The Wise Virgin: Medieval Christmas Romance

by Jo Beverley

  Letitia pulled a face. "I'd hoped he might have fallen in love with you."

  Joan gave a convincing laugh. "Hardly."

  "Love has no logic. He looked at you once or twice last night, as if... well, as if."

  Joan didn't want this conversation, but it seemed rude to leave. Instead, she posed her own question. "Are you not married, Lady Letitia?"

  "I was betrothed, but he died of a festering wound."

  Joan's heart missed a beat. It could happen to anyone, great or small. "I'm sorry," she said, but she longed to run to see if Lord Edmund was still healthy.

  "So am I. He was a lovely man. I've not met the like."

  Caught by her sadness, Joan sat on the bed. "How long ago?"

  Letitia rolled onto her back. "Two years. Mother parades rich and handsome men in front of me like prize bulls, but Edmund won't let her push me."

  "She wants you happy again."

  "She also wants me well married. She takes pride in having well-married offspring. She's not going to like her younger son being entangled with Nicolette de Montelan."

  "There's no choice now."

  "Is Lady Nicolette strong?"

  Joan knew what she was being asked. "Not in that way, but Ed—Lord Edmund said they'd live away from here, at one of his lesser properties."

  "And never return. That will be hard for her. And Gerald."

  "They made their own fates," said Joan grimly.

  Letitia considered her. "Does that mean there's no chance you'll have a similar fate?"

  Joan felt her face heat and stood. "Absolutely none."

  "Oh." Letitia sat up, huddling coverings around her. "Are you saying that the Golden Lion doesn't attract you in the slightest? That makes you a very unnatural woman."

  "That's what he said." Joan considered Lady Letitia's astonishment and laughed. "You're right. There are forces of nature that no one can withstand. Of course, I'm in love with your brother. But I harbor foolish hopes."

  With that, she did make her escape.

  The castle was strange to her, but she could hardly get lost. In the great hall she helped herself to some of the bread and cheese set out as a breakfast, and sourly regarded the Bethlehem Banner. Two armed guards stood beside it, and in front on his knees, a monk prayed. The passing servants still bowed.

  She turned away, trying not to be bitter, but unable to forget that the piece of cloth was the price of everything, and despite his fabulous wealth, it was the one price Edmund de Graves would not, could not, pay.

  A young man appeared before her and bowed. A squire, she guessed, but close to knighthood, and with the gilded confidence of wealth and power. "My lady, Lord Edmund would speak with you, if you will."

  Her foolish heart couldn't help a little flutter. "Where?"

  "In his chamber, Lady."

  She almost asked if it were proper, but the squire was not the person to ask, and anyway, Lord Edmund's chamber would not be a private place. She let him lead her back behind the reredos to the private quarters and to a richly carved door. With some wryness, she thought it looked like the door to a shrine except that an armed guard stood outside.

  Who, exactly, did they think might attack their lord within his own castle?

  The door swung open and she took one step through before halting in amazement. She couldn't help it. She had never seen a room as magnificent as this.

  What walls were not hung with brilliant tapestries were painted with flowers and animals. All the structural woodwork was carved and painted, as was every piece of furniture. Two windows lit the room, glazed in plain and colored glass and, between them, a roaring fire was set in the wall. Uncle Henry had a fireplace set into the wall of his chamber, but it easily belched smoke. This one had a hood that stuck out into the room—a hood of plaster, she thought, for stone could not be so finely detailed—sweeping up to the ceiling.

  It seemed to ensure that all the smoke went up the chimney and outside so that the room was pleasantly warm without smoke at all.

  And on the floor at her feet, halting her, lay a thick woven cloth in a rich design of red, blue and cream.

  There were many people in the room in addition to Edmund, who was on his dais bed, and they were all looking at her. They were all also standing on the precious cloth. Swallowing, she walked onto it, too, and curtsied. "You wished to speak to me, my lord."

