Silken Threads (44 page)

“Why is he coming back, Joanna? For you?
Does he have any way of making a
—
”

“
I don’t know, damn you!”
A few heads
turned; Joanna studied the grass beneath her feet as she walked,
heat rising in her cheeks.

Three weeks had passed since Graeham had
escorted Ada across the Channel; it had seemed like three years.
She missed him desperately. She needed to see him, to hold him in
her arms, to whisper her thrilling new secret in his ear.

“What did Graeham mean by ‘a few weeks’?”
Hugh persisted. “Four? Five? Six?”

“I don’t know.” Christ, but she wished she
did.
Please, Graeham, come back to me
—
soon.
“Hugh, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

He curved an arm around her shoulder. “I
know, but I have a responsibility to help you see reason about
things. I’m the only family you’ve got anymore.”

Too true. Lord William of Wexford, their
sire, had been invited to this wedding, as had most of the local
nobility, but he’d declined when he found out Joanna would be
there. He had excised her from his world; she had no father. All
she had was Hugh.

And now Graeham.

“How can it possibly work out, you and
Graeham?” Hugh asked.

“Somehow it will.” It had to. Joanna’s hand
strayed to her woozy stomach. Up ahead, she saw the meadow that was
the site of the wedding feast, set up with linen-draped trestle
tables beneath fluttering white canopies; servants bustled about,
laying white-bread trenchers on the tables. A bit of bread usually
quelled her morning queasiness; she’d nibble on her trencher.

“I blame myself for bringing him to your
house that day,” Hugh said.

“So you’ve told me numerous times. As for
me, I’m very grateful to you for bringing Graeham Fox into my
life.” Pausing in her walking, she kissed her brother on his
clean-shaven cheek. “Thank you.”

“You won’t thank me if he breaks your
heart.”

“He’s not going to break my heart.”

“Has he told you he loves you?”

“I told you
—
I don’t want to talk
about this.”

“Ah,” Hugh said sadly. “I thought as
much.”

“I know he loves me. I just don’t want to
talk about it.”

Girlish shrieks advanced from behind,
growing louder as Catherine and Alice ran past, holding hands and
giggling excitedly. Joanna wouldn’t have recognized Alice. No
longer was she the scrappy little waif condemned to fending for
herself on the streets of London. She was the ward of Lord Robert
of Ramswick, and by God, she looked the part, in a fine white
silken tunic and a chaplet of daisies adorning her long golden
hair.

“Good day, mistress!” Alice called out as
she raced past with her new little sister. “Good day, Sir
Hugh.”

Joanna and Hugh returned the greeting, but
the girls were too far away by then to hear them.

“Alice is thriving here,” Joanna
observed.

“You’d thrive if you lived in a place like
this, too.”

“I suppose I would.” Joanna knew she would.
She longed for the quiet and serenity of the country. Every night,
as she drifted off to sleep, she fancied she was in some lovely
little cottage somewhere far away from the tiresome turmoil of
London. In her imaginings, of course, Graeham was with her; she was
his wife.

At the edge of the canopied enclosure, Hugh
took her by the shoulders and gave her his gravest big-brother
look. “You should sell your house and buy one out in the
country.”

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? It
won’t work. I might make enough from selling that house to buy a
new one, but I couldn’t afford any land to go with it. I don’t want
some little village house all crowded in with a dozen others. I’d
need some land to call my own, otherwise it wouldn’t be worth
it.”

“Then let me give you some money, enough for
a few acres and to help support you if you have trouble selling
your embroidery.”

“Hugh, you know I can’t let you do
that.”

“Why not? Are you expecting Graeham Fox to
come back and marry you and take you away from the city?”

“Nay...” Not precisely.

“Hoping?”

Aye, desperately.
“It’s because of
what you did for me six years ago, Hugh. You bought me the house in
West Cheap. You know I promised myself I’d never take your charity
again.”

“‘Tisn’t charity. I’m your brother, for
pity’s sake. I have a right to try and look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.” And who knew
what would come to pass after Graeham returned to her? She must
wait for him before making any plans to leave London.

As if he’d read her mind, Hugh said,
“Whether you’re married to Graeham or not, you’ll need a home. It’s
unlikely he’ll be able to provide for you.”

