Silken Threads (16 page)

“Serjant? Please, serjant, save me.”

With frantic haste, Graeham clawed at the
linen strip that bound the splints together and began unwinding it.
He unwound it and unwound it and unwound it, and still it kept
coming, a neverending ribbon of linen that grew and grew into a
great tangled mass. He would never get it off. It would never
end.

“Serjant...please.”

Graeham leapt off the cot, heedless of the
splint, which disappeared in any event the moment he hit the water.
He’d expected it to be cold, but it was warm, like bathwater, and
very still and quiet now. The mist lay atop it like a great, dense
cloud. It was deep; he had to tread water to keep afloat.

“Where are you?” he called through the
mist.

“Here.”

Graeham saw a shadow up ahead; perhaps it
was her. He swam toward her, the water strangely thick as he moved
through it, like heated oil.

“Is that you?” he asked as he approached the
nebulous figure; in the dark and the fog, he could barely see
her.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said, softly now. “I’ve
come to you. I’ll make you happy.”

Dimly he realized things had gotten turned
around. Now it was she who’d come for him; she who was going to
make
him
happy.

She had her arms outstretched to him,
luminous and beseeching, but her face was still obscured by the
mist. “Come.”

He reached out to her
—
she was right
in front of him now, she was inches from him
—
but his hands
slid right off her, she was so slick and wet.

“Come to me.” He saw her more clearly now.
She closed her eyes, her lips half-parted.

Knowing it was wrong
—
she was a
wedded woman
—
Graeham bent his head to hers, wrapped his
arms around her, but she slipped from his embrace like a wraith.
Her body glided against his as she floated away, buoyed by the
syrupy water. He felt her stiff little nipples graze his chest,
felt the sleek caress of a thigh against his, and instantly grew
hard.

He grabbed her, pulled her to him, felt her
legs open for him fleetingly before she drifted into the dark and
the mist. Thrashing in the thick water, he cried, “Where are
you?”

She touched his back and he spun around and
seized her, or tried to; she was so slippery, so elusive, and he
needed her so desperately, needed to join with her so they wouldn’t
be alone anymore. Their legs pumped slowly in the viscous water,
touching and parting and touching again. He tried to grip her hips
to pull her to him, but his fingers wouldn’t hold her.

Graeham clutched at her, frantic now, hard
as steel, quivering with the need to pierce, to push. Sweat ran
into his eyes as he struggled to capture her, to wrap her legs
around him and ram himself into her. He thrust against her, his
hands slipping and sliding as he grappled for purchase, every light
brush of his erection against her driving him
closer...closer...

“Please,” he begged, writhing in a frenzy of
need as his urgency mounted. “Please...”

Her gaze filled with melancholy, she
dissolved, leaving him splashing in cold water, all alone.

“
Joanna.”
Graeham sat up in bed,
panting. “Jesu.” His ribs throbbed from the abrupt movement; he lay
back down, swallowing a groan of pain. “Jesu,” he breathed
raggedly, dragging trembling hands through his sweat-dampened
hair.

He lowered a hand to his groin, hissing
through his teeth at the sharp jolt of arousal that greeted his
tentative touch. His cock strained painfully, its tip leaking
through his drawers.

Swearing under his breath, he sat
up
—
slowly this time
—
and muttered his Latin drill
until his erection had mostly subsided. He listened carefully for
sounds from the salle but heard nothing. It must be midnight by
now, or even later.

Taking up his crutch, he got out of bed,
crossed to the leather curtain and peeked through. It was dark in
the salle; Joanna had retired for the night.

He made his laborious way down the back
hall, leaning against the wall when he got to the end. It was black
as pitch back here, but by reaching out, he could feel the
iron-reinforced oaken door. The bolt was secure in its slot, as it
should have been. He felt around for the latch string and threaded
it through the hole so it hung outside.

Returning to the storeroom, Graeham fumbled
around in the dark until he located the Roman de Brut on the chest
next to his bed. Sliding out the string he’d been using as a
bookmark, he unshuttered the alley window, double-knotted the
string to one of the window bars, and relatched the shutters.

