Rexanne Becnel (4 page)

“Aye. She said you were to make yourself presentable and come at once,” the older nun answered in the subdued tones common to all the Gilbertine sisters.

“Presentable?” As Joanna wiped her hands dry, then rolled her sleeves down, her mind turned in disjointed thought. The prioress seldom called one of the aspirants—those girls and women who had not yet taken up the veil—to her private chamber unless an infraction of the house rules was involved. A serious infraction. Try as she could, Joanna could not recall any recent behavior on her part that might result in such a summons.

She had watched Winna and the fowler, she recalled. And she had not shared that information as was required. But how could Sister Edithe have heard of that? Neither the fowler nor Winna had seen her; she was sure of that.

Sorely troubled, she smoothed back several of her mahogany curls which had come loose at her temples, tucking them beneath the white
couvrechef
that held the rest of her unruly hair back. Her dress was wrinkled and well worn, but then, that was true of most of the women at St. Theresa’s. The gray wool was plain and serviceable, and it suited her well enough. There was little she could do to make herself more presentable other than to pull her cord girdle snug and distribute the bulky gathers of fabric at her waist more evenly. As a last effort she splashed a bit of cold water on her cheeks to cool their rosy warmth. Then with her head lowered as befitted an aspirant to the Gilbertine Order, she made her way silently to Sister Edithe’s chamber.

She had not been to Sister’s offices in several months—not since she’d been caught staring off into the wooded distance when she should have been busily working on one of the green damask altar cloths for Bishop Milford of St. John’s. The entire populace of St. Theresa’s had been thrown into weeks of frantic embroidering to complete that order at the time. Sister had chided her for her too-frequent, thoughtless preoccupation. She was selfish to let her mind wander when everyone else labored so diligently to prepare the intricate altar cloths, she had come to understand. Bishop Milford was an important man; his church was one of the most beautiful of God’s houses, and she should feel honored to contribute her efforts to such a grand project.

Joanna had been duly chastised and appropriately repentant, and she had been careful to put only her best effort into the green damask—and careful as well not to harbor any personal pride in her handiwork. If the work was fine and even, and surpassing anything she had done before, it was to God’s credit, not her own.

Now, however, Joanna did not know what she had done wrong. Her hesitant knock was answered at once, and at the soft command to enter she pushed the door open. A cat darted through, startling her, then slipped away on silent feet. Joanna couldn’t prevent a shiver of intense dislike. It was Sister Edithe’s one weakness, this fondness for cats. But Joanna did not share it at all. Far from it. Cats ever reminded her of Oxwich and that one terrible night. Though her reaction was illogical, she couldn’t help herself.

“Joanna,” Sister Edithe said with a slight dip of her head, drawing Joanna’s attention back to the matter at hand. Her unsmiling countenance revealed nothing. “You were not at dinner.”

“No … no. I was in the kitchens.”

“Is this your day to work in the kitchens?” Then Sister waved the question away in an uncharacteristic gesture of distraction. “Well, never mind. That is of no consequence. There is news for you.”

“News?” A cold stab of fear went through Joanna. The last news she’d had was three years previously. Her father had flatly denied her petition for a dowry so that she might more quickly be allowed to take up the veil. At the time she had been terrified that he meant to wed her off, but as time had gone by, that fear had lessened. Since then there had been no further contact between them, so what—

“Lord Blaecston has come quite out of his way to speak with you,” Sister went on, clearly flustered. “He insists that he be allowed a private audience with you.”

Joanna was too disconcerted to reply. Lord Blaecston? He must be the man who led the visitors. The intimidating one.

“If you will walk with me, Lady Joanna, I have news from Oxwich.”

Joanna whirled around at the unexpected voice. Quiet and low-pitched, it had a dark quality. Much like the man, she thought a little wildly as she stared at the window niche behind her. There, silhouetted by the sun’s late offering through the thin hide window covering, he stood at easy attention, seeming to dwarf the otherwise commodious chamber.

