Heart of a Knight (7 page)

Thomas kept himself scarce
through the day, fearing he'd make some blunder. He was always more comfortable in the village and in the fields, conversing with the bailiff, or in the forests on a good hunt, than he was with fine ladies, and today was no exception. The lady's guardsmen eyed him none too kindly, and he gave them wide berth. Men oft took his size as a challenge, and he'd no liking of petty contests that proved naught in the end. In time, they would accept him.

Or not.

In the late afternoon, after a long talk with the village reeve about the poor milk of several goats, Thomas made his way back to the castle. It was a fine, clear summer day, the air alight with birdsong and a small breeze that rustled the heavy hair on his neck agreeably. He liked this southern landscape far better than the north. The thick forest and meandering river pleased him, as did the wealth in the fields and the neat hedgerows dividing peasant plots around the village. Most of all, he liked the castle on the hill, so grand and well-kept. The curtain wall could stand a good whitewashing, and he wondered if one of the peasant's boon days might be well-spent on the task.

Ah, but that was not his to decide. Not anymore. As he moved through the thick, cool shadows below the gate tower, he was surprised how that pained him. He'd grown to love Woodell, and in his mind, he contrasted the cold, poor place he'd left with the splendor of the bailey here. An orchard, with cherry and apple trees, took up one corner. A vast herb garden near the kitchens gave off fragrant airs beneath the warm sun, and a small plot of vegetables had begun to yield fine cabbages and onions. Beans climbed the walls in merry abundance. As he strolled through the yard, a buxom girl came out and caught sight of him. Saucily, she grinned and tossed a lock of blonde hair over one shoulder. Mary Gillian. In his broad good mood, it was not hard to let memories of her pink-and-white flesh roll over his senses, and he winked before he climbed the wooden steps to the hall.

By the saints, he'd known a richness here! Good food, willing women, and fertile land. A man could ask no more.

He found the hall a lively place, full of bustle and noise as it had not been these long months. He stopped in the doorway, surprised that so few could bring such life to the languishing castle. A youth plucked a psaltery, and two tables had been set out. Even the light seemed brighter.

At the center, surrounded by several villagers, sat Lady Elizabeth. Thomas could only stare, caught breathless by her beauty once more. She wore a fine, thin gown below a surcoat woven in some magic way, for it caught and tangled with the light in a hundred ways, shifting as she did. He tried not to notice the way it illuminated the shape of her breasts, but being a man, he did, and thought her breasts would be pretty; white and small and neat like the rest of her. Her thick hair, covered only in a transparent veil caught in place by a circlet of gold, fell loose down her back, spilling over the bench and puddling beside her.

He was overcome with a bout of desperate shyness. How dare he presume to speak with such a lady?

She caught sight of him. "Lord Thomas!" she called, and gestured easily with one long, slim hand, drawing him into her realm.

How often had he seen such gestures all about him, while he watched, invisible, from some hidden corner? How often had he imagined he could move boldly forward and claim the clean hand of a lady who would smell of lavender and sweet wine? Now, that hand was extended toward him, and he could not move.

It was only Alice Bryony who spared him. He felt the gouge of her elbow against his ribs. "Go, you oaf!" she growled behind him.

Thomas remembered himself. In this hall, tonight, there were no other lords. Though her station far outstripped his own, he must swallow his roughness and serve her as well as he might.

Mindful of the eyes upon him, he strode across the stone floor as if he belonged there. "My lady," he said, giving a quick, courtly bow.

She smiled at him. "I would have you take supper with me, Lord Thomas."

So small, she was, and elegant, and rare. He felt like a beast next to her, hulking and clumsy. "Aye, if it please ye, my lady."

A wisp of puzzlement touched her brow, then it was gone. "It pleases me. Perhaps you might play chess with me when we are finished?"

Heat touched the edges of his ears. Thomas fastened his oversized hands behind his back. "If I can remember me how to play," he said, and forced himself to add a wry grin to lighten the words.

"I will teach you what you have forgot." Her lips curled teasingly, and again he had the sense that she meant that faint ribaldry.

