Joanna kept watch but saw no one else all the time they traveled. It was not market day at West Sarum and folk were busy in the fields and vineyards, with no inclination to gawp at strangers—not even the bishop’s mistress.

She had guessed the rumors, but hearing it from Hugh’s lips was still a shock. Worse, she felt ashamed and actually alarmed by his clear disappointment, although why should his good opinion matter? She was the one wronged: he had kidnapped and manhandled her, kissing her to silence her. She wished now that she had not responded, but his lips had been so persuasive, so appealing.

Would he kiss her again? Would she respond?

He was a living wall, but there was a strange comfort in embracing him, in having him hold her. She and her father were not people who hugged or kissed much, so this feeling of safety, almost of peace, was new to her. Riding before him, feeling his naked chest warm and powerful against her back, his body hair tickling the back of her neck and her arms as his sinewy arms encircled her in a gentle yet unbreakable grip, was both exasperating and seductive. Trees and whole fields would slip by as she was lost in the sensation of being borne away. Her initial anger and panic had disappeared: she sensed he would not harm her.

Escape was different; it was her duty to do so, or at least to try. The nagging fear in her heart was that her lord would not care, or worse, that he would blame her for falling into Hugh Manhill’s clutches. To ride on this smooth-stepping stallion might be a dream, but she needed her wits honed and sharp: she must snatch the chance to get away when she could.

First she must lull and gull him into thinking she was defeated, obedient. “Are you not cold?” she asked, flicking his arm. She dared do no more than the briefest contact: a full, lingering touch was too distracting to her; it made her want to do more. “I would be freezing,” she added, trying not to stare at the whorls of black hair running over his forearms.

“I rarely feel the cold.”

She waited, but he said no more.

“What is the name of your horse? He is a magnificent beast. Does he have a miraculous name?” she asked, waving to a lonely figure digging in a muddy, waterlogged field.

The figure took no notice, but Hugh tightened his grip around her waist, a warning squeeze, and said, “Behave there.

“His name is Lucifer,” he went on. “I won him in a tourney when I captured Lord Stephen La Lude and won a worthy ransom. Before you ask, yes, you are my first girl hostage and far more trouble than any man.”

“So you have already told me,” Joanna replied, “and that is as it should be.”

“You females do not like to be confined. Even in the garden of Eden, you were not content.”

He sounded amused, so Joanna let it pass. Lull him and gull him. “What is the best prize you have won?”

“The freedom of a Jewish healer, Simon, who is now in my service.”

She felt his laughter. “There. I knew that would surprise you. But I did not like his keeper, and Simon has since repaid any debt to me many times over. He is away at present, in France.”

“Who oppressed him?” Joanna asked.

“One of Yves de Manhill’s men, his lead knight, Roger Two-Blades. He had Simon in his entourage, but treated him poorly.” Hugh’s voice was clipped, his whole body taut. “It was my pleasure to win him.”

“From your father’s champion?” Joanna said softly.

“It was a fair challenge.”

Making it clear he wanted no more talk, Hugh dug his heels into Lucifer’s sides, spurring the horse into a gallop.

They stopped less than two leagues farther on the road, Hugh guiding the stallion behind a stand of oak trees into a narrow, high-banked road that was scarcely wider than a deer path. Deeper and deeper the horse plodded along the overgrown, reedy track, trees arching over their heads.

“Where are we?” Joanna whispered, feeling the pressure in her ears pop as they ventured down into this sunken land.

“A place I discovered as a lad,” Hugh answered, “before I was sent away to train as a knight. There.” He pointed ahead. “It has not changed.”

Beyond a grove of alder trees a section of land rose into a small, perfect circle, round as an ancient grave mound. Hugh made for this and Joanna could now see a gaping black gap in the circle: the mouth to a cave. She had a vision of being swallowed by the earth itself, of being here where no one could hear or see her, and shivered.

“This is a safe place from footpads and animals,” Hugh announced, as if he sensed her small withdrawal. “We shall sleep in the cave tonight: it is snug and dry.”

Too snug, Joanna thought, fighting down a wave of sickly panic. “You have slept here before?” Her voice sounded calm enough.

“Many years ago, in different times. This should be more pleasant.”

Why? Joanna clamored to ask, but she dared not.

“This time I have food and drink, sufficient for two.”

“Naturally, because you planned this.” Joanna tried to keep censure from her tongue but something must have leaked through, for Hugh took her hands in his and gently chafed her fingers.

“You are safe with me,” he said, his chin so close to the top of her head that he could have rested it on her hair, had he so chosen. Joanna fought a sudden temptation to relax and trust him, to lean back against him, into his shielding arms.

“Safe, although I am the bishop’s woman?” she tossed back, then wondered at her own folly. Why was she goading a man who had already kidnapped her, bringing her to Lord knew where?

“It is still an hour to sunset,” she added quickly. “Do you not want to go farther?”

He twisted forward on the saddle to look at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “To escape our pursuit, you mean?”

He grinned as she said nothing and swung down from his mount, laughing outright as she scrambled down from the big horse without waiting for him to help her.

“Do you wish to help, or would you consider that treason to your master?” he asked.

Joanna spread her hands: let him make of that what he would.

He smiled again. “I will see to all, then. Why not go on inside and look? It is an interesting place. There are strange marks on one wall: runes, I think. Secret writing.”

“Which you cannot read,” Joanna shot back, then felt ashamed of the jibe. “I will look,” she said, and hurried to climb the grassy mound to the entrance, musing that Hugh had already guessed her weakness for strange things and mysteries. Of all things he could have said to divert her from escape, secret writing was one of the most powerful. She was eager to see these runes and read their message for herself.

