Silken Threads (14 page)

Graeham ate some more of her excellent stew,
washing it down with a generous swallow of wine. The vexatious
Petronilla leapt onto his bench for a handout; he grabbed her by
the scruff of the neck and tossed her off. His presence at the
table had kept the timid Manfrid from showing his face. “You work
from dawn till dusk
—
and beyond,” he said. “Often you’re
still stitching away at your embroidery when I retire for the
night.”

“The shop keeps me too busy during the day
to get much new work done.”

“And on top of that, you cook and clean and
see to my various needs. And all without the slightest hint of
complaint or frustration, as if...” He hesitated, then plunged
forward. “As if you were born to this life
—
as if it were
your destiny, and not...cause for disappointment.”

Her gaze searched his. “What has Hugh told
you?”

“Only that you married beneath you...for
love.”

She pushed her half-eaten bowl of stew away
and lifted her cup to her mouth.

“And that you’ve made quite a success of the
shop. But that your husband is usually abroad. I imagine you must
get lonely.”

“Well, I don’t.”

He sopped up the remainder of his stew with
the last piece of bread and ate it, dusting his hands. “There’s no
sin in being lonely. ‘Tis a feeling I’m all too
famil
—
”

“I’m not lonely.”

She was too proud to admit it, he realized.
“Very well. I shouldn’t press the issue.”

“Why do you, then? Why do you interrogate me
so incessantly? Are you really that bored?”

He gave a small shrug. “Perhaps you’re that
interesting.”

A little huff of bitter laughter rose from
her. “I’m a West Cheap shopmaid, nothing more.”

“You
were
something more, once,” he
said quietly. “You still are.”

She met his gaze uneasily, looking away when
Petronilla approached her, yowling for a handout. Joanna clicked
her tongue and the cat leapt onto her bench. She fished a morsel of
lamb from her bowl and let the animal lick it off her
fingertips.

Beyond her, Graeham saw a figure pass one of
the two windows that looked out onto the alley from the salle. The
passerby paused and glanced inside; Leoda, in a rust-colored kirtle
so snug as to thrust her generous bosom into ripe display. With a
glance at Joanna, Leoda smiled and blew Graeham a kiss.

The whore must have captured his attention
for a moment too long, for Joanna noticed and turned toward the
window.

“Evenin’, Mistress Joanna,” greeted
Leoda.

Joanna smiled politely. “If you’re looking
for my brother, Leoda, he left here in the early afternoon. I’m
afraid I don’t know where he is.”

“I’m that sorry to hear it, mistress,” Leoda
replied, though Graeham was fairly certain it was he she’d come
looking for; they frequently chatted during the supper hour.
“You’ll tell Sir Hugh I was askin’ for him, then, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Many thanks.” Leoda sauntered away without
a glance in Graeham’s direction. A good whore didn’t greet a man
familiarly if he was in the company of another
woman
—
unless the other woman happened to be another whore,
but nobody could make that mistake about Joanna Chapman. In truth,
Graeham wouldn’t have cared if she had. He wasn’t ashamed of having
befriended her, whore or not, and their relationship was innocent.
But then, Joanna would almost certainly assume otherwise. Perhaps
it was best that Leoda had opted for circumspection.

“That was one of the neighborhood...women of
the town.” Joanna pulled Graeham’s empty bowl across and nested
hers inside it. “She’s a favorite of Hugh’s when he’s in
London.”

“I wondered how you’d come to know...such a
woman by name.”

She smiled in a way that looked indulgent.
“Hugh could have any woman he wants, but he prefers women like
that
—
women who don’t expect anything from him but a few
pennies. He’s a hard man to rein in.”

“Is that why he became a mercenary? For the
freedom?” A knight who sold his services to the highest bidder,
Graeham reasoned, would enjoy a great deal more autonomy than one
who’d pledged an oath of fealty to any one lord.

Joanna frowned into her wine cup as she
thought about it. “Well, he likes the freedom, certainly. But more
than that, he loathes being forced to live up to someone else’s
expectations. It’s because of how he was brought up
—
how we
were both brought up. There were a great many demands placed upon
us.” She collected their spoons and swept up the crumbs of bread
with a napkin, her troubled expression giving way to a surprisingly
winsome smile. “I went to the bakeshop today, as you asked. They
had cream tarts.”

