Once a Bride (37 page)

Terror lurked beneath Ivy’s stoic expression. She bit down on a thick towel and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Cradling Ivy’s head, Joanna nodded at Greta, who held a sharp needle and strong thread at the ready.

Greta grabbed hold of Ivy’s arm above the wrist. Joanna tightened her grip on her child’s elbow. The moment the needle pierced the forearm’s skin, Ivy jerked, gave a muffled scream, then mercifully fainted.

“Hurry,” Joanna ordered, feeling her head go light.

“Breathe, milady. Ivy is only cut, not dying.”

The midwife’s reassurance helped some, but having already buried two children, Joanna loathed allowing anything untoward to happen to her remaining daughter.

“How long must the stitches stay in?”

The midwife continued to work—a fourth stitch, a fifth. “The wound ought to heal up in a few days. She will have a scar, but has come to no lasting harm. With a few days rest, she will be fine.”

Joanna wondered how she could enforce rest for even a day. Ivy could hardly keep her seat at table each morn, eager to escape to the village to play with the tenants’ children. Despite the recent problems, Joanna had considered the green a safe place for her daughter to play.

No more.

The only way to ensure everyone’s safety was to find and punish the bastards responsible for this outrage—and Joanna was nearly at her wit’s end over how to capture the outlaws who’d been harassing the village for the past fortnight.

She’d thought of one way, but it seemed extreme.

And how long would it take before she stopped questioning nearly every decision she made? Joanna pushed the uncertainty aside. Whatever she must do, she would do.

After what seemed an eternity, seventeen neat stitches puckered Ivy’s arm. A rinse to remove the blood and a wrap of white bandaging completed the process. As they finished, Maud, the manor’s housekeeper, cautiously poked her head into the chamber.

“Milady, Wat and Harold are in the hall. Are ye ready to speak with them?”

If Harold was back so soon, then likely the outlaws had escaped capture once more. Damn.

“Inform them I will be there in a moment.”

Maud disappeared. Greta gathered up the bloodied towels and her basket of medicinals and followed.

Joanna took a deep breath, kissed Ivy’s forehead, and eased her onto the thick feather mattress, hoping the girl would sleep a while longer.

While fears over Ivy’s injuries had eased, Joanna’s resolve to set an untenable situation to rights had not. After a last reassuring inspection of her child, she left the room, leaving open the door connecting the chamber to the manor’s hall, the better to hear if Ivy woke and cried out.

The scents of rabbit stew bubbling in a cauldron on the hearth and rosemary strewn among the rushes covering the dirt floor helped to mask the odor of blood drying on her brown, light wool gown. At some time during her mad rush to find Ivy, Joanna’s circlet and veil had flown off, and she hadn’t given their whereabouts a thought until now, when the two somber men sitting at the trestle table in the middle of the hall turned to stare at her.

Joanna forswore returning to the bedchamber to cover her braided dark blond hair. If either man thought her scandalous for the mere absence of a veil, so be it.

Wat Reeve and Harold Long occupied benches on either side of the trestle table. Though neither man would admit it, they had been unprepared to assume the positions of authority they now held.

Joanna included herself among the unprepared.

The plague of last summer and autumn had cut through both manor and village like a scythe wielded by an indiscriminate mower, taking whichever lives happened to cross the jagged path of the vile sickness. Nearly half of the populace had been lost, in some cases entire families. No family had been spared.

Wat Reeve, whom the villagers elected to his deceased father’s position as village reeve, unfolded his long, lank body and stood.

Sturdily built Harold Long followed suit. He now captained the sorely depleted manor guard—chosen by the men for his skill at arms, approved by her for his ability to command.

Both young men provided her with counsel and most often readily abided by her decisions, even when they didn’t entirely approve. But, thus far, her decisions had been good ones.

Joanna eased into the chair placed at the head of the table. The men sat, but didn’t relax.

“How does the little lady?” Wat asked, his deep voice an odd match to his slight frame.

Likely the servants had already informed the men of the extent of Ivy’s injuries.

“She finally sleeps. The other children?”

