Rexanne Becnel (39 page)

But then, why had she ever expected him to? she berated herself as she curled up on a hard pallet and wrapped a coarse woolen blanket about herself. She knew better than anyone that men did not concern themselves with women’s feelings, so why was she so disappointed now? She had no choice but to endure this visit as best she could. But once she was at Blaecston he would not so easily remove her to Oxwich again.

As sleep closed in on her she admitted to herself that she had hoped for more from him. Once their marriage vows had been spoken, her opposition to their union had disappeared. After all, the vows could not be undone. Even the idea of children, which at first had alarmed her so, had grown into a comforting spot of warmth in her heart. Her children—hers and Rylan’s. Even now the thought softened her toward him.

Oh, but she was a fool, she told herself. He was her husband, true. But he was not a man to trust. Still, when sleep finally claimed her, she held close to the only comfort she could find: a blue-eyed boy with dark curls; a laughing girl …

They were mounted and underway before dawn. Joanna’s legs nearly buckled beneath her as she approached the palfrey. How could simply sitting on a horse test her muscles so sorely? As if he anticipated her weakness, Rylan was at her elbow.

“Would you prefer to ride before me?” he asked as he wrapped one strong arm about her waist.

Joanna steeled herself against the solicitous tone in his voice. Easy for him to be kind when her body was sore and hurting. Why could he not be so for her aching heart? Why could he not care that she dreaded—and feared—returning to Oxwich?

“I can ride,” she muttered as she eyed the horse awaiting her. Even if it killed her she would ride alone, she vowed. She could not suffer his touch this day of all days.

But that was not precisely true, she admitted as she settled gingerly upon the animal. She could not suffer his touch and the softening effect it always had on her. She wanted to maintain her anger at him, to revel in it. Riding cushioned in his strong embrace would make it too easy to give in to him and go along. And that she could not do.

As they made their way in the misty predawn, riding in the same defensive arrangement as before, Joanna sighed wearily. What she was doing was wrong—holding on to her anger in this way. The church bade that she forgive and forget, that she seek peace and harmony with her husband and submit to his will so long as it did not run contrary to the laws of God. Yet even a lifetime of yielding to the teachings of her church could not overcome the fear that rose in her now. A day’s ride from Oxwich and every step bringing her closer. In the shadowy light she could imagine it all over again. The dark space under the bed. The thudding noise. The weeping.

Joanna rubbed the thin white scar on her wrist, unaware of her action. She understood so much more now than she had as a child. About the rhythmic thudding noise. About her mother’s monthly distress. There had been more, though. Her father had spoken another man’s name, a man he said had been killed.

She shook her head in confusion. Had her mother wept for her father’s cruelty, or the loss of this other man? Perhaps both. She frowned. Oh, why could she not just put this all out of her head? she moaned as she rubbed her throbbing temple. It had all happened so long ago. Parts of it were as clear as yesterday while other things were mired in a fog that would not lift.

But despite her confusion, one thing was completely clear. Rylan was taking her to Oxwich whether she wished to go or not. He was just as untrustworthy as she had suspected. As unyielding and overbearing as her father had been. It boded very ill for the life they now began together.

Dawn did not bring much comfort. The day remained gloomy, overcast with low-hanging clouds. The mist stayed on the land till near midday, only to be replaced by a slow, depressing drizzle. Though provided with a
chape à pluie,
Joanna was nonetheless miserable. The tender skin of her inner thighs was rubbed raw. The muscles themselves ached, and her headache had worsened.

The noontime respite only made remounting worse, for she feared she could not bear it. But she gritted her teeth and ignored Rylan’s watchful gaze.

The afternoon passed in a haze of rain, mud, and excruciating pain. When the late twilight finally gave way to night and the familiar scent of figwort and willow herb alerted her to their proximity to Oxwich and the end of their journey, she was almost happy. Anything to be off this horse she rode!

