by Jo Beverley
Then she fled the room.
She found the castle strangely unaffected by the turmoil she was experiencing, though she gathered some traditional outdoor games had been postponed because of the planned meeting with the de Montelans at Bethlehem Field. In the bailey horses were being groomed and prepared to make a magnificent show. A number of men were already in armor surcoated in the livery of the Golden Lion. They were eating and drinking festive food in high spirits, though one or two glanced at her with casual compassion.
They knew her fate.
She supposed it was like this when men had prepared to take the sacrificial virgin out to the dragon. In this case, Saint George was not going to ride to the rescue.
She was surprised when Lady Blanche found her and insisted she return to the hall and eat, but the woman didn't say anything of importance, either about her son or the banner. She didn't protest, however, when Lady Letitia insisted that Joan wear her fur cloak.
As Joan left the hall she turned to look one last time at the banner, surprised to find that pity for it had driven out anger. Both emotions were foolish, she told herself as she went down the stairs into the bailey. It was an inanimate object.
It was men who had made it what it was, and men—and women—who suffered.
Chapter 8
A fine dun palfrey had been prepared for her to ride, and Joan appreciated the quality of the horse, though she was surprised to be given one almost as big as Thor. The destrier waited beside, caparisoned magnificently and summoning a smile by the way he preened, knowing himself to be the center of attention.
Astride her tall mount, she watched Edmund emerge from the hall. When he let two men carry him down the stairs, she knew he was not recovered enough for the venture. He hobbled between the servants to Thor and she couldn't help but say, "You shouldn't be doing this."
"It has to be done, and I'll be better once I'm on the horse."
Getting him there, however, even with a mounting block was neither easy nor painless, and by the time he was in the saddle, he looked pallid.
"Edmund—"
"I do not need another woman to nag me about this!"
Joan literally bit her tongue to suppress words. At least this journey could be accomplished at a walk, and his saddle was a jousting saddle, high in the front and back and shaped to cradle his thighs. Even if he fainted, he'd probably stay on.
He wore no armor, but a magnificent crimson gown embroidered with gold thread. This, clearly, was not an occasion for subtlety. She realized she was the only person not glittering in the red and gold of the de Graves.
They moved out in procession, banner-carrying foot soldiers at the front, then herself and Edmund, side by side, with about two dozen armed squires and knights behind. She watched him anxiously. Perhaps he'd been right; his color slowly returned, and she sensed his pain lessened. He held Thor's reins in his left hand, however, and she suspected he'd rather his right was in a sling rather than resting on his thigh.
Needing to break the silence, she said, "Your children are delightful. Are there just the two?"
"My rare visits. Though Catherine was with child when she died."
"How sad."
He shrugged, and indeed, what was there to say about the hazards of life?
"Will your brother and Nicolette be able to marry?"
"It ought to be so, but first I must see Lord Henry and try to judge his mood. He and I have only met once since my father died." He glanced sideways at her. "You do not look comfortable."
"I could have wished for something smaller to ride."
"I didn't think you'd be happy bobbing along at my knee."
"No," she said. "No, I wouldn't. Thank you."
"No matter what happens today, Joan, I want you to know that I'm going to have the banner treated differently. And I will continue to work for peace between the families. Surely in time we can break the shackles we have put on each other."
"I will pray for it."
"And I promise you, Joan, that my sons will not have to swear an oath on the matter."
"I wish such an oath did not burden you."
"Oaths have their uses. Will you swear to me to try to make the richest use of your life, your courage and your wit?"
She quirked her brows at him. "I think my courage will be well used, and soon, but my wit is best kept in check."
He tightened his lips and looked away. Perhaps she shouldn't have said it, but there was no point hiding from unpleasant truths.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, except for jingling harness and falling hoof. The day was cold but lovely, with clear blue sky and sunshine gilding frosted furrows and bare trees. Crows cawed as they flew from their dark nests high in the trees, but no birds sang until a robin fluttered to a hawthorn branch and trilled at them.
