Lavender Vows

IV.

As it was most often, Bernard’s instinct was accurate. He made an early visit to the stables and found Joanna within.

She halted in the act of climbing a ladder into the loft of the stable when he approached, and for the barest moment, a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. But then, she gestured for him to join her as she continued her ascension.

“Good morrow, my lady,” Bernard said in a low voice as he stepped onto the thick hay, joining her in the loft. He ducked nearly double to walk toward her, finally sinking into a spot next to her.

“Good morrow, my lord.” She glanced briefly at him, then, as though shy in his presence, turned her attention to Cleome—who nestled comfortably in a pile of straw. As he watched, she withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel, unfolding it to reveal a bit of meat and cheese.

“Are you well?” he asked, scrutinizing her as well as he could in the dim light. “I had to see that Ralf did you no further ill last eve.”

“Nay. He returned to the chamber very late, and fell asleep immediately. ’Twas strange, as he had not had much ale to drink at dinner.” She fed Cleome from her hand.

Bernard could not keep a satisfied smile from his face. He’d taken care to keep Ralf from returning to the chamber by soundly defeating the man in a very long game of dice. ’Though Ralf’s parting words were an angry threat to meet him on the lists this day, Bernard gave little thought to the warning. “Good.”

He reached for her hand, gently taking the remainder of Cleome’s food from her fingers, and turning Joanna to face him. “Come hither, my lady. I wish for a token from you before I joust this day.”

“But you have my favor,” she replied in confusion.

“I speak not of that favor, but of another, sweeter, one.” With a gentle tug, he brought her shoulders and face closer to him. “Now, where we cannot be seen, might I take a soft kiss from you, my lady? As though I were going into battle?”

Her lips curved softly, and her cheeks warmed. “Aye, my lord, though I am not well-practiced in the art of kissing. I would that you should teach me.”

Her simple statement caused a great surge of affection and desire to course through him. In what other arts would she need tutoring?

“Joanna….” He fitted his hands around her face, cupping her chin with his palms and curving his fingers about the back of her neck. Her braids rested heavily against his wrists, and her sweet, fresh scent filled him, even before he brought his mouth to cover hers. She raised her eyes trustingly, and for the moment, he was taken aback that she—who had been so abused by a man—should so easily come to trust him. He was humbled, for he would never have been able to open himself thus.

Her lips parted as he covered them, and the hint of warm moistness tasted as it had before—of strawberries and freshness. This time, however, Bernard took more than the faint brushing of lips in the garden. He fitted his mouth to hers, nibbling on her lips, delving into her mouth, inhaling the essence of Joanna.

She gave a soft moan that vibrated against his lips, sending a new wave of arousal through him. She lifted her hands from their place in the hay, shifting so that she leaned into him, and brought her fingers to gently touch the curls on his head. His scalp came alive at that unfamiliar touch, tingles shooting down the back of his neck and along his spine. Then, as she kissed him with growing fervor, her hands smoothed down over his ears and to his shoulders, where their heat burned him, but their weight was barely noticeable.

Pulling her to his chest so that their torsos fit together as they knelt in the straw, he deepened the kiss—fighting to keep from frightening her with his desire, but needing to get his fill. It was the softness, the gentleness, the clean womanness of her scent that he held and wanted…and through the haze of irrational desire, vowed he would have.

At last, she pulled away, and he opened his eyes to see whether he’d taken too much from her. But the swollen curve of her lips, and the soft light in her eyes told him that, nay, she had been plundered no more than what she herself had desired. When she raised her hand to touch his cheek, smoothing the bristles of hair that grew there, he smiled and her fingers slipped near his mouth. She traced his lips, hidden by the moustache, before he captured her hand for a last kiss in her palm.

“Enough, now, my lady—else I shall not be at my best on the lists this day.” With reluctance, he set her away from him and moved himself back so as to be out of easy reach of temptation.

God’s bones, she was beautiful, all plump-lipped and heavy-eyed, with her hair still perfectly braided and coiled in swirls on her head. Bernard nearly pulled her to him again, but caught himself in time.

“I shall carry that favor in my heart, and this one”—he pulled a scrap of white from the sleeve of his tunic—“on my lance.”

“Oh, Bernard, you had best not. Please, should Ralf see it….”

