The Shattered Rose (39 page)

What was happening?

She could hardly hear for shaking, but thought she heard the king mentioned. Was she summoned to the hearing after all?

When she could, she pushed shakily to her feet and turned, still holding on to the prie-dieu for balance.

The mother superior stood by the door, tight-lipped and furious. "The king has sent to halt your penance until after the hearing, Lady Jehanne. I wonder how he discovered it. I will return, however, when it is proper to do so."

She stalked out, but the two other nuns remained. Jehanne realized why when a tall stranger entered. Dark-haired, about her own age, but with an aura of power worthy of the king himself.

"I am FitzRoger, servant to King Henry."

A great deal more than that, Jehanne thought, trying desperately to think straight. She must be ready for whatever twist of fortune was before her.

His clever eyes took her in from head to toe, seeing, she feared, more than she would wish. "Perhaps you should sit, Lady Jehanne."

She'd like to stand straight and dismiss the offer, but she fumbled back onto the plain bench, wishing it weren't so obvious that her legs were shaking.

"I've been whipped a time or two," he remarked. "The body objects even though we would rather it didn't This was no part of the king's plan, my lady."

His no-nonsense approach steadied her. "I know that. I am told it is a judgment of the Bishop of Durham."

"Who may not have jurisdiction in these matters. However, if anyone thinks it is your husband's duty to punish you, it does seem to have been taken care of."

Jehanne was rather alarmed by his astute reading of the situation. She was not used to trying to handle people whose minds worked so like hers.

"I intend to report on this matter to the king," he said. "In order for my report to be complete, I would like to see your wounds."

"I have no objection. Sisters?"

The two nuns whispered together, then one said, "If he only looks . . ."

Alarmingly, Jehanne found she was unable to stand and had to ask the nuns to ease off her tunic. Raising her arms was almost impossible with the fresh welts, and she feared she would be sick or faint in the process. Eventually, however, it was off and he walked around to look.

He stayed there longer, surely, than it took to assess her punishment. When he returned to stand in front of her, he said, "I think you should come to Westminster."

"Against the king's command?" It was what she had wanted, but, distressingly, now she felt too shaken and weary to fight directly for her cause.

"I have authority enough to remove you to another confinement closer to the king. He may wish to see for himself."

"I'll soon feel like a monster on display at the fair." But those were silly words, and she stood carefully.

FitzRoger had turned to discuss transport with the nuns. He soon turned back. "Can you ride? They have a cart, but horseback—or, rather, jennetback—might be more bearable."

"I trust in God to give me strength to do anything if I must."

"My philosophy exactly, my lady." And he gestured toward the open door.

It was astonishingly sweet to step into sunshine and smell the flowers. So sweet it almost weakened Jehanne to tears. But then she recollected her situation and turned to FitzRoger. "We must take my baby, the nurse, and my cousin Aline too."

It appeared he did have authority enough, for the party was soon assembled, and the mother superior appeared to argue only when she heard that they were taking her mount. FitzRoger stepped aside to have words with her, and the woman paled and stalked away.

"She meant well," said Jehanne when he returned to her side. "She thinks I deserve the punishment. And she was following the orders of a bishop."

"A singularly pernicious excuse." He shook his head at her. "It seems you are as forgiving as your husband."

"Oh, not at all."

Jehanne rode, with the rest of the party walking, for there was no speed in riding through the crowded streets. It hurt to ride, but then, it hurt to do anything but lie very still on her stomach, and when her breasts filled with milk, that wasn't particularly comfortable, either.

In fact, she did feel that she had perhaps suffered enough, and as they wended their way through the crowds to the king's hall, the suffocating burden of guilt she had borne for a year or more began to slide from her.

She took to praying, finding perhaps a touch of the sense of God that Galeran had. Christ had been whipped
too,
and since he had known his fate and embraced it, he, too, had accepted the pain for the greater good.

She grimaced. She could imagine what Galeran would say to that. Her thinking of herself as like the Son of God.