The Bethlehem Field was outlined by a thick hedge all around with only two breaks, facing each other. When they arrived, the de Montelans were already on the other side, banners flying, ready to enter.
Edmund raised his left hand and made a gesture. His squire rode up alongside. "Lady Joan and I go in alone."
The squire wheeled to pass the message back, and Joan went alone with him into the large, open space. They were sworn to peace here, so she hoped all would be all right, though clearly in the past the whole parties had entered.
She saw some consternation among her uncle's people, but eventually, Uncle Henry rode in, every bit as magnificently dressed as Edmund, only in the de Montelan's blue and gold. He was leading another horse by the reins. Gerald de Graves's hands were tied in front of him and to the pommel of his saddle.
It had never occurred to Joan to try to escape. Would that be held against her, too?
They met in the center, and her uncle's glare made Joan shiver inside the thick fur. Noble sacrifice was all very well, but in the end it was real and frightening.
As the two lords greeted each other, she looked at Gerald de Graves. He was lighter built than his brother, but nearly as handsome, even dungeon-dirty and bruised. He met her eyes sympathetically but sadly. He gained his freedom here, but not what he truly wanted—Nicolette.
Lord Henry was holding out the horse's reins to Edmund, but Edmund said, "If you will, Lord Henry, I would speak with you."
The reins were pulled back out of reach. "You break your word?"
"Never. I wish to speak of more important things. The banner, for one."
A smile touched Lord Henry's lips. A hungry one. "The de Graves have come to their senses?"
"You know we swear an oath never to give the banner to the de Montelans."
"And we swear an oath never to rest while it remains in the hands of the de Graves."
Joan had to suppress a sigh.
The silence lingered so long that she thought it was all over, but then Edmund said, "Lord Henry, do you wish this feud to continue, generation after generation, poisoning this area with enmity, costing lives and happiness?"
"I do not. But I cannot accept the banner being in your unworthy hands."
Joan sensed Edmund taking a special breath. "What if it were in neither of our hands?"
"Edmund, no!" Sir Gerald exclaimed.
Lord Henry's horse stepped back, clearly stirred by some unwary movement. "Destroy it?"
"No. What I propose, Lord Henry, is that the de Graves and the de Montelans build a monastery here on Bethlehem Field, and house the banner in it. We would both swear to protect it, and to never try to move it from this place, and here it could be reverenced by any who wished to come."
Lord Henry looked around, frowning, and Joan bit her lip. It was a brilliant solution, but would her uncle agree? He'd never struck her as a quick-witted or flexible man, but he wasn't stupid, and she suspected he truly was as weary of the enmity as Edmund was. And he knew Nicolette loved Gerald de Graves.
The still moment was broken by pounding hooves, and everyone turned to see a horse galloping toward the field. The pale gold flying hair could only belong
to Nicolette. The horse soared over the hedge and raced foaming right up to them. Joan had never suspected that her cousin was such a magnificent rider.
"Father!" she declared, "I must go with Gerald."
Joan saw a wince of exasperation on Edmund's face, but was herself tempted to wild laughter. Would nothing about this go according to plan?
"I left you locked up, daughter, where you belong!"
"I will not be kept from this, because it concerns me, Father. You know I love Gerald. If you will not permit our marriage, I must still go with him." She raised her chin, though she'd turned deathly pale. "I am carrying his child."
Lord Henry turned fiery red and swung on the bound man, fist rising.
"Stop!" Edmund's authority halted the older man. "I cannot interfere without starting a bloody battle here, Lord Henry, but I will not let you strike my brother. Save for the feud, he and Nicolette would be happily married, and if you consent to my plan, they can still be so. Proof of better days."
Lord Henry glared around, clearly teetering on the edge of bloodshed for bloodshed's sake. Nicolette extended her hand to him. "Father, I love you, but I love Gerald, too. And now, because of my sin, I must go to him. Pray heaven, I do not have to lose you."