“He would recognize this piece of cloth as yours?” he asked, pulling it through his hands. It was soft, as she was, and smelled of her—and well he knew, for he’d slept with it on his pillow the last eve.

“Oh, yes, Bernard. Ralf has the most discerning eye for such things.” She looked at him with such fear in eyes that had been dazed with desire only moments before.

“Then I shall wear this favor near my heart,” he told her. With a quick jerk, he had his over tunic off, and then his sherte, leaving him bare-chested. At the sight of him, she drew in her breath deeply and Bernard could not help but the swell of pride that she should react thus. After all, she had been the victim of a man as powerfully as he.

She watched him as he wrapped the white linen veil around his hirsute, muscular chest, and, as though she could not remain away any longer, moved forward to take the ends of the veil and tie it herself. Then her hands slipped boldly—so boldly for his shy, demure Joanna—up through the thick coarse hair and over the top of his shoulders, sending the same searing heat that came from her gaze.

“You are wondrous,” she told him. “And ’tis all the more miraculous that you have the gentleness of a mare about you. With such strength, you could rule the simple life of anyone.”

Touched, and shamed that his fellow man should be the cause of such grief, Bernard reached to stroke her face, gently, over the purpling bruise. It took great effort not to ruin the moment by allowing the cold fury he felt toward her husband to burst forth. “One with my strength has no need to prove his power at the expense of a weaker one. Nor should any man need have that urge. I am sorry that you should have experienced this yourself. Joanna, I will protect you. I will find a way.”

She tipped her face to touch her mouth to his, then drew back before the kiss could deepen. “Aye, Bernard….and God be with you on the lists today—for Ralf does bear you ill. You do not intend to meet him, do you?”

His eyes jolted wide in surprise. “But of course I will meet him, Joanna. Knocking the whoreson on his arse will be the greatest pleasure for me. Would that I could do more damage, but of course, I cannot in such a tournament. But I vow that you’ll have naught to worry you on this eve, for Ralf will be in no shape to raise a hand to you.”

Sweat trickled down his back and along the sides of his cheeks as the noon sun beat down upon him. Bernard shifted the heavy, straight lance in his hand, testing its weight even as he reined back Rock from his eagerness to leap forward.

A roar of approval rose from the crowd that lined both sides of the jousting lists as a lance found its mark on a second pass, dumping an unfortunate jouster onto the dusty ground. The victor raised his lance and galloped along the front of the stands, kicking up more dust and causing a greater shout from the crowd.

“Lord Bernard of Derkland…challenged by Sir Marven de Hanover.”

A thrill of anticipation shot through him as Bernard wheeled Rock forward to take their place at one end of the list. His squire, Rowan, handed him first his helm, then his shield. Bernard glanced briefly at the crowd, in hopes of locating Joanna, but did not place her before the signal to commence was given.

Bernard did not know Sir Marven, and he did not care why the man challenged him—’twas likely for no other reason than the opportunity to gain a greater purse. He looked down the list at his opponent, noting that he was a solid, well-built man who rode a passable mount. Though size was helpful in most competitions, in jousting it was not as important as skill and balance. A large man could easily be unseated by a skilled jouster, regardless of whether the opponent was of his size or nay.

Bernard snapped to attention as the signal sounded and dug his heels into Rock’s straining body. The destrier was ready for his first action of the day, and leapt forward, taking one bounding step where the opponent’s mount took three. Wind rushed over him, cooling Bernard’s sweaty face and neck, as he positioned the lance, aiming it for his opponent’s right shoulder. One good hit with the blunted lance, which not meant to injure, only to unseat, and Sir Marven would tumble to the ground.

The lance lay across his thigh, pinned firmly under his arm and held in place by Bernard’s left hand, while the other slanted his shield for protection. When the lance struck his opponent’s shield, the long wooden pike barely moved, so true was its aim. Marven fell neatly off his mount and onto the ground.

Bernard turned Rock to ride back again, glancing at the man to assure himself he’d attained no injury, and then along the line of spectators, still hoping to see Joanna. He was rewarded this time, for he saw her, sitting next to Maris near the middle of the stands. He nodded in the general direction of the crowd, but when he placed his hand over his heart, and the hidden favor that rested beneath his tunic, ’twas meant for her.