“Will you walk with me?” he repeated, offering his arm to her while she stood there staring, not saying a word. But Joanna was too numb to answer. She had been right, the thought echoed in her mind. She had been right that he boded ill for her.

Sir Edithe broke the lengthening silence. “You see, ’tis as I said, milord. There is no news so private that our young women will not share with their sisters in the Gilbertine way.” The prioress rose from her chair with a new air of composure. “Whatever you have to reveal, go ahead and say it now. There are no secrets at St. Theresa’s, only the goodwill of us all under the guidance of our bishop and, of course, our heavenly Father.”

Lord Blaecston appeared completely unaffected by the good sister’s subtle rebuke. He just kept his disturbing gaze on Joanna as if he might bend her to his will with only his eyes.

They were such dark eyes, Joanna noted unwillingly as their gazes remained locked—the midnight blue of the night sky. And so compelling. He seemed almost to command her in his steady scrutiny of her. Then his gaze slipped down a little, flicking over her almost measuringly before it returned to meet her gaze, and a slow warmth washed over her. She’d never suffered such an assessing look from any man before. Never. Yet she recognized innately what it meant. He’d looked at her as if she were a woman—as if she could play the woman to his man. Had she not been so uncertain of the message he carried—had he not stood there so maddeningly calm as he regarded her—her temper would have flared at his ill-mannered arrogance. Sister was right to be annoyed with his request for a private discourse with her.

Yet there was something else in his stare. Something that unsettled her. She knew, without understanding how, that for now, at least, she must yield to his silent command.

Her eyes darted apologetically to Sister Edithe, then quickly returned to the man. “We can go to the Grotto of St. Theresa. I will hear your news there.” Then, fearing Sister’s censure, she hurried from the chamber.

“You
are
Lady Joanna—Joanna Preston of Oxwich?” he asked as he followed her down the narrow stone steps. In the dim stairwell, lit only obliquely from a high window, his voice was a cold echo, disembodied words raining down on her from above.

“I
was
Lady Joanna of Oxwich,” she corrected him sharply, hiding her fear in a show of anger. “Now I am only Joanna.”

“Not
Sister
Joanna?”

She turned to face him when they reached the main hall. “Had I a dowry to commend me, I would indeed be Sister Joanna by now. But I endure the delay as best I can until my twentieth birthday. Then I shall accept the veil and assume my place in the Gilbertine Order.”

Although he made no reply and only offered her his arm once more, Joanna felt a distinct quiver of unease. He knew something that could change everything. She saw it in the way he studied her. If he bore word from Oxwich, then he was a messenger of her father’s, and it followed that any message from Sir Aslin Preston must be unpleasant to her.

Again her old fear overwhelmed her and her green eyes widened. Perhaps this time her father
did
send word that she must return to Oxwich! Perhaps this time he
had
arranged a marriage for her—one that would work to his advantage, of course. Ignoring the man’s arm once more, she whirled around and hurried to the grotto, trying hard to quell her rising panic. First she must have the news, she told herself, for she might be incorrect in her speculation. First the news, then she would decide what she must do. But she would sooner die than give herself into marriage with any man of her father’s choosing!

The grotto was set within a towering stand of cedar trees. A simple stone arch built from smooth river rocks stood within the dense shade; a stone bench was set directly before it. In the recess formed by the open-fronted dome stood a marble statue of St. Theresa. She stared out at her audience with sightless eyes, a white lady with white robes and fixed, white eyes. Normally Joanna found the grotto a peaceful escape, as it was intended to be—a place to pray or meditate, or simply be alone. But today it offered her no relief, for the presence of the man who had followed her there overwhelmed any other mood.

She pressed one hand to her stomach as she drew a deep steadying breath. Then she turned to face him. “Now, pray, give me my news. Then leave me in peace.”

His expression revealed nothing, nor did he appear in the least inclined to hurry with his message. “Allow me first to introduce myself properly. I am Rylan Kempe, Lord of Blaecston.” He gave her a courtly bow, even though she did not extend her hand.

“You are a friend of my father’s.” The contempt in her voice was clear, despite her effort to be civil.