Then he set his crutch on the floor and lay
back down to wait.

* * *

Joanna awoke to a muffled scraping from
below, which she recognized as the bolt lifting in the back door.
There came a muted squeal of rusty hinges, and then a thump as the
door swung closed.

Graeham must be visiting the privy. She
wished he would use the jake instead. After that night he’d fallen
coming back inside, she worried about his moving around on his own,
especially in the dark. He could easily lose his balance in the
privy. If took a bad fall out in the croft, he could end up lying
out there all night.

She decided to listen until she heard him
come back in, so she’d know he was all right. If she didn’t hear
him reenter the house within a minute or two, she’d go downstairs
and check on him.

* * *

“Serjant.”

Another dream? “Nay...” Graeham moaned,
shaking his head. The first dream had been maddening enough.

“Serjant, I’m here.” Soft hands on him,
stroking his face, his chest, lightly fondling him between his
legs; he stirred, grew rigid. “Wake up, serjant.”

“Joanna?” He reached for her in the darkness
as he opened his eyes. But even before he touched her, he knew by
her thickly sweet scent that this wasn’t Joanna. And then he
remembered. “Leoda.”

“Would you like to call me Joanna?” She was
sitting on the edge of the bed, caressing him nonchalantly through
his drawers.

“Nay.” What point was there in pretending?
This woman wasn’t Joanna. He would never have Joanna. She belonged
to Prewitt, and he was destined for Phillipa. He must stop thinking
of her, stop dreaming about her.

He closed his hand over Leoda’s, molding her
fingers around his thickness, encouraging a firmer caress, a
steadier rhythm.

“That’s quite the fierce cockstand you’ve
got there,” she said approvingly. “Have you been thinking about her
all night, then?”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“As you wish. Shall we have us a nice little
tumble, then?”

“Nay.” Rising onto an elbow, Graeham felt
around for his purse on the floor.

“Poor pup,” she said. “You’re worried about
your leg. I can be on top, and I’ll take care not to hurt you.”

“‘Tisn’t that.” Graeham wouldn’t be able to
pull out with her on top. Leoda was probably still young enough to
get with child, and he’d promised himself a long time
ago
—
when he’d first discovered the circumstances of his
birth
—
that he would sire no bastards of his own if he
could help it. He extracted three pennies from his purse, found her
hand and pressed them into it.

There came a pause as she counted the coins;
he heard a soft clink as she slipped them into her own purse.
“Threepence. So you’re wantin’ somethin’ out of the ordinary.”

“Take me in your mouth,” he said.

“‘Twould be my pleasure, serjant.”

Leaning over him, she tugged at the cord to
his drawers.

Someone gasped. Graeham looked toward the
leather curtain to find it being held open by Joanna, radiant in
the glow from the candle she held. Bright spots of crimson bloomed
on her cheeks as she stared at Leoda’s hands, stilled in the act of
untying his drawers.

Graeham bolted upright, flinching as pain
spiked through his ribs. “Mistress...”

The curtain fell closed. He heard her rapid
footsteps in the rushes, and the squeak of the ladder as she
climbed it, and let out a low, virulent curse.

* * *

Joanna dressed with excruciating care the
next morning, in a kirtle of snowy linen with intricate smocking
along the neck and sleeves. Over this she layered her best tunic, a
fitted gown of gleaming honey-colored silk, delicately pleated in
the sleeves and skirt
—
her wedding gift from Prewitt, which
she’d worn but the once. It laced up the sides with golden cords;
she had the devil of a time getting the two sides to look even and
still have the tunic fit right. The sleeves, which she left
detached beneath the arms for mobility, hung in points to the
floor; she wrapped them around her arms to get them out of the
way.

She glanced toward the uneven little looking
glass nailed above her wash stand and flinched, seeing, in lieu of
her own image, that of Graeham Fox lying on her storeroom cot with
the whore Leoda casually untying his drawers. A sick pain squeezed
her stomach; it hurt her to think of him taking his ease with that
woman. Recognizing the ache inside her for what it
was
—
jealousy
—
Joanna felt chagrined to still be
capable of harboring such naive romantic impulses for any man.

