Lavender Vows (Medieval Herb Garden #1)

Lavender Vows (Medieval Herb Garden #1) Page 5

He stopped in the middle of a chew, looked blankly at her, then resumed. “But of course you shall wed if your father wishes it so.”

“Nay. He’ll not force me. And,” she rested her hand with surprising familiarity on his arm, “’tis nothing of you, my lord Bernard, truly. You are most kind and polite and easy on the eyes. ’Tis only that I see no reason to bind myself to a man. Particularly one who wishes only to gain control of my lands.”

Bernard found that he needed a large gulp of ale to digest this stunning piece of information. “Is that so, Lady Maris?” He attempted to keep the incredulity from his voice even as he cast his gaze over the hall of diners yet again.

“I have no need of a husband, as Father has trained me to be chatelaine and also to manage the fiefs as well as any man. I ride and hunt as well as many of his men-at-arms…not with a sword, of course, but I’ve my own bow and a trained falcon.”

He turned to look into her large, quite serious, hazel eyes and suddenly wished his brother Dirick were there. He would find such a woman a welcome challenge. “But who would manage the accounts?” he asked, refilling her wine, and then his own. “And defend the castle from siege?” He could think of naught else to say—for what else should a woman do but marry and breed?

Then he saw her—near the dais where her father sat with the newly-wedded couple. All else faded from his attention as Bernard watched Joanna pace, very slowly, behind her husband and then take her seat next to him. Her hair and neck were covered by a veil that shimmered with her movements, and her face, so fair and pale, seemed small within its confines.

How would he find a way to free her from her life’s lot? Bernard’s mouth tightened, his lower lip drawing up under his moustache.

“What is it, my lord?” asked Lady Maris. “Your face became so dark just now.”

He looked back at his dinner partner, swiftly gathering his thoughts. “’Twas only that I reminded myself of some task I’d forgotten. My pardons, my lady, for disturbing you.”

She laughed—not daintily, but with true gusto. “Nay, my lord, you did not disturb me. The only distress I felt was for whomever should bring such an expression to your face.”

Bernard’s tension did not relax for Maris’s concern was well-founded. “Aye, my lady, and well it should,” he managed to say with relative calm. Then, with great effort, he turned his full attention to his dinner partner, and, with a reference to the heads of their huddled fathers, commented, “’Tis our lot in life to be harangued into marriage, then, is it not my lady? We each have our duty—as the heirs to our fathers’ lands.”

Maris nodded, her lips firm. “Aye, ’tis what my father would say—but he would not force me, and I do not intend to find a man whom I will marry.” She looked up at him from under her lashes, and again, Bernard was struck by her beauty, if not daunted by her boldness, and added, “So you may rest easy, my lord, that we shall not find ourselves signed, sealed, and betrothed ere this wedding celebration is over.”

Bernard opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but, mercifully, his father leaned over to interrupt. “My son handles the lute better than that vagabond over yonder, Lady Maris. Mayhap it would be his pleasure to sing for you.”

Maris smiled so warmly that Harold blushed and kicked Bernard again. “Lord Harold, what a splendid suggestion. Mayhap you should hail the minstrel hither and he could do so.” And then, under her breath, she added only for the ears of Bernard, “and if you dare compare my eyes to stars, or my hair to the wind, I shall kick you myself under the table!”

Joanna slowly raised her goblet to sip deeply of the wine. It was warm and soothing as it coursed through her limbs, numbing her body and blanketing her mind with its gentle fog.

She forced herself to eat the capon that Ralf tore from the bird between them. He speared it with his knife—he did not permit her to carry her own, as harmless as it would have been—and tore into it with relish.

She hurt.

Marry, she hurt.

But before supper, she’d managed to speak with Leonard’s sister, who carried the message from the stable boy that her parcel had been moved—along with Cleome the cat—into the loft of the stable. If she could keep her thoughts centered on the freedom that leather packet of gold coin might bring, she knew she could survive the rest of the se’ennight at Wyckford Heath.

She’d located Bernard, seated many rows away from the dais, immediately. It was clear he’d been looking for her, for she felt the weight of his stare as she followed Ralf to their seats. Though she knew it would be impossible, Joanna nevertheless nursed the little flicker of hope Bernard had lit inside her.