He galloped back to where Rowan and his father waited as the next challenge was announced.

“Fine job, son,” greeted Harold as his son wheeled up to him, removing his helm. “It wasn’t a sufficient test of your abilities, but ’twas over quickly and simply.” Coughing and waving the dust out of his eyes, he looked up with a smirk. “Do you not wear the favor of your lady?”

“Aye, that I do—but ’tis not for your eyes, Father.” He handed the lance and helm to his squire and swiped an open hand over his damp curls. “And do not give me a look with that smugness, for you have no reason to believe your machinations have come to fruition.”

Harold’s thick brows rose up a high forehead. “Oh, aye? And did I not see you with mine own eyes head-to-head with Lady Maris last eve, and did I not see you follow in her steps out of the Hall? You can not fool me with such protestations, as I saw where your eyes led over yonder.” He gestured toward the spectator stands, and still the satisfied smile curved his face.

Bernard’s response was lost as his name was again announced, coupled with a different challenger. With a smile of pleasure, he kicked Rock, and they bounded off for the lists.

The powerful thrust of his opponent’s lance was poorly aimed, but nearly unseated Bernard on the second pass. He held firm in the saddle, taking the brunt of the blunted lance in the shoulder of the arm wielding the pike. Even through the mail that protected his body, Bernard felt the strength of the man’s blow.

On the third pass, the same lance struck the same sore spot on Bernard’s shoulder, and he cursed aloud as the pain intensified. His aim was true, though, and he took pleasure in watching his stocky opponent waver, then fall from the saddle just as they passed each other. With a grunt of triumph, Bernard allowed his own lance to his rest on his thighs, and prodded Rock into a canter back to his squire.

Groaning in pain, Bernard slid from the saddle as Rowan leapt to take the shield from him. Harold and his own squire attended him as well. “God’s blood—that bastard had poor aim to strike twice in the same wrong place.” He tried to rotate his shoulder, but the throbbing heat radiated up his shoulder and along his arm, fading over to his shoulder blade.

“Aye,” Harold said. He began to pull Bernard’s tunic off his shoulder, but his son jerked his arm away.

“Father, there is no need to play nursemaid to me—especially when there are others watching. The injury is not that severe.”

But he had barely spoken those words when his name was called yet again. “Peste!” Bernard turned to whistle for his horse, but Rowan had heard the challenge and brought Rock immediately. He pulled himself into the saddle, smothering a wince, and took a new lance offered by Harold’s squire.

“Stay in your seat,” Harold called after him as they galloped off. Bernard choked on a retort at the needless warning, and put his meddling father out of mind.

Swiping the sweat from his face yet again, Bernard eyed his third opponent. It wasn’t Ralf, though he’d been expecting to be called to challenge him at any moment. This man again was someone that he did not know, and he appeared very solid and heavy in his saddle. The horse was fine, enough for Bernard to notice in appreciation, though not nearly as perfect as his own Derkland-bred mount.

He’d barely settled the lance in his lap, attempting to keep it from weighting on his injured shoulder until the very last moment, when the signal was given. Rock leapt forward before Bernard even gave him the heel of his boot, and suddenly the wind streamed over his face as they galloped down the list.

Thwack! The impact of his opponent’s lance struck Bernard even as his own bounced off the top of the other man’s shoulder. The power of his thighs gripping Rock was the only thing that kept him from tumbling onto the ground, and his fingers loosened, dropping the lance onto the dusty ground.

A loud exclamation rose from the crowd, either because it was the first time Bernard had missed a hit, or because he’d taken a good one, but he barely heard it through the searing pain that shot down his arm. The other knight’s lance had caught him again near the injury he’d sustained in the last challenge, and now agonizing heat caused black spots to dance before his eyes.

Of all the bad luck.

Gritting his teeth, Bernard turned Rock and headed back to his side of the list, keeping the dancing mount to a trot to give himself time to catch his breath. Rowan met him there with a choice of four lances to choose from. Again, taking as much time as he could, Bernard hefted each one in his hand before selecting the first one.