“Excellent.” Sweets were a staple at Lord
Gui’s table, and Graeham missed them. As Joanna cleared the table,
he said, “It surprises me to hear you speak of demands. I was under
the impression you and Hugh came from quite a privileged
background.”

“It was...well, certainly it was privileged
in many ways. Wexford is a grand castle
—
”

“
Castle.”

She unwrapped the two little tarts, served
one to each of them and took her seat. “Our father is William of
Wexford. He’s a very great knight with a vast holding half a day’s
ride to the south. Our lady mother died of childbed fever after I
was born, but Lord William is still living.”

“Is Hugh heir to his lands?”

“We won’t know that until Father dies. He
holds Wexford for his overlord
—
who may or may not choose
to grant it to Hugh when the time comes.” She took a bite of her
tart, and Graeham followed suit; it was sinfully good.

“Doesn’t it nettle him,” Graeham asked, “not
knowing whether such an important holding is to be his?”

“I’m not certain he even wants it. His
recollections of Wexford, like mine, are...not pleasant, by and
large. Our sire is a man very sure of what he wants and how to get
it. The day Hugh turned four, Father handed him over for military
training to his master at arms
—
a monster by the name of
Regnaud. Father’s goal was to mold Hugh into the most celebrated
knight in Christendom
—
a distinction that would reflect
glory upon himself, of course. And...well, he felt a boy needed
discipline if he was to be a great soldier, and he gave Regnaud a
free hand with the whip. ‘Twasn’t much of a childhood for
Hugh.”

“And you,” Graeham said, frowning, “were
you...disciplined?”

“Not with the whip.” She broke off a bit of
the tart’s crust and nibbled it. Without looking up, she said,
“Father would have me brought to him for beatings when I displeased
him. He’d have Hugh locked up in the cellar so he couldn’t
interfere.” She drew in a breath, still avoiding his gaze. “I’m
afraid I often chafed at his notion of ladylike behavior. I’d go
exploring in the woods when his clerics were expecting me for
lessons
—
that sort of thing.”

Graeham found himself asking, “How badly did
he beat you?”

She raised her eyes to his. “You’re
interrogating me again.”

“I’d like to know,” he said softly.

Her throat moved. “He never struck me on the
face. He didn’t want to mar my appearance, because he planned to
advance himself by marrying me off to a son of Baron Gilbert de
Montfichet.”

“You were betrothed to a son of Lord
Gilbert?” he asked incredulously. Gilbert de Montfichet and his
cousin, Walter fitz Robert fitz Richard, held the only true
baronies within the city of London. Their castles, Montfichet and
Baynard, tucked right up next to each other against the westernmost
stretch of city wall, were the only fortressed dwellings in London
aside from the Tower. As the city’s only true barons, Lord Gilbert
and Lord Walter were its most powerful citizens, wielding
considerable influence with the king.

“The younger son,” Joanna said. “He has
two
—
had
two. His older son, Geoffrey, died of
measles about two years ago. Nicholas was the second son. I wasn’t
officially betrothed to him. But when I was eleven, Father sent me
to London to serve the baron’s wife, Lady Fayette, at Montfichet
Castle. It was understood that a marriage to Nicholas would be
negotiated if I was found suitable. Of course, I bristled at being
a pawn for father’s advancement, but I was happy to be away from
Wexford. And to be in London!”

Joanna broke off another, larger, piece of
the tart and ate it. Finding her fingertips coated with custard,
she slid them one by one between her lips to suck them clean. A
surge of arousal ambushed Graeham.

“You like London?” he asked, trying to
ignore the small, pink tip of her tongue as it darted out to sweep
a drop of custard from her lower lip.

“I did then. It was so big and grand, and
everyone seemed so sophisticated. And I liked Lady Fayette. ‘Twas
she who taught me to embroider.”

“She should be commended. You’re very gifted
at it.”

Joanna smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

Graeham finished his tart. “Why didn’t you
marry the baron’s son? Did his parents reject you?”

