Heart of a Knight (30 page)

"I can see him," Nurse said wickedly. "That black head shining."

"And see the color in her cheeks," Isobel put in.

"Had I a stallion of that worth in my bed, I'd be rosy-cheeked meself," Nurse said with a cackle of laughter.

Steadfastly, Lyssa ignored their teasing. "You all must have eyes like hawks, for I see naught but fields and peasants toiling."

Alice chuckled softly. "She does have the sweet bloom of a pleased wife on those pretty cheeks."

Lyssa kept her head down. These weeks since Thomas had come to her bed had passed in a liquid, golden haze. They had attempted to maintain an appearance of their former cordial, but formal relationship, but Lyssa suspected her women were not the only ones to have guessed Thomas came to her in secret.

When she failed to tease Lyssa into a response, Alice nudged Isobel. "You'll be wearing that contentment on yer cheeks soon enough, eh? Only weeks now to your wedding night."

"And Lyssa, too, for surely the king will find a husband for her soon enough." She cut her eyes toward Lyssa. "Mayhap we'll be blessed with two weddings at once."

Lyssa looked up sharply. "I've had me one husband," she managed calmly. "I'm in no hurry for another."

Anxious to deflect the speculations surrounding Thomas, Lyssa did not think how Isobel would take the words. The girl had been growing prickly again as the wedding approached, and she had shown no signs of being smitten with the dashing Stephen. Hoping to kindle a longing for the youth in Isobel's breast, Lyssa had finally sent him back to court last week. He'd gone unwillingly, but Lyssa convinced him finally that his suit would be better mounted from a distance.

Guiltily, Lyssa knew she'd also done it to give herself more freedom, for Stephen watched Thomas all too closely.

The attempt to raise Isobel's pleasure for the youth did not seem to be bearing fruit. In fact, there were clear signs that Isobel was returning to her former tricks. Bit by bit, the demure mask she'd donned seemed to be falling away. Her dress grew more bold, her flirtations more dangerous. Once, Nurse had caught the girl sneaking out in the middle of the night, and now slept on a pallet before the door in their shared chamber.

Bitterly, Isobel said now, "Oh, was my father so loathsome a creature that you're ruined forever on marriage?"

"Nay, Isobel. 'Twas not meant that way."

"Then tell me what you meant."

Lyssa took a breath. "Your father was a good and kind and honorable man, Isobel, but he was many years my elder." She smoothed a rough stitch. "I have no wish for any husband, and only desire to sit here in my solar with my women, thinking on new scenes to weave and how to accomplish them."

Isobel gave forth a disbelieving snort. "Do you think we do not know how you lie? How
he
slips into your bed, night after night?"

Nurse spoke sharply. "Hold your tongue, girl. 'Tis no business of yours what your mistress does."

"Nor yours," Isobel countered. "And yet, what did I hear not a moment hence? 'See that pretty blush on her cheeks.'" She stood up, flinging aside the embroidery in her hands. "Do you think I am too stupid to see him groping at her below the tables?"

"Enough," Lyssa said. "Nurse, take her to her chamber, and do not let her go down to supper tonight."

Isobel cried out in frustration. "Nay, not again! I only speak what any with an eye can see plainly! Is that so much a crime?"

Ashamed, Lyssa thought to soften her stand, but Alice spoke before Lyssa could. "What ails you, girl?" she said, catching Isobel's hand. "What storm can be so dark that you cannot tell us and let us help you?"

"What is there that is right in my world this day, I ask you?" Isobel said in a mournful voice, her shoulders slumping. "A husband I am told I should rejoice to have, who moves me not, and my life ordered and put upon me with no voice from me about what I wish or do not?" Her eyes filled with tears of frustration, and she dashed them away angrily. "Why can I not take lovers as I wish, as Alice here does? Or lust for some low knight, who makes me cry out in the night? Or tease the pretty youths as does Nurse there, with her missing teeth?"

