Joining Page 4

  “You are not trying to turn him against his owner, are you?” Jhone asked her sister uneasily as she approached the stall.

  “I thought about it.”

  That surly reply had Jhone smiling. “But changed your mind?”

  “Aye. I would not see the stallion hurt, which is no doubt what would happen if that bastard suddenly could not control him. It is his tendency to lash out and cause pain, as I learned firsthand.”

  “That was long ago, Mili,” Jhone reminded her gently. “He was only a boy then, not fully a man as he is now. Surely he has changed—”

  Milisant’s head snapped up, her eyes filling with golden heat as she cut in, “You saw for yourself out there on the path. He would have struck me if you had not stepped forward when you did.”

  “But he did not know ’twas you.”

  “How much smaller am I than he, no matter what he thought me?”

  Jhone could hardly refute that, so she remarked instead, “I was there to see his horror when he did realize just who you were.”

  “Good,” Milisant shot back. “Then when I return to the hall, ’twill be to hear that that silly contract has been set aside.”

  “I am not so sure of that,” Jhone said, biting her lip. “Would he have that power? To break a contract made by his father?”

  Milisant frowned. “Nay, I suppose not. Then I will just have to make sure that Papa breaks it. I was going to anyway, just did not think ’twould be necessary this soon.” And then she snorted. “And why would I think so? He could have come to claim me at any time these last six years, but he did not. Truly, I had all but forgotten about him.”

  That was not exactly true, and they both knew it. Milisant had her heart set on another, yet could not wed him until the old contract that promised her to Wulfric de Thorpe was set aside. So she could not help but think about her long-standing betrothed, even if those thoughts had not been pleasant ones.

  “He may be tardy in showing up, Mili, but he has shown up. What if you do still have to wed him?”

  “I would sooner jump off yonder tower.”

  “Milisant!”

  “I did not say I would, just that I would rather.”

  Jhone leaned against the plank of the stall, not knowing how to make this easier for her sister, yet agonizing over her turmoil. It was cruel of de Thorpe to wait this long, without any communication, without once coming to visit so the two of them could gain knowledge of each other and be more at ease with the notion of their joining. She did not count that time that he did come all those years ago that had left such a bitter mark on her sister.

  With no word, and so much time passed, ’twas no wonder Milisant had turned her thoughts and heart to another young knight, one she approved of and greatly liked, one who did not mind that she was not like other girls. They were even good friends, and Jhone had learned firsthand that being friends with your husband-to-be made a great difference and alleviated much fear on the bride’s part.

  Jhone had been wed herself two years ago to a young man who had come often to visit since their betrothal when she reached her tenth year. So she’d had six years to get to know him and had been most pleased with him, and was still saddened over his loss, for he had died not long after.

  But she was the younger, and she had felt strange marrying ere Milisant did, and felt that her sister might feel somewhat embarrassed over it as well—and have yet another mark to hold against her betrothed because of it. Though Milisant had never admitted to any embarrassment, and if she had felt it, hid it well.

  “You really think Papa will agree to set the contract aside after the groom has shown up for you? You no longer have his absence to use as a weapon in your reasoning.”

  Milisant dropped her forehead to the stallion’s in a dejected manner. “He will,” she said so softly Jhone barely heard it and had to doubt the conviction of it, then louder as she looked back up. “He must. I cannot wed that—that brute, Jhone! He would smother me, try to break me. And once Papa knows that I love another, he will see reason. Just because Wulfric de Thorpe has finally shown up does not excuse the lateness of it, and ’twas the lateness of it that had me looking elsewhere.”

  That did sound reasonable and was in fact true. Up until two years ago, Milisant had not thought of breaking the contract that had been in existence since the year of her birth. She had hated it, and hated her betrothed, but she had been resigned to her fate—until even more time passed and Wulfric still had not made an appearance, nor sent any excuses. And their father did often concede to Milisant’s wishes, or more to the point, he would eventually give up trying to make her conform to his.

  But for some reason, Jhone had a sinking feeling that Milisant would not succeed with their father this time. Contracts were a sacred thing that men adhered to, that women could not begin to fathom the reasoning for, since they were never consulted on the making of such. And somehow she knew that her sister was just as aware of this, which was one of the reasons she was festering with so much anger. And Jhone sensed the anger.

  The other reason was no doubt that attack on the path. Fear had been the first emotion there, but fear did tend to turn to anger once the fear was gone. And who would have expected an attack like that so close to Dunburh? Milisant had not even brought along her weapons, since they had only been going to the village.

  “I told Papa what happened on the path,” Jhone said. “He sent Sir Milo to see about tracking down those men.”

  “Good.” Milisant nodded. “Milo is a competent knight—not like some,” she added in a grumble.

  Jhone refused to comment on those “some.” “I cannot imagine who they were, though, or why they seemed intent on getting to you.”

  “You noticed that as well?” Milisant asked with a thoughtful frown. “I thought I had imagined it, that they seemed centered on me.”