“Nay, they seemed to adore me. And Nicholas
was willing. ‘Twas I who balked. The betrothal contract was drawn
up when I was fourteen, but I just...couldn’t consent to it. I
stalled for almost a year, puzzling how to get out of it.”

“Did you despise Nicholas that much?”

“In truth, I liked him. And he seemed to
like me
—
to a point. Nicholas was one of those men
who...prefer the charms of their own sex.”

“Ah.”

“Everyone knew it.” She took a deep breath.
“And I’m afraid I just couldn’t reconcile myself to such a union.
But at the same time, I dreaded being made to return to Wexford
should I refuse it outright. My sire...he threatened to beat me to
death if I was sent back home.”

Graeham had lifted his wine cup; he lowered
it. “Would he have done it, do you think?”

“‘Twas possible
—
he had an
ungovernable temper. There was pressure from all fronts for me to
acquiesce. I felt all adrift. I had no one to counsel me, no one to
turn to.”

“What of Hugh?”

“Oh, he’d turned mercenary as soon as he was
knighted, at eighteen. ‘Twas around the time I was sent to London.
He told me he knew I didn’t need him there anymore, for protection,
because I’d be away from our sire. And he would have gone mad if
he’d tried to remain at Wexford, under the thumb of our
father.”

“So, you were fifteen, and alone, and
distressed...”

“Terrified,” she corrected.

He nodded. “Is that when you met your
husband?” How else could she have gotten out of such a fix?

She looked down and fiddled with her
half-eaten tart. “Prewitt came to Montfichet Castle to show some
silks to Lady Fayette. I was...instantly smitten. He was older,
urbane, and he dressed like a gentleman. He wooed me in secret.”
She shrugged. “We were married within a fortnight.”

“That can’t have pleased your sire.”

“It didn’t. He banished me from Wexford. I
haven’t seen him in six years.”

“A pity.”

“No, it’s not. I’d be happy never to lay
eyes on the man again.”

“Ah, we come back to happiness.” Graeham
leaned forward on his elbows and captured Joanna’s gaze. “Are you
going to tell me whether you’re happy?”

She rolled her eyes and began collecting
bowls and cups and bits of tart. “I’m going to take our supper
dishes out to the kitchen and wash them. And then I...I have some
things to do.”

“More embroidery?”

She nodded without looking at him.

“You’ll go blind, doing work like that at
night.”

“I’ll go out of business if I don’t.”

“But surely your husband will return soon
with more silks to sell. And in the meantime, you’ve got my four
shillings to keep you going. You shouldn’t work yourself so
hard.”

She rose and carried the ewer of wine to a
crude cupboard fashioned of planks on posts. “‘Tis a difficult
habit to break.”

Graeham felt a tugging on his splint and
looked down to find Petronilla sharpening her claws on it. He
swatted her away, whereupon she settled down just out of reach,
watching him with what looked like amused contempt.

“Cats make no sense to me,” he said.
“Meaning no disrespect, mistress, but I can’t fathom why anyone
would bother keeping one as a chamber animal.”

Retrieving a tray from the cupboard, Joanna
returned to the table and began piling their dishes on it. “You’re
not afraid of them, are you?”

“
Afraid
of them!”

“Some people are.”

“I don’t fear them
—
it’s just that
I’d rather have the company of a nice, agreeable dog. Cats are
selfish, calculating beasts, useless save for mousing.”

“Manfrid never catches anything, but
Petronilla is quite the fine mouser. She eats spiders, too. You’ll
never find anything scuttling about in these rushes.”

He drained the last of his wine and handed
her the empty cup. “At least she serves some purpose, then. But her
brother is too nervous and timid to be of any use, as far as I can
tell. ‘Tis a mystery to me why you keep him.”

“He’s not shy with me
—
although he
was in the beginning. It’s men he’s truly frightened of. I think
some man must have mistreated him when he was a kitten, before I
got him. He’s happy when it’s just me here. He likes to sit on my
lap when there’s no one else about.”

“Dogs can warm laps, too, and they can also
be trained. They can fetch things for you, flush out small
game...”

“Manfrid doesn’t exist to serve me,” she
said, a bit testily. “He just exists. I like him for what he
is
—
a big, sweet, shy tomcat. Does he have to be of some
use to me for me to want him about?”