Joining by Johanna Lindsey

girls were fostered as well simply because it was the custom to do so. But not all girls were sent off, primarily those whose mothers had died, or were more often at court than at home to teach them.
    She had been fascinated by Roland from the start, because she knew him to be near her age, which was eight at the time, yet he was so huge, heads above the other boys he trained with. And he learned so quickly, was adept at everything he did. She envied him at first, his ease with all the skills that she would have liked to learn herself.
    That was how she met him. She would not stay in the keep with the ladies, learning sewing, embroidery, social graces, and the like, things that interested her not at all. What interested her occurred out in the tilting and practice yards, the beauty of a well-aimed arrow, the power of a lance held just right, the deadly precision of a well-timed sword thrust—seeing a true benefit and return for effort and practice, a life-and-death difference.
    For two years she hid from Dame Margaret, whose thankless task of trying to track her down to drag her back to the ladies’ solar was usually futile. She learned how to craft her own bows and arrows from a master bowman who thought her just another of the young pages eager to learn.
    She and Roland had one thing greatly in common, which was why they had become such fast friends. They were both of them very differentfrom others their own age, Milisant in her scorn of ladylike pursuits, Roland in his incredible size and exceptional abilities.
    She had not seen Roland for several years now, not since he had last stopped to visit on his way home to Clydon for the holidays. Unlike her, he was still at Fulbray and would be until he was knighted.
    That could have occurred already, though, and she would not know it. They corresponded, but infrequently, it being costly to have such missives written, much less delivered. And she had put off writing to him lately, since she wanted to propose that they join in marriage, yet she was not quite sure how to go about that.
    She was pondering how her father could handle that matter, soon as she had his agreement to null her contract with de Thorpe, when she heard a horse approaching. She then saw it, and its rider, coming slowly toward the tree she was perched in. He would not notice her, though, had his eyes on the ground. It took her a moment to recognize him—one of the knights who had been with Wulfric.
    She was surprised when he stopped directly beneath her tree. Then she heard, “You trust that limb to support you without breaking?”
    Milisant stiffened. Never before had she been sighted, even by the falconer, who trained the hawks in these woods and so had reason to frequently look up. And the knight had not once glanced up toward her. He did so now, revealing blue eyes of a dark hue—not quite as dark as
his
eyes, yet set much the same.
    “You would not be de Thorpe’s brother,” sheguessed, “for he is an only son. A cousin mayhap?”
    He started now, but as quickly chuckled. “Most people who know us not do not discern a relationship. How is it that you did?”
    It was true they did not look much alike. He was much smaller than Wulfric, much thinner, too. And he had light brown hair, where Wulfric’s was darkest black. Their bones were set much differently as well, this man’s jaw softer, his nose thicker, his brows straight and bushy rather than sharply curved like Wulfric’s.
    Yet she did not think she had guessed wrong, and said, “You have his eyes, not as dark, but still his.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “True enough. We share the same father, though I was born in the village.”
    A bastard then, which was common enough. Some even inherited—if there was no legitimate heir. Still, a brother, which had Milisant wondering why she did not feel the same rancor for this one as she did the other. Mayhap because this one actually seemed nice, with his crinkling eyes and quick laugh. Certainly he