“I visited all the families. The children are bruised and suffered a fright, but are otherwise unharmed, praise the Lord in his mercy.” Wat rubbed weary eyes with his palms. “We were most fortunate. When I think of what might have happened …”

No one finished the reeve’s thought. No one wanting to put the tragedy they’d escaped into words.

Joanna glanced pointedly between the men. “These brutes who harry us must be caught and punished. I will not tolerate a repeat of this morning’s incident. ’Tis unacceptable that our children are at risk while playing on the village green.”

Harold pounded a fist on the table. “We have hunted them since they first stole one of Margaret atte Green’s chickens. But with so few soldiers and the spring planting not yet completed, I fear we will not have enough men available to hunt the ruffians properly for some weeks yet.”

“We cannot wait weeks!”

“I am aware of your concern, milady. I share it! Where before the band struck in secrecy, they now flaunt our vulnerability. We need more men, more horses and … nay, milady, I do not know from where either can be hired or bought. The entire kingdom suffers the same hardships we do.”

She didn’t care about the hardships of the entire kingdom, only those in the small portion under her rule, a role thrust upon her without warning or mercy.

The pestilence had robbed her of two children, both innocents she missed horribly. But the plague had also rid her of her husband, whose soul—if there were any justice in the afterlife—now resided with the devil in the deepest pit of hell.

Joanna gathered her courage to present her decision as diplomatically as she could. As a courtesy, she would first give Wat and Harold a last opportunity to suggest other solutions. Indeed, she hoped either one might offer an easier, less extreme solution than the one she had in mind.

“This noon the outlaws threatened the lives of our children. As you say, Harold, we have not the means to deal with them as we might like. Still, we need a solution, good sirs, and quickly.”

Harold leaned forward, palm raised, expression earnest. “Mayhap another appeal to the abbot for assistance is in order.”

Joanna didn’t hesitate in her answer. Appealing to Abbot William, Lynwood Manor’s overlord, didn’t sit well.

“Our last appeal to the abbot gained us no more than Father Arthur. While we had need of a priest, he is helpless against these ruffians.”

Indeed, the priest wasn’t good for much of anything except spouting nonsense—in her opinion. He wailed and moaned over the lack of holiness in the kingdom, claimed God had sent the plague to punish the wicked, impious hordes for their sins.

Her toddling son hadn’t been impious, or her infant daughter wicked.

“Are you still against an appeal to your brother?”

Appeal to the brother who’d taken the first opportunity to be rid of her upon his inheritance? Who’d married her off to Sir Bertrand de Poitou despite her objections? She’d never again speak to her brother if she could help it.

“I am sure my brother suffers hardships, too. We must deal with this problem on our own.”

Neither man would suggest she appeal to the de Poitou family, who’d irrevocably broken ties with Bertrand years ago.

Wat shifted in his seat. “If I may take the liberty, Lady Joanna. These scoundrels must know we have no lord in residence or they would not be so bold. I pray you reconsider your position on marriage.”

This suggestion not only pricked her ire but soured her stomach. The men knew she’d had two offers of marriage, both from landless knights seeking to improve their lot. She’d sent both men out the door with firm refusals. If she had her way, and she meant to, she would never marry again. Never place herself or Ivy at the mercy of a man. Memories of Bertrand’s cruelty helped her keep her resolve.

Barely restraining her ire, Joanna once more stated her position on what Wat considered the solution to all of the manor’s travails.

“I will not take a husband simply to rid us of a few ruffians.”

Wat’s mouth tightened. “These ruffians are now more than a nuisance, milady. In return for our pledge of fealty, the villagers are due protection. You must do whatever is required to meet that responsibility.”

She was well aware of her duty to the villagers and manor folk, having witnessed both her father and her husband go about ruling their holdings. Unfortunately, she had no practical experience in the matter because neither man had seen fit to give her the opportunity to try her hand.

They’d both believed women were too weak-hearted and light-handed to oversee estates. Joanna meant to prove both men wrong, even if neither man was alive to witness her success.

“Certes, the manor guards bear the burden of running the thieves to ground, but the villagers could be of aid. I believe a bit of cooperation is in order.”

“We are farmers, not soldiers. Do you propose we abandon our plows to pick up swords?”