But when the dark form of Oxwich Castle loomed before her, she forgot her physical misery. Faint lights lit the ramparts and pierced the iron gateway. A figure moved—or was it simply a trick of her eyes?—and for an instant she felt her father awaited her. Though she knew it could not be, her heart nevertheless pounded against her chest and her mouth grew dry with fear. She would have lagged behind but the tight cluster of other riders prevented it. Only when they slowed before the dry moat and the closed gate at the end of the wooden bridge was she able to clear her head of the formless terrors that tormented her. It was just a pile of stone, she told herself. The castle at Oxwich was no more than stones stacked high and strong upon an ancient earthwork mound.

“Come forward, Joanna. We shall seek entrance together.” Rylan’s voice and the touch of his fingers upon her arm roused her. “Take heart,” he said as he took the reins from her hand. “We shall soon seek out our beds and recover from this ordeal.”

Joanna could not answer. The combination of physical exhaustion and this emotional confrontation with the home of her youth—the source of her nightmares—left her too numb to speak.

“Open the gate and admit your new lord and his lady,” Kell called out imperiously. “Sir Rylan Kempe, Lord Blaecston, and his wife, the Lady Joanna Preston of Oxwich.”

Joanna heard the excited murmurs that arose from inside the gate. But all she could think was that she’d never before heard Kell speak so many words at one time.

“Does the Lady Joanna ride with you?” an old man’s voice replied.

“She does.” Rylan urged his destrier forward into the light of several torches which had been thrust through the iron gate. When he and Joanna were within arms reach of the gate, he pulled back her hood and his own.

“’Tis she,” a woman’s voice cried. “She’s her mother’s hair.”

“But she is a nun,” the old man’s voice rose in dissent.

“Almost a nun,” Rylan retorted. “Our marriage prevented her from taking her vows. But as you can see, she is wearied unto dropping. We left our marriage table to ride straightaway here. Now open this gate and give us a proper welcome.”

In a matter of moments the gate began to inch up with a screech of protesting gears. What little debate there had been had obviously disappeared at the sight of her. Was she so like her mother as that woman had said? No matter how she tried, however, Joanna could not remember her mother’s face nor anything else of her appearance. A swan was what came to mind. A serene and distant swan.

In short order they were welcomed into the great hall by the seneschal, Sir Harris Ponder. Upon seeing his narrow face and thinning gray hair, Joanna recalled the old bachelor. One or two other faces did she also recognize, but most remained strangers to her.

“Welcome, milord. Milady,” Sir Harris said with a sweeping bow. “Forgive our poor showing, but had we known of your arrival, we would have prepared—”

“’Tis of no consequence, Ponder,” Rylan interrupted the man, but with a smile planted firmly on his face. “We do not expect a feast. Bread, cheese, and ale will suffice. There is time enough on the morrow to tour the estates and meet our people. Tonight we seek only our beds. See you that the servants prepare a place for all of my men.”

The servants who yet wandered sleepily into the hall to see what the late-night commotion was needed no word from Sir Harris to set them to their tasks. The commanding presence of their new lord and his confidently voiced request were enough to bring ewers of ale in from the alehouse, and platters of cheeses, breads, and broken meats over from the kitchens. Just as quickly were rugs and blankets brought out from the storerooms. By the time Rylan and Joanna had finished their brief meal, arrangements for everyone had been made and the men had begun to head for their beds.

“Direct us to the master’s chambers,” Rylan said after draining his mug.

“Yes, milord. ’Tis freshly cleaned and awaiting your presence. We had the whole of the castle well washed with quicklime. You’ve not to fear for the fever here any longer. We’ve poisoned the spirits that brought it upon us and had every room blessed.” The old fellow bobbed his head earnestly.

Rylan nodded absently at the man as he turned to escort Joanna. Joanna, however, peered at the seneschal through eyes that burned with fatigue.
“All
the evil spirits?” she questioned bitterly. “Neither quicklime nor a hundred priests’ blessings can rid this place of all its evil—” She broke off as a sob rose in her throat. The old man stared at her in alarm, as if he feared some evil spirit did indeed still inhabit Oxwich’s halls. But Rylan saw deeper and Joanna knew it. Her fears trembled perilously on the surface of her control, while he waited for them to break through.

With a low cry of desperation she whirled and ran toward the steep stairs that led up from the end of the hall. Rylan meant to take the master’s chambers, but she could not go there. In unreasoning panic she fled to the only place that had ever provided her comfort at Oxwich. Up the stairs she flew, but just part of the way. Then into the wall chamber recessed in the massive stone walls, into the dark enclosure that had been her own.

