Terri Brisbin (2 page)

J
oanna of Blackburn had best be dead when he caught up to her.

Braden rubbed the rain from his face for the tenth time in only a few minutes and searched through the torrents for some sign of the promised haven. His men slowed with him as they cautiously followed the muddy path. Surely the monks’ directions were accurate? They should have reached Silloth Keep hours ago.

One of his men called out and pointed in the distance. A large, dark stone fortress stood to the west of them, and only a flash of lightning had revealed its presence and now led the way. They reached it and approached the gates. Guards called out from one of the towers to challenge their entry.

“Who goes there? State your name and your business,” called one of the guards.

“I am Lord Braden of Wynwydd and seek the hospitality of Lord Orrick for the night,” he answered. “Brother Lawrence sent me.”

The brother’s name eased his way, for the gates began to open in spite of the hour and the growing darkness. A soldier walked forward to meet them and directed them to the en
trance to the hall. A few boys took their mounts and Braden climbed the steps to where the guard said the great hall of the keep, and his lord, was. As he entered the large room, he noticed a guard had gone ahead of them to inform his lord of their arrival. Braden and his men waited for a sign of their welcome here.

“Lord Braden, come and join us in our meal,” a man he assumed was Lord Orrick called out. “Warm yourself here before the fire.”

Braden nodded and strode to the dais and around the high table to where Lord Orrick stood. He noticed his men being directed by a servant to a table just in front of the steps. They would remain in his sight and close enough to come to his aid if needed. As he stopped before Lord Orrick, his stomach let out a loud growl, probably encouraged by the aromas of a steaming pot of stew and the hot loaves of bread on the table.

“Share our meal first, my lord, then we can see to your other comforts,” the woman to Lord Orrick’s right said. His wife?

“I am Orrick of Silloth and this is my ladywife, Margaret.”

“I am Braden of Wynwydd,” he replied, holding out his hand in greeting. Orrick grasped his forearm and Braden returned the gesture. Both men were unarmed. “My thanks for your offer of hospitality this night.”

He moved to the chair indicated at Lady Margaret’s side and was impressed by the prompt and thorough attention he received. A servant helped him remove his dripping wet cloak and gloves. In spite of the meal already being in progress, a laver bowl appeared to his right as soon as he was seated and then a towel so that he could wash.

The fare was hearty, well-cooked and seasoned and Braden listened to the banter between Lord Orrick and his retainers. The ease of exchange and conversation told him much about the way that Orrick managed his manor and his people.

“So, tell us, Lord Braden, what is the news from court?”
Lady Margaret asked him as honey-coated cakes and other treats were served along with cheeses and wafers as the last course.

“The king held his Easter court at Canterbury and the queen joined him there.” All of England knew about the scandalous marriage of John to Isabella of Angouleme. “Their plans to leave for Normandy were in place even before the holy day was observed.”

“Is there trouble in Normandy?” the lady asked. “I would have expected them to stay in England through the summer.”

“None that was the subject of open discussion, but some old wounds have not healed.”

He probably should have guarded his words. The Lusignans’ claim to prior betrothal was known throughout the continent and England. However, the ties to that family were not so strong here. From the comments overheard at the abbey, Lord Orrick kept to himself and had not ventured to court in over a score of years.

The lord and lady exchanged knowing glances. So, their lack of attendance on the king did not mean a lack of knowledge of the maneuverings of the Plantagenet kings.

“What brings you to this part of England, Lord Braden?” Lord Orrick asked in a quiet voice that managed not to draw the attention of anyone except his wife. The lady missed nothing that happened between them.

“I would speak to you in private, if I may. ’Tis a personal matter,” Braden answered as he fought the urge to grit his teeth again.

He hated that he would have to reveal, to this stranger, his betrothed’s refusal to marry. He despised showing weakness, but Joanna’s actions necessitated this and many other humiliations to him. Before he could say anything else, Lady Margaret intervened.

“My lord, our guest has still not shaken off the chill of the road. Can this not wait until morn?”

