“I like Tancred,” Hugh remarked, after he and Joanna had ridden together in flinty silence for more than a mile. “Why did you give him your favor?”

“Because he asked me for it.”

Hugh could only see the back of Joanna’s head but he could sense the tension rolling off her, like waves of heat. He knew he was being unfair and unjust but, like his wolfhound scratching at a scab, he could not leave it alone.

“Then you should have refused. You should have known I would fight him, that I would have to fight him, once I saw it.”

“How would I know anything? I have never been at a tourney before today.”

It irked him that she was right, and that she would not twist round a little, to look at him.

“The customs are well known. You gave that young lad a token to defy me. I hope the outcome is to your satisfaction.”

“Nothing is to my liking. Do not blame me for your jealous conscience.”

They were riding up to a ditch that the horse would have to jump or go round, but Hugh drew rein, determined to look Joanna in the eye.

“I gave up rich prizes today for you.”

“I am your hostage, so that was your choice,” she answered coolly, still without looking at him. “Besides, you have Orri’s gold. Will he be able to joust again today?”

Hugh felt his belly boil at the lilt in her voice. “Why not?” he snarled through tight lips. “I have ridden again in jousts with two fingers misplaced.”

“Dislocated?” She touched the hand that was always hovering near her waist. “Which fingers?”

Her fingers were soft and warm against his, making him briefly wish that they were dislocated now, so she might tend them. Dismissing such folly as worthy of Tancred, he raised his right hand.

“The first two here. A surgeon yanked them back and they hurt like the devil when he did it, but they give me no trouble now.”

“Did you leave the field today for shame?” she asked quietly, adding, “I am ashamed.”

“Why?” Already he knew it was not for handing Tancred any favor.

Her narrow shoulders tensed. “I am a scholar, a seeker after rare knowledge. Your world of war should not be for me.”

“Because your world is better?”

“I did not say that. But I should be for peace. A wise man is always for peace. Yet today, at the tourney, I felt excitement.” She turned now in the saddle, her legs brushing his as she moved. “I should not be moved by glamour.” She spat the word, as if it were a curse.

Hugh could hardly believe his ears. “Did you compliment me, then?”

In profile he saw her wet her lips with her tongue, a nervous gesture. “Perhaps I did. Your world is strange to me, Hugh. Terrible and strange. Yet…” She sighed, rubbing her eyes like a little child does when tired. “Yet it is a true world, with its own honors. I saw that, too.”

She tugged at the scrap of veil still trailing off his surcoat. “Do you feel you fought well today, my knight?”

The question pierced him like a lance and now he admitted the dismal truth. “It was a carnage. We were not well matched, and yes, damn all to hell, I am ashamed.”

Wanting no more of this, he spurred the horse. Where they were going gave him no joy, but it would be better lodgings for Joanna than a tourney ground.

If—and this was a large if—his father admitted them.

Hugh rode hard and fast, counting off remembered landmarks under his breath. His men and baggage were following behind and he would send the wolfhound back to them if all went wrong and his father would not have them through the bailey gates. To return at all, after a gap of more than a year, was to swallow his pride, but he would have the satisfaction of asking his father face-to-face what he intended to do to help his son David. It would be good to see the old man squirm.

Before him, straddling the long saddle of his palfrey with its pommel driving into her stomach and her skirts in a swirl about her knees, Joanna rode in silence, her fingers white as she clutched the rough mane of the horse. Taking pity on her, he checked Lucifer, came to a stop, and gave her the mead flask.

She drank, nodding her thanks.

“Do you see that ridge of hills to the south? We shall reach them before twilight and find rest and shelter.”

“In the strong new keep of your father,” Joanna said.

“David told you.” Damn him. Hugh took a drink so quickly that he began to choke.

“We have spoken of many things. He said your father’s lands were nearby.”

Feeling mead trickle down his nose, Hugh coughed and tried to snatch breath enough to answer. “You must wonder why my father does not parley with your lord the bishop.”

“It seems to me you are wondering that yourself,” Joanna replied, pulling a windblown apple blossom from her hair. Hugh wanted to tell her to leave it there, but the old bitterness against his father won through.

“Oh, he will do nothing for us, the lesser sons. We must make our own way. I prefer that,” he added swiftly, lest she think he was moaning. “I would not be beholden to him for as much as a penny.”

“Nigel is the eldest, is he not?”

Did David give out our entire lineage? “He is, and we have no sisters; no mother, either, thanks to me. Can you ride on now? We have a way to go before twilight.”

