Free Castles in the Air by Christina Dodd

face the oncoming winter? Charity doomed this mission to failure. Her own foolishness made her miss her step, and as she wiped mud from her skirt she heard a familiar voice taunt, “Well, there’s a pretty sight. A soiled lady in the pigsty where she belongs.”
    For one brief moment of weakness, she shut her eyes.
    Sir Joseph had returned.
    She’d tried to pretend it didn’t matter when he came or what he said, but she’d been lying to herself. These past years, he hadn’t been the biggest part ofher misery, but he was the most constant. Taking firm hold of her courage, she faced him.
    Trouble. Already Sir Joseph brewed trouble. He held Layamon by the ear, and that young man danced at the pain. “Let go of Layamon,” she ordered loudly enough for the half-deaf warrior to hear.
    “Let go of him? Let go of him? Let go of a thief, a sneaking thief? Bah!” Sir Joseph spit on the ground close by her foot. “Lady Juliana, you’re not fit to command. I’ve told you that many a time, and here’s the proof. Do you know what this thief has stolen?”
    “My father’s goblet. And he didn’t steal it.”
    “He stole your father’s silver goblet,” Sir Joseph brayed. As her words sank through his bombastic armor, he dropped Layamon’s ear and cupped his own. “What did you say?”
    “He didn’t steal my father’s goblet. I gave it to him.”
    Greater folk than she had cowered beneath Sir Joseph’s fury, and Juliana had been raised to treat him with respect. He had been her father’s closest companion, his greatest confidant, and Sir Joseph had expected—demanded—she retain him as her chief knight.
    The passing of the goblet from her hand to Layamon’s signified something different. To Sir Joseph she had declared, quite without words, that he had been replaced. She had given a valuable gift, and one he coveted, to a mere man-at-arms.
    There could be no greater insult.
    A palpitation started at Sir Joseph’s feet and increased as it travelled up to his head. He chewed on words he couldn’t articulate. He flushed red, the veins in his cheeks burst, bled beneath the skin. His rage was the greater for being without sound. Hisfanatical blue eyes blazed at her. He raised his staff.
    Her every muscle clenched. She hugged herself, and her fingers bruised the muscles of her upper arms. The need for air brought black stars exploding before her eyes. Oh, God, he was going to beat her.
    Blackened eyes, loosened teeth, the feeling of helplessness at a man’s hands. Unconsciousness. Unconsciousness that didn’t bring relief, only endless pain and the wish for death.
    Something leaped into the periphery of her vision. Leery as a rabbit, she jumped, looked, expecting assault from that side, also.
    But it was Raymond. Raymond with the stranger following close on his heels. They stopped when she saw them. Raymond sought her gaze, waiting for instructions. In his very stance—shoulders back, hands on hips—he declared his support. Support for her.
    Oddly, Raymond’s declaration came back to her, clear as if he’d spoken it today. “Sir Joseph is a man who has outlived his usefulness.” Under the impetus of those words, she’d given command to Layamon.
    She drew a fortifying breath. She wasn’t sorry, Sir Joseph couldn’t make her sorry, and damned if she’d apologize or retract.
    Sir Joseph had threatened to strike her many times, and although he’d never done it, she’d always crumpled, then despised herself afterward. This time she said, “Hit me, or don’t hit me, only know this is the last time you’ll threaten me.” She looked with conviction full into his blazing eyes.
    Sir Joseph hesitated. This wasn’t the response he had expected or desired, and he wrestled with disbelief and choler. The staff quivered; he desperately wanted to strike her.
    She saw the moment good sense won out. He dropped his gaze. Stabbing his staff into the wet ground as if it were her breast, he snarled, “What are you doing to