  His bed was like the resting place of a precious relic, carved and decorated like everything else here and hung with heavy cloth woven in rich colors. Thick furs lay folded near the end, for show, no doubt. No one would ever need furs in a room this warm.

  "If it please you, Lady Joan, sit." He indicated a chair by the side of his bed and the squire stepped forward to assist her to it.

  As she brought her bedazzlement under control, she noted who was in the room. The squire, two menservants, a rosy-cheeked page, a monk at a desk writing on a long sheet of parchment and a black-robed figure who might be a doctor.

  A chair, she thought, as she settled into it. And padded, too. Before coming here she had never sat on anything but a bench or stool. Was it as great an honor as it seemed, or just part of the astonishing luxury of Mountgrave?

  Uncomfortably aware of an audience, she said, "I hope you are well, my lord."

  "Healing wounds hurt, Lady Joan, but it appears I am healing, so I have no complaint."

  "It might injure you to ride today."

  "Dr. Hildebrand has sewn me up quite firmly and thinks I will not split again."

  She could imagine the pain, past, present and future, but supposed that even great wealth had not spared him from it in his life. And despite the pain awaiting her, she did want this over. This place was too rich, too grand, for her, and Edmund was too great a temptation. Even now, she wanted to lean toward him, to touch his hair, to soothe his hurts, to be touched, to be soothed....

  She sat straight, hands in lap. "You had something you wished to say to me, my lord?"

  "Last night, you said you had something you wished to say to me, Lady Joan."

  Her heart sank. In the sillier parts of her mind she'd been thinking he had summoned her because he needed to, because, despite hopelessness, he wanted to see her one more time. Instead, he was just courteously granting her request for audience.

  She glanced around. These were doubtless his trusted people, and he must carry on his private business in front of them all the time, but she said, "I request privacy, my lord."

  A mere gesture of his hand, and everyone bowed out of the room. Joan watched the door close, then looked back at him. "It must get very wearying."

  He laughed shortly. "And yet it is all I know."

  He was reclining against full pillows and wearing a red robe under the covers. His thick golden hair waved down to his broad shoulders, and seeing him leisurely for the first time in daylight, Joan discovered that his eyes were not the clear blue she'd imagined, but a blue muted by gray and perhaps even by green. Softer, subtler, and somehow comforting.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  "I think I heard an unspoken 'you wretched woman' after that, my lord." As his lips twitched, she said, "I was thinking that the Golden Lion should have piercing blue eyes. I like your eyes better."

  She sat to his left, so when he extended a hand to her it was without pain. Knowing it was unwise, she put her hand into his, and at first contact, at the gentle curl of his fingers around hers, something inside cracked and melted.

  That wasn't good. It melted into threatened tears.

  "Don't," she said, and pulled her hand free. "Don't."

  "Not even a touch?"

  "If I'm any judge, your lady mother will be here as soon as she learns that we're alone. I would not like to distress her."

  After a frowning moment, he leaned back. "As you wish, my wise and foolish virgin. What did you want to say to me? Something about the banner, I assume."

  She saw him brace to refuse, to refuse to bend, to break his oath, and she almost held bac
k her words. He would never understand.

  "Tell me, Joan. At the very least, give me your honest tongue."

  That made her color flare embarrassingly, but she met his eyes. "I know this will seem a madness to you, but when I looked at the banner hanging in the hall, it seemed to me like Christ hanging on the Cross."

  He frowned. "The frame is supposed to suggest the Cross. It contains fragments of the true Cross."

  She shook her head. "That's not what I mean. It seemed... it seemed trapped there. Hung there. Tortured." She stopped, hearing her words sound crazier by the moment.

  "Joan, a banner is designed to be hung. It must be the strain of this—"

  "And then you said that you lock it away," she continued, determined to spit it out and be done with it. "Like a prisoner in a dungeon."

  "It's a chapel. It's more splendid than this room! It's a small monastery, with chambers beside for the monks who care for it and pray before it."

  "And if you were locked away in here, my lord, would it be luxury or dungeon?"