He gave a quick nod to his father’s questioning glance, then, steeling himself for one, mayhaps two, more passes, he kicked Rock into motion. He managed to make it through the next two charges without being unsaddled—though it was a close one on the last. He did not manage, however, to unseat the other man, and, instead, took one more hit to his shoulder.

“Who have you angered thus to keep you in the lists?” asked Harold jovially as Bernard returned and dismounted, tossing his shield to Rowan.

Breathing heavily, Bernard nearly discounted the jest, but then realized that without meaning to, his father spoke the truth. Surely it was Ralf’s doing, for Bernard knew few of the men here, and none of his challengers thus far. Swerthmore’s intent was likely to tire him before meeting him on the lists, and mayhap causing him some injury. “Bastard.”

His father looked at him, but Bernard dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “’Tis naught of your concern.”

At last, after Bernard was called thrice more, the challenge he’d been waiting for was announced. A fresh wave of anger—and determination—rushed through him as he selected a lance. He’d saved himself as much as possible during the last passes, now knowing Ralf’s game.

With a glance toward the stands, Bernard stroked a corner of Joanna’s veil, feeling its softness clinging to his sweaty torso. If for no other than her, he’d see Ralf face-down onto the ground.

Bernard and Rock settled into their place at one end of the list, the horse dancing with impatience as though sensing that there was more at stake with this challenge. The signal broke the tension and they leapt forward, galloping toward Ralf at full speed.

Thwump! Bernard nearly screamed aloud as his opponent’s lance passed by his shield, driving into his injury, just where his arm and shoulder met. He saw black and heard a loud, hard laugh as they passed by, his own lance slipping off into nothing and nearly causing him to topple. He could barely breathe, the pain was so intense, and he realized what had happened.

He’d given Ralf too little credit—for the man had selected very skilled jousters to challenge him. Their intent was not to up-end him from the saddle, but to injure him in a manner that would keep him from his best. All of them had struck the same place—purposely. And now Ralf had chosen to put the finish on him before claiming victory.

Weary, but his teeth clenching hard enough to take his mind from his throbbing shoulder, Bernard chose another lance and, adjusting his shield, turned to face his opponent.

Twice more.

They charged as the signal was given, galloping down the list toward each other at breakneck speed. Bernard felt sweat slick his hand, but he held fast, determined to knock the bastard onto the ground this time.

He concentrated as Ralf sped toward him, picking out his faint slant in the saddle, looking for an opening—and found it. He leveled the long lance, aiming, forgetting the pain in his shoulder by thinking of what Joanna had lived through. Just as they met, just as the other lance brushed his shoulder, Bernard twisted slightly and found his mark. The other lance slipped harmlessly up and over his shield and the other man teetered in his seat.

Bernard and Rock roared past Ralf, and only the disappointed groan from the crowd told him that his opponent had recovered. He cursed the luck of the devil, and spun his mount around to choose his last lance.

Breathing heavily, Bernard took little care in selecting the lance offered by Rowan. He trusted his squire, and meant only to get back to the lists for the final pass. His shoulder’s ache had lessened slightly, but when he moved to steady his long halberd, the pain shot down his arm.

The last time.

He sensed the fury and hatred emanating from the other man—waves of it came across the field—and it seemed as though the watchers felt it too, for a near hush fell over them. Only the sound of Rock stamping his feet, and the jingle of mail and bridle, fell on his ears….or mayhap ’twas just that he concentrated so solidly.

The cry to arms bellowed from the announcer, and he kicked Rock forward. They nearly flew through the air, smoothly, as one. The intensity of his pain diminished as he sighted the lance on Ralf’s shield, focusing on the place that would dump him from the saddle.

He leaned forward, urging Rock on, holding the lance steady as they barrelled toward Ralf.

One moment more…

He fought the hovering pain as he gripped the lance, steadying it, ready to thrust it forward….

Thump!

Pain crashed over him as he took the brunt of Ralf’s own blow in his shoulder, even as his lance connected with the other man’s shield. With a howl of rage, Bernard held steady and gave one last thrust as they passed by.

He heard the roar of the crowd dimly through hot, white streaks that shot up his arm and across his shoulder. Gasping for air, he turned Rock around in time to see Ralf struggling to his feet. A faint lift of one side of his mouth was all he could managed as he galloped past the stands and to his father and squire.

Bastard.