Joanna (47 page)

Isabella, on the other hand, seemed hardly aware of the disturbance, how quickly it was quelled, or what that signified. She looked rather like an exquisite, self-satisfied cat that had got successfully intoand out ofthe family cream pitcher. Joanna wondered a little at the queen’s indifference to her husband’s problems. There was not now and, as Joanna thought of it she realized there never had been, a shadow of anxiety on that beautiful face. The question brought its own answer. Isabella did not care what happened to John. She was sure nothing would happen to her, and that was all that mattered. Joanna remembered the talk about FitzWalter and the queen. Very probably Fitz Walter promised Isabella that her son Henry would rule in her husband’s stead, and her state would be unchanged. That would account for the calm. Joanna was shaken with revulsion. Was that what she had desired for herself, that complacency of indifference?

She glanced at Geoffrey, who had bitten into an apple and was chewing with enjoyment, his head a little bent to hear better something Lady Alinor was saying to him. There had been a few moments of strained quiet after the brawlers were subdued, but the noise was now rising to normal levels. Ian was relaxed again, also listening to Alinor. Dutifully, Joanna turned toward the king. He was engaged with the master of the revels, urging that the players be brought on to occupy the feasters’ attentions more completely than jugglers could. However, in turning Joanna caught Isabella’s eyes upon her. The cat-in-the-cream-pot expression was even more intense, and a slow smile parted the exquisite lips to show the pearly teeth. Although Joanna could school her expression into perfectly uncomprehending placidity, she could not control the blood in her body. She felt the color drain from her cheeks and knew Isabella had seen the change in her complexion. The queen laughed, very softly, very sweetly, very happily. The vixen was trapped and knew it.

What merit is innocence, Joanna wondered, turning her eyes to a marvelous jelly that had been set before her. It was well worth looking at, a towering structure, quivering and quaking yet somehow supporting itself and remaining intact. She and the jelly had much in common. As long as no one touched them, they would present an appearance of firmness; as soon as either was broached, the formless stuff   each was made up of would be exposed. Isabella was sure of her coming shame. Isabella did not care that the kingdom might be broken apart; she was too stupid to understand that neither John nor FitzWalter could guarantee anyone’s safety in the upheaval of a civil war. Somehow, Isabella knew that Geoffrey would not protect her, or had even convinced him not to do so, Joanna thought.

Because fear is irrational, it never occurred to Joanna that there could be no less likely alliance than one between her husband and the queen. In fact, Geoffrey hated the queen so thoroughly that to know Isabella desired something was enough to make him go to considerable lengths to prevent that thing from happening. If Joanna’s brain had been operating on any level at all, she would have realized that the queen’s confidence must be based upon false premises. Isabella could not know that Alinor had had no maidenhead to yield up and that her daughter might be similarly afflicted. All Joanna knew was that Isabella intended to bring about her ruin and there was nothing she could do about it.

The players who appeared must have been skilled. Joanna had the impression of roars of laughter, stamping feet, whistles and shouts of appreciation. She had not the vaguest notion of what was presented. She laughed when the others laughed, drank a little more than she usually did, and endured with outward calm a hell unparalleled in all her happy young life. An enduring courage that would not break under any pressure supported her. When the first play was over, there was more dancing. Joanna was aware of being passed from one man’s arm to that of another. There was a good deal of laughter which she shared, having not the slightest notion of its cause. From time to time, she heard Geoffrey’s voice, protesting amid bursts of laughter, but he never danced with her and that frightened her still more.

There came a time when Joanna could scarcely breathe between terror and pretense and exertion. Before she could collapse into most welcome unconsciousness, however, she was back in her seat and another play, even more incomprehensible to her, was being received with equal or greater acclamation. Perhaps they danced again. By that time Joanna was so dazed that she had no idea at all of what her body did or her lips said. Suddenly, however, she wakened to find herself stark naked, shivering with cold, the focus of what seemed like hundreds of staring eyes. She nearly screamed aloud, thinking she had already been proven unchaste and was about to be punished for it. But her mother was there, her own dear mother and dear Lady Ela, and both were smiling.

