Joanna (8 page)

The Scottish success was of a different order. William of Scotland was a tired man. Whether he had summoned one last spurt of energy in the hope of smoothing the path to the Scottish throne for his young son, Alexander, or whether he had been pushed into the war by his aggressive barons, Winchester could not guess. The end result had been that Salisbury had trapped the Scottish army and John had been able to impose humiliating terms of defeatwithout ever coming to battle at all. The cooperation of the English barons in the Scottish war had nothing to do with the king’s ability to buy mercenaries. It needed no effort to convince any English baron that subduing the Scots was to his benefit. Naturally, even the northerners, who were the most rebellious against John, would agree with him on that subject and would be most enthusiastic about such a campaign.

Essentially, the same was true of this coming Welsh campaign. Without making reference to the past, Winchester said, “I do not think you need to doubt the willingness of your barons to support you against the Welsh. I do not mean to speak against their loyalty, but, my lord, it is in their interest to serve you in this matter.”

“Except those tied in love to the Welsh devil,” the king snarled softly.

Winchester did not bother to remind John that only a year ago he had been calling Llewelyn his “dearest son” and the “Welsh devil” had been married to John’s natural daughter Joan since 1204. Instead, he said, “Who? Oh, you mean de Vipont. I know you do not love him, but”

“He has fled away to Ireland so that he need not answer my summons.”

“Now there, my lord, you are wrong. I have a great value for Ian de Vipont, and I know what he intends because I went to the betrothal of his daughter to your nephew. We spoke of the matter. His levy will be thereevery manand young Geoffrey will lead them.” Winchester knew the king well, but he did not understand the expression that flicked across his face. Before he could ask a question that   would clarify John’s thoughts, however, there was an interruption from Isabella.

“That puling bastard,” she exclaimed, “he”

“No, no, my love,” the king interrupted smoothly. “Geoffrey is a very brave and capable young man. I have told you many times that his birth is nothing against him. But he is young. It is a heavy responsibility for him.”

“I suppose it is your brother Salisbury who will carry the load really,” Winchester remarked neutrally.

“Oh no,” the king said softly, smiling, “I am sure Geoffrey will lead his own men and de Vipont’s too.”

The discussion was making Winchester uneasy. The king had always seemed indifferent to or even slightly to favor his brother’s bastard son, but there was nothing in his face or eyes now and, coupled with the caressing tone, that was a dangerous sign. Salisbury was dotingly fond of his bastard, and Salisbury was the mainstay of the kingdom. Winchester was not in the least sure that Salisbury would remain faithful if anything should happen to Geoffrey and any shadow of suspicion fall upon John. It seemed to the bishop that Salisbury’s fixed, blind affection for his brother was neither so fixed nor so blind as it had been in the past. The earl had been badly shaken by the death of William Braose’s wife and son.

Winchester shifted in his seat and dropped his eyes to the floor. He wished he had not thought of that. The truth was that even he had been shaken by that, and he was neither blind to the faults nor particularly fond of the king. John was growing either indifferent to or careless of showing the true depths of his degradation. He had made no secret of it when he locked Braose’s lady and child into a tower and gave orders that neither food nor water be given to them. The man had committed treason, it was true, and the woman had aided and abetted him and had spoken foolishly and haughtilybut death by starvation was cruel beyond need or reason and the boy was scarce thirteen years old. What had he done? Salisbury had pleaded for Braose’s son on his knees, offering his own legitimate heir as hostage. Winchester sighed. He had pleaded and reasoned alsohoping more that John would satisfy his brother than that any spirit of mercy would move the kingbut he had been equally unsuccessful. The child had died with the mother after weeks of suffering.

That was not all. John had always played fast and loose with the wives and daughters of his nobility, but in the past he had confined himself either to willing women or to those who could be seduced or threatened into willingness. Of late, he did not even bother to put a gloss over what he was doing. He sent openly for any woman his fancy happened to light upon, and if she did not come, he sent men to seize her. Winchester had protested openly about this practice; he had called it a sin against God. John had laughed at himpubliclysaying he could not be more damned than he already was, excommunicated as he had been by the pope. And privately the king had sneered that he did not need to fear sin since, doubtless, he would be absolved for such trifles as rape and murder when he was absolved for the greater sins of flouting the Holy Father’s will andworse yetlaying hands upon Church property.

