Heart of a Knight

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Dance of Desire

Elizabeth's gaze flickered down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "You have bewitched them all, Lord Thomas," she said lightly. "All the women in the village, and Alice, who sings your praises to the very sun, and Nurse."

"And you, my lady?" he asked quietly.

She did not answer for a long moment, and Thomas grew aware of the movement of her breasts below the shift, and the faintly hurried sound of her breath. Had she been anyone else, he might have pulled her to him then, kissed that smooth brow and the straight nose, and both of her eyelids.

But, although he felt the ethereal spirit of desire tangling around them, causing the very air to dance, he did not move.

Books by Barbara Samuel

A Winter Ballad

A Bed of Spices

Lucien's Fall

Dancing Moon

Heart of a Knight

Published by HarperPaperbacks

PROLOGUE

Woodell Castle Candlemas Eve, 1351

On a cold Candlemas Eve
, the peasants of Woodell Village crowded into the church. They huddled there for warmth as much as for the mass, for beyond the walls raged a blizzard that had not stopped in three days. Candles burned in the gloom, flickering against the gusts that could not entirely be kept out, and Mary Gillian's baby cried in bursts from the teeth pushing through his gums, giving voice to shivering number. Weary they were of winter, and longed for the warmth of spring.

Tall Mary, so called for her ungainly height and to separate her from the other two Marys in the village, clutched her warm, woolen cloak around her. She gave silent thanks to Lady Elizabeth for it, even if she had ridden off and left the villagers here to face the uncertain future alone.

The church doors suddenly burst open, letting in the cold and the night and the wind. The frightened villagers turned as one. Tall Mary's heart pinched with terror as she thought of the brigands from the forest who had so plagued them these past few months.

A giant stood in the arched doorway. Black hair fell wet and wild around his head, and his mantle was soaked. Behind him, snow rose in fierce whirls, white against the night.

But Mary saw at once the rich mail he wore, finer even than Lord Philip's, and she knew he was no thief. He moved into the church a few steps, and Mary, who sat toward the back, had a clear look at him. The hair would be thick and nearly black when dry, and even through the week's growth of beard on his cheeks she saw the aristocratic cut of his chin and nose, the unmistakable intelligence in his eyes and high brow. He wore a fine green mantle with gold all around the edge, and at his waist hung a great sword with jewels set into the handle. He stood there, blinking, as if he were ill.

As the villagers stared, silent as awed children, a woman sailed past the knight. She was not of the same cloth as he. Mary saw the rough weave of her cloak, the threadbare places on her veil, the simple wooden cross hung about her neck.

Still, she moved as if she knew what she was about—striding up the good stone tiles of the nave to kneel at the altar. She bowed her head and crossed herself, then turned to face the villagers, putting her back to the priest, who stood with his mouth agape at her boldness.

Mary clutched her warm cloak to her chest, imprinting the scene upon her mind in all its detail. Around winter fires for years to come, this story would be told, and Mary would tell it best, for that was her only gift: remembering the things others forgot, and weaving them into a grand tale. She would remember to speak of the yellow light of the many candles burning in the gloom, and how that light glinted on the gold in his mantle, and how the jewels winked in the hilt of that great sword.

And she would remember the woman, standing before them to say, "My lord seeks shelter," as she pointed to the knight. "Will ye give him leave to sleep in the deserted castle there, in exchange for his sword to protect you?"

The villagers gaped at her. Mary peeked at the man through her lashes, now admiring the thick muscles of his thighs beneath wet cloth.

John Wood stood. "I say we let him. The Lady Elizabeth cared little enough for our health and happiness."

A shout of agreement rose.

So it was that the knight was taken to the castle, where a fire was made for him, and food cooked. And at last, Mary herself led him to the finest chamber in the keep, where curtains hung round the bed, and even a rich Arabian carpet covered the floor. The knight knelt and touched it with his hand. "I've never seen such a thing," he said, the first words he had spoke.

It was a voice to match his size, a sound like drums rumbling on a feast night. Mary shivered at the sound. She liked him for not being so rich as the Lady Elizabeth, for being able to show his wonder over the finery in the room. She took his mantle, and rubbed his cold feet dry by the fire as water was carried up for his bath.

And she saw that his hair did dry in thick waves over his shoulders, and his shaved jaw was strong and unmarked. And his hands, which were big as kettles, showed the size of other things, as the old women had always said.

But when Mary would have stayed and warmed his bed, he gently sent her away. She bowed without rancor, and promised she would come back. She also knew, even if he did not, that she would not be alone in offering her favors.

Smiling, she clutched her fine mantle around her shoulders and descended the cold dark steps from the tower. For a few minutes, she let herself imagine that she was not Tall Mary, simple daughter of the village reeve, but the Lady Elizabeth herself, beautiful cousin to the king. She tossed her head and imagined Lord Thomas was her own man, come home to her after a long journey.

For the first time, Mary forgot her low anger at the Lady Elizabeth, and was grateful the lady was gone, leaving Mary to order things in her absence. With great relish, she looked forward to the days ahead.

  1