“Hugh, stop it,” she said, dismayed that
what he said was probably true, and appalled to find the situation
all too reminiscent of her marriage to Prewitt, when Hugh had had
to give her the home her husband couldn’t. Wresting out of his
grip, she said, “I’m here to celebrate a marriage and enjoy myself.
I’m not going to talk to you about Graeham anymore.”

She did enjoy herself, after she’d picked
apart enough of her trencher to settle her stomach. The day was
mild, the food delicious, and the music
—
provided by a
harpist who made her think of Thomas
—
exceptionally
beautiful. Robert and Margaret, sitting with the girls and their
parents at the high table, were as adoring as love-struck
adolescents.

In addition to the neighboring noblemen and
their wives, every important Londoner had turned out for the
wedding. The king’s justiciar and his wife were there, along with
both sheriffs and the two barons, Gilbert de Montfichet and his
cousin Walter fitz Robert fitz Richard.

Joanna had exchanged cursory greetings with
Lord Gilbert and Lady Fayette in the chapel before the nuptial
Mass, feeling decidedly awkward; after all, six years ago she’d
rejected their son for a silk merchant. Nevertheless, they seemed
remarkably gracious, especially Lady Fayette, who took her hands
and told her how much she’d missed her over the years.

Several times during the bride ale, Joanna
had noticed Lord Gilbert looking in her direction, his expression
inscrutable. Still, she was surprised and a bit apprehensive when
he approached her table, looming over her tall and elegant in all
his white-haired, terrifying majesty.

She let out a sigh of relief when all he
said was, “You look lovely today, my lady.” He tilted an
appreciative glance at her tunic of honey-brown silk, the only gown
she owned that was suitable for such a grand occasion.

“Thank you, my lord.” Joanna gestured toward
the table, empty now save for her and her brother, sitting across
from each other. “Will you join us?”

“I’d like that.” His lordship sat on the
bench next to her. “Good to see you, Hugh. I heard you were
fighting in the Rhineland.”

“Aye
—
Saxony. I’m to return in the
fall.”

“You don’t have long, then. It’s already
August.”

“I’ll be leaving next month.”

Lord Gilbert nodded, cleared his throat. He
looked back and forth between them, tapping his fingertips
together. Joanna and Hugh shared a surreptitious look of
conjecture.

The baron cleared his throat again. “I was
sorry to hear of your husband’s death, Lady Joanna.”

It unsettled her to hear him speak of
Prewitt, after everything that had happened six years ago. “Thank
you, my lord. I was sorry to hear about Sir Geoffrey,” she said,
referring to his eldest son, who’d succumbed two years ago to
measles.

He studied his tented fingers, took a deep
breath. “I wanted you to know that I understood...well, not then,
of course. But I understand now why you...didn’t feel that you
could marry Nicholas.”

Taken aback by this unexpected admission,
Joanna said, “I appreciate that, sire.”

His gaze still trained on his hands, Lord
Gilbert said, “At the time, I must confess I was at a loss as to
why you would balk at betrothal to a baron’s son
—
even a
second son. I knew about his...unnatural tastes, of course, but
young men often outgrow such proclivities. And I thought...’Twas
naïve of me, I suppose. Certainly it was, but I thought a beautiful
young woman like you could...” He spread his hands helplessly.

“Change him?” Hugh put in, his crooked smile
indicating what he thought of such a notion.

The baron sighed, looked sadly at Joanna.
“Obviously you knew better. You were right to refuse the betrothal.
We ended up marrying him off to Lord Alger’s daughter, Mabila.”

“I know,” Joanna said.

“In five years of marriage, they’ve produced
no children. They’re miserable together, of course. He goes his
way, and...I’m afraid she goes hers.”

Hugh raised his goblet to his mouth, casting
a look at Joanna over the rim. Clearly he was as puzzled as she to
find Gilbert de Montfichet sharing such personal revelations with
the likes of them.

“With Geoffrey gone,” the baron said,
“Nicholas is my heir. He’s to inherit the barony. He’ll be lord of
Montfichet.” He shook his head. “He’s not a bad sort, really,
despite
—
” he waved his hand eloquently “
—
his
tendencies. But he’s no baron. He’s not a leader, he’s a pleasant
young fellow who likes his wine and his music and...other pleasant
young fellows.” Closing his eyes, he said, “Christ, if only
Geoffrey had lived.”

