Colleen Gleason - Lavender Vows

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.

“Lady Joanna,” Bernard said as he approached. “I wish to have a word with you.” He glanced at Maris, who appeared to be watching with very sharp eyes, and added, “if you would excuse us, my lady. I wish to speak with Jo-Lady Joanna.” His gaze raked over Joanna, touching her from head to toe as though to assure himself that she was all right.

She raised her face high to look up at him, for her head reached only to the top of his broad chest. “Lord Bernard…I did not know you to be such a fine singer.”

She noticed that his eyes were dark, shadowed by the flickering torch light, and his mouth set in a firm line that echoed the straightness of his neat moustache.

“Many thanks, my lady,” he replied, a startled look passing over his face. “But I would wish—”

“Did you not hear Lord Bernard as he sang such beautiful ballads this eve?” Joanna turned casually to Maris. “I vow, there’s never been a minstrel with such a rich voice.”

“Aye, ’tis so,” Maris replied, her gaze moving from one to the other. “Lord Bernard, Lady Joanna is in some pain, and I was just about to—”

“You are hurt? I thought the veil was to hide something.” His face darkened further as he tore the flimsy covering from her head, even as Joanna tried to duck aside.

“Mary, Mother of God….” Maris breathed.

Bernard’s hand fell to his sword even as he reached gently to touch the tender swelling on the side of her face. “He does not deserve to live….” he ground out. “I’ll kill the bastard, by God!”

“Bernard, nay!” Despite her soreness, Joanna grasped his arm, clutching hard ridges of muscle. “Nay, you cannot—do you not be a fool. I am his wife. He can do with me what he will.” She looked up at him and saw a frightening rage in his eyes. “I belong to him.”

Maris stepped forward, brushing one of Joanna’s thick braids back from her temple to look more closely at the bruising all along her face. “He deserves to die, he who would do this. Come, Joanna, I’ll tend you in my chamber.” When Bernard would speak, she looked up at him, “Nay, Bernard—you cannot attend her. You know that. Your task is to ensure that her husband does not return, looking for her, until midnight at the least. Start a fight with him if you must, but keep him away. Now go, you.”

“’Tis a good thing you do not wish to wed, Lady Maris—for I know of few men who would have a termagent such as you,” Bernard muttered.

Joanna drew back, insulted for her new friend and shocked that he would utter such words, but Maris merely laughed. “’Tis my own secret—and now yours—that that is the way I wish it to be. Now make haste!”

But Bernard ignored her command, and instead took Joanna’s hand in his large fingers. He raised it to his lips, brushing his mouth over her palm and the sensitive inside of her wrist. Prickles of warmth skittered up her spine, and she breathed a faint gasp at the unexpected pleasure. The soft bristles of his moustache, and the warmth of his lips pressed one last kiss on the back of her hand before he released it.

“Joanna, would that I could protect you now….But I cannot—not yet. I will find a way, my lady. Have a care tonight, and I will see you on the morrow.” He turned to Maris, giving a faint bow, and added, “My thanks, my lady, for caring for her. If only we could find a way to keep her from her husband.”