“So the bastard is betrothed,” Isabella sneered, breaking into Winchester’s thoughts. “You see, my lord, I said your brother would not care for your preferences. He has betrothed his son to the daughter of your enemy.”

“You do not understand William,” John replied, a little more sharply than he usually spoke to Isabella. “His purpose is to bind de Vipont to me more firmly by making a blood bond with him.”

Although she did not answer in words, Isabella tossed her head. “Is the girl still as red as a fox? she asked. “I remember her when she came to court with Lady Ela.”

“Yes,” Winchester replied shortly. It was never wise to praise other women to Isabella.

“And a bitch like the mother, no doubt?” John asked.

“Oh no.” Isabella answered before Winchester could speak. “Not at all. She is a pious prude and as meek as a nun’s hen. What could she be else with such a mother.   Lady Alinor has trodden all the life out of her.”

Now Winchester was more than uneasy; he was actively frightened. It had not escaped his keen eye that despite her placid manners there was nothing at all downtrodden about Joanna and that Salisbury was almost as fond of her as he was of his own son. To meddle with Joanna was to court immediate disaster. Yet to say a word on the subject was to invite catastrophe by sparking the king’s interest and the queen’s spite. Fortunately at that moment the child in the cradle began to wail, Richard jumped up, scattering his toys, and young Henry went to see what had disturbed his sister. Winchester blessed all three with sincerity, even wishing he was a holier man so that his blessing would be more effective.  
p.

On the evening before Geoffrey’s departure, Joanna admitted to herself that she was sadly disappointed by the remainder of his stay at Roselynde. Her anticipation had come to nothing. After that hot afternoon they had spent talking of church and state affairs, no other tête-á-tête had occurred. Joanna could not say that Geoffrey was avoiding her deliberately; that would be ridiculous. Why should he? However, he certainly was keeping very busy.

First, he had wanted to hunt. Joanna had been surprised, but had obligingly sent out her huntsmen to mark game. The next day it was the fishing villages that drew his attention. He would ride the coast and check on the watchtowers and speak to the people. Joanna assured him that she was well accustomed to that duty.

“Yes, yes,” Geoffrey had agreed hurriedly, bolting his breakfast, “but while Ian is away the people had better become accustomed to seeing me.”

Joanna stared at him blankly. Every man on every demesne knew Geoffrey well. What kind of a lunatic reply was that? Joanna waited dinner an hour past its time and sat late in the hall, but Geoffrey did not return until long after she was abed. He had met young Bosham, he explained the next morning, and had gone home to dinner with him; then they had made a night of it.

“You look it,” Joanna had said icily.

Geoffrey had the grace to blush, but he did not take the hint. Soon after he broke his fast, he was off again. Whether he came in to dinner, Joanna did not know. She had retreated to her own chamber in the women’s quarters and informed her maids that she did not wish to be disturbed.   There she learned that cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face is painful and unsatisfying. She was furious with Geoffrey, although she could not name a discourtesy or a fault to be furious about, and even more furious with herself for being furious. She did not understand
why
she should be angry.

Having spent the afternoon and evening enduring the battle between her pride, which refused to permit her to ask her maids whether Lord Geoffrey had come in, and her good sense, which told her it was ridiculous to torment herself only to appear indifferent, Joanna began reluctantly to prepare for bed. Tears came to her eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently, furious again because she was crying about nothing. Indeed, she did not even know
what
the nothing was she was crying about.

All she could think of as she removed her wimple and allowed her braids to fall was that Geoffrey had not sent to inquire about her. That was ridiculous! Probably he was not even in Roselynde and, even if he was, why should he send for her? The servants knew him long and would obey him in any household attention he might desire. Why should he wonder whether she was ill? She never was. Everyone knew she was as strong as a horse; all the Devauxs and Lemagnes were. Slowly Joanna’s fingers undid her braids. She had not summoned her women. She would not permit them to see her senseless distress. Tears came again. Before Joanna could lift a hand to wipe them away, a large wet tongue squelched across her face.