“It must be heartbreaking to lose a son,”
Hugh said. “But you have another, and he may yet surprise you.
Nicholas is still young and unformed. Give him time
to
—
”

“Two others,” Lord Gilbert said quietly.

“I beg your
—
”

“I have two other sons
—
Nicholas
and...a bastard son I’ve never acknowledged. I’m ashamed to say
I’ve never even met him.” Looking at Joanna, he said, “I believe
you know him. His name is Graeham Fox.”

The breath left Joanna’s lungs in a gust.
Hugh dropped his goblet, splattering the white linen tablecloth
with red.

A serving wench scurried over to pour Hugh
some more wine and clean up what he’d spilled. Two couples who’d
been sharing their table returned, laughing as they took their
seats. Suddenly they were surrounded by people and
conversation.

“Do you suppose we could take a walk?” Lord
Gilbert asked them, sliding a significant glance toward their
table-mates. “Perhaps down by the stream.”

Nodding mutely, Joanna rose and walked with
her brother and the baron down to the gurgling little brook that
meandered through the meadow. Hugh took his goblet to drink from as
they strolled along the bank in heavy silence.

Finally Lord Gilbert said, “Twenty-six years
ago, my younger brother Charles was struck down while leading King
Stephen’s forces against the Angevins at the siege of Wallingford.
Charles left a widow, Constance. She was heiress to Kilthorpe
Castle, near Reading. She was...”

He paused at the edge of the stream, gazing
into the bubbling water. “She had hair like rusted gold, and soft
green eyes, and she was very charming. Quick-witted. She could
always make me laugh. I’d always been...fond of her. Too fond,
perhaps, and I’d sensed similar feelings on her part, but she was
my brother’s wife, and I was a wedded man, and, well...”

Hugh arched his brows at Joanna as he sipped
from his goblet.

“Kilthorpe Castle was critical to King
Stephen’s defense,” the baron said. “No sooner was Charles in the
ground than the king chose a new husband for Constance, Brian fitz
Harold, one of his best military commanders. He sent me to
Constance to negotiate the betrothal, although she had little
choice but to concede to it. My lady wife stayed home. She
shouldn’t have.” He sighed. “Constance was grieving over Charles, I
comforted her. ‘Twas...complicated. I still can’t explain how it
happened. Perhaps it was the wine, or...” He shook his head. “I
don’t know. It just happened.”

“She found herself with child?” Hugh
said.

“Aye. She was my sister by marriage, and
promised to one of the king’s most important vassals. Poor girl,
she was frantic when she realized she was pregnant. There was no
way she could pass the baby off as her husband’s, because Charles
had been away from home for months before he died. I was consumed
with shame, and beside myself with worry for her
—
for both
of us.”

“What did you do?” Joanna asked.

“I told the king and Lord Brian that
Constance agreed to the betrothal
—
as indeed she
had
—
but that she was too deep in mourning over Charles to
give herself in marriage quite yet. Lord Brian could take up
residence at Kilthorpe and command his army from there, but
propriety would demand that she live elsewhere until they were
properly wedded.”

“Clever,” Hugh muttered.

“She spent her confinement at Holiwell
Nunnery. That’s where our son was born
—
in secret, of
course. I arranged with the prior of Holy Trinity for the infant to
be brought up there. Constance was devastated to give him
up
—
he was her firstborn
—
but ‘twas the only way.
She returned to Kilthorpe and married Lord Brian. A year later, she
died in childbirth, along with twin babes.”

Hugh tried to hand his goblet to Joanna, but
she waved it away. Lord Gilbert gazed at nothing with his searing
blue eyes, so much like Graeham’s that she wondered how she could
have missed the resemblance. There were other similarities,
too
—
that aristocratic, high-bridged nose, the chiseled
cheekbones, the height, the bearing.

“For the most part,” his lordship said, “I
tried to forget that I’d ever sired a bastard son. Every reminder
of him brought back memories of shame and grief. But when Brother
Simon
—
he’s the prior of Holy Trinity...”