Chapter Fifteen
The buildings lining the narrow streets blurred as tears flooded Joanie’s eyes.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her chin to block out the chill.
Large snowflakes drifted down, sashaying through the air and settling on the dirt roads and rundown buildings like an icing of frosty lace to cover the drab thatch roofs.
Her stomach rumbled as she passed by a vendor with baked apples and warm mead bubbling in a pot.
Snowflakes found the hot surface and disappeared the instant they touched down in the boiling drink.
The man eyed her distastefully. “Unless you’ve a hay penny in your pocket to buy a sip, you just keep on walking.”
Joanie scurried away. She didn’t have a hay penny or any other penny for that matter.
Two days prior, when she had returned to the chapel from the market, the priest had refused her entry...
“I’m sorry, my child, but she does not want you here,” Father Ambrose said gently.
Joanie stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mistress told me not to grant you entry.”
“You’re lying,” Joanie said, barreling up the stairs. But Father Ambrose and two servants who flanked his sides barred the way. She tried to shove past them. “Diana,” she shouted, pushing her face through his arms. “Diana!”
The priest’s servants, two strong, young men, grabbed her arms and dragged her backward down the steps. Her heart pounded. She could hardly draw breath. “Let me go! She needs me!”
“This is not my doing. This is your mistress’s will,” Father Ambrose said, his brows drawn together.
Joanie shook her head, the priest’s sympathetic face blurred as tears flooded her eyes. “I don’t believe you,” she sobbed, trying to yank her arms free. “Please, don’t do this. She needs me.”
Father Ambrose clasped his hands as if in prayer and descended the steps.
“She wanted me to give you this message. She does not want you to watch her waste away and die. She wants you to remember her as she always was, beautiful and strong. Also, she wants you to take yourself far from here, away from London.”
“No,” Joanie cried, covering her ears with her hands. Her stomach twisted. The sour taste of bile filled her mouth.
“And she wanted me to give you this.” From beneath his robe, Father Ambrose produced a small purse. “I have kept for the parish what I require for her care and burial. She bade me give you the remainder.”
Joanie gaped in horror at the purse. She shook her head. “Please, Father, she is not well. She ... she does not know what she is doing.”
Father Ambrose canted his head to the side, his expression soft. “You love her dearly, I can see. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“But she isn’t dead,” Joanie screamed as she rushed the stairs. But one of the servants thrust his arm out, knocking her back. The back of her head slammed against the ground.
“Be gentle with her.” She heard Father Ambrose snap over the ringing that filled her ears.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his face suddenly looming above hers. He laid his hand on her head. “I will do everything in my power to see that she does not suffer.”
Heartache twisted the pit of her stomach. “Please,” she cried, her hands covering her face.
The servants helped her stand. Her head pounded.
“Take this,” she heard the priest say.
She glanced at the purse in his hand. She waved it away with a feeble gesture. “That was not intended for me.”
Father Ambrose seized her arm. “Do not be a fool. Take the coin.”
She pressed her lips together, fighting her tears. “Release me now,” she gritted. When the pressure from her arm vanished. She took a step back. Then without looking up she whispered, “Tell her I love her,” before she turned and stumbled down the street.
Joanie reached behind her head. Blood still oozed from a gash on the back of her head when she fell off the stairs.
The wetness around her hair and cloak had frozen in the cold.
She ripped her tunic into strips, wadding one up to soak up the blood and securing it to the wound with the other.
After tying off the knot, she pulled her hood low over her head.
She hunched over, trying to escape the blustery wind as she continued down the narrow road.
She knew not where she was going. She was desperate for food, and never had she known such cold.
Glancing down, she could see that her feet still moved, but they were completely numb.
And she wondered whether she was still truly walking or was she dreaming her worst nightmare yet.
Then Diana’s words returned to her. There are worse pains than the might of a fist. Hunger. Cold. Those are the real demons.
When Diana had spoken those words, Joanie had not believed her.
She could not imagine facing anything worse than Geoffrey’s temper, but that was pain she had been able to fight against, hide from.
The hunger that gripped her belly and the cold that slowed her steps could not be outrun, or slapped away, or hidden from.
They could not be ignored by a secret place inside of her.
Up ahead, she spied a fire pit. She kept her eyes on the dancing flames and forced her feet to walk one in front of the other.
She felt the warmth even from a distance, enticing her stiff limbs to speed up, and then, suddenly, she stood next to the blazing heat, warming her hands over the licking flames.
Needles of pain stabbed her fingers as feeling began to return.
“Get away from there,” a woman shouted, coming at her with a broom.
“That is heating up for my laundry. It’s not for trash like you.
” Then a dog came from around her skirts, barking and gnashing its teeth.
Fear pulsed through Joanie, and she ran, her heart pounding in her ears.
The woman’s hateful voice and the bark of the dog followed her, filling her mind, pushing her ever faster although she knew she had long outrun the threat.
At last, she collapsed, her mind still reeling, but her body had surrendered.
It would take her no further. People from all walks of life and stations strode past her, giving her a wide berth.
Through a haze, she watched them avert their eyes, ignoring her need.
Snow danced down and her eyes followed the rhythm, which slowly grew faster as the snow thickened into a gauzy curtain, obscuring the buildings and passersby.
As darkness approached, the wind picked up, blasting her face with ice and snow.
One side of the street still bustled with people, hunched over, escaping the storm.
On the other side, there was a bridge guarded by two ferocious stone lions.
People rushed to cross over to the other side.
She rolled over onto her stomach, searching for what lay beneath the bridge.
A deep ditch only dusted with snow and out of reach of the wind’s sharp talons, beckoned her.
Crawling down the banking, she scrambled for cover, and finally collapsed onto her back.
She angled her head to peer around the wrought iron, her eyes following one snowflake’s descent to the ground.
Everything else had gone away, except the cold winter sky, black but full of power.
She stared upward, feeling no pain, no cold, no fear, no joy.
She was nameless, her mind and heart empty.
Shadows closed in on her vision, and she welcomed the approaching oblivion.
A breath away from what felt like her last, a face suddenly intruded upon her nothingness.
Eyes as black and cold as the winter night sky looked down at her.
Long black hair swept her skin when he drew closer.
He was beautiful and somehow familiar. Strong arms enclosed her, lifting her away from the cold ground.
He pressed her close, wrapping his cloak around her.
Warmth immediately surrounded her, reaching her soul-deep.
It was as if he had lit a fire within her body, heating her from the inside out.
And yet when she met his gaze a chill crept up her fiery spine.
“Are you an angel or the devil?” she whispered.
He looked down at her. His face remained unchanged. “I am just a man.” Despite his aloof tone, his voice was deep and unhurried and fueled the fire that continued to warm her body.
She curled deeper into his arms. “Liar,” she whispered. And then the world faded away into a dreamy haze.