Chapter 1 #3
Isabelle was determined, stronger than she appeared, and fiercely protective towards her own children, Ellis and Ingrid.
Without de Foucart, Isabelle and Jo were now closer to sisters than mother and daughter, and Jo had found surprising security in her.
But as Jo approached the gatehouse, Isabelle was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, lingering beneath the open portcullis was a rider on a horse.
He greeted her as she approached. They had become close over the past year or so – this was the messenger who carried letters to and from the keep. Often, he brought letters from Cecily.
Jo had been re-reading Cecily’s latest missive that morning, within which Cecily had expressed her desire for Jo to return to Dunlyn Castle.
She spoke of lakeside walks and summer sunshine and blackberry picking, long days with no end, full of sweetness and laughter.
Jo had read the letter with her chest squeezing. She wanted it so much it hurt.
The northern keep felt farther away than it had ever been. It was a two-week ride between the two castles when travelling with a retinue – a long but manageable journey. Now it seemed an impossible distance.
The first trip to Dunlyn Castle had been an act of diplomacy.
Penn was by law the family’s hostage – a prisoner for peace, as part of negotiations made after de Foucart’s temper and violence had nearly ruined them all.
But Penn was a prisoner in name alone. It was a ruse, allowing him to stay with Raff: Penn’s lover, and Cecily’s elder brother.
Jo had journeyed to Dunlyn to confirm he was being treated well, thus ensuring the terms of the agreement still stood.
He was well, as she had known he would be. The Barden family had embraced him as one of their own, and they embraced her, too, for the short time she was there.
Away from her father’s iron rule and explosive temper for the first time in her life, she was happy. She could breathe. Cecily had declared her a friend, and by the time she was packing the carts for the journey home she had spent more time with Cecily than she had Penn.
Her trips since then had been diplomatic in name alone.
She longed for that lightness and laughter, and had never found companionship like she had in Cecily.
She was so free, so entirely wild and confident, and that wildness had been near-intoxicating.
Cecily had taken her on grand walks of her father’s grounds and lands, visiting villages and beautiful scenic lakes.
Jo’s time with Penn often amounted to little more than shared meals or long evenings gathered beside the fire.
Once, she had arrived to find that Penn and Raff had taken themselves off on an excursion to Cumberland, and he had only arrived home the day she had left for Oxford.
She longed to go back, but now she was to be married.
Another visit north may not happen for months – perhaps years – if her husband even allowed it.
She had spent weeks grieving the fact that she would not return north before the tournament was upon them.
She had told Cecily of her upcoming marriage in her last letter, and had still yet to receive a reply.
A letter from Cecily would go some way to buoying her spirits. She was not unhappy to be married, and far too busy to be miserable, but she was desperate to hear from her again anyway. It felt like a fragile friendship – one which Jo had never had before, and one which she was keen not to lose.
‘Good morning, Lady Johanna.’ The rider smiled down at her. ‘All is well?’
‘Very well,’ she said, with a short curtsey. ‘You had no trouble in the grounds?’
He laughed, looking over his shoulder. ‘It’s furiously busy out there,’ he said, ‘but I got through unharmed.’
He passed her a bundle of parchment tied with twine.
She tugged the tie away and quickly skimmed through the letters, but realised with a leaden feeling that none were for her.
She would have recognised Cecily’s messy handwriting anywhere, and today – as it had for over a fortnight – it was not to be found amongst the missives.
The rider noticed her disappointment. ‘Everything all right, m’Lady?’
Jo set herself, fixing her face back into a smile. ‘Quite all right,’ she said, quickly. ‘I was expecting a letter. Perhaps it has become waylaid.’
The messenger gave her a sympathetic look.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘I hope the tournament goes well, m’Lady.’
Jo thanked him, and watched as he turned the horse around and made his way back through the gatehouse, weaving around people. She gripped the bundle of letters in her hands, rubbing the rough parchment between her fingers.
It was unusual to go so long without hearing from Cecily. It was very likely that a letter had been waylaid or lost on the long journey between their homes, but a dark little voice at the back of her head told her that this was not the case.
You are too dull, it said. She has grown bored of you.
Jo wasn’t sure why it hurt so much. Perhaps it was for the simple fact that Jo had never had a friend like Cecily before. She had never even met someone like Cecily, and none of the dozens of women who flitted in and out of her life could hold a candle to her flame.
Even during their first meeting Cecily had been bolder than Jo had expected. She couldn’t tell if Cecily didn’t realise how strict de Foucart was, and so had not known the need to rein herself in, or if it was simply in her nature to be bold, no matter what.
The more they spoke – both in person and in letters – the more Jo suspected that it was her nature. She feared that she was boring in comparison.
‘Johanna?’
Jo turned. Isabelle stood behind her, wearing a dazzling light-blue gown and a curious expression. When she spotted Jo’s face, the expression slipped into concern.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh— Yes, I am quite well.’ Jo handed her the pile of letters. ‘I was lost in thought.’
Isabelle regarded her with a pointed look. ‘Nothing from the north?’ she asked. ‘Or Cecily?’
Jo swallowed. There was an odd lilt to the way Isabelle had said Cecily’s name that she couldn’t quite understand. Did Isabelle find their continued friendship inappropriate? Her expression, though, was teasing – eyebrows raised, lip quirked.
‘No,’ Jo admitted. ‘Nothing.’
Isabelle gave her a soft, slightly sad smile. ‘I am sure you will hear again soon enough,’ she said. ‘Did you inform . . . her of the tournament?’