  He moved both hands, then winced and ran only one through his hair. "As you said yourself, Joan, it's a piece of cloth. What do you want me to do with it? Don't tell me. Burn it."

  She sat resolutely silent.

  "It has to be guarded. You must see that." After a moment he said, almost yelled, "What do you want me to do?"

  The door opened and his mother glided in, trailing expensive sleeves, hems and veil. "Edmund? Is something the matter?"

  Joan rose and curtsied, prepared to be thrown out.

  "No, Mother, though I was speaking to Lady Joan privately." It was clearly a reproof, and the lady stiffened.

  "I heard you shouting, my dear."

  "Then I was shouting at Lady Joan privately." His lips had softened, however, and mother and son shared a loving acceptance of his ridiculous statement.

  She walked to the right side of his bed and leaned to brush his forehead. Secretly checking for fever, Joan was sure, as she'd wished to do. He caught his mother's hand in his left and kissed it. "I am well, Mother." Then he added, "I would ask you to do something for me, however."

  "Anything, my dear."

  "Go to the hall and stand before the banner. Look at it for me."

  She straightened, frowning. "I do not need to look at the banner. I have seen it through Christmastide for thirty years."

  "Yet that is what I wish you to do for me, Mother. Stand, or kneel if you choose, and look at it for me. For as long as it would take to say twenty Paternosters."

  Clearly both puzzled and concerned, Lady Blanche looked at Joan with no kindness at all. "And Lady Joan?"

  "Will stay with me."

  "It is not proper, Edmund."

  "I am in no condition to ravish her, and she is far too sensible to assist me to her ruin."

  "Are you, indeed?" Lady Blanche asked Joan.

  "I fear so, Lady Blanche."

  After a startled moment, a touch of humor twitched at Lady Blanche's thin lips, and perhaps a prickle of womanly connection passed between them. But then she said, "I will do as you wish, Edmund, though it is folly," and swept out.

  Joan and Edmund looked at each other, and for lack of alternative, she sat down again. She couldn't bear much more of his company, however. It was like starving at a feast.

  "If times were right, would you be my wife?" he asked abruptly.

  "We have not known each other long enough."

  He didn't misunderstand. "Yet we have."

  She gestured at his room. "I could not cope with this."

  "You could cope with anything."

  "You overestimate me, my lord."

  "I don't think so. But if you wish, I would have it peeled back to wood and stone and whitewashed like a nun's cell."

  She looked down at her clasped hands. "That would be a shame. Don't do this."

  In silence she heard the fire crackle and the distant life of his bustling castle, and tried to estimate the length of time needed to say twenty Paternosters.

  She looked up. "What do you expect your mother to say when she returns?"

  "If I'd known, I would not have sent her."

  "If you'll be able to ride shortly, you could have gone to the banner yourself."

  "But I know what I want to see."

  "I don't understand—"

  They were interrupted by an autocratic child's voice beyond the door. "We wish to enter!"

  The rumble was doubtless the guard. The response to whatever he said was, "But it's Christmastide!" and a wail that seemed to be a second voice.

  Edmund pulled a face, but there was a smile in it. "If you please, Lady Joan, go and admit them."

  Puzzled, she went to open the door to see the guard confronted by two blond children—a firm-chinned girl of about seven, and a much younger child in a trailing gown, thumb in mouth. They both instantly ran past the guard toward the bed, crying, "Father!"

  Joan whirled. "Don't leap on him!"

  Children. Why had she never thought that he must have children from his first marriage?

  The girl turned with haughty anger, but then flushed. "We weren't going to," she said, but it was clearly a lie.

  "You can sit on the bed if you're careful," Edmund said. "It's my right arm and my left leg that are wounded. And no bouncing on top of me for a while."

  The girl lifted the younger child up onto her father's left side, and the toddler snuggled against him, thumb in mouth. Secure. The girl sat more sedately on his right-hand side, but Joan sensed she wanted to cuddle, too.

  Motherless children, but at least they had one parent they loved and trusted, and who loved them.

  "I will go," she said, but he shook his head.