  Jhone shook her head. “’Tis true, but why?”

  At that, Milisant shrugged. “Why else? Ransom. ’Tis hardly a secret, with all the improvements made in the last ten years to Dunburh’s defenses, that Papa’s coffers are nigh overflowing. And I am his heir.”

  Jhone chuckled. “Aye, but who would know that you are his heir, to look at you?”

  Milisant grinned. “True. Yet Dunburh sees much traffic in the way of traveling merchants and minstrels, and more frequently, mercenaries seeking work, any of whom could have found out who I am. ’Twas likely some of those mercenaries who got turned down, who saw kidnapping me as an easy way to fill their pockets.”

  Jhone nodded thoughtfully. That did seem the most likely reason.

  “But you will have to be more careful now,” Jhone warned. “And that means you cannot go off hunting alone as has been your habit.”

  “If I’d had my bow with me, Jhone, they never would have gotten that close, and well you know it.”

  That was true as well, but did not convince Jhone that caution was not needed. “There were only four of them. Next time there may be more in number. ’Twould not hurt for you to abstain from hunting, or take a few guards with you—at least until they are caught.”

  “We will see,” was all Milisant would promise, an unsatisfactory answer at best.

  But Jhone knew better than to try to browbeat her sister to get her to do as she would like. With Milisant, much more subtle tactics were required. So she said no more on that subject—for now. And she still had the main subject to deal with, of why she had sought her sister out. And that she was not sure how to broach either, without having Milisant turn stubborn.

  So for the moment, Jhone chose an unrelated topic, remarking, “Stomper will become jealous if you give much more care to that stallion in his presence.”

  Milisant smiled across the way at the much larger horse that was patiently waiting for a bit of her attention. “Nay, he knows that the sharing of my feelings does not mean there is less for him.”

  She did leave the stall, though, to visit the other horse, and the stallion attempted to follow. She
stopped to speak a few soft words to him. When she turned to leave again, he was content to stay.

  Jhone had seen the same thing happen many times before. From as far back as she could remember, Milisant had shown an affinity for animals. ’Twas almost as if they could understand her perfectly when she spoke to them. ’Twas almost as if she could feel their pain and fear as her own, and they could sense this and draw comfort from it. That was not the case, of course; she would be silly to suppose it was. She just empathized with animals. Those she befriended did not feel threatened. But even those she hunted were asked their forgiveness ere she killed them, and too frequently she gave them an opportunity to escape her arrows. Mayhap because she only hunted for food, never for sport.

  Jhone had empathy as well, not for animals, but for people. At least, it seemed as if she could sense emotions much stronger than the average person could. That was one reason the anger that large men felt so terrified her. Because she felt that anger so intensely, almost as if it were her own, and that frightened her.

  That was why she had loved her husband, William, so much, and had asked her father to decline any other offers that might be submitted for her, for she was not ready to embrace marriage again. William had never felt anger. His disposition had been too light and carefree for him to ever take anything so seriously that ’twould cause him anger. And he had loved her dearly, which she had also felt most strongly. It would be nigh impossible to find another like William, so she wanted no other.

  After a few words and gentle touches to the other horse, Milisant turned to leave the stable. Jhone finally said, “Papa sent me to fetch you to the hall—properly dressed.”

  Milisant stopped with a snort. “Put on a bliaut for him? When you show me one made of nettles.”

  Jhone covered her mouth quickly, but not ere Milisant saw the grin. “Well, I do not have one like that, but I do have extras—since I know that you have already burned the last ones that Papa had made for you.”

  “Then you wear one and be me. I will not willingly go forth to speak with that churl.”

  It was not an absurd request. They had often, in the past, pretended to be each other. ’Twas a game they had played as children, and one Jhone had much enjoyed, since when she pretended to be Milisant, she also seemed to gain Milisant’s courage and daring, something she sadly lacked when she was herself. But they had not switched places for several years, and in this instance, to deal with de Thorpe, nay, she could not do it. He frightened her too much.

  “Mili, I cannot. He would have me trembling, and you do not want him to have that impression of you, do you? Besides, Papa would know, will be looking for just that.”

  Milisant scowled. “Then tell Papa you could not find me, that I left the castle. There is no reason for me to deal at all with de Thorpe, when I mean to have that contract set aside—as soon as I can find Papa alone to speak with him.”

  “Papa will be angry if I return to the hall without you,” Jhone predicted.

  “Papa is ofttimes angry with me. It never lasts.”

  Jhone was not so sure that would be the case this time. Wulfric de Thorpe was no ordinary visitor, after all. Their father would want him shown the honor due him as an earl’s son, the same as an earl would receive, nigh the same as was due the king. And Jesu, she had not even had a chamber readied for him yet!

  Jhone paled with the thought, and said quickly to her sister, “I will tell him, but he will not like it. So do not delay too long in speaking with him, Mili, and soothing his temper.”