Hugh tethered and tended Lucifer, roughed a little with Beowulf, cut reeds for bedding, collected firewood, and kept a sharp eye on Joanna. She made no move to flee from the cave, which surprised him, and met him at the cave mouth with his armload of reeds, which astonished him.

“What is it?” he asked. Her eyes were wide and her color high, lighting up her tanned face, making her very pretty. This would be how she would look in lovemaking, he realized, and felt a mingled twist of desire and jealousy. “Well?” he demanded, now using a hated phrase of his father’s, “Must I wait for doomsday before you speak?”

“I know what the runes say, and we must dig.” She was clearly too excited to notice his rudeness. “There is treasure here! Viking gold! Look—”

She caught his hand in hers and fairly dragged him back with her, careless of whether he smacked his head on the low cave roof. Crook-backed, he let her guide him, enjoying the feel of her small fingers round his palm.

“Look!” She dropped to her knees beside the maze of marks he had found at the back of the cave years earlier. The setting sun blazed into the small dry space—had it always been this small?—turning rock and stone golden. The runes on one darker-hued stone close to the cave floor seemed faded to Hugh’s eyes, but his eager companion read them easily.

“Orri’s hoard is here. A mighty gift.” She pointed to an X-shaped rune. “This rune, Gebo, means gift.” She touched three straight lines with her foot. “Three, then dig, it goes on.”

She stepped three paces from the cave wall and began to hack at the earth floor with her knife.

“Wait!” She was wilder than he was, in a fight, Hugh thought, astonished by this whirl of activity. “You will blunt your blade. I have something better.”

He looked amongst his things and found the small hammer he used to drive in tent and baggage pegs and the metal file he used to sharpen his sword. He set to work, driving the file into the hard-packed soil where Joanna was laboring, and in a few moments struck something that rang out like a broken bell.

“Let me—” Joanna had her fingers probing and tearing at the loosened earth and now she sat back on her heels, a great smile of pleasure breaking on her face. “We have it!”

Down by her knees was a torn bag, gray-black and half rotten, no more than wisps of cloth. But through the tangle of fraying threads he saw the unmistakable gleam of gold.

“Orri’s hoard,” Joanna said softly. “He must have left it here for safety and never come back.”

She moved but Hugh was swifter, scooping the coins and rings out of the dirt and onto his cloak.

“Hey!”

Fairness made him look at her and offer her a ring: a pretty one, he thought. “Thank you,” he said. “That will be most useful.”

Joanna stared at the ring without taking it. “You do not think we should share?”

He smiled at the question. “What use would you have for old coins? Your lord gives you all you need, but I must make my own way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You do not think I have expenses? Debts?”

“Take the ring, and this golden chain,” he urged, shrugging off her questions, dismissing them as girlish folly. “Both would look well on you, I think. Were I your bishop, it would give me pleasure to see you wearing them.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She took them, almost a snatch, and retreated to the very back of the cave, leaving him to make up their rough reed mattresses and a fire.

“Will you leave scrabbling for more messages and condescend to help me a little?” he demanded, some time later, as the fire began to smoke. “Feed this while I find food to feed us.”

“I thought you preferred to do all things yourself,” she retorted. “Besides, you do not have enough kindling.”

“If you can do better, do so.” Hugh left her sulking over the crackling flames and stamped off outside again. When he returned, Joanna was nowhere to be seen and the fire was a glowing, growing mass of orange. Even as he stared in amazement, the whole mass exploded into more flames and gushed a fog-bank of purple smoke.

“Hell’s teeth!” He began beating out the smoke and flames with the end of his travel-stained cloak, choking and half blind in the sulphurous fumes. “What in the devil’s name—?”

He spoke to no one. Joanna was gone.

“Find her!” he bawled at his dog, but Beowulf was chewing something—doubtless dropped for him by the wretched girl—and merely sniffed his hand.

“Find her, boy!” Hugh exhorted, scanning the closely growing trees, the lane, and his horse, contentedly cropping turf. Where had she vanished?

Then he saw it: a blur of brown amidst green rushes. Got you!

A few strides down the round little hill and across the track was all it took. He found Joanna frozen like a painting against a wall of rushes, her face and hands tucked away from sight and she tried to keep hidden. Her hair had been her downfall: it was tangled into a briar.

“I slipped,” she mumbled, hearing his approach. “Fell into this.”

“Hold still. I will have you out.”

Gently, he unwound the streamers, tress after tress.

“I should cut it,” Joanna muttered, moving and stretching as he released her. “’Tis nothing but vanity.”

“That would be a pity,” Hugh remarked, teasing free the last clump. Her hair was soft and warm, scented with cinnamon. He held it between his fingers, wishing he could ask for a lock and knowing she would refuse.

“What did you put on the fire?” he asked instead.

“Cinnabar and other things.”

“You keep such in your purse?”

“It is my trade.” Joanna sighed. “And now I am your prisoner again.”

“Indeed you are.” Hugh savored the thought, adding, “And this time Beowulf will guard you.”

She shrugged.

He held out a hand. “Come back to the fire and eat—before I decide to keep you close by stripping you naked.”

Joanna gasped and whipped her hand away. “You would not!”

“I might if you pester me again, or interrupt my supper.”

“You are no gentle knight! By this, you have just confirmed my low opinion of you!”

Hugh grinned, amused and discomforted in equal measures. Joanna seemed to have the knack of making him feel both ashamed and alive. He could not seem to stop goading her, nor she goading him. “And you are no castle lady, little wretch, so we are quit.”

They returned to the cave in silence.