Lyssa met Alice's eyes and between them passed a wearisome knowledge. Softly, Lyssa said, "'Tis the lot of women, Isobel, that our lords and kings order our lives."

"'Tis unfair!"

"Aye," Lyssa said, and with an ache she thought of Thomas. "And not for the world would I have chosen a woman's lot for so strong and fair a maid as you, but God chose your sex, and you must find the best way to make do. Think on that husband you will gain. He is young and strong and virile. He's handsome enough, there will be envy at court when you wed him, and you'll bear beautiful children."

"And my daughters," Isobel said, "will be sold to the highest bidder as I have been."

Alice leaned forward. "Would you rather her be born in a mean cottage, with only a straw bed and chickens underfoot and the smell of old fish in the walls?"

Isobel looked at her.

"Would you rather, child, that the daughter of your loins be easy prey for e'ry knight and lord who takes a fancy to her? Would you rather she labor day and night to see her own children fed?

"Would you rather she bear the shame of a bastard born to the lord of the house, soiled so none will take her to wife, but leave her in a cold, miserable cottage, forgotten and feared, to rear her child as best she might with her herbs and simples and her wits?"

Isobel's eyes filled with genuine tears now. "Alice," she whispered. "I am so sorry. Where is your child now?"

"Gone to a better life, thank the saints," she said tersely and did not look at Lyssa. "Think hard on what you would throw away, Isobel. 'Tis a life most would kill to claim for their own."

And listening, Lyssa understood for the first time what Alice had undergone to give her son a better life. And she wondered—if Lyssa had been born to such a lot, would she not have taken the chance fate offered so capriciously?

Moved, she said, "You are a brave woman, Alice Bryony."

Alice met her gaze. "No braver than thee," she said, and both of them knew what she meant.

Sun and work had made Thomas hungry, and when he returned to the castle, he wandered by the kitchen, hoping to coax bread and butter from one of the kitchen girls. Mary Gillian fetched him a new baked loaf, and butter, and a tankard of ale, which he sat on a bench in the sunlight to eat, trading jokes and stories with her.

When he was finished, he made his way lazily toward Lyssa's solar, trying to think of some thin errand that he might offer as his excuse if her women were about.

He found her alone, her back to him as she worked on the tapestry frame. For a moment, he paused, admiring the small bones at the back of her neck, exposed because she'd swept that wealth of hair into her lap to keep it out of her way.

Happy to find her so easily, he purposefully closed the door and pulled the latch into place. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound, and protested, as he'd expected. "Thomas, anyone might wander by!"

He grinned, and reached for the hem of his tunic, shucking it wickedly as he moved toward her. "Wander by? Up the tower steps and to this door by chance?"

Her eyes darkened in that way he'd grown to know, the lids growing heavy and seductive as she looked at him. "What reason would I give for locking the door with you in here, should they come?" Her words were whispered, token protest, and Thomas chuckled.

He bent to kiss that slice of exposed neck, and slid a hand into her bodice, lightly clasping a breast, taking pleasure in the silky weight against his palm.

She caught his hand and turned on her stool. "Thomas, I fear we do not have much time left to us."

He knelt before her, reaching for the laces at her bodice. Deftly untying them, he fought back the pang her words gave. "Then we must not waste what hours we do have."

"Thomas," she breathed, lifting her hands to his head, and pressed a sober, heartfelt kiss to his brow. "I cannot bear to think of it, of you being elsewhere."

"Nor can I," he said gravely. The bodice was loosened and he smoothed his hands over her white shoulders. With reverence he bent and pressed a kiss to the graceful line, smelling on her neck a grassy warmth that came from the herbs she used in her hair. "So I do not think on it." He lifted his head and kissed her wine-red mouth. "Nor should you."

Willingly she came to him and they made love slowly and tenderly on a nest of their discarded clothing. The room was warm, and afterward, they lay naked in the pools of light, unashamed.

"Alice spoke of her youth today," Lyssa said, idly brushing her hand over his chest. "Were the villagers so unkind to you?"