Lady or not, she was still a woman. The knowledge eased him, and he reached for her hand to plant a kiss to the silklike flesh. For one moment only did he linger, a heartbeat longer than was seemly. When he straightened, he caught a slight widening in her eyes. He grinned boldly. "I'll be looking forward to it, then."

Her smile flashed once more, an almost secretive edge to it that intrigued him. She rose. "As will I, sir." Then she was away, her women hurrying behind her. Only the girl—Isobel?—lingered, and Thomas shifted uncomfortably as she eyed him thoroughly, and gave him a slow, very knowing smile.

Nurse called her sharply, and she turned and ran nimbly toward the steps, hair and skirts flying.

Alice spoke beside him. "She wants reigning, that child. If her maidenhead remains, 'tis only because fortune has smiled upon her."

Thomas privately agreed, but conscious of the measuring eyes in the hall, he simply nodded to let her know he recognized the warning.

A burly guardsman nearby snorted. "A husband to beat her is what she needs."

Alice laughed. It was a rare enough sound, robust and earthy, and men never heard it without turning to seek the source of it. It did not fail now. The guard blinked, and Thomas recognized dawning awareness in his beefy face.

Thomas squeezed her shoulder and left her to work her wiles on the stunned male. He wanted to sluice away the worst of the day's grime from his face and hands before he shared an evening with the dazzling Lady Elizabeth.

Lyssa had not yet decided what to do about a woman to attend her. Nurse tsked and fussed, but Lyssa sent her off to keep an eye on Isobel, who was restive and quarrelsome. It was sure she would try to make some trouble tonight. "Do not let her come down without her head covered," Lyssa said. "Braid that hair if you might, and I'll not see that red gown of hers again."

Nurse made a sour face. "Twould be my pleasure to burn it, my lady, but she won't allow it."

"Perhaps I might arrange an accident," Lyssa said, and smiled. Isobel had outgrown the gown two years before, but she liked it all the more now.

The bodice fit too tightly, and a good deal of bosom spilled into the low square of the neckline. Isobel adored the attention it drew to her—and she cared little whether it was the meanest villein or the most toothless old man who was inflamed. A troublesome child.

Nurse lingered. "Won't ye let me pretty you up tonight, my Lyssa?" She touched her cheek. "You've a nice pink look to your cheeks, and our knight in the hall is quite dazzled. 'Twould do you good to be the one they stare at now and again."

Lyssa brushed the hand away, not unkindly, and kissed her cheek. "I've no love of their pawing and grunting."

"Ah, my sweet, you—"

Gently, Lyssa pushed her. They had traveled this ground many a time, and Lyssa had no wish to hear it again. "Go. Tend my troublesome stepdaughter and see that she does not create a riot in my hall before supper."

Alone, Lyssa flung open the trunk that held her gowns. Most she had not seen in the better part of a year, and many were made of fabrics she'd woven herself. She took deep pleasure in fingering them, remembering a day weaving these threads, or spinning those. Some she had forgotten completely.

But as she tried to select one from the collection, none seemed right. A vision of Isobel in her red tunic made anything Lyssa might select seem a poor second.

With her hand on a soft yellow wool, dyed with marigold petals, Lyssa scowled. Never had she cared what men thought of her. She was not Isobel, displaying herself for hungry admiration. She had no need of it. Nor any understanding of Isobel's need of it.

There seemed to be some vital womanly thing missing from Lyssa's heart. As a girl, she had giggled with Tall Mary about kisses, and hung on every word of her tales of bedsport, but never had she spun fantasies of particular males, as the other girls did. She'd had few men to dream of, it was true. Woodell was remote, and had few visitors except when Edward rode out to visit his uncle. As a small girl, Lyssa had been quite thoroughly smitten with her handsome cousin, but had been too young at the time to dream of kisses.

And then she'd been married. That experience had plainly illustrated how little talent she had for pleasing men. She had been a singular failure as a wife. A man like Philip, well past his prime, should have been able to find pleasure in the fresh body of a young wife. The ballads and the gossip in the village at court had told her as much, for as long as she could remember. A man liked a young wife.

