Joanna looked over her new supplies, bought or bartered from Joseph of West Sarum in the hamlet that morning. Joseph, a herbalist and secret alchemist, had no suggestions for her. He had looked at her with pity when she admitted that Solomon was still in the donjon. “That is why I live and work here,” he said, “outside the city walls and the keen greedy eye of the bishop. But I know that is no comfort to you.”

“No,” agreed Joanna as she gathered up her things and left the cottage to find the guards watching a cockfight in the alleyway outside.

Sitting now at her workbench with her elbows braced amidst glasses and earthenware pots, she tried to concentrate on a parchment Joseph had loaned her. It was called “The Cure of Mercury,” and claimed many things for that element, including the prolonging of life. The crabbed letters and symbols kept blurring on the scroll as she fought and failed to pay attention.

At length she went to the top of the staircase and sat down on the top step, listening out for David’s voice from the floor below. What must it be like to have a brother like Hugh, so protective? So determined?

She glanced at Hugh’s glove at her belt—she felt it to be hers now, although she did not know why she did not burn it in her furnace. He had handled her twice now, without her permission: once over the glove and then today, in the hamlet, a brief, disturbing caress of her arm as he brushed her bracelets. Even through her sleeve she had felt his fingers, warm and strong and steady. Her whole arm had been changed by his contact, tingling and feeling lighter, as if some inner dross had been burned off by his touch. She wished she could have answered him honestly when he asked her what she thought of David’s imprisonment. Were her father not also captive, she would have said, roundly, that the holding of a man such as David was an abomination. Except for her father, he was the kindest, gentlest, most learned man she had ever known.

But it was not his fingers that her body remembered.

Joanna let the scroll roll up in her fingers and allowed herself to daydream. Hugh had challenged Bishop Thomas, called the man corrupt to his face. Even as she had goggled at that memory she had envied Hugh his free speech: he had said what she had longed to say and had never dared to.

Before Hugh, she had never seen a man with such blue eyes. Blazing blue eyes, sharp with feeling. He was passionate, easily angered, fiercely loyal. He would do much for those he loved.

Joanna sighed and tried to consider her work again. During her visit to Joseph, her fellow alchemist had mentioned a process of growing gold in the earth, seeding the ground with gold, cinnabar, mercury, silver, and lead. It must be special earth, purified by water and fire.

How often does Hugh bathe?

The question rose in her mind, insistent and magical as a salamander. He would be beautiful, nude, with his long, shapely limbs and toned muscles.

“Stop this,” Joanna admonished herself, trying to plan where, in the palace, she might seed the ground for gold. All places were too public: too many guards and petitioners and heralds. Even its gardens, of which she was allowed a small corner where she grew a patchwork of herbs and marigolds for her work, was busy with strolling priests.

On the floor below she heard the door open and stiffened, listening closely as she leaned down into the dark stairwell.

“…nor my daughter are privy to the bishop’s mind, but yes, he desires gold. What man does not?”

It was her father. He must be speaking to David, Joanna surmised. Hoping to catch more, she leaned farther forward on the cold step.

“I would say my brother wants other things than gold. Hugh can be wantonly generous.”

Ask him more, Joanna mentally pleaded with her father, hugging her knees. Ask him what Hugh wants from his life. Ask if Hugh likes girls. Ask if Hugh has a sweetheart.

“And you, a knight in a holy order, do not approve of his unworldliness?” Solomon teased. “You would prefer him to be a miser, perhaps?”

“I did not mean that, Solomon, and you know it. No, I—”

The rest of David’s reply was lost as the chamber door closed. Joanna waited a moment, trying to hear, then slapped the staircase wall in frustration. From two floors lower she heard a sudden, piercing shriek, then a ghastly, broken sobbing.

She fled down the stairs and pounded on the first-floor door. Sometimes guards were within the first-floor chamber, sometimes absent; right now she prayed someone was there. A guard thrust his head out. “You cannot come in now. Today, you must wait until sunset.” Always, her visits were strictly monitored and timed.

“But those men in the lower prison!” Joanna panted, just stopping herself from wringing her hands in front of the impassive guard. “Please, let me take them food and water! Please, as an act of Christian mercy—”

“Not today, Joanna.”

The door was shut and barred against her. She kicked it, violently, and yelped as her toes felt as if they had been nipped by red-hot pincers.