  "Wait until my mother returns. Come and meet my children. Anna, give Lady Joan your best curtsy, for she saved my life. Remi, you may stay where you are, but say thank-you to her."

  The little boy extracted his thumb and said, "Thank you, my lady," then shoved it back in again.

  Anna, who strongly reminded Joan of Lady Blanche, made a perfect curtsy. "We truly are most grateful to you, Lady Joan, and also that you will be the means to save Uncle Gerald from the wicked de Montelans."

  Joan flicked one glance at Edmund, but then smiled at the girl. "I am happy to be able to prevent bloodshed, Lady Anna."

  The girl returned to her seated study of her father, and, lacking an alternative, Joan went back to her chair. The boy's head turned, watching her curiously.

  "The de Montelans are not wicked, Anna," Edmund said, though it sounded like a struggle.

  Anna's straight spine straightened farther. "Father, of course, they are!"

  "But Lady Joan's mother is a de Montelan. And your Uncle Gerald is hoping to marry the Lady Nicolette de Montelan."

  She frowned over that. "Then it is just the men of the de Montelan family who are wicked."

  "Adults make a great mess of things sometimes, Anna. It is good to be faithful to your family's interests, but rarely is one group of people better or worse than another."

  It was perhaps as well that Lady Blanche returned then, brow furrowed. She smiled at the sight of her grandchildren, however, and Anna went to hug her.

  The wicked de Graves. A happy, loving family.

  The wicked de Montelans. Even if Lord Henry was older and sterner, still it was a happy, loving family in its own way. She could even believe that he'd tried to bend to secure Nicolette's happiness.

  How sad this all was.

  "Well, Mother?" Edmund asked.

  She sat in another chair, one closer to the fire than the bed, and Anna leaned against her. "What do you want me to say?"

  "Whatever you wish. That is why I sent you with no guidance."

  She sighed, staring into nowhere. "It is strange. I have never looked long and closely at the banner since I came here as a bride, and I do not recall what I thought then. But now..." She looked at her son. "At first I was impatient, thinking it a waste of time. Slowly, however, I began to r
eally see it. It is a sorry piece of cloth by now, but that is not the point. It seems out of place on that huge, ornate holder. Perhaps we need to build it something smaller, more delicate...."

  She looked at him, clearly searching for a hint whether she was saying the right things or not. Joan knew he was deliberately not giving any response. But what was the purpose of this? Even if his mother's reaction was the same as hers, what could he do other than give the banner a prettier frame and perhaps not lock it away from sight for most of the year.

  "What's going on, Father?" Anna asked, standing straight, a slight edge of panic in her voice.

  "It's all right," Edmund said. "Nothing terrible is happening. We are all just thinking about things long ignored. Mother, was there anything else?"

  Lady Blanche frowned almost in exasperation. "It sounds foolish to say, Edmund, but the banner did not feel happy. I found myself wondering whether Christ Himself would like a holy relic that had touched the place of His birth being the cause of so much enmity. It wouldn't be the first time, however," she added. "The Crusades themselves have been fought over Christ's holy places."

  "True, but this is our relic, and our responsibility."

  "You cannot give it up," Lady Blanche stated.

  "Father!" Anna exclaimed, but he raised his hand.

  "Anna, this is not for you to debate. I must think on it."

  "But Father!"

  "No, Anna. You must take Remi now. I will spend more time with you later, after I have returned Lady Joan to her family."

  Lady Blanche rose and shepherded the reluctant children away. She glanced once at Joan but did not herd her out, too.

  Joan stood on her own. "I will leave you to think. I know there's nothing you can do, so I do regret putting this extra burden on you, my lord. I felt that I had to speak."

  He nodded. "I understand." He held out his left hand again, and she put hers into it, letting him pull her closer so he could kiss it. "Joan of Hawes, whatever happens today and in the future, know that I am honored to have met you. Never let the world cow you into silence."

  Surrendering to folly, she leaned forward and lightly kissed his lips. "I'll do my best. God guide and keep you, Edmund."