Instead, she addressed her prayers meekly, reverently, to Mary, Mother of God. But even then she couldn't help wondering if Mary had ever wanted to step in and turn her beloved Son from His painful course.

She really wasn't very good at meekness.

Despite that, the prayers and thoughts helped Jehanne handle the journey, but by the time she reached Westminster Hall she was almost faint and had to be helped into the building. Soon she was in a comfortable small room that contained a tented couch. She lay on it in relief, as much at being able to hide a tendency to tears as to ease her pain.

She didn't look, but sensed that FitzRoger left. Would he go straight to the king? Would he tell Galeran? She longed for Galeran but could imagine his anger at what she had accepted.

She could argue that she'd had no choice about the beatings, but when she sent Aline out to find help, she could have sent her to Galeran to put a stop to it.

She hadn't.

And he'd know why.

This separation from Galeran, spiritual more than physical, was a pain far deeper than her sore back.

She had never realized, when she'd sent him on crusade,

just how much she would miss him. With typical carelessness, she'd not considered how he was warp to the weft of her life, part of her every thought and action; how much she depended on him being there ready to discuss, argue, advise, object, comfort.

She'd felt almost half alive all the time he'd been gone, despite Gallot and the comfort of Aline's presence. Perhaps, she thought for the first time, her seduction of Raymond had not been out of grief and anger alone, but out of a loneliness made absolute by the loss of her child.

That loss brought tears to her eyes. Or perhaps they came from the loneliness, which still lingered because her sin stood between her and Galeran. And now her actions might make it worse.

Sweet Mary, but angry or not, she needed him here beside her ...

Someone entered.

Jehanne turned her head sharply enough to hurt, but it wasn't Galeran. It wasn't anyone she knew. A monk.

He nodded. "I am Brother Christopher, my lady. I have a salve for your injuries, if you will permit. . ."

Jehanne nodded, and Aline came over to help uncover her back by the simple means of slitting the tunic neck to hem.

Jehanne heard Aline gasp, and wondered just how bad it was. "Is the skin broken?" she asked.

"Nay, Lady," said the monk, spreading the cloth a little wider, ""four clothes protected you from that. The damage is mostly bruising and swelling. Very painful, I'm sure, but it should cause no scars, and the risk of infection is small."

He began to spread something cool on her back. His first touch was painful, but soon the soothing effect took over. Jehanne sighed and relaxed. Vaguely, she remembered that Aline had been out all night, perhaps with Raoul, and that this should concern her. That the hearing was taking place close by and she should, perhaps, think about forcing her way in after all.

But her tormented mind had eased and refused to tangle itself again.

She slept.

* * * * *

Galeran had left early for Westminster, despite the fact that Raoul had not returned with further word of Aline. Despite the fact that the messenger he'd sent to Waltham to keep his father informed had not returned either.

He'd been driven. Driven by his concern about Jehanne and Donata. Driven by his hunger to be home again with all these things settled.

Driven, he knew, into leaving foolishly early as if that would have things settled sooner.

He did have some purpose, however. He hoped to have a word with the king's champion, FitzRoger. Galeran's travels had taught him that great men were temperamental and often let their foibles interfere with justice. Henry had enjoyed many liaisons, and acknowledged a number of bastards. How would that affect his view of Galeran's affairs? A talk with FitzRoger might tell him something useful.

FitzRoger was not in Westminster, however, so Galeran was left to pace a small room, waiting for the hour of the hearing.

Surely Henry's personal tastes would mean he thought little of adultery. That would lessen Jehanne's danger. Galeran was determined she come out of this without being punished in any way.

On the other hand, as Aline had pointed out, Henry had promised to restore law and order in England. Adultery and bastards were an offense to all men.

But surely, Galeran thought, circling the room as his mind was circling the problems, whatever the king's attitude to the law, he could not support the absurdity of taking a baby from its mother's breast and giving it to an unwed man to raise.

No, of course he couldn't.