He captured her fingers, shifting to look at the timbered ceiling so he would not have to see the pity in her eyes. Rubbing her palm with his thumb to ease the tightness she suffered from her weaving, he said quietly, "Aye. Alice roused jealousy for her beauty, and then for the attention she roused in Lord Thomas."

"You are named for him?"

"She'd submit to torture rather than admit she loved the lout, but she was young, and he was dashing. Like as not, he made promises to care for her." He paused. "Twas no short fling. He gave her three other children, all bastards, but he gave her a fine cottage to raise us in."

Her body went still. "You have siblings?"

"My sister did not live long, only a year or so. My brothers were both much younger than I." Richard and Michael, whom he still grieved. "The plague took them, along with everyone else."

"I'm sorry," she said, and nuzzled closer.

Thomas held her close, feeling the plush roundness of a breast against his ribs, her cheek against his shoulder, her thigh crooked over his own. She fit neatly beside him, as if carved for his shape, and he closed his eyes to press it upon his memory. "It raged like a forest fire through our village, and when it passed, only Alice and I remained."

"So the land stands empty."

"It does. Think you I might win enough with my sword to one day pay the boon to have peasants take up the land there again?"

"You might. But I have heard there is much trouble on the land over this. There are too few men to bring in the harvests, and work the fields." He sensed hesitation in her. "There are new laws, Thomas."

"Ah. So in truth, there may be no home for me henceforth." He sighed. "So be it. I will miss the land, but the life of a wandering knight is a far better one than I left behind me."

But it would ever be without Lyssa. The knowledge made him feel hollow, and he clasped her closer, turning to press a kiss to the crown of her head, keeping within him the words of love he ached to spill.

As if she heard them in her heart, she raised up to kiss him, her green eyes grave.

Through the open embrasures came a new sound, and Lyssa lifted her head. "A horn," she said, her body suddenly tense.

Thomas admired the breast poised so close to him, and smiled as he lifted up on one elbow to capture the tip in his mouth.

Urgently, she pushed him away. "Thomas!" she cried, her fingers hard against his shoulders. "'Tis the
king's
horn!"

Cold washed through him.

Lyssa scrambled for her clothes, tossing him his braes and tunic as her hands found them. "Quickly!" she urged.

Wounded, he did not move, only sat up and watched her as she struggled with her sleeves and slippers. Finally she stopped in exasperation. "Hurry!"

But he had no wish to hurry down to hear the messenger of the king. No good would come of it. He felt in his bones that the horn sounded the end of this brief, sweet time he'd known with his love, and when she was dressed, and he in his braes, he caught her against him. "Do not forget, Lyssa, what we have known."

She touched his face, then his mouth. "I could not forget, Thomas. Never." With regret, she stepped away. "But I do feel an urgent need to leave this room, before someone comes after me."

Knowing she was right, Thomas donned his tunic and smoothed his hair. With a heavy sense of dread, he followed her down to the bailey.

 17

With a pounding heart
, Lyssa rushed from her solar and down the steps, only halting near the bottom to smooth her hair and dress. She emerged into the hall with a calm, dignified manner. As if she did not dread this messenger with all of her being, she ordered cooled ale, fruit, and cheese to be brought, and a pallet prepared for the messenger.

Only then did she go out to the yard.

The messenger was a man she had not seen before, tall and slim in the black mail that the Black Prince had made so fashionable. He rode in with a small party of knights and squires on good horses. And as Lyssa came down the steps, she thought the messenger himself might have been called a black knight, for his hair was raven black around a harshly carved face.

Isobel caught up to her, breathless as if she'd run all the way here. In Lyssa's ear, she whispered urgently, "That is John Margate. He used to visit my mother—they were childhood friends."

Something in the girl's voice caught Lyssa's attention and she glanced sharply at the girl. But Isobel only moved quickly forward, a bright smile on her pretty mouth. "Greetings, sir!" she called. "You do not remember, I am sure, but you were friends with my mother, Anne Rudston."