An image of Hugh stalking away, free, proud, powerful, inspired her to rebel. What use was it, hanging over her books and experiments, when her mind was so distracted, when her thoughts were full of a tall, strapping knight who would risk so much for love? She wanted to see him again. She wanted to tell him what she really thought about Bishop Thomas.

Of course it was not so easy. She could not leave on a whim. Permission must be sought. She found the steward and spun him a tale of river gold—such gold was rare, especially in these parts, but she made Richard Parvus blink and rub his palms together at the image of nuggets of gold as large as her fist. Later, she might have to explain why she had brought none back with her, but the excuse was sufficient to win her another release for the afternoon. She went off as she was, without cloak, or hat. Scarcely remembering her carrying basket, or the scraps of fleece which she needed to collect any river gold, she scampered so swiftly through the palace yard and then the streets of West Sarum that the guards with her grumbled at the pace she set.

Recalling her time spent far to the southwest, Joanna followed the river to a swifter tributary and then branched off to trace the stream to its source. She paid close attention as the vineyards, orchards, and open fields gave way to woodland, aware that the woods and all within them belonged to her lord bishop. At first she gathered herbs and bark there, then, as the land became steeper and the stream sparkled with a gurgling rush of water, she straddled the narrow banks to study the stream bed itself, paying close attention to the bends in the stream, where heavy gold might gather.

“How much longer?” asked a guard, leaning on his spear as he picked his nose. “Does your back not hurt, with you crooked over the water like that?”

“I am accustomed to it,” Joanna answered, although in truth her back and thighs ached like toothache and her skirts were becoming damp and clinging with water and spray. “I am going as quickly as I can,” she added, recalling that these men also worked in the donjon, where her father and Mercury and David were. Where Hugh would return some time tomorrow, probably early—

A piercing high-pitched scream, followed by a splash, drove all thoughts of Hugh and gold from her head. Tossing aside fleeces and carrying basket, she set off in the direction of the splash, forcing her numb legs to go faster as the screaming resumed.

“I’m coming!” she shouted, unable to see who had fallen into the stream as the woodland seemed to crowd in closer still and the ground rose almost vertically ahead of her. “Help me!” she yelled at the guards, dropping to her hands and knees to scramble through thick, lush grass and banks of flowering garlic and bluebells. Somewhere over the crown of this hill a woman or child was screaming, panicking, thrashing in the water.

“Hurry!” she urged herself and the guards, without wasting time in looking back. Snatching at a low-growing hazel branch, she pulled herself up the slope with it and finally reached a summit, where the ground leveled off for a space and the stream widened into a pool. Panting, her lungs feeling as if they were plastered against her ribs, Joanna anxiously scanned the ring of sparkling water—

—and saw the child, a dark tangle of flailing limbs and staring eyes. The boy was trying and failing to find a hand-hold on the bank while the swirling water battered his thin little body, threatening to drag him down beneath its bright, treacherous surface.

“Grab hold of this! Grab it!” Joanna untied her belt and cast one end into the stream. “Grab hold and I’ll pull you out!”

She tossed the belt a second time, willing the child to catch it. The little lad made a brave dive for the belt and seized it. Joanna heaved on her end, praying that it would not break. Her arms shook with effort as she fought the churning water and supported the child’s stiff, anxious weight, easing the belt through her numb fingers hand over hand as if she were climbing it. Each time she drew a little more of the belt closer, the boy dipped in the stream and seemed to drift farther away. And where were the guards? Was it their laughter and cheerful banter she could hear between her own spurting breaths? Joanna was not certain, but she dared not look round lest the boy disappeared under the water. Then she would be forced to dive into the pool, although in truth she was a poor swimmer.

“I have you now!” she called out, wishing she could be faster. Her teeth were chattering and her hands and feet felt to have sublimated into blocks of ice. If she felt this way, how must the little lad in the water be?

“You are safe now, but keep hold, and hold on tight!” she exhorted.

A shadow fell across her and she shook with relief, realizing that one of the guards had finally ambled up to the pool and had chosen to help. But the long, powerful arm that shot past her shoulder and caught the exhausted child was clothed in red, not serge.