  She rushed out of the stable then, leaving Milisant frowning after her and mumbling, “Soothe it? Since when do I do other than flame it?” And then she yelled after her sister, “You are the one who can soothe him, not me!” but Jhone was already beyond hearing her.

  Seven

  Milisant went to the armory for a bow—she was not going to risk entering the keep to fetch her own—and sneaked out the side gate where she could quickly blend with the woods. She was still churning with emotion, and none of it pleasant.

  A hare came forward to greet her and she stopped to scratch it beneath its chin. She had many friends in these woods and the meadows beyond that she had made over the years. Some she took into the castle, but most she could not. There were just too many.

  The animal sensed her dark mood, though, and quickly scampered off. She sighed and continued on, her steps soundless. When she was deep in the wood she stopped again and climbed a tree to settle on a sturdy limb. She had a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding area and what animals were nearby that had not found a warm hole to hibernate in for the winter. She was in a mood to kill something, which was why she would not. She never hunted when she was angry. She had brought the bow merely for her own protection, since she knew those attackers had fled into these woods.

  She was fleeing as well, trying to escape a memory that had been brought back so clearly today, thanks to him. It had been a day she might not even have remembered, it being so long ago and she so young, if there had not been so much pain involved with the memory.

  She had been proudly showing off her newest accomplishment to her friends, the taming of Rhiska. The falconer had given up on Rhiska, because she was a captured gyrfalcon, not raised from a baby, and had refused to adapt to human handling. He had in fact been ready to turn her over to the cooks, or so he’d said, something Milisant only realized much later had been a jest. So some of her pride had come from thinking she had saved the bird’s life by taming it.

  But then he had appeared, drawing her notice with a sound, and looking at her as if she had done something wrong. And since she had tamed Rhiska without the falconer knowing, entering his domain when she had been expressly forbidden access, she knew she had done something wrong, but she could not fathom how this stranger could know.

  But what he said to her, “I am the man you will be wedded to, once you are old enough for wedding,” had been the very worst thing he could have said. He had been handsome enough. Another girl might have been thrilled to hear him say such a thing. But Milisant had just that week decided she was never going to marry.

  Several days earlier, one of the village villeins had beat his wife so severely that she had died from it by the next day. The whispers that followed the incident, however, made a frightful impression on Milisant at that young age.

  “She deserved it,” and “’Twas his right to discipline his own wife,” and “He could have been a bit less heavy-handed. Who’s going to cook for him now, eh?” And “A wife should know better than to make her husband wroth with her.”

  To Milisant’s young mind, the best way to avoid all of that was to simply never wed. Such an easy solution, she wondered why more women did not think of it. And she had yet to be told about Wulfric de Thorpe, had yet to learn that she was already contracted to marry him. So she thought herself safe from heavy-handed husbands—until he stood there, claiming with such confidence that she would be wedding him.

  He was a liar, of course, and so she called him, but his words had frightened her too, because he sounded so sure of himself. It had been a bad year for her all the way around, the year she’d found out that most of the things she wanted to do, she’d never be able to do. It was also the year that she had discovered, or at least her friends had, that she had a terrible temper, and she’d yet to figure out how to control it.

  The liar got a taste of it, but when she ordered him to leave, he just stood there, staring. That was the last straw. She was going to have him thrown out of the castle and the gate barred to him.

  She moved to put Rhiska back on her perch so she could leave the mews to summon one of the men-at-arms to deal with the stranger. She was furious that she had been ignored. After all, she was the lord’s daughter, and this man was a stranger. But Rhiska sensed her anger and reacted to it, flying straight at him.

  Milisant was surprised, and even more surprised when the foolish boy put up a gloveless hand to ward off a falcon. The hawk had not been trained to hun
t yet, so had not been trained yet to return at a call. But all hawks were hunters by nature; they just did not usually attack people. Rhiska did, though, clamped right on to the boy’s hand. Milisant started forward to talk the bird off of him, but the boy was too swift in his own reaction and shook Rhiska off.

  The bird died almost instantly. Milisant did not need to examine it to know it was dead, she had felt the life spirit flow out of it, and she went a little mad in that moment of loss, launching herself at the boy as Rhiska had done, wanting to kill him as he had killed her bird.

  She had no awareness, really, of what she was doing, she was so mad with grief, no awareness until she flew back from his push and crashed into one of the bird perches. She collapsed on her foot, heard the snap of her ankle, felt the pain wash over her. But the horror of a broken foot was worse than any pain, for she knew such breaks did not mend, that anyone who suffered such would be lame for life. And lame folk were not pitied, they were ignored, considered so inferior they became less than villeins—they became beggars.

  She did not scream, made no sound, mayhap because of the shock. And to this day, she never knew how she had withstood the pain to push that bone back where it ought to be, never knew why she had done it, except for that terrifying thought of being lame the rest of her life.

  Her two friends had run quickly for help so she could be carried inside the keep. The stranger had gone as soon as he had done his damage. She had not seen him again. But ironically, because she still had not made a sound, her injury had not been thought serious, had been thought no more than a twisting that would mend right quickly.