Joanna ached in places she did not know she had, but she would not beg for another break. Sore and uncomfortable, she tried to recall the language of birds, the secret language of alchemy, in order to distract herself, but the pain in her hips and thighs from riding made it impossible. How did heralds and messengers bear this? she wondered. The ease of her earlier bath had long since vanished.

Behind her, as solid yet fluid as molten lava and as warm, Hugh rode with the horse, moving with a grace she could only envy. What had he meant by his No mother, either, thanks to me? She tried to recall if David had ever mentioned his mother in their talks, but nothing came to her. Instead, she tried to imagine Hugh’s father. Would he be dark, like his son, and as stubborn? Would he be grim or gay, like David and Mercury? Grim, she thought, especially as he and Hugh were clearly estranged.

And Hugh was taking them to his father’s castle for the night.

“Madness,” she breathed, biting her lip as the palfrey stumbled on a stony part of the road and her soft and tender thigh scraped along the horse’s flank.

They reached Castle Manhill an hour after sunset. Framed by hills and woods, it was possibly a handsome place by day but by the slender curve of a new moon it looked oppressive. The bailey loomed over Joanna’s head as the palfrey began to canter up the final track to the main gate, and the stone keep within towered over the raised enclosure of the bailey. As she and Hugh rode closer, she could hear guards on the palisade and walkway calling out.

“Will we be shot at by a bow or sling?” she hissed, too tired now to slump around in the saddle to face her captor.

“The men know my banners,” Hugh replied. “See: they are opening the gate.”

There was another rush of darkness under pounding hooves, a blaze of torches, more shouting, and then they were through the gate and into the bailey, riding briskly for the keep. As Hugh stopped by a narrow stone staircase leading out of the first floor of the keep, a door at the top of the stairs opened and a man came out.

“What is your father’s name?” Joanna whispered. She knew someone had told her, David or even Hugh himself, but she was so worn down with travel that she had forgotten.

“SirYves.” Hugh swung down from Lucifer, half catching her as she began to slide off the saddle. “Stay there. I will get you down in a moment.”

“How many times must I say I am no parcel?” Joanna protested, but Hugh was striding up the stairs and embracing a stocky, bearded man dressed in a long mantle of some dark color—she could not say what hue, with the moon so new and dim. At a head shorter than his son and as broad as a barrel, SirYves was a surprise, and his reception of his prodigal youngest was far quieter and more subdued than she had expected. He gave no true kiss of greeting, but no harsh, loud words, either.

Because it was easier to stay where she was, Joanna forced herself to stretch protesting muscles and slither off the horse. A groom was now holding its head, so the task was simple enough except she went the wrong way and finished on the cobbles of the bailey, with the horse between her and the approaching Manhills, coming side by side down the steps. She grabbed the pommel to keep herself upright and waited.

Sir Yves stopped on the final step.

“Will you introduce your lady, so that I may greet her?” he demanded, his voice lighter and less gruff than Hugh’s as his hooded blue eyes coolly assessed her smut-smeared face and wind-wrecked hair.

“I am Joanna of West Sarum, sir,” she replied quickly, before Hugh could crassly recount she was his hostage, or worse, that she was the bishop’s mistress. “I am of Bishop Thomas’s household.”

“The same place which holds David,” Hugh put in.

Sir Yves still did not move off the step. “I am aware of that.”

“Yet you do nothing,” his son answered.

Yves’s light blue eyes darkened to the color of his son’s. “The Templars are his kin now. They should deal with it.”

“And if they do not?”

“Be not so proud and stiff-necked!” his father roared out. “You come here after months, without word, greeting, or gift, without a by your leave—”

“Forgive me!” Joanna pitched her voice to rise above the scuffle as Hugh looked ready to grab his father by his dark red mantle and hurl him off the stair. “I have your gift.”

Both men turned and stared at her unexpected interjection, expectation lighting Yves’s narrow features while Hugh was frowning. In truth, Joanna wondered at herself and why she had troubled to intervene, but then she thought of her own father, patient and uncomplaining, asking for nothing even while in prison, and her temper sharpened.

“But I am sure you have no wish to conduct our affairs on the doorstep?” she went on, with deadly sweetness.

Hugh’s broad shoulders tightened as he stifled a chuckle. His father, mastering himself with a visible scowl, refused to smile.

“You must enter,” he said, speaking without offering her his arm. “Tell me, what place have you, a spinster, in Lord Thomas’s house?”

Marking both titles, Joanna spoke as Hugh did.

“I am alchemist to the bishop.”

“She is with me, Father, and in my care.”

“A fine care, that is, sir!” Sir Yves exclaimed, showing some bad teeth as he grinned. “The wench is exhausted. Bring her inside before she falls asleep over your horse’s neck!”

With that sparse welcome, Joanna found herself ushered inside.