at the massive, mighty walls and keep, at hordes of prosperous servants, dozens of fine horses, a small army of well-trained men. Edmund owned a great deal more than his name, but she wondered how much pleasure he gained from it.
She let herself be guided into the keep, feeling as if she'd arrived in a mythical land. Almar de Font was perhaps more famous than the Golden Lion.
He had enjoyed many heroic adventures of his own, but fifteen years ago, he had settled to being the mentor and trainer of his friend and lord's two remaining sons. The name Almar de Font meant honor, honor to the death, and she was bitterly sure that he would never let his lord and student bend his honor enough to give the banner to the de Montelans.
Not even to save Sir Gerald's life.
"Lady Joan!" She suddenly found herself enveloped in silk and perfumes, all part of a babbling woman. In a moment it began to make sense.
"So brave! So saintly! Come. Come."
Joan was given no choice, but carried on silk and perfume to a small but exquisite chamber hung with tapestries and warmed by two extravagant braziers. By then she had sorted out that her captor was Lady Letitia, Edmund's sister, and that the army was a bevy of maidservants, each one dressed more finely than Joan.
Joan was still wearing the costume of the Blessed Virgin, the simple clothes of a carpenter's wife. But even if she'd been wearing her festive best, Joan knew she would not have matched Lady Letitia's ladies, never mind the lady herself.
It didn't matter, since they immediately stripped her down to her skin and placed her tenderly in a huge perfumed, linen-lined bathtub. Despite feeble protests, soon every part of her body was being lovingly attended to by someone. She lay back and stared up at Lady Letitia, who was orchestrating this.
Edmund's sister lacked his spectacular beauty. Medium height, medium hair somewhere on the brown side of blond, medium figure. It was confidence and a fortune in silks and jewels that made her seem like a goddess.
"What's happening?" Joan asked.
Lady Letitia smiled, a full and joyous smile. "My brother will recover," she said, as if that answered the question.
"God be praised. But I meant, why am I being treated like—" she couldn't think what she was being treated like, except that it had never happened before "—an honored guest," she ended limply.
"But you are!" Letitia exclaimed, and sank to her knees to take the comb from a servant and work it gently through Joan's tangled hair. "You saved Edmund."
Joan hadn't even realized that her hair had come free from her plaits and must be a tangled mess. She suspected that despite Joan's status as heroic maiden, Lady Letitia would not be pleased to learn that her brother had created most of the destruction. She was tempted to laugh, or cry, or both.
If marriage between them wasn't impossible because of their families, she saw now that it was impossible in every other way. She'd felt like a poor relation at Woldingham. Here, she felt like an intrusive pig-girl.
She surrendered and let them wash her, dry her, lay her on a bed and massage her with perfumed oils. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought idly that it was not the treatment given an honored guest. It was more like the special care given a lamb destined for the Easter feast.
A sacrifice. Which is exactly what she was to be.
The next step was to hand her over to Uncle Henry in exchange for Gerald de Graves, and then the slaughter would begin.
Chapter 6
Joan was awoken by a gentle hand shaking her, and for a moment a strange softness and perfume confused her. Where was she? Then, reality rushed back, and she sat up straight, ready to face her fate.
She winced. She was sore and stiff in many places, some of which she would never admit to. Despite a hovering maidservant, she closed her eyes and tried to recapture a moment of the cave, a trace of her and Edmund, but it was like a dream, evading her conscious thoughts.
She opened her eyes and looked at the middle-aged woman. "Is it time?" Time to be handed over.
"Aye, Lady, it is. Come rise and let us dress you."
Joan saw two other servants, one older, one younger, and a spread of fine clothes. "Oh, that's not necessary." Perhaps if she was returned as the bedraggled Virgin, it would temper her uncle's fury. "What I came in will serve."
The woman pulled a face. "I'm sorry, Lady, but that's all been tossed in the rag pile. Nothing special to begin with, and soiled with mud and blood."
Joan looked at the glowing fabrics again. She didn't even know what some of the garments were, but it was all silk, mu
ch of it wondrously embroidered. "Then perhaps something simpler?"
All three were staring at her. "For the feast?" the woman asked.
"Feast?" For an insane moment, Joan imagined herself the chief dish, dressed for slaughter.
The woman laid a hand on her hair, comfortingly. Perhaps her fear had shown. "'Tis Christmas Day, Lady Joan, and none here wishes you harm. Woldingham has agreed to return Lord Gerald safe tomorrow in exchange for you, so today we can celebrate. Soon all will be gathered in the hall."
Tomorrow.
What difference did a day make? And yet it did. She had a day before the ax fell, and why shouldn't she enjoy it? And if she was to feast with the de Graves, she welcomed the chance not to appear a pauper.
She rose from her bed and let them slip over her head a shift of linen so fine it felt like silk. The full-length gown that followed was silk, a winter warmth of silk that puddled ungirdled at her feet like richest cream, for it was that color. By contrast, the tunic that they dropped on top was light as a feather and almost transparent, so finely woven it was, except where it was embroidered in jewel-colored flowers. Joan looked down and smoothed her hands over the shining pattern it made against the cream—like summer flowers against snow-—and could have wept at the beauty of it.
For a moment she wanted to reject it as too fine, too fine for Joan of Hawes, but instead she gripped both layers of silk. Tomorrow would come. For today, she would dress in silk and feast in grandeur, and even let herself dream a little that this could be for her.
Next came fine woolen stockings and pretty cream leather shoes that fit. Then the plump maid, Mabelle, opened a chest and took out a glittering snake. The girdle of gold and pearls was clasped around her hips, yet still hung extravagantly down to her toes at the front. A fine veil was draped over her unbound hair and secured with a circlet as fine as the girdle. She wished she could see herself like this.
Had she, like ordinary Lady Letitia, been transformed into a grand lady for a while? Or, as she feared, did Joan of Hawes squat like a toad among flowers, unchanged and out of place?
She stiffened her spine. This was her chance to experience grandeur for a few brief hours. She would take it.