‘‘Brian, no!” Joanna exclaimed, pushing the dog away and wiping her face on her sleeve. The animal whined, and Joanna looked at him. Poor thing. Partly he was responding to her mood, she knew, but also the poor beast had been confined all day. Joanna felt terribly guilty. She had not thought to tell someone to take him out. “Come,” she said, and rose hastily.

Either Geoffrey had not yet come in or he had already gone to bed, Joanna thought. The hall was lit only by a few torches; no candles burned in the family area, and the fire   had been banked, only a few dull embers showing through the layer of ash. Joanna passed softly down the stairs after her glance through the doorway. There was no sense in waking the menservants who were already asleep on their pallets along the walls.

There was no challenge as Joanna passed out of the forebuilding into the inner bailey. The moon was well up and her hair was so red that it identified her even in that colorless light. Had she been in the shadow, it would have made no difference; the huge dog was a guarantee that the person accompanying him was a member of the household. Brian bounded into the open area joyfully. Joanna watched him for a few minutes and then walked around the corner and opened the gate to the garden.

The few night-blooming flowers spread their pale trumpets wide and Joanna touched first one and then another gently, soothed and comforted. Although she knew the garden as well as or better than she knew her own bedchamber, it was different at night. The scents were sweeter, she thought, and more exotic. A fitful breeze came in off the sea, salt and tangy yet mixed with the sweetness of the roses that grew on the cliffs. The scent drew her off to the right, down the path that led to the rose garden. She would sit there on the bench for a few minutes and breathe the sweetness until Brian signaled his desire to go in again.

The roses were thick on the trellises now, and the bench was shadowed from the moonlight. Nonetheless, there was something odd”Who is there?” Joanna said imperiously.

“IGeoffrey.”

She hesitated. “Are you lying in wait for me again?”

He laughed. “No. I thought you were abed.”

“What are you doing here?”

This time he hesitated, then instead of answering said provocatively, “I could ask the same question.”

The provocative tone did not escape Joanna. Although she had already confessed by her second question that she remembered that they had met in secretif so innocent a meeting could be said to be secretin this spot before their   betrothal, an imp of perversity seized Joanna. She would not give him the satisfaction of mentioning her memory again.

“I,” she said haughtily, “had to take Brian out. Since I did not feel obliged to stand and watch him, I came here to sit a while.” She did not wait for a comment, but asked, “Did you come in to dinner
today?
”

“You must know I did not.”

“I did not know itand it is just as well you did hot, for there was no dinner fitting for you ordered.”

A silence fell. Geoffrey did not say, as Joanna expected, that he had eaten worse fare than the servants had when on the march. He got slowly to his feet, almost as if he did not realize what he was doing. He came a step or two closer to Joanna and stretched a hand to touch her loose, flowing hair. Undone from its braids, it hung nearly to her knees, gleaming bright as red gold even in the moonlight, which bleached both their faces bone white.

“Where have you been all day?” Joanna asked breathlessly, less because she cared than because she had to say something quickly.

“Hiding from the devil,” Geoffrey replied thickly.

He had a handful of her hair now, and he lifted it to his face. In spite of the roses that hung all around them, its scent was different, sharp and spicy-sweet, an odor to which Geoffrey could not put a name. He closed his hand on the hair and pulled gently. Perforce, Joanna came closer. She put up her own hand, ostensibly to make him let go, but when she touched him she made no effort to unwind his fingers from what they held.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, very nearly in a whisper and without any real knowledge of what she said. As that past day at dinner, she was quiveringly aware of Geoffrey’s physical being, of his male odor, of the warmth of his body, of the strength of his hand under hers.

The answer she got was not in words. Geoffrey’s free hand went round her and drew her tight against him. His mouth came down hard on her slightly parted lips. This was   no kiss of peace. Joanna’s first reaction was surprise at the pleasure the new kiss gave her. All at once the blood seemed to rush from her extremities to her body. Her arms and legs felt weak, her head too light. Only her lips, her breasts, and her loins seemed real to her, tingling and pulsing. The rest had become insubstantial. There could be no thought of pushing Geoffrey away. Her hand would not touch him at all; it would crumple, as a veil of silk blown outward by the wind crumples when it touches something hard.