Lavender Vows Read Online Free PDF Page B

attracted the attention—the venomous attention—of her husband, which would be taken to violence on the tourney fields tomorrow. She must find a way to warn him away from her, else he might find himself the victim of Ralf’s irrational anger. Even though ’twas customary and expected to use blunted weapons at such celebratory tournaments, men had been injured and even killed in them.
     
    And Joanna could not bear the thought of the gentle, brave Bernard sliced to ribbons.
     
    “Ah…the oaf sings like a lady.” Ralf’s grating voice, somehow reaching inside her to make her cringe, pulled Joanna’s attention from her own musings.
     
    She froze, her hand closing around a crust of bread. It had not taken Joanna more than a few weeks of marriage to Ralf to learn that traps such as these were as common as the tiny pebbles ground into wheat bread. If she looked up, he’d accuse her of casting her eyes upon another man…if she did not respond, he would be angry that she ignored him.
     
    A loud guffaw and the retort, “Aye, he looks like a sot-head who doesn’t know the sharp end of a sword from his arse!” caused Joanna to exhale in relief. ’Twas a friend of his, who sat across the table, to whom Ralf spoke.
     
    But when she glanced up, looking toward the singer with the smooth, mellow voice, her heart nearly stopped beating. It was Bernard.
     
    Somehow, he’d come by a lute, and, even more oddly, he’d moved to the dais, where he stood, leaning against the side of the raised floor—plucking the strings of the lute…and singing.
     
    And watching her.
     
    Joanna ducked her head, turning her attention to the crust she’d mangled, but his image was burned into her memory. And even as his voice reached her ears, clear and deep as the River Wyckford, she saw his dark head and serious eyes.
     
    And prayed that Ralf wouldn’t notice the object of his attention.
     
    He sang a common song, one about an oath between a knight and his lady…a vow made over a relic of the True Cross….But Bernard changed the words to sing of a promise made over a bed of lavender in a garden, to a maiden fair.
     
    When she looked up again, her heart swelling hugely, she was relieved to find that Bernard no longer looked at her. Instead, he smiled upon several ladies who had taken seats near him, and who gazed up at him as though he was the Savior himself. At their urging, he ran his fingers over the strings and began to pluck another ballad from the lute.
     
    Joanna measured her moments carefully: watching him for as long as she dared before Ralf might turn to look at her…and taking care to note every detail about him.
     
    She would carry this memory—the memory of the man who’d been so gentle and kind—when she was gone.
     
    ~*~
     
    When Ralf excused himself—if standing abruptly walking off with a companion to play at dice could be called excusing himself—Joanna was surprised and pleased to be relieved of his volatile presence.
     
    She stood and slipped between crowded trestle tables, dancers, and jugglers to make her way slowly out of the hall. Every step made her wince, and once, when an overly enthusiastic man-at-arms bumped into her shoulder, she gasped aloud from the pain.
     
    “Does something ail you, lady?”
     
    Joanna had just reached the hallway that led to a row of chambers when this voice stopped her. She turned to see a woman perhaps two or three years younger than herself, with dark hair and fine clothing. “Nay, lady. I am merely a bit sore.”
     
    “I am Maris of Langumont,” said the young woman woman, stepping toward her. Concern lit her eyes. “I do not believe you, I am afraid. You are in some pain. I would try to help you.”
     
    Joanna rested her hand against the stone wall as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “I am Joanna of Swerthmoor, daughter of the Lord of Wyckford Heath. You are very kind to have a care for me, when you do not know me.”
     
    “I have care for anyone who