“Of course, my lady.” Orrick nodded to his wife first, then to him. “Join me after you break your fast in the morn, Lord Braden.” Orrick stood and held out his hand to his wife. “My steward will see to your comfort and to that of your men.”

If the haste with which the lord and lady left the hall was unseemly, no one but he took notice of it. Within moments, Orrick and his very fair wife were gone. Orrick’s steward approached him with instructions on the sleeping arrangements and surprised Braden with the offer of a private chamber. Grabbing up a few of the apples, he took them with him as he left the dais to speak to his men.

Remembering the cautious steps of his horse on their approach to the keep, he decided to check it in the stables before retiring. His men, assured of food and ale and a challenging dice game, were well cared for. As he walked through the hall and out into the yard, a pang of wanting, so strong that it took his breath away, struck him. Looking around he knew that this was what he wanted—a well-ordered, successful estate, his people well fed, and a family to enjoy it with him. Pushing away such sentimental thoughts, Braden focused on his problem.

First he needed to find his betrothed and take her to Wynwydd. Then he needed to show his people that he could keep a wife and gain an heir. The wise-woman of his village had assured him that a spring bride, a woman of black she said, would be fruitful.

At first he’d scoffed at the instructions she’d given him; any logical man would have. The ceremony should take place outside the walls of his castle, away from any place of death or fear and under a bower of fresh flowers and blossoms and vines. He should plant his seed during the time of the earth’s own fertility, in that same bower, and the dew of his wife’s release should mix with the morning dew. Gwanwyn promised that his seed would grow and produce a son and end the curse that had haunted their family for the past five generations.

So, after years of not believing the stories and living in a sort of cowardly refusal to seek a wife and sons, Braden had finally faced the need for an heir. And he did not want to follow in the steps of the other Wynwydds before him—he wanted to live and see his sons. The wise-woman, raised in the ancient Cymric traditions, had been his last hope.

Braden strode down the path that led to the stables. Shaking his head, he laughed under his breath at the speculation and rumors about his family and the powers they supposedly had. Although they were suspected of being warlocks and able to lay curses on others, it was someone else’s words that had seemed to damn the Wynwydd males to never living long enough to see their sons.

All the deaths or injuries seemed to be natural, no foul play evident, but none of his male relatives or ancestors back to his great-great-great-grandfather had ever looked on a living son. Even wives were not immune from it—many had died while birthing sons who did not survive. The birth of daughters had saved many a Wynwydd life, but sons had been costly to produce and never enjoyed. By the time a son was born, his father had either died or gone mad or was blind. A terrible legacy and one which he prayed he’d found a way to end.

Braden arrived at the stables and knew, from the quiet surrounding it, that all grooming and care was done for the night. Seeking the door, he opened it slowly and quietly so as to not disturb the animals inside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. His horses stood in the stalls closest to this doorway and he found and quieted his own mount with a few soft whispers and an apple from Orrick’s table.

It took but a few moments to check the horse’s back leg and determine that there was no injury. As he closed the gate of the stall behind him, a soft sound caught his attention. Turning around and peering down the shadowed line of stalls, he realized it came from the back of the stables. Following
the enchanting sound, he walked softly on the packed dirt so as to not disturb the maker of it. A few yards from the back wall, he found the source.

A lantern burned low, giving light to a small circle of the stables. Behind the last stall was an area where someone slept. A few blankets tossed in the corner made up a sleeping pallet, and the lantern and a cup and an empty bowl sat on a wooden crate. Then the crooning began again and he found the person making it, leaning over a colt that lay unmoving in the nearest stall.

He froze as he recognized the voice. He’d stood behind her at the Mass at court, knowing she was meant for him before she did and wanting no surprises when she was presented to him. Her voice, then raised in the singing of a hymn, was clear and strong and its purity had sent chills through him. Those same chills moved through him now as he listened in wonder as she sang softly to the ill horse. Though softer, there was no mistaking the voice of his betrothed.

Lady Joanna of Blackburn was here in Silloth.