Lord Henry's lips wobbled through his glower. "Sin indeed, daughter," he said. Though he doubtless intended to growl, it sounded simply unhappy. "But at least you didn't soil our tradition by playing the Virgin."
Joan stared at him. She had never expected such instant understanding and approval.
"And you, Joan," he said, turning to her. "You did well. But not," he added, voice recovering, "in helping de Graves to escape!"
Joan swallowed and produced Edmund's clever explanation. "I believed your men would kill him, Uncle, and I knew you would not want that."
Lord Henry looked nothing so much as baffled. "I see, I see."
Edmund spoke. "My death or serious injury would certainly have made peace more difficult, Lord Henry. If we do not settle this now, however, such a death might happen, sealing us all in turmoil for yet more generations."
Lord Henry looked between Gerald and his daughter for a moment, and Joan could almost hear him muttering that this man was not worthy of her, but then he dragged Gerald's horse over to Nicolette and put the reins in her hands. "Here, daughter, have him." But he leaned to grasp the startled Gerald's tunic in his hand. "Harm her, neglect her, be unfaithful to her, lad, and there'll be violence that'll make this feud look like May Day."
"I love her, sir," Gerald said.
"Keep it so."
Lord Henry turned his horse. "What now, Lord Edmund?"
"You agree to my plan?"
Lord Henry nodded.
"Then the sooner the building starts, the sooner the banner can be moved. Perhaps by May Day."
Joan couldn't keep silent. "There could be a wooden chapel while the monastery builds. It could be up before the end of Christmastide."
Neither man looked pleased. She suspected Lord Henry glowered just because she had interrupted, but Edmund's frown could be because he'd rather delay the final step. But then he nodded. "It can be so. Lord Henry, will you lend men to help build?"
"To get the banner out of your hands? By Jerusalem, I will! In fact, I and my sons will help in this holy task."
To forestall Edmund stupidly making the same offer, Joan said, "Lord Edmund is wounded. But Sir Gerald will doubtless help. Perhaps he and Nicolette can be married—"
"Joan," said Edmund.
"Joan!" bellowed her uncle.
Her uncle continued, "Hold your tongue! I don't know what imp has invaded you, niece, the way you speak out on men's matters!" He leaned forward and grabbed her reins by the bit, drawing her horse away from Thor. "Come. And you, too, Nicolette. Until you marry, you'll pretend to be a proper maid!"
Nicolette had untied Gerald, and they were both off their horses, kissing and exploring each other's tear-damp faces in a way that brought an aching lump to Joan's throat.
There was no true barrier now between her and Edmund, but clearly he'd realized that she was unsuited to be the bride of the Golden Lion. He was quite right, too. She'd be miserable in such a situation.
As she was led away, however, he spoke one last time. "Lord Henry."
Her uncle looked back and Edmund continued, "Of your kindness, do not punish Lady Joan for her adventures."
Her uncle's look at her was sharp and questioning, but he said, "If she keeps her tongue mild and respectful, she'll have no hurt from me."
Chapter 9
The first reaction at Woldingham was consternation, but soon happiness bubbled up, along with a subtle warmth and relaxation that showed how deeply the frost of enmity had cut. Though resentful at first, her male cousins took their father's point of view, and threw themselves enthusiastically into the building of the wooden chapel, seeing it as a victory over the de Graves.
Mountgrave would no longer have the banner!
She wondered how everyone was taking it there. She was sure some would see it as surrender, as weakness of some sort, but Edmund's status as the Golden Lion would likely carry him over that. As for herself, she worked hard at banishing folly. Despite an unexpected friendship, there was nothing lasting between her and Lord Edmund de Graves.
Lust, a part of her whispered. She had to accept that, yes, there was lust. That wasn't enough, however. She wasn't trained to be a great lady, and he was doubtless wise not to tempt her with the notion.
The last thing she wanted was for anyone to guess at the foolish part of her mind, the part that would marry Edmund de Graves if asked and hope that a clever tongue could make it all work.