A woman’s hand gripped her hair and lifted even that curtain of modesty from her body and a warm hand on her shoulder propelled her around. ‘‘Is she not perfect?” Isabella cooed in her sweet, lilting voice. “Look at that skin, like milk, how immaculatenot a single scratch or scar upon it.”

Not punishment, Joanna realized sickly, her trial had not yet begun. She tried to whip herself into some action, into shrinking coyly from the gazes fastened upon her as a shy maiden might, into listening to the flying jests and sallies, but she could do nothing more. She stood like a statue, literally white as milk, even her lips pale, only colored by her flaming hair and the red-gold curls peeping from beneath her arms and glowing on her mount of Venus.

How long the torment lasted, Joanna could not guess. Not long, she supposed, for she did hear comments upon her shivering and Lady Ela’s shrill voice bewailing the fact that if they did not soon warm her she would be dead of the cold before she was a wife. Soon after she was thrust into the bed with a goblet of warm wine between her hands. The crowd remained a while longer, teasing Geoffrey, but he drove them from the room at last with a laughing pretense of anger. Geoffrey was, in fact, truly amused. The blatant envy of every man and Joanna’s apparent lightness of spirit since the feast had started had done much to cheer him.

Joanna looked down into the goblet of wine. It was too latetoo late to withdraw, too late to plead, too late to do anything beyond endure what fate had in store for her. The   wine cup was removed gently from her hands. Warm lips touched her cheek; warm fingers lifted her hair, and the lips moved to nibble, to suck gently at her ear. Nothing happened. For the first time, Geoffrey’s caress did not arouse her. He slid into bed beside her, found her lips, slid down, shoving the pillows away, pulling her flat beside him. His free hand wandered over her shoulder, cupped her breast. Nothing. She felt nothing.

“Take me, Geoffrey. In mercy, take me. Do not make me wait,” she whispered.  
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It had not been easy. It had been terrible. Joanna did not cry out, but tears oozed between her tight-shut lids and her breathing was racked with sobs. She dared not look at her husband. From the evidence of her ears, he had been little better pleased than she with their first union. His breath hissed between his teeth with effort or displeasure. The latter, Joanna feared, because twice she heard quite distinguishable, if muffled, oaths. Even after he became silent and then, finally sighed with pleasure, he had remained astride her for a time, as if he was too tired to move.

At last he rolled away. Joanna waited, as still as she could be, trying to control her sobbing, hoping he would fall asleep so that she could look for the proof of her suffering on the sheets. Instead of turning away, however, Geoffrey turned toward her.

“I am sorry I hurt you, Joanna,” he said softly, and then, rather irritably, “Why did you urge me? I thought you were ready.”

When she did not reply, Geoffrey wiped the tears from her cheeks and thought to himself he was a fool. How would she know anything about that? “Come,” he said in a gentler tone, “open your eyes and look at me. I will not trouble you again if you are not willing. I am not changed into a monster. It will grow easier.”

Still Joanna did not speak. Geoffrey propped himself on an elbow and looked at his wife. She was no longer crying and she had obediently opened her eyes, but her face was closed, her thoughts withdrawn, fixed upon something totally unrelated to him. Perhaps Joanna had not been weeping with pain but with regret or, possibly, with disgust. Had   she urged him to remove from herself the last hope of being saved from a hateful marriage? She had been so gay, so happy, so lightly teasing all during the feast and celebration that Geoffrey had put aside his doubts as figments of his own imagination. Now they rushed back. He had an impulse to strike her, to cry aloud that she was a fool to condemn them both to hell. But he knew why she had done it; he would have done the same, for he knew his duty. If only he did not love her, he would be praising her virtue. Well, it was too late. They were bound together and had better find a way to live together.

“I will tell you one thing, Joanna,” Geoffrey said with a strained smile. “If I ever stray from your bed, it will not be to take another maidenhead. I have heard men speak of the pleasure of deflowering a maid. They are mad. It is no pleasure. You were not the only sufferer. I assure you that by my will, I will have no more ado with virgins.

“Oh, Geoffrey, is it so? Are you sure?”

Blank surprise overspread Geoffrey’s face. “What do you mean, am I sure? Did you think this was going to give me a taste for raping little girls?”