Braden’s fists clenched, even as his jaws did, while he watched her tender care for the unfortunate horse. Dressed as a boy with her ankle-length black hair under some filthy hood and her womanly curves beneath a loose tunic and cloak, she soothed the animal. Tempted to step forward and end her farce, he knew he must make plans before claiming her. ’Twould be better, now that he’d found her alive and well, to gather his men, take her and leave this keep just before dawn. Once the gates opened, he could be gone from Silloth and Orrick’s lands without ever having to explain his reasons for being here and without risking interference from this local lord.

Convinced of his plan, he waited for her own movements to cover his own and, with a care for silence, Braden walked down the aisle and slipped out of the stables. He returned to the keep and spoke to his men, preparing them to
meet him at the stables. The comfortable chamber, with its rope-strung bed and soft mattress, was a waste, for he slept not at all while waiting to spring his trap and catch his bride. When the first rays of light crept into the dark clouds of dawn, he was already dressed and standing next to the stables.

Two of his men soundlessly guided their horses from the stalls and readied them for a quick escape. Another two stood guard at both of the doorways to the stables and one more protected his back as he crept nearer and nearer to the woman who had thwarted him. As everyone took their positions, Braden knelt down at her side and thought on how best to accomplish this without alerting Silloth’s lord and guards to his actions.

“Joanna,” he whispered into her ear as he straddled her sleeping form. When her eyes flew open and focused on him, he covered her mouth with one hand and encircled her neck with the other. “Say not a word. Make not a sound and you might live through this.”

Her quickly indrawn breath and immediate thrashing about told him that she recognized him even in the darkened stables. He grasped her neck tighter and hoped she would realize that her struggles were useless. Fearing that he would hurt her, he leaned closer.

“Cease!” he said harshly. “Come, we must leave now.”

One of his men whispered a warning about the village waking for the day and his attention strayed from the woman beneath him for a brief moment. When he turned back to pull her to her feet, he was met with the sharp end of a deadly looking dagger. Before he could stop her, she had shoved the dagger through his tunic and stopped just before reaching the part of him that would be needed to make sons.

“Truly, lady, you task my patience. Once we arrive in Wynwydd, I will show you what such behavior will cost you.”

Their stalemate surely lasted for an eternity—he did not move his hands, or any other part of him, and she kept a firm pressure against the blade. Finally, he gathered his thoughts together and squeezed her throat harder for a second. As she reacted to it, he rolled quickly from her, letting go of her mouth and neck and grabbing for the dagger. Twisting her arm and hand until she released her grasp on it, he flung it as far as he could. Climbing to his feet, Braden dragged her with him. When they stood, his man retrieved the dagger and held it out to him.

“I wish not to gag you and truss you up like a goose for the table, but will if need be.” He watched as she staggered to her feet, leaned over and braced her hands on her knees and gasped for breath. “If Lord Orrick’s people are alerted, some may be harmed. I certainly need no more sins marking my black soul. Do you wish to add to your burden?”

Her dark eyes widened once more and he thought she would answer. Her mouth, now swollen from his hand, worked, but no sounds came out. She touched her throat and neck and he saw the bruises under the layer of dirt she wore now. When she stopped gasping, and when Braden was certain he had her compliance, he wrapped his hand around her arm and led her from the stables.

“Lord Braden? Would you like to explain why you abuse my hospitality and seem intent on stealing my stable boy?” Lord Orrick stood blocking his path and a large number of heavily armed soldiers surrounded the stables.

Braden would never know what made him do what he did next. He could blame it on desperation or a need to avenge his humiliation or just simple rage, but some devil sat on his shoulder goading him. Lifting the dagger still in his hand, he turned Joanna toward him, placed the tip of the blade under her tunic and, with one powerful stroke upward, sliced through the layers of clothing on her. He tossed the dagger to
one of his men and took her by the shoulders and turned her to face Lord Orrick.

“This, my lord, is not one of your stable
boys
. This is my betrothed, Lady Joanna of Blackburn.”