Don’t think about it now, she told herself,
sliding her feet into the gold-dyed goatskin slippers that had come
with the gown. She was going to the Friday fair today. It was to be
a day of pleasure and relaxation, a precious rarity, and she had no
desire to ruin it by ruminating on what had transpired during the
night. Tonight would be soon enough to deal with Graeham Fox.

Joanna tried on the wide, elaborately beaded
girdle she’d worn on her wedding day, but rejected it as unseemly
for a respectable widow. The tunic, although elegant
—
and
flattering
—
was a shade of brown, and therefore acceptable,
and the shoes would barely show, but that girdle was too ornate.
And, as she recalled, hellishly uncomfortable. She looped a narrow
sash around her hips and hung a small embroidered purse from that,
dispensing with the chatelaine; she was trying to look like a
princess, not a shopmaid.

Now for her hair...
Your hair’s your best
feature,
Hugh had said. A proper widow didn’t go out and about
with her hair uncovered, but there were permissible
compromises.

Joanna brushed her hair until it crackled,
parted it neatly down the middle and gathered it in two long
sheafs, which she wrapped tightly in gold ribbons. She draped a
half-circle of the sheerest linen over her head, securing it with
two discreet pins so that it fell in pleasing folds around her face
and shoulders.

Did she need a mantle? The cloak that
matched this dress had long ago succumbed to moths, and her
everyday one wasn’t regal enough. She’d just have to do without;
ladies often dispensed with their mantles when it was warm out, as
it was today.

She inspected her image in the looking
glass. Even discounting the mantle, something was still missing.
“Earrings,” she murmured. She hunted up her only remaining pair,
having sold the rest, and put them on. “You’ll do,” she informed
her reflection.

Joanna came downstairs half-thinking Hugh
might already have arrived to escort her to Smithfield, but he
wasn’t there. The curtain across the storeroom door was closed;
Graeham might still be abed
—
not surprising, given his
nocturnal escapade. She had time to run across the street and visit
with Olive for a spell before she left for the fair.

The poor girl had taken to confiding in
Joanna about a year ago, when her mother began her gradual retreat
into herself. Joanna hated to think of Elswyth as unbalanced,
having known and liked her for years before her sorry decline.

For her part, Joanna was happy to lend an
ear when Olive needed it. She recalled all too vividly how it felt
to be buffeted about by fate and have no one to share her fears
with, no one to counsel her.

Joanna left her shop by the front door and
crossed Wood Street, stepping carefully across the drainage channel
and holding her skirts above the rutted roadbed to keep them from
getting dirty; at least the ground was dry; it hadn’t rained in
days.

The rope maker, Halwende, appraised her
appreciatively as he propped open his shop window. “Good morrow,
mistress. You look like the queen herself this mornin’.”

“Thank you, Halwende.”

A carter hauling bolts of multicolored silks
turned to gape at her as he drove past.

She knocked on the front door of the
apothecary shop, which was still closed up. “We’re not open yet,”
came a girlish voice from within.

“Olive, it’s me,” Joanna said, not too
loudly, lest she disturb Elswyth. “Joanna Chapman.”

The door squealed open. Olive peered out,
her pretty young face framed by that bright froth of hair,
uncovered and unbound as usual; ah, to be a maiden again. “Mistress
Joanna! What brings you across the street this morning?”

“I wanted to talk to you. May I come
in?”

“Of course.” Olive opened the door and stood
aside. “Mistress, look at you! You look so grand.”

“Thank you.” Joanna glanced about the shop,
similar to hers in size and layout, but fitted out with
floor-to-ceiling shelving, on which were arranged myriad jars and
caskets. Bundles of roots, garlic and dried herbs hung from the
rafters, scenting the air with their earthy bouquet. In the center
of the room, half a dozen kettles hung from a toothed rack over a
tile-lined fire pit, cold at present. A work table in front of the
shuttered shop window was laid out with mortars and pestles,
scales, and a stack of thick little blue glass phials.

“Is something wrong?” Olive asked. Usually
it was she who sought Joanna out, not the other way around.