Colleen Gleason - Lavender Vows

Maris had been watching the two of them, and now she spoke. “I do not wish her to be in his custody any more than you do, Bernard, but she is his wife. There is no means of interference. Yet, I will think on it, and see if there is aught that can be done to somehow arrange a reprieve.”

Bernard bowed and turned away. He took two steps, stopped, and turned back, holding Joanna’s veil. “I shall wear your favor on the lists tomorrow.” Then he strode off.

“Come, Joanna.” Maris once again slipped her arm through hers.

“’Tis dangerous for Bernard,” Joanna said as they paced along the corridor. “Ralf—my husband—bears ill will toward him.”

Maris looked at her, faint amusement showing in her face. “It would appear that Bernard can protect himself, Joanna. I am most concerned with you and your fate.” The humor faded from her expression. “Here.” She stopped in front of a door and opened it for them to enter. She spoke immediately to the young servant within. “Anna, do you sit out side of the door and knock should anyone approach.” As her maid hurried to do her bidding, Maris gently pulled Joanna into the chamber and directed her to sit on the bed.

“Now, let us get that gown off. I trow there is more anger hidden beneath it.”

Her bruises were so painful that Joanna was forced to allow Maris to assist her in disrobing, and when the other woman saw the marks and cuts on her back, arms, and legs, she knelt beside her, clasping her hand.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at Joanna. “How do you bear it?” she asked. “How do you bear it so bravely, so strongly?” A gentle hand smoothed down her back—the first touch Joanna had received on bare skin that was not designed to hurt.

She moved her shoulders in an awkward shrug. “I have no choice. ’Tis my lot.” She pressed her hand onto Maris’s. “I could hide in my chambers all the day—’tis true—or end my life, or cower and squeak like no more than a mouse. An’ there are times when I must try to be invisible, and there are times when the merest noise causes me to jump—for it might be him.”

She took a deep breath as Maris rose, and confessed the secret which burned deep inside her. “I am most likely damned, for I cannot accept my lot. I know that I must be obedient to my husband—that he owns me, and may do with me what he will….but I cannot accept that.”

“And well you should not.” Maris returned to the bed, carrying a thick leather satchel. She flipped it open, and it unrolled, exposing small pouches, packets wrapped in leather and parchment, and other utensils. “God helps those who help themselves, and accepting of such a life is foolish. You will be killed if he continues like this.”

Joanna drew in her breath deeply as Maris began to smooth a soothing salve onto her bruised face, and down to the shoulder that had been jolted by the man-at-arms in the hall.

She took some small, dried green leaves and, crumbling them in her hands, sprinkled them over the salve on Joanna’s shoulder where Ralf’s knife had cut her. “Woad. Dried woad will ease the pain and start the healing. Jesu , no man should be allowed to live after this!”

Joanna laughed bitterly. “Aye. There are many a night when I contemplate ways to send him to his death. But ’twould be almost as much of a sin—more, aye—than what he does to me.” She passed a shaking hand over her hair, pushing a thick lock from her face. “But I’ve dreamed of it.”

“You are a better woman than I—for I would have done it after the first moon of enduring such treatment, damnation or nay.” Maris pressed a strip of cloth onto the herb-sprinkled salve. “Can your father not help? Can you not flee to him for protection?”

“’Tis my father who gave me to Ralf. He does not care—he says what all men say: that a wife belongs to her husband.”

“Another reason I shall never wed,” Maris said, dabbing something onto another fresh cut. It stung, but not so much as the leather whipcord had, and Joanna barely flinched.

“You shan’t wed?”

“Nay. My father will not force me, and I do not wish to be bound to a man.”

Joanna shook her head slowly. “I do not mind being wed—but to a man such as Ralf, ’tis hell. When I leave, I shall have no—” Realizing what she’d said, she bit back her words and froze into silence.

“Leave?”

Joanna said nothing, cursing herself for letting her tongue relax.

“Is Bernard to help you to leave? Do you run off with him?” Maris looked sharply at her. “Do not tell me you are Bathsheba to his David.”

“Nay, oh nay! I would not allow it of him—or anyone. If Ralf does find me, he’ll kill me, and whoever would be with me, and whoever might have helped me along the way.”

Miraculously, Joanna’s pain began to ebb, and her head to clear as she continued to speak. “Ralf does not allow me to leave the keep at Swerthmoor, but he could not keep me from coming to my sister’s wedding celebration, so I have this chance—this one chance—to run from him. I have been saving gold pieces, waiting for such an opportunity. He does not notice the small amount missing.”

“Where will you go?”

“I know of an abbey nearby—as I grew up here. The sisters will take me in, and hide me, I am certain. I shall live in a cloister all the rest of my days. If Ralf does not find me, and follow me, I shall be safe. And….” she hesitated.

“Is there more?”

“Aye. My father has a map of this keep, for there is a tale of great treasure hidden in the warren of secret tunnels beneath it. I plan to take the map during the tourney on the morrow, and it is with its help and through the tunnels that I’ll take my flight. Thus I will get outside of the walls unseen.”

“If it is so legendary, does not your husband know of the map?”

“Aye, and therein is my trick. Ralf has demanded that I obtain it from my father, but he will not ask for it on his own. He knows my father will not give it to him.” Joanna’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I will make a false copy and to give to Ralf—and use the true one for my own purposes.”

Maris stopped her work to grin at her. “Clever girl. For even should he attempt to follow you, he will be lost.”

“Aye.”

They were silent for a moment—Joanna enjoying the touch of a healer and the moment where she need not fear that her peace would be interrupted. Maris worked quickly and with great efficiency.

When she finished her work, Maris carefully rolled up the leather satchel and walked to a large trunk beside the fireplace. As she turned, she spoke. “What of Bernard, Joanna? How does he figure into this scheme?”

’Twas a question Joanna had avoided in her own mind, and now she was face to face with it. “I do not know. Any involvement with me will anger Ralf….but Bernard has promised to free me from my husband. In sooth, I do not know how he would—other than to murder him.” She looked at Maris, who stood solemnly watching her, aware of her earlier question regarding David and Bathsheba. “Nay. He is an honorable man. He would not do that.”

“Do you care for him?”

“Aye.” Oh, aye . She could not think of him without a smile starting to rim her face, and a warmth bubbling within—and a sadness that he’d come into her life so tardily.

She stood, thrusting those thoughts away. “I must take your leave now, Maris. I am so very grateful that we have met—and I thank you for tending to me.”

There was an awkward moment before Maris stepped forward to embrace her gingerly—but even so, Joanna drew in her breath at the pain.

“Have a care, Joanna. I would sit with you on the morrow to watch the jousting.”

“Thank you again. I will find my own way to my chamber.” And with that, Joanna slipped out the door and back into her life of hell.