“I have him.” Hugh Manhill lifted the boy clear of the water and wrapped him in his own cloak, briskly rubbing at the child’s arms and legs while speaking to him in a low monotone. Joanna heard some words but could no longer grasp what he was saying. Suddenly overwhelmed by weariness and a wave of rising heat and sickness, she sank down on the bank with her head hung over her knees.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, when she could speak.

Hugh acknowledged her thanks with a terse nod. “No thanks to these two.” He glowered at the guards, who were staring sheepishly into the trees. “They were laying bets on which of you would sink first.”

Hugh set the boy down gently, bracing him against his own body so he would not fall. “What brings you here?” he asked, now proceeding to peel off his tunic. “The lad needs warm fresh clothes,” he said, correctly interpreting Joanna’s silent question. “So, girl, why are you here?”

“I am not required to answer you,” Joanna replied stiffly, smarting afresh as his use of “girl.” “But for the sake of good manners, I will say that I am in my lord’s woods to seek herbs.” She did not mention gold. Neither the guards nor Hugh should know that.

She was distracted, too, by his casual disrobing. We are not animals, she longed to say. How dare you parade your body? He would deny it, of course, turn it back against her, claim he was acting in the child’s best interests—and how could she dispute that? Feigning disinterest, she raised her head, determined to look only at his face. “Why are you here, sir?”

“I happened to be in the district.” Hugh ran both hands through his short yet tousled black hair, trying and failing to rake it into some order. He offered his tunic to the forest child, who shrugged it on over his own patched clothes and then proceeded to drape the warrior’s massive cloak on top, seemingly delighted at how he was steaming in the dappled woodland sunlight.

“One happy outcome,” Hugh remarked, ruffling the boy’s hair and being rewarded by a gap-toothed grin from the child. “So, girl? Herbs with scraps of fleece?”

The brute was baiting her! Determined to show him exquisite courtesy, Joanna forced a smile. “Fleece is useful to collect seed heads,” she lied. Suddenly, she could not resist a tease in return. “Not all of us carry our own fleece on our bodies.”

Hugh gave a bark of laughter, and as he glanced at his hairy chest and arms, Joanna stole a glance herself. He was very handsome to look on, with his broad shoulders, lean muscled arms and flat, taut stomach. Between the dark swirls of jet-black hair over his torso and belly she glimpsed two long white tags: the drawstrings to his linen breeches, she guessed. Instantly, she imagined pulling on the strings, disrobing him further—

No! Stop this! Joanna felt the heat pound into her face and she closed her eyes, shutting Hugh out. There were other handsome men in the world and she had never been tempted to tease them, so why was this man so different? Why did she have this insistent wish, each time she encountered Hugh Manhill, to touch him? And did he feel the same tug, the same desire, or was this her shame alone? Confused and alarmed, she studied the child, who was now contentedly making knots in Hugh’s cloak, and dipped her head lower to avoid encountering Manhill’s knowing eyes.

And there in the water directly ahead she saw a dull yellow gleam—not in the curve of the stream, as she had expected, but in the shallows of the “pool” itself. Without explaining, she moved forward, plunged her arm into the water, and her hand came up with gold in it—fragments too tiny to be called nuggets, but valuable all the same.

She flicked her other hand into the pool as a distraction, lifting out a fistful of weed and holding it aloft like a trophy. “This is excellent for all manner of ills,” she declared. “Would you bring me my carrying basket, please, Sir Hugh?”

If he was surprised at her request he showed and said nothing, slipping back from the stream into the woodland and returning with her basket. As Joanna swiftly deposited gold and weeds into the carrier, he paid more attention to the boy, asking the lad his name and if he did well now, and then remarked, “Here, I think, are Hacon’s parents.”

Joanna followed his pointing finger to a cluster of swaying elder and hazel bushes. The one nearest to her seemed to explode and then two small, crouching figures burst through the undergrowth and pelted up the grassy slope, stumbling often in sheer haste. Both were red-cheeked and at the same time haggard—with worry, Joanna guessed, her heart lifting as she saw the couple rush up to the child and snatch the boy up into furious hugs.

“Blessings on you, my lord!” the mother exclaimed, bobbing before Hugh. “We heard him call, but we were so far away—”

“Thank her,” Hugh answered, nodding to Joanna.

At once Joanna felt herself enveloped by the older woman, who, although small and thin, could hug like a bear and would not let go. More praise and thanks spilled from her as Joanna tried to explain she had done no more than anyone would have done and the woman’s husband pumped Hugh’s hand.