Joanna did not laugh. She was too intent on her own problem to catch the joke. However, she did look bright and eager. “Do you think I have given proof?”

“Proof!” Geoffrey groaned. “I near killed myself making you into a woman. What more proof do I need? I know I have been where no man has been before.”

“I am glad,” Joanna breathed, “so glad. I thoughtI feared you might doubt me.”

“Doubt you? You mean because of Braybrook? You are an idiot Joanna. I have said it before and I say it again.”

But Geoffrey grinned at his wife and stretched luxuriously. He was more a fool than she to have tormented himself, worrying that he was repugnant to her. All her oddities were only nervousness. Doubted her? Why? Oh, the tale Ela had told him. He would have thought that Lady Alinor had more sense than to tell an innocent like Joanna the story of her bloodless defloration. Why did she not come directly to   him? Did Lady Alinor think he knew Joanna so little that he would suspect she told him such a tale to hide her daughter’s depravity? Women were all idiots, even the clever ones. No, especially the clever ones. They were so intent on outmaneuvering their men that they caused themselvesand everyone elseendless trouble. His tension past, Geoffrey yawned widely and let his eyes close. Joanna stirred uneasily beside him.

“You do not doubt me,” she said in a small voice, “but what of others? I wish to be sure that”

“Look then,” Geoffrey muttered sleepily, “but I know the signs are there. I could feel when you yielded and the blood came.”

Joanna lifted the covers and, sure enough, Geoffrey and she and the sheets too were well bedaubed with red. She sighed contentedly and lay back but, although the worst of her pain was gone, she was still a little uncomfortable and keyed up and sleep did not come. Instead a nasty, cold notion slid into her tired mind. Geoffrey did trust her, that was plain; he trusted her enough to be sure she had bled. But what if she had not? Would he have done for her what her father did for her mother? Of course he would, Joanna assured herself. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. Knowing her pure, would he hesitate to prove her so?

Restlessly, Joanna turned to one side and then to the other. In his sleep, Geoffrey growled impatiently. Joanna lay still again. It was unfair to bother him with such an idiocy. Eventually, Joanna also slept, but not soundly. For many years she had not shared her bed, and the presence of another body made her uneasy. She turned in her sleep, made contact with Geoffrey’s sinewy back, and woke with a shock of alarm. Fortunately, memory of where she was and who was beside her came before she cried out for helpa fine joke that would have beenbut her troubled wondering returned with the awareness of Geoffrey’s presence.

The bed made an odd sound. He would have saved her honor, Joanna insisted to herself, and, ridiculously, a lump rose in her throat. Now she would never know. She would   never know whether her husband loved her enough to lie for her. It seemed to Joanna’s still overexcited, overtired mind that that would have been the ultimate proof of devotion. Geoffrey was trained to the notion that to lie was dishonor; if he would lie for her, she was more important to him than honor. The bed made an odd noise again. But it could not, Joanna thought. She had not moved, and Geoffrey lay like a log. There it was again! Joanna stiffened, listening. Surely that could not be the leather straps creaking.

“Geoffrey,” she said, shaking him, “there is a rat under the bed.”

“What?” he groaned.

“A rat. There is a rat under the bed,” she insisted. This had never happened to her before. Brian slept in her chamber and where the dog was rats did not come.

“No,” Geoffrey mumbled, “go to sleep. It will do you no hurt. It is a kitten.”

“A what? A kitten? Why is there a kitten under the bed? Geoffrey!”

Reluctantly, Geoffrey opened his eyes. “Kitten?” he said vaguely, “oh, yes.” He yawned hugely and closed his eyes again.

“You lazy thing,” Joanna cried, “get up and kill that rat or drive it away. I will never sleep with it squeaking and scratching under there.”

“Oh God,” Geoffrey groaned, rolling out and getting down on the floor.

“You fool, you are naked. It will bite you. Take a knife or something.”

However, Geoffrey ignored her warning and wormed himself half under the bed, cursing vilely. Joanna glanced around for something to strike the rat with if it ran out on her side. Nothing emerged, but she heard the creak of leather, as if some strain had been applied to the bed straps and then Geoffrey began to inch his way out again. He rose to his knees and tossed a cloth bag, which heaved and squeaked protestingly, to Joanna.