The man lifted a slash of brow, clearly perplexed. "I do well remember your mother, my lady, but you—" His eyes widened. "Little Isobel, is it?" His smile was white and dazzling in his dark face, and he held out a hand to grasp hers, spinning Isobel around with a well-practiced gesture. "You've grown to quite a beauty."

Isobel near simpered, and Lyssa clenched her fist to quell her urge to slap the girl.

Margate bowed as Lyssa approached. "My lady," he said with a nod. "I have with me a message to you from the king."

Lyssa accepted the folded parchment, wondering why he kindled such strong feelings of dislike. As if he sensed her disapproval, he lifted his chin under her measuring gaze, a faint, amused smile tilting the corners of his mouth. Cold eyes, Lyssa decided. Cruelty around the thin lips. "Thank you," she said.

With a gleam in her eye, Isobel prodded her stepmother. "Will you not read it, my lady?"

"In a little," she replied, tucking the parchment into her bodice. "Margate, you'll find refreshment laid out for you in the hall."

"I'll lead you there," Isobel! said, tucking her arm into the knight's elbow.

Stableboys came to take the horses, and the troupe of squires and knights moved as a body toward the hall, leaving Lyssa to stand alone in the courtyard, the parchment burning against her breast. For a long moment, she only stood there, the taste of Thomas still on her mouth, the feel of him against her body.

He joined her now, his face a severe mask. "Open it," he said gruffly.

With a hand that trembled faintly, she drew the letter from her bodice and broke the seal. And when she had read it through, she raised anguished eyes to Thomas's face. She did not need to speak a word.

He closed his eyes, then he turned on his heel and left her standing alone on the trampled grass, the letter she'd been dreading in her hand.

Edward had found her a husband.

And it was not just any husband, but a man Lyssa actively disliked, a petty, preening man of small tastes and small dreams who had lusted for her lands as long as she could remember.

She wanted, as she stood there in the sun pouring into the castle yard, to scream. She wanted, as the cackle of an aroused chicken rang into the still afternoon, to weep. She wanted to rage and storm and protest, and refuse, like some tragic maid of legend, to follow the orders of her king.

Instead, she let numbness blot out the screaming rage within her, and lifted her skirts, and went into the castle to begin the business of making the household ready to travel.

In the cool of the evening, Tall Mary plucked weeds from her kitchen garden. The onions needed harvesting, and the garlic. It had been a rich year, and not only for the gardens and fields. Seven women in the village carried new babes, as if to make up for the loss suffered round the shire.

A shadow fell on the bolting cabbage, and Mary looked up to find Dark Thomas standing there, his hands loose by his sides, an expression of such hopelessness on his mouth that she stood up. "God's blood, Thomas, tell me!"

His eyes, too, those glowing indigo eyes, were dull and bleak. "'Tis the foolish sorrow of a foolish man," he said, his voice gravelly. "No tragedy but one of the heart."

Mary turned away. She had no wish to hear his sorrow over Lyssa. "I have been your friend in many things, my lord, but in this you will have to make your own way." A lump stuck in her chest.

"I had thought, that once having loved her you might be kind enough to hear the loss of one who loves her now." He shrugged. "But so be it. I will find another ear."

Mary bent again, struggling to keep her heart hard. "Lyssa," she muttered. "Always Lyssa." She scowled at Thomas. "You do wear your heart on your sleeve, my lord."

Abruptly, he squatted nearby her. "Can you spare not an hour, Mary? I would have your advice."

"What advice can I offer, my lord?"

He plucked a stray blade of wheat, growing by itself at the edge of the onions. "Do you vow you will not speak of what I am to say?"

Intrigued, she braced her dusty hands on her thighs. "I do."

Idly, he twirled the wheat between his fingers, then took a breath. "I am no knight, Tall Mary. Not even as well-born as you, for my mother was a serf with no freeholdings at all."

