in the pictures her fine needles and brilliant threads painted and was well pleased by the image she was creating in gold thread on the soft, golden-green silk she had chosen.
This was part of her wedding present to her husband, and she had given considerable time and thought to what would become him. She had been pleased that Geoffrey’s gold-brown hair and gold-brown eyes would be bleached into insignificance by the brilliant tints Ian wore. Frankly she was tired of sewing crimson and brilliant blues and greens. It was nice to love one’s stepfather, but it was nicer to have a man of one’s own to sew for, and it was nicer still to have them so different.
There was no need to remind oneself that this gown was for Geoffrey. Ian would have looked dreadful in it, his dark skin turned sallow by the soft color. Geoffrey, on the other hand, would glow more golden. At that point, Joanna checked her thoughts and sighed with exasperation. There was nothing golden about Geoffrey. He was a clean, nice-looking young man with very beautiful eyesthere she was, doing it again! She caught her needle in a safe spot in the fabric and pushed the frame away, searching in her mind for some active thing to do. If she sat pent up in the keep for much longer, Geoffrey would assume a halo.
That notion relieved Joanna’s mood a little. When she thought of the scrapes Geoffrey had got her into, there was no chance of investing him with a halo of saintliness. Joanna jerked more upright in indignation suddenly. Why, it was Geoffrey who had dared her to climb that part of the cliff where she had fallen. How dare he scold her for something he had taught her to do. She burst out laughing. Just wait until she reminded him. The gloom descended again. That was all she could dowait. Repressing an urge to scream, run around the hall, or beat her maids, Joanna slowly reached for her embroidery frame again. As if to prove that patience brings rewards, the movement was interrupted by the double tramp of heavy feet.
Joanna looked up eagerly. A messenger from Ireland, perhaps, or even word of a fight among the men-at-arms that she would have to settle. Anything would be welcome to break the tedium of the day. The first glance showed her that what came was no domestic crisis nor a letter from her mother. Beorn was leading a man she knew, and he was not a part of any household related to her. The second look tightened Joanna’s throat and made her fold her hands together so that they should not twitch with nervousness. On his breast the man wore the royal arms of England. He was not merely a noble visitor passing through; he was acting as a messenger for the king. When the two men drew nearer, Joanna could only hope she did not look as pale as she felt.
Henry de Braybrook bowed gracefully before Joanna and proffered a scroll. “From the queen,” he said.
“The queen?” Joanna echoed, at once relieved and puzzled.
Queen Isabella had never paid the slightest attention to her, except once to sayin her hearingthat it was a pity she was so red and fox-haired because one so red could never approach beauty. Caution, however, restrained Joanna from saying any more. She knew that Isabella hated Geoffrey and guessed the queen must know she was now betrothed to him. Her eyes were wary under their downcast lids as she reached for the message. It was very brief and in the beautiful, clear writing of a scribe. Joanna raised her eyes to Beorn. “Please see to Sir Henry’s refreshment while I take this to Father Francis to read,” she said. It was no business of anyone’s that she could read and writea most unwomanly ability and one that Braybrook might well not have himself.
When she returned, Sir Henry was seated with wine at hand, Beorn standing silently a slight distance away. Joanna looked at the old master-at-arms. “The queen invites me to come to her at Whitechurch,” she said.
“Leuedy,”
he burst out,
“thou sholdest nat faren.”
Braybrook
This was part of her wedding present to her husband, and she had given considerable time and thought to what would become him. She had been pleased that Geoffrey’s gold-brown hair and gold-brown eyes would be bleached into insignificance by the brilliant tints Ian wore. Frankly she was tired of sewing crimson and brilliant blues and greens. It was nice to love one’s stepfather, but it was nicer to have a man of one’s own to sew for, and it was nicer still to have them so different.
There was no need to remind oneself that this gown was for Geoffrey. Ian would have looked dreadful in it, his dark skin turned sallow by the soft color. Geoffrey, on the other hand, would glow more golden. At that point, Joanna checked her thoughts and sighed with exasperation. There was nothing golden about Geoffrey. He was a clean, nice-looking young man with very beautiful eyesthere she was, doing it again! She caught her needle in a safe spot in the fabric and pushed the frame away, searching in her mind for some active thing to do. If she sat pent up in the keep for much longer, Geoffrey would assume a halo.
That notion relieved Joanna’s mood a little. When she thought of the scrapes Geoffrey had got her into, there was no chance of investing him with a halo of saintliness. Joanna jerked more upright in indignation suddenly. Why, it was Geoffrey who had dared her to climb that part of the cliff where she had fallen. How dare he scold her for something he had taught her to do. She burst out laughing. Just wait until she reminded him. The gloom descended again. That was all she could dowait. Repressing an urge to scream, run around the hall, or beat her maids, Joanna slowly reached for her embroidery frame again. As if to prove that patience brings rewards, the movement was interrupted by the double tramp of heavy feet.
Joanna looked up eagerly. A messenger from Ireland, perhaps, or even word of a fight among the men-at-arms that she would have to settle. Anything would be welcome to break the tedium of the day. The first glance showed her that what came was no domestic crisis nor a letter from her mother. Beorn was leading a man she knew, and he was not a part of any household related to her. The second look tightened Joanna’s throat and made her fold her hands together so that they should not twitch with nervousness. On his breast the man wore the royal arms of England. He was not merely a noble visitor passing through; he was acting as a messenger for the king. When the two men drew nearer, Joanna could only hope she did not look as pale as she felt.
Henry de Braybrook bowed gracefully before Joanna and proffered a scroll. “From the queen,” he said.
“The queen?” Joanna echoed, at once relieved and puzzled.
Queen Isabella had never paid the slightest attention to her, except once to sayin her hearingthat it was a pity she was so red and fox-haired because one so red could never approach beauty. Caution, however, restrained Joanna from saying any more. She knew that Isabella hated Geoffrey and guessed the queen must know she was now betrothed to him. Her eyes were wary under their downcast lids as she reached for the message. It was very brief and in the beautiful, clear writing of a scribe. Joanna raised her eyes to Beorn. “Please see to Sir Henry’s refreshment while I take this to Father Francis to read,” she said. It was no business of anyone’s that she could read and writea most unwomanly ability and one that Braybrook might well not have himself.
When she returned, Sir Henry was seated with wine at hand, Beorn standing silently a slight distance away. Joanna looked at the old master-at-arms. “The queen invites me to come to her at Whitechurch,” she said.
“Leuedy,”
he burst out,
“thou sholdest nat faren.”
Braybrook
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