Unless he was afraid to offend the Church. Flambard was a bishop, an eminent representative of the Church, no matter how little he deserved that honor.

Galeran knew, with bitter certainty, that Henry Beauclerk would do nothing that might jeopardize his long-sought prize, his hold on the Crown of England.

He turned and circled the other way. Were Lowick and Flambard already here? Were they together nearby, making plans? What plans? Galeran didn't see what new twist they could come up with, but he'd never underestimate the cunning of a man like Ranulph Flambard. And Flambard's ambitions could entangle the whole of Galeran's family.

He stopped, suddenly feeling surprisingly alone.

He'd grown up as part of a close-knit family, and once he married, there had been Jehanne who had soon become—as the Bible put it—his rib, his helpmeet, part of himself. He could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been by his side, ready to discuss, argue, advise, object, comfort. . . .

On crusade, he'd felt as if he had left part of himself behind, but he'd found Raoul and an unexpectedly deep friendship.

Now, however, he stood alone, most of his family back north, his father skulking at Waltham, and Raoul who knows where.

Vague thoughts of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane flickered in his mind, but he laughed and shook them away. He was not abandoned and betrayed. He had just come here too early.

He heard the bells sound for terce and crossed himself, offering a prayer of his own. He was beginning to worry about Raoul's absence, however, and sent another prayer that nothing had happened to Aline. She was as innocent as Donata in all this, and should not suffer.

A moment later Raoul hurried in, surprisingly flustered and disheveled. There was no time to talk, however, as he was only a pace ahead of the page sent to lead them to the king's chamber. Raoul was of little practical help here, since he had no official status and didn't know English ways and customs, but Galeran was immensely pleased to no longer be alone.

The king awaited them in the same rich chamber in which they had been presented to him the previous day. On this occasion, however, Henry sat firmly on his throne, crown on his head. There were no courtiers or visitors here, though a number of people were present. Galeran tried to assess them all without taking his attention from the king, who was greeting him.

A monk at a high desk, ready to record the proceedings.

Two lords and a bishop. A couple of pages ready to run errands. Two armed guards.

The king had stopped speaking, so Galeran bowed again. "I thank you again, my liege, for your attention to this small matter."

"No matter is too small for my attention, Lord Galeran," said Henry, smiling like a wolf. "Have you news of your father?"

Galeran hoped his face was as expressionless as he wanted it to be. "No, sire. I am sure I would have heard if his condition had worsened, but I am concerned. As soon as the matter of the babe is settled, I intend to ride to Waltham Abbey."

Before the king could comment, the door opened to admit Flambard in full glory of gold-trimmed bishop's vestments, crook in hand. Behind him trailed Lowick, Brother Forthred, and a clerk. Brother Forthred looked at Galeran and smiled slightly, as if he scented revenge.

Galeran ignored that and studied Raymond of Lowick.

It was the first time he'd seen the man since leaving for the Holy Land, since the man had shared a bed with Jehanne. Lowick was still impressively handsome, damn him, but Galeran knew he wasn't worth the surge of rage in his gut, a rage that tried to pull his lips back from his teeth in a snarl.

He dragged his gaze away, fighting to calm his breathing. This was a place for law and reason, not vengeance. But part of him wanted to draw his sword and spray the elegant chamber with Raymond of Lowick's blood.

Raoul did have a purpose here after all. He'd stop such madness.

Galeran suddenly hoped it would come to a court battle, though. He wanted it. He needed it to drive away a deep pain that reason, understanding, and forgiveness did not seem to touch.

Flambard and Lowick were making their bows to the king.

Henry nodded to the two men, then called for extra benches to be placed in front of him. "This is not a formal legal matter, my friends. Sit at your ease as we try to settle it to the satisfaction of all."

Galeran and Raoul sat on one bench, Lowick and Flambard on the other, with the monks standing quietly behind. Galeran found it tempting to stare at his enemies and focused instead on the king.

"First," said Henry, "we make known to you our advisers in this. His lordship, the Bishop of London."

The elderly, sinewy man nodded.