Mary gaped at him, taking in the high brow and the broad, strong shoulders and the noble face. A peasant! Her heart gave a queer, painful twist as she thought of him laboring in the cotter's fields in a rough linen tunic, sleeping on a hay pallet, eating plain stew from a common pot.

A peasant, as she was. And if he'd come to them as such, Lyssa's eye would have flickered right over him as below her notice, and Mary herself would have won him as her husband.

As she stared at him, imagining a life wherein he was her simple husband, in a simple cottage, tears sprang to her eyes. "I'd have given you strong sons," she said.

"Aye." His gaze was sad and clear. "You would have."

But he had not come as peasant, but as knight, and that set him on a new plane. "Does she know?"

He bowed his head, and light washed over the black hair in white glossy bands. "She does."

"You told her?" Mary asked, aghast. "If she has now pushed you from her bed over that, I can give no help."

"She knew…" He looked toward the fields, and Mary felt a pang of jealousy over the way he protected the private thing between them. "… before."

"So where is the trouble, Thomas? What advice do you need from me?"

"The king has found her a husband."

"Ah." Mary sighed at the genuine sorrow in his eyes, but she still saw no reason for his appearance in her garden this night. "What can a simple peasant do to prevent that?"

"Go to her." Thomas took Mary's hand earnestly. "She will not speak with me, only bustles all through the castle, ordering folk about. Last night, I went to her and she would not open her door to me.

"You have her ear, Mary, and her heart. Go to her and listen, and then come tell me what I might do to persuade her to—"

"To marry you, sir?" she said with an edge of irony.

Painful color rose in his face. "Nay. To wait, till I make my name and my fortune, and can come back to her."

Mary took her hand from his. "Nay," she said. "That I will not do. She is torn enough by duty and love. I'll not add to it. And if you truly loved her, you would not do it, either, Thomas."

"But what joy lies in duty?"

"More than you might imagine, my lord." Mary turned from him. "Go, now, Thomas. And—" she raised her eyes to his face, so high above hers now that he, too, stood. "Be well."

With a curt nod, Thomas left her.

When he was out of sight, Mary shed her apron and changed her shoes. With a quick kiss to her father's head, she left the cottage and made her way to the castle on the hill.

Thomas loved Lyssa enough to let her go. And Mary loved Lyssa and Thomas enough to help them, if she could.

But as she made her way through the gates, John Tyler stopped her. A strapping youth from her own village, Thomas had set him upon the walls to help keep watch these many months past, and he still fancied himself a man-at-arms. "Where you off to, my pretty?" he said now.

Mary sighed and made to move past him. A sweet enough boy, but freckle-faced and gap-toothed and too gangly, he'd had a crush on her since childhood. She was in no mood for his avowals of love this night. "Let me by, Johnny. I have me an urgent errand."

"For a kiss, I'll let you by."

She scowled at him, nearly eye to eye. "What ails you?"

"Naught ails me but you, sweet Mary." He grinned impishly, showing his big white teeth. "I'll weary of waiting for you one of these days, and then you'll be sorry."

"I'm too old for you, you silly oaf!"

Earnestly, he took her arm. "Three years is not so much. And ye've not a long line of suitors willing to make you a husband."

That wounded her, and she started to push by him. "Which should show you for the fool you are."

He tightened his grip, halting her. "'Tis them that are the fools. Our knight saw you for the beauty you are, did he not?"

Mary looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "What do you know of that?"

A shrug. "What all know. It matters naught to me. I've had me a maid or two in my time, by the fires of feast nights." His grin broke again, impish. "'Tis all the more we'd have to share on long winter nights, eh?"

His grin was hard to resist, and in truth, Mary had been aching so deep as she made her way here that his attention was a much-needed balm. "Will you let me by?" she said, but she asked it with a smile.

He raised a reddish brow. "Will ye give me a kiss for it?"

"Oh, aye," she said with exasperation.

To get it over with, she put her hands on his chest and leaned forward to press a peck against his mouth, but he caught her close, one hand catching her head, the other circling her waist.

"A real kiss, Mary," he said, and lowered his head.