“Keep the clothes,” Hugh answered easily, refusing to admit to any part in the child’s rescue. “I have plenty more. But now I must away.”

“As must we,” growled a guard, plainly bored and discomforted by the whole affair.

The party split up soon after, Joanna being promised a jar of honeycomb by the cottar’s wife as she retrieved her scraps of fleece and prepared to return to West Sarum. Hugh had already turned and was striding away; the light caught on the points of his shoulder blades and the muscles down his back seemed to ripple.

I will see you again, Joanna almost called after him, before she realized what she was about to do and stopped herself. If Hugh was too bad-mannered to say farewell, why should she prompt him to speak? He might even think she wanted him to turn so she could look at him again. Stubbornly she kept silent and fell in between the guards.

They walked back down the steep slope, Joanna wondering how Hugh had gone away from them so quickly. Wrenching her thoughts away from him, she reflected bleakly that this trip had been almost a waste, apart from the fragments of gold. These were now safely tucked away in the small purse hidden inside her gown, and she should be directing her ideas as to how she might increase them.

I have less than a month to do so. So how may I do it?

Deep in thought, she did not know where her plodding feet were taking her until one of her guards muttered, “That is a very fancy nag,” and the other one gave a long whistle. She raised her head to see what the commotion was about, not at all surprised to see Hugh again, although her heart beat a little faster.

He was standing on the main woodland path, gripping the reins to a truly magnificent black stallion: a big, long-legged, strong-necked, handsome brute, much like his master. His wolfhound lay close to his horse’s feet and both were prick-eared and ready, waiting for a sign from Hugh.

Is he waiting for me?

Foolish one! Joanna remonstrated herself. Hugh doubtless wished to talk to the men for some reason; it was nothing to do with her.

Now he patted the gleaming neck of his black horse and stepped away from stallion and hound, tapping his sword belt.

“Give me the girl and you may go free.”

Wide-eyed, the guards stared at him and then at each other, plainly trying to spur themselves on to some reaction.

Hugh drew his sword and scraped a line in the dirt track with his boot. “I have no quarrel with you men, and I swear to you now that the girl will not be harmed. Walk away now, uninjured, your honor intact.”

Genuinely angry, Joanna picked up a stone and hurled it at his feet. “Hey! Now I have your attention!” she yelled, planting both fists on her hips. “I am no parcel! You do not dare to fight over me! I am walking out of this wood and no man is going to stop me!”

She took a step forward, beside a cluster of hazel bushes and then sideways, neatly shielding her departure. Tossing away her basket a second time, she picked up her skirts and began to run, sprinting from one patch of cover to another.

Behind her she could hear shouting but no clash of arms—she had not expected it, nor did she blame the guards for not accepting Manhill’s challenge. Even two against one was an uneven match when the one was a tourney knight, and Bishop Thomas’s men knew that as well as she. But for him to call them out in her presence, to not even look at her—

Her face burned with indignation.

How could he? How dare he? Her thoughts pounded in her aching head as fast as her rushing feet. Again, as with the glove, Hugh Manhill had belittled her. She was sore in her aching legs and in her jolted stomach and there was a soreness, too, in her chest, that had nothing to do with physical hurt.

“He speaks of honor when he has none!” she burst out, almost spent as she crossed a small stream and began climbing up another tree-clad hill. The guards would be safe enough, she reckoned—those were not his target. She was—and why? “What have I ever done to you?” she panted aloud and missed her footing, stumbling against a holly bush that raked her arms.

And now she heard behind her the steady rumble of an approaching horse, ridden swiftly through this maze of trees, with great skill. She dropped and tried to crawl over the rough ground, trying to find some hiding place, but the wolfhound burst through the grass, bounding up close to her and, startled, she yelled.

No longer able to conceal herself, she tottered to her feet and lunged ahead, her vision blurring as she strained with the effort of running. Her blood was now banging so loudly in her ears she could no longer hear the horse, but then she sensed its looming shadow and jinked aside, swerving at the last moment. Above, she heard a muffled curse and almost laughed, but then a massive arm hooked her round her waist and off her feet.

Flung roughly over the neck of the stallion, with the pommel of the saddle grinding into her stomach and her arms and legs beating the air as she tried to break free, she was carried off by Hugh de Manhill.