“My castle is not too distant from Oxwich,” he admitted after the briefest hesitation.

“You carry my father’s message. I would hear it now.”

Again the pause, but this time there was a look of curiosity in his face. When he spoke his tone was more gentle.

“I beg you, seat yourself first, Lady Joanna.”

“Just Joanna,” she corrected him once more, irritated beyond reason that he could be pleasant and cordial while she was so consumed with fear.

“Joanna,” he conceded with a faint smile, which immediately caused her to regret correcting him. Despite her panic, there was something in the way he said her name, some warm thread of intimacy that she sensed was wholly improper.

“Please be done with this delay, Lord Blaecston. Just give me my news!”

“The news I carry is not
from
your father, Joanna. Rather, it is news
of
him. Of his death.”

If he said anything further, Joanna did not hear it. Her father was dead! The man she had feared and hated—and desperately wanted to love. The man who had never had more than a passing glance for her.

She sat down abruptly on the stone bench, not seeing the statue of St. Theresa and no longer aware of the tall man who watched her. Her father was dead, yet instead of relief and satisfaction, that knowledge only brought back chilling memories of the day her mother died.

How many times had she relived it? How many nights had she been torn from sleep by the nightmares that tortured her? She remembered her father’s arcane accusations, which she had never understood. She recalled a kitten in her arms, scratching her. She still carried a white mark on her wrist from it. She remembered the image of a bird as she had stared out the narrow window. Yet the most vivid memory, the one that turned her to stone and made every awful moment of that day real once more, was the silence. After only a brief murmur—words that Joanna did not clearly remember—her gentle, beautiful mother had gone to her death without a sound. No cries. No prayers. No words for a child left behind. There had just been silence.

Only later had Joanna’s anger come, and not directed solely at her father. Her beloved mother had abandoned her and left her all alone to roam the cold empty halls of Oxwich. She had struggled for years with feelings of both desperate longing and helpless fury at her absent mother.

A violent tremor suddenly shook Joanna, and with a choking sound she bowed her head. At once an arm came around her shoulder and she was gently pulled against a solid chest. She had forgotten the man entirely, yet for a moment, at least, she was glad he was there. She was glad for some human comfort. More than anything she longed to surrender herself to another’s care, to put herself for once into someone else’s safekeeping.

“I’m sorry, Joanna,” he murmured, rubbing her arm a little awkwardly. “I’m sorry to bear this sad news to you.”

At once she stiffened. Her father’s death was
not
sad news to her. She felt nothing for him at all. It was her mother she mourned, she told herself. Though she shuddered yet with her sobs, she pulled away from the man. She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand as she tried to steady her breathing.

“You need not apologize, Lord Blaecston. ’Twould have reached me by another, if not yourself,” she managed to say. “Please—” Her voice caught in her throat. “Please accept my thanks for coming so far out of your way to relay this news to me.”

“As your father’s neighbor—albeit a somewhat distant one—I did only my duty. ’Twas no trouble at all.”

Joanna stood up. She was uncomfortable sitting so near him and felt awkward now to have accepted this stranger’s comfort.

“You will want to be on your way, of course. Please do not linger on my account. I would remain here awhile longer to pray.” She moved toward the pale marble figure of St. Theresa, wondering how she might in good conscience pray when her soul struggled so with feelings of anger, vengeance, and resentment.

“There is more, milady.”

She stopped at his quiet words. “I am not ‘milady.’”

It was an automatic response, almost absentminded, for his serious tone sent new tremors of fear through her.
How could there be anything more?

This time he came to her, turning her to face him with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Your father fell ill to a fever that spread throughout Oxwich. Serfs, nobles, and servants—none were entirely spared. Your father died. So did his wife who was with child, and his young son.”

“Little Eldon as well?” Despite the fact that she’d last seen her half brother as a babe in arms, Joanna was horrified to think that he was dead. And Lady Mertice, big with child taken also. She shook her head in disbelief.

“Your entire family was lost,” he quietly confirmed. “Word has been slow to spread because the village priest placed an order of closure on the castle.”