Joanna nearly shuddered at the consequences should they do so. Not only would some of the farmers hurt themselves beyond repair if given a sharp sword, but the planting must continue with due haste. Because of the plague, too much of last year’s crop had rotted in the field from lack of healthy hands at harvest. Without a bountiful harvest this autumn, all would face starvation next winter.

“Nay, but I do expect everyone to keep a keen eye out for signs of the ruffians, and to give chase when possible.”

“’Tis impossible for the villagers to overtake men on horseback. The responsibility for their capture must lie with the guards.”

Harold took umbrage. “Think you we have not followed the louts? They vanish as if plucked from the earth by the wind, leaving no trail! ’Tis uncanny.”

Wat huffed. “No one on horseback vanishes without trace. Perhaps your soldiers take their duty too lightly and do not search too hard.”

Harold half rose from the bench. “You dare accuse us of shunning our duty?”

“Halt, at once!” Joanna stared at Harold until he reluctantly resumed his seat, then shot Wat a withering glare. “The soldiers do what they can. I have no complaint of them. Besides, what is past is done. We need a plan, good sirs, of how to proceed from now on.” Again she glanced pointedly from one man to the other. “Might either of you have another suggestion?”

Neither of them offered a solution.

After several moments of silence, Joanna hushed the errant thoughts of self-doubt, squared her shoulders, and forged ahead.

“Since we cannot seem to deal with the situation on our own, then we must find someone who is able. I intend to hire a mercenary of some renown to augment our guard. His sole duty will be to rid us of these brutes.”

The announcement raised the men’s eyebrows.

“Who, milady?” Harold asked.

“Logan Grimm, if he is available.”

Wat’s head jerked back slightly at the man’s name, his eyes going wide. “Grimm?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

She could almost hear the thoughts flitting through the men’s heads.

Logan Grimm. Legendary mercenary. Reputedly the most fearsome fighter in the kingdom, Grimm charged a hefty fee, but he always won. Such a man could track down a band of outlaws and dispatch them with ease.

Harold said nothing, only gave her a somber look. Wat found his voice again.

“Milady, is it wise to bring a man of his ilk among the innocent folk of Lynwood Manor?”

Joanna stood up, unwilling to debate her decision. “A man of his ilk will ensure Lynwood Manor continues to exist. Harold, you will prepare to ride to London on the morn. I will give you direction and coin before you leave.”

With that, she spun around and returned to the bedchamber, hoping all the gossip she’d heard in her father’s hall about the legendary mercenary proved true.

’Twas said he was fierce, thorough, and completely loyal to whoever paid his fee. If Logan Grimm could rid her of this band of outlaws, give her the peace and security she craved, then by the rood, she’d find a way to pay his fee— somehow.

Logan Grimm nursed an ale in the taproom of the crowded, crude dockside inn he called home while in London, a place he didn’t visit often. Usually, he left the service of one lord only to head straight to another. ’Twas rare when he found himself without the prospect of work, rarer still when he suffered a wound from which he must recover.

The inactivity left him more restless and surly than usual, but he admitted the rest had done his body good. The gash on his thigh healed well, if slowly, with the resulting limp easier to hide if he didn’t overuse the leg. He would have a scar, but his body bore so many scars he no longer remembered from where they all came. It was one of the hazards of his profession.

As for work, something would come his way. It always did. Somewhere in the kingdom one lord wished to do battle with another lord, for righteous reasons or foul. Either the aggressor or the defender would seek out and hire Logan Grimm for his skill with a sword.

He hoped not too many lords had learned of how poorly he’d faired on his last job. The dent to his otherwise flawless reputation bothered him more than his wounded leg.

Habit shifted him on the stool when the door opened. The cries of fishmongers and the stench of muck-strewn streets invaded the inn as three men entered.

The two sailors joined a boisterous group of their fellows. The third man perused the room before winding his way through the crowd to the bar. A merchant, Logan guessed, from the quality of his garb. No threat, no prospect.

Logan downed the last of his ale, intending to get up and walk around to keep his leg from going too stiff. He had no more than put the mug on the table he claimed and shared with no one when Abigail, the innkeeper’s plump wife, headed in his direction with a flagon in hand. She was, in part, the reason he favored the Red Rooster. She kept his mug full and his bedding fairly free of vermin for a fair price.