He had been so gentle, so kind and soothing to her. His face haunted her dreams, along with the memory of his pleasantly-heavy hands, pinning up her braid, covering hers in the garden…and the softness of his mouth touching hers. Warmth and a shiver, inexplicably opposite sensations, traveled through her body, warming her as the wine had not, and she wondered what it would be like to be held in his strong arms. To be safe. To be secure. To be loved.

A covert glance at Ralf told Joanna that he was imbibing less than usual anight—most likely because of the jousting and melee tournament on the morrow. And Bernard had somehow attracted the attention—the venomous attention—of her husband, which would be taken to violence on the tourney fields tomorrow. She must find a way to warn him away from her, else he might find himself the victim of Ralf’s irrational anger. Even though ’twas customary and expected to use blunted weapons at such celebratory tournaments, men had been injured and even killed in them.

And Joanna could not bear the thought of the gentle, brave Bernard sliced to ribbons.

“Ah…the oaf sings like a lady.” Ralf’s grating voice, somehow reaching inside her to make her cringe, pulled Joanna’s attention from her own musings.

She froze, her hand closing around a crust of bread. It had not taken Joanna more than a few weeks of marriage to Ralf to learn that traps such as these were as common as the tiny pebbles ground into wheat bread. If she looked up, he’d accuse her of casting her eyes upon another man…if she did not respond, he would be angry that she ignored him.

A loud guffaw and the retort, “Aye, he looks like a sot-head who doesn’t know the sharp end of a sword from his arse!” caused Joanna to exhale in relief. ’Twas a friend of his, who sat across the table, to whom Ralf spoke.

But when she glanced up, looking toward the singer with the smooth, mellow voice, her heart nearly stopped beating. It was Bernard.

Somehow, he’d come by a lute, and, even more oddly, he’d moved to the dais, where he stood, leaning against the side of the raised floor—plucking the strings of the lute…and singing.

And watching her.

Joanna ducked her head, turning her attention to the crust she’d mangled, but his image was burned into her memory. And even as his voice reached her ears, clear and deep as the River Wyckford, she saw his dark head and serious eyes.

And prayed that Ralf wouldn’t notice the object of his attention.

He sang a common song, one about an oath between a knight and his lady…a vow made over a relic of the True Cross….But Bernard changed the words to sing of a promise made over a bed of lavender in a garden, to a maiden fair.

When she looked up again, her heart swelling hugely, she was relieved to find that Bernard no longer looked at her. Instead, he smiled upon several ladies who had taken seats near him, and who gazed up at him as though he was the Savior himself. At their urging, he ran his fingers over the strings and began to pluck another ballad from the lute.

Joanna measured her moments carefully: watching him for as long as she dared before Ralf might turn to look at her…and taking care to note every detail about him.

She would carry this memory—the memory of the man who’d been so gentle and kind—when she was gone.

When Ralf excused himself—if standing abruptly walking off with a companion to play at dice could be called excusing himself—Joanna was surprised and pleased to be relieved of his volatile presence.

She stood and slipped between crowded trestle tables, dancers, and jugglers to make her way slowly out of the hall. Every step made her wince, and once, when an overly enthusiastic man-at-arms bumped into her shoulder, she gasped aloud from the pain.

“Does something ail you, lady?”

Joanna had just reached the hallway that led to a row of chambers when this voice stopped her. She turned to see a woman perhaps two or three years younger than herself, with dark hair and fine clothing. “Nay, lady. I am merely a bit sore.”

“I am Maris of Langumont,” said the young woman woman, stepping toward her. Concern lit her eyes. “I do not believe you, I am afraid. You are in some pain. I would try to help you.”

Joanna rested her hand against the stone wall as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “I am Joanna of Swerthmoor, daughter of the Lord of Wyckford Heath. You are very kind to have a care for me, when you do not know me.”

“I have care for anyone who is ill or injured. I am a healer.” She offered her arm. “Here, Lady Joanna, walk with me. We shall see what can be done for your pain.”

“You are a healer? Nay, you are a lady.” Joanna slipped her arm through Maris’s, and allowed the taller woman to help her along.

“I am a great heiress, but I am also a healer. Now, tell me as we walk, what causes your pain? Have you had it long?”

Joanna gave a short, bitter laugh. “I’ve had pain since I wed my husband one year past.”

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor behind them, coming quickly and purposefully. Joanna started and sprang away from Maris, who looked at her in surprise. “What—”

“Joanna!” The voice was not the one she’d feared to hear, but ’twas familiar to her.

She turned to see Bernard striding toward them, and her heart leaped even as her glance darted around to see that no one else was there.