The space was low and very dim. Her head almost brushed the rough ceiling. But a rug lay upon the floor and a fur throw was folded in one corner. As she’d done a hundred nights—a thousand—Joanna pulled her feet up into her skirts and flung the fur robe over her so that even her head was covered. Then she lay still and silent, fighting down her tears and counting her breaths as she’d done as a child. Waiting for the entire castle to settle into slumber.

It was not long before footsteps signaled someone’s ascent on the stairs. All other movement and noises had ceased save for an occasional call from somewhere beyond the hall. The steps came slowly—wearily—then stopped before her little niche. Joanna knew before he spoke that it was Rylan. How could it not be?

When he did speak, however, it was not to berate her or order her out. Instead he sat down within the niche and sighed.

“I would not have us begin our married life with fear between us,” he stated quietly. “You have learned enough of me by now, Joanna, to know that in our marriage bed at least we find some harmony. I would not have you flee from me.”

Joanna struggled not to weep as his patient words washed over her. “’Tis not—” She broke off, swallowing the sob that threatened to choke her. “I cannot … not here …”

“Of course not here. This little hole is too small. Too hard.” One of his hands reached out to rest upon her hip. “Let’s away to the bed upstairs.”

“No!” Joanna rolled away from his touch. She ignored the pain in her legs and scrambled away until she felt the cold outer wall against her back. In the entrance to the wall chamber Rylan was faintly outlined by the dim light that came from the hall below.

“Joanna, be reasonable,” he murmured, never moving. “We are man and wife, wed in the eyes of both God and man. You cannot think to hold me off—”

Joanna shook her head wildly. “Not up there. I will not go up there!”

In the ensuing pause only her ragged breathing broke the silence. Then he sighed and leaned over. His boots fell one at a time onto the stairs. He peeled his tunic off and then his shirt. Finally he removed his chausses so that he was clad only in his loosened braies. Moving slowly and deliberately—and without speaking at all—he rolled onto the rug beside her. He lay back in the dark as if he were waiting. When she did not move, however, he turned onto his side, propped his head up on one of his arms, and stared at her.

“Why do you fear this place?”

A shiver ran through Joanna. “I … I do not fear it.” She swallowed and tried to slow her harried breathing. “I do not fear it. But I do hate it.”

He seemed to mull that over. “Tell me why.”

Joanna stared at him from across the small space that separated them. In the dark of the enclosure he was an indistinct shape, a large shadow that separated her from the freedom she sought. Yet as she crouched there, her thighs aching, her eyes burning, and so utterly weary that she could drop, she knew there was no freedom that way. Not really. Wherever she were to flee—the priory, to court, even to Blaecston—it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t belong in any of those places. She didn’t fit in. But she didn’t belong here either. Most certainly not here. She had never felt more alone than she did at that moment.

Without warning she began to cry. Her hands covered her lowered face and she wept, huddled miserably in the corner.

At once Rylan was next to her, pulling her close and cushioning her hard sobs against his chest. Joanna burrowed instinctively into his comforting embrace, welcoming any solace that was offered. Yet his kindness only served to let down the floodgates even further. Every pain from her childhood came back to hurt her again. All the feelings of loss and of being abandoned. Her father’s distance. Her mother’s death. Then the three years she had been forced to remain within these cold and hated walls.

Her body shook in terrible spasms as the fears she’d repressed so long finally surfaced. She cried hot salty tears against Rylan’s bare chest until she had no tears left to shed. Even then, however, her sobs would not cease.

But he held on to her, pulling her onto his lap, folding her in his arms. Her face pressed against his throat as her anguish poured out. His quiet comfort surrounded her throughout her storm of emotions, but she was only marginally aware of it. It was not the soothing caress of his hands she felt, but the reassuring touch of human caring. It was not the strong and reliable beat of his pulse beneath her ear, but the reminder of life—other lives connected still to hers. He was there, living and breathing, holding her as if he meant never to let her go, and she succumbed willingly to the promise of the future he offered.