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Authors: Colleen Gleason
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cheek.
“She is well hurt,” Maris told him. “She was beaten nearly to death by Ralf.” Even as she spoke, her voice sharp and flat with fury, she ground herbs with a small mortar and pestle.
Joanna remained still, only the short puffs of air belying that she yet lived. Rage and guilt swelled within him as he looked down at her battered body. How could he have left her to this man’s anger? He should have known— known —that Ralf, having lost the battle, would take out his fury on Joanna.
“ She must be taken from him, Lady Maris, and then I will kill him. ”
’Twas his own fault that Joanna now lay still as death, for if Bernard hadn’t angered Ralf so, the cock-sucker would not have been propelled to injure her thus.
Guilt, strong and sharp as the lash of a blade, made him ill and weak. How could he have left her to this? “We must take her from here, now,” he said.
Maris shook her head regretfully. “Nay, Bernard, ’twould not be best for her to be moved. She has two broken ribs and she is very, very weak. Can you not settle a guard here?”
Bernard snorted. “In the home of the father who wed her to this monster? Aye, I’ll do it, but I do not know how long he’ll allow it.”
“Allow it?” Maris echoed. “When his daughter has been near beaten to the death, her own father will not allow her to be kept safe?”
Bernard shook his head, sick at heart. What could he do to ensure Joanna’s safety? With all his being, he desired nothing more than to stalk back to the great hall and plunge a dagger into the throat of Ralf.
Such an action would free Joanna from the man, certainly, but would leave Bernard hanging for murder and Joanna unencumbered—and sure to be wed to another man. Much as he had the blood lust to do away with Ralf, Bernard could not allow Joanna to belong to anyone but him.
Not now that he’d found her.
He stood, leaned to press a kiss to the cool, still cheek of his beloved, and turned to Maris. “I will fetch my father’s men-at-arms and send them here anon. Please have a care for yourself and my beloved. I will find some way to tend to this.”
VI.
Through a heavy murkiness, Joanna heard a haze of voices…staccato bursts of anger.
She struggled to open her eyes, but it felt as though her lashes were plastered onto her cheeks. Pain radiated through her body, echoing everywhere so that she could not tell where it began and where it ended.
Her senses faded, and she slipped into the depths of darkness, buffered from the pain.
She heard the voices again, and they pulled her from her deepest, safest place. They tugged her relentlessly from the numb cocoon that kept the agony at bay, and as she became more aware, the heaviness of her hurts throbbed and battered her body, even though she lay still.
This time, she managed to pry her eyes open—the only part of her body that moved without pain—to see Ralf holding something in his hand, something flowing, and white. His face was a mask of fury, and even as she watched, he whirled in anger upon another figure in the room—a woman—and turned upon her, grabbing her shoulders and tossing her aside.
The other woman screamed, then fell to the floor, silenced.
And Ralf rounded upon her, Joanna, in her bed.
“Wake up, you cock-spittle bitch!”
Hands seized her shoulders, and she was jerked up, her head snapping back as a scream choked in the back of her throat. Red-hot pain stabbed her head, her abdomen, and flashed through her body like fire. She could not control the wail that erupted from her abdomen and burst from her mouth.
“What is this? What is this?” he was shrieking. Somehow, through all of the hazy pain, she felt the spittle fly from his mouth, flecking her face. “Whore!” He released her, and she fell back onto the bed, her teeth jarring together.
She struggled to make sense of what he raged about,
“She is well hurt,” Maris told him. “She was beaten nearly to death by Ralf.” Even as she spoke, her voice sharp and flat with fury, she ground herbs with a small mortar and pestle.
Joanna remained still, only the short puffs of air belying that she yet lived. Rage and guilt swelled within him as he looked down at her battered body. How could he have left her to this man’s anger? He should have known— known —that Ralf, having lost the battle, would take out his fury on Joanna.
“ She must be taken from him, Lady Maris, and then I will kill him. ”
’Twas his own fault that Joanna now lay still as death, for if Bernard hadn’t angered Ralf so, the cock-sucker would not have been propelled to injure her thus.
Guilt, strong and sharp as the lash of a blade, made him ill and weak. How could he have left her to this? “We must take her from here, now,” he said.
Maris shook her head regretfully. “Nay, Bernard, ’twould not be best for her to be moved. She has two broken ribs and she is very, very weak. Can you not settle a guard here?”
Bernard snorted. “In the home of the father who wed her to this monster? Aye, I’ll do it, but I do not know how long he’ll allow it.”
“Allow it?” Maris echoed. “When his daughter has been near beaten to the death, her own father will not allow her to be kept safe?”
Bernard shook his head, sick at heart. What could he do to ensure Joanna’s safety? With all his being, he desired nothing more than to stalk back to the great hall and plunge a dagger into the throat of Ralf.
Such an action would free Joanna from the man, certainly, but would leave Bernard hanging for murder and Joanna unencumbered—and sure to be wed to another man. Much as he had the blood lust to do away with Ralf, Bernard could not allow Joanna to belong to anyone but him.
Not now that he’d found her.
He stood, leaned to press a kiss to the cool, still cheek of his beloved, and turned to Maris. “I will fetch my father’s men-at-arms and send them here anon. Please have a care for yourself and my beloved. I will find some way to tend to this.”
VI.
Through a heavy murkiness, Joanna heard a haze of voices…staccato bursts of anger.
She struggled to open her eyes, but it felt as though her lashes were plastered onto her cheeks. Pain radiated through her body, echoing everywhere so that she could not tell where it began and where it ended.
Her senses faded, and she slipped into the depths of darkness, buffered from the pain.
She heard the voices again, and they pulled her from her deepest, safest place. They tugged her relentlessly from the numb cocoon that kept the agony at bay, and as she became more aware, the heaviness of her hurts throbbed and battered her body, even though she lay still.
This time, she managed to pry her eyes open—the only part of her body that moved without pain—to see Ralf holding something in his hand, something flowing, and white. His face was a mask of fury, and even as she watched, he whirled in anger upon another figure in the room—a woman—and turned upon her, grabbing her shoulders and tossing her aside.
The other woman screamed, then fell to the floor, silenced.
And Ralf rounded upon her, Joanna, in her bed.
“Wake up, you cock-spittle bitch!”
Hands seized her shoulders, and she was jerked up, her head snapping back as a scream choked in the back of her throat. Red-hot pain stabbed her head, her abdomen, and flashed through her body like fire. She could not control the wail that erupted from her abdomen and burst from her mouth.
“What is this? What is this?” he was shrieking. Somehow, through all of the hazy pain, she felt the spittle fly from his mouth, flecking her face. “Whore!” He released her, and she fell back onto the bed, her teeth jarring together.
She struggled to make sense of what he raged about,
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