‘Of course.’
‘And of the arrangements we are making for you?’
It took Jo a moment to realise what she meant. ‘Of my marriage?’ she asked, brow furrowing. ‘Yes, I mentioned it in my last letter.’
‘Oh.’ Isabelle looked surprised. ‘I had not expected— Well, that may go some way to explaining it, I suppose.’
Jo was lost. ‘I . . . am not sure I understand.’
Isabelle chose her words very carefully. ‘It may no longer be . . . appropriate,’ she said at last, ‘to continue the friendship? Considering that you will soon be wed . . .’
This was even more confusing. Only a cruel man would forbid his wife from having female friends beyond the confine of their keep, and Jo knew that Isabelle was keen not to tie her to a man like that. Isabelle read the confusion on her face, then to Jo’s shock, ducked closer, lowering her voice.
‘I understand that you found happiness in the north, Johanna, but he must—’
‘Countess Isabelle!’
Isabelle cut herself off with a sigh then swept forwards to greet the man who had shouted to them from the other side of the gatehouse.
‘It is wonderful to see you again, Lord Thomas,’ Isabelle called. ‘I am so glad you could attend . . .’
Jo watched as she welcomed Lord Thomas and his wife.
It had been a strange conversation. Isabelle had been treating her oddly since Jo’s first visit to Dunlyn Castle, and she could not place why.
It had not been the first time she had spoken about Cecily with raised eyebrows and an exaggerated expression.
‘But he must . . .’ It appeared that Isabelle hadn’t been talking about Cecily at all, or had misspoken.
Jo sighed to herself. She would have to unpick the matter later: right now, Lord Thomas’s wife, Lady Ava, was approaching.
Jo pulled her face into what she hoped was a welcoming smile and embraced her.
‘My Lady,’ she said, with a curtsey. ‘I hope the journey was fair?’
‘Very fair,’ Lady Ava said. She shot a look over her shoulder to where Lord Thomas and Isabelle were still talking, then took Jo’s arm and led her away from them. ‘I have been quite desperate to ask,’ she said, voice lowered. ‘Have you had any luck with your search?’
Jo knew at once what she was talking about. Leo.
After Penn had vanished and Jo assumed him dead, she had decided that she would not lose anyone else and had set out to find their elder brother. Leo had always been strong – stronger than Jo – and he would not have simply given up.
She sent letters to the courts of those who were familiar with the family, begging for old allies to inform her should they hear word of him.
Lady Ava had been one of the many noblewomen she had asked; once a close friend of their mother’s and sympathetic to her plight.
Jo had trusted her to ensure word of the hunt never reached Jo’s father.
It had been a huge risk. Jo had felt her father’s eyes bearing down on her, positive that he knew, somehow, every time she sent a letter or whispered a word into the ear of a woman she could trust. She waited for weeks – months – for discovery and punishment.
But discovery never came. Nor did she hear anything back. Leo – and the girl he had left with – had vanished. The steely sense of certainty that had made her seek him out had been blunted. Now, she had all but given up.
‘I have not,’ she said, matching Ava’s whispered tone. ‘I fear it has been a futile search.’
Ava gripped her arm. ‘I am so sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘You may hear yet.’
Jo didn’t have the heart to tell her she was wrong. ‘Perhaps. Have you many men in the tourney?’ she asked instead, keen to move the conversation on.
‘Oh yes.’ Ava’s eyes sparkled. ‘We’ve several of the younger boys keen to enter, you know how they are, and of course Thomas has decided he simply must enter the joust and nothing I say will dissuade him . . .’
Jo slipped into easy conversation with Lady Ava before directing the party inside. She had no time to speak plainly to Isabelle about their aborted conversation: more guests were arriving, all of such rank that it would be improper for at least one of them not to greet them personally.
Many of their guests had brought sons whom she was introduced to with raised eyebrows and knowing looks, or were unmarried men of rank seeking a bride themselves.
The hairs on her nape prickled unpleasantly as another man old enough to be her grandfather placed a damp kiss to the back of her hand, his eyes lingering on her for far too long as Jo gave him a dutiful, forced smile.
She needed a suitable reason to remove herself.
Looking through the still-open gates, she could see the tourney grounds beyond, alive with people far too unimportant to be allowed entry to the keep itself.
She made her way over to where Isabelle was talking animatedly to an older woman and her tall, slender daughter.
She edged forwards as soon as the conversation appeared to be over. ‘My Lady, if I could?’
‘Yes?’
‘There are quite a number of lower-ranking men attending,’ Jo said. ‘More than I had anticipated. Would you give me leave to head into the grounds and greet them? It would do to welcome even the wandering knights.’
Jo had ensured that such men had suitable places to sleep, choosing the patch of land for rows of empty tents herself, and so it would be fair to welcome them, too. She did not want anyone in attendance to feel as if they were lesser. A tournament was supposed to be a leveller, after all.
‘A keen idea,’ Isabelle said. ‘It will let our guests know that we welcome all of them, not just the nobility. But please, do find Brice or Edmund to accompany you. We’ve no idea what kind of men have seen fit to attend.’
Jo paused. Yes: there were more likely to be rogues or bandits amongst travellers, but she was well aware that noblemen were just as likely to be cruel or violent.
Moreso, given their birth right and power.
Perhaps beyond the walls of the keep, away from money and influence, was a better kind of man.
She gave her stepmother a dutiful curtsey.
‘Of course, my Lady.’
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