Meanwhile she tried hard to behave well, did her best to enjoy Christmas, and threw herself into her cousin's ecstatic preparations for her wedding. Gerald even visited, riding into Woldingham one day, unescorted, testing the truce.
Though to begin with, the air boiled with tension, Nicolette's warm greeting and sensible Aunt Ellen's welcome brought it down to simmering point. Soon, though rather hesitantly, the castle moved again, accepting the enemy in their midst.
Joan, however, had the task of chaperoning the two during the meeting. She sat in a corner, sewing and trying to ignore their soft murmurs and occasional laughter. At a silence she glanced over and saw them lost in a kiss she doubtless should not permit. But what harm in it?
Except to her.
She and Edmund had not kissed like that, a leisurely kiss that promised aeons. There hadn't been any aeons to promise. She was dreading Twelfth Day, when the wedding would take place, and the banner would be brought at last to neutral territory. Could she survive it without making a fool of herself? After that, she would go home, for what was there to keep her here?
Eventually light faded and Gerald had to leave, though clearly he'd rather have stayed forever. He took Joan's hand and kissed it. "You are a most excellent chaperon, my lady."
"From a suitor's point of view," she said tartly.
Golden as his brother, he was a handsome man who could doubtless charm birds to his hand, but beside Lord Edmund he would pale.
He smiled. "Of course. But if Lady Ellen had wanted more decorum, she would have stayed herself. It's a clever woman who knows when the horse has left the stable."
Joan gave him a severe look. "I'll have you know, Sir Gerald, that I consider you a scoundrel for seducing Nicolette into what could have been disaster."
He glanced at his beloved. "Is it always the man at fault?"
Nicolette blushed, but Joan said, "It is always the woman who pays the price."
Gerald looked at her, head cocked. "Edmund said you were a very sensible virgin. I see what he meant."
And then he left.
Nicolette said, "Joan? What's the matter?"
Joan laughed it off, but she could have wept. A sensible virgin. It was likely to be her epitaph, and she'd like to die soon if that was the sum of Lord Edmund de Graves's assessment of her.
It snowe
d a little on the way to the wedding, but cleared to crisp gray by the time the de Montelan party approached the Bethlehem Field with its new wooden chapel to one side. The center of the field was left open for the monastery that would rise there soon.
The red and gold of the de Graves was approaching on the other side, but around, the ordinary folk hovered, keen to see this great day, and to see the Bethlehem Banner, but ready to flee at the slightest sign of trouble.
Joan didn't blame them. All around her, beneath handsome surcoats and cloaks, armor and weapons jingled. Most jaws were tense, most eyes watchful. No one truly believed that today could pass as planned, without violence. She hardly did herself.
This time both parties passed through the openings and into the field. The armed men formed opposing ranks, and the principal families rode to meet in the middle. Joan noticed Lady Ellen and Lady Blanche bow to each other with just as much caution as the men.
She scrupulously did not look at Edmund. She couldn't risk it.
Then the de Graves forces split, and through the middle passed the six monks, singing the Te Deum, the two front ones bearing the banner on a simple holder. Just in front of Joan, Lord Henry heaved himself off his horse and down on one knee. In the next moment, all his men followed, and then the men of de Graves.
Joan couldn't help but look at Edmund, but by then he was off and kneeling, and she couldn't tell what it had cost him.
The monks passed into the chapel, and the men rose. The ladies were helped down, and the two families followed. The air crackled with danger, and Joan saw that her male cousins all had their hands on their swords. Edmund and Gerald did not.
A good job had been done on the building. It was simple but straight and sturdy, and the main posts and beams had been carved with crosses. The walls were painted white, and ample long windows let in light. They let in cold, too, but that could not be helped. They also allowed those outside to glimpse events inside, which was doubtless wise.
On the end wall behind the altar, a frame had been prepared in which the banner could hang, with shutter-like doors that could be closed over it in harsh weather. The monks carefully placed it there and knelt before it.