But Philip had not loved bedding Lyssa, and no matter how she'd tried to perfume herself or tempt him, he only took her out of duty to get himself another child. Memories of the cold, silent grunting stirred only a sense of misery—she had loathed the feeling of his hands on her. He took pains to be gentle, but it never ceased to hurt, and never had her body flushed with the pleasure that had been promised her by Tall Mary and a dozen stories and more ballads.

Letting a vivid blue silk trail over her hands, she wondered if that part of her, that part that other women used to please their husbands, had gone to her threads and looms. They certainly kindled more passion and pleasure than a man's hands.

If that were true, she was happy with the exchange. Threads and looms could never be felled by plague. They would not fall prey to a wandering siren's eye. They would not break a heart. With a small chuckle, she decided she'd got the best of the bargain. Perhaps she might never know the passion of a great love, or even be able to understand Isobel and Tall Mary's drive to touch and be touched by a man, but neither would she pine away for love, or weep furious tears of betrayal as she'd seen some do.

The blue silk, sliding over her skin, felt soft as feathers. It pleased her, and she drew it out to wear. It was a simple garment, and needed no surcoat, and the whispery softness would be a pleasure against her flesh. Carelessly, she shed the gown she wore, and stood naked on the Arabian carpet. A breeze blew through the windows, breathing against her breasts and buttocks, cooling the perspiration on her spine. Her hair slithered over her shoulders, and swung against her hips and thighs, tickling a little. A puddle of sun warmed her toes.

Luxuriously, she stretched her arms over her head and reveled in the combination of textures and sensations. It was like a weaving, sun and hair and wind, all over her, delicious and reassuring.

It was too hot for a chemise, and Lyssa ignored it. She donned the gown, thinking of the day she had dyed the raw silk with indigo until it was a color that exactly reflected the sky. As it slid over her nakedness, sweeping over breast and belly and thighs, she took pleasure in that, too.

Who needed the rough touch of a man, when there were so many other touches to enjoy?

Thomas sat next to Lady Elizabeth at supper. The meal itself was no quandary. With his usual gusto, he gave himself over to the meal of roasted rabbit, cooked in onions and carrots and mustard. A smoky wine, as deep a red as fresh blood, gave gusto to the meat, and in the corner, two youths played a pipe and drum. He was a simple man, and had known much privation. A supper such as this was a fine luxury.

And it was all made the more wondrous by the presence of Lady Elizabeth. He drank of her, too, forgetting to keep his distance as he'd intended. She was bright and quick, and he liked the way her eyes glittered when he made some jest. Her hair was again woven away from her face, and the sleek darkness glinted red and gold in the flickering flame of torches on the walls. She wore a simple tunic, belted low about her hips, and no jewels at all.

He thought she did not need them. Next to her, Isobel seemed overdone, her hair threaded with jeweled velvet, a heavy collar harnessing her throat, gold on her wrists and fingers. Her gown was laced tight to display her body boldly. She flirted with him, but Thomas lightly, deftly played her—he'd had no small acquaintance with women who saw him as deliciously forbidden yet made a game of it in front of jealous husbands.

He thought Lady Elizabeth had not noticed until she leaned close. "Well done, sir."

He grinned.

Pushing away the trencher before her, she leaned on the table. "You promised to play chess with me."

He'd hoped she had forgotten. "That I did."

"Robert, fetch the board, if you please. And clear us a space."

The boy huffed, but did as he was bid.

"He is old to yet be with you," Thomas commented as she began to put the pieces of the game on the board. "Has he not been sent out to be fostered?"

She lifted one shoulder. "It should be done, but the cursed plague has made a mockery of all life's plans."

"It has." He studied how she arranged the carved figures, scrambling madly through his memory for the rules. He knew only that it mocked battle, with foot soldiers and strategies. "I fear I have forgotten much, my lady. You will have to teach me all anew."

"'Tis very simple," she said. "I must keep my king—" she pointed to the tallest figure, "safe and healthy. He is limited in his movements, so I have built a castle to protect him, and stationed knights and guards around him. His greatest ally is his queen." She pointed to a long-haired figure beside the king, "for she has great powers and much wisdom, and she will lay down her life for him if need be."

"All women should be so noble."

She smiled. "You see who commands this kingdom. 'Tis not the poor, impotent king."