Heart of a Knight (6 page)

"That is all you may do to me, young stag," she whispered, "but I do not think you will mind overmuch."

He groaned as she reached for his tunic, pulling it upward so he would be naked in the darkness, in the open air. She was hungry for the feel of male skin and sinews and angles. She shivered, unable to see anything but the faint sheen of his naked, well-formed body.

But she did not need to see. With a soft sigh, she touched him shoulder to hip, then thighs and belly and the responsive flesh between.

And he did not mind the limits she set, as she had known he would not.

When she had finished, she let him kiss her breasts, and then with a final kiss to his lax mouth, ran away into the forest, laughing to herself.

For weeks he would think of this night, and think it had been a fairy or the goddess who had come to him to bewitch his senses. When he glimpsed Isobel in the yard or on the road, a shiver would cross his skin and he would fleetingly wonder if it could be possible that so enchanting a creature had deigned to kiss him. And he would burn for her.

It was what she liked best, next to touching men—she liked when they burned for her. When they took another woman, it was Isobel in their minds.

The night had grown late, and Isobel returned to the castle on a well-worn path made by generations of peasant feet. Close to the curtain wall, she slowed to catch her breath and make it silent. The moon lit the path well now, and she clung to the shadows along the forest. As she walked, she eyed the arched embrasures circling the south tower and thought on the knight who slept there, remembering the great expanse of his chest as he'd stood in the yard this afternoon, virility coming off him in waves so intense Isobel nearly smelled him.

What would such a man as that be like to touch? He had very fine lips, full but firm, in a mouth shaped for pleasure. Her blood warmed at the thought, and then, thinking of how he had stared at Elizabeth, she scowled. Her stepmother had been singularly unmoved by him, and he would learn soon enough her blood was cold as winter.

A single moon-flooded space of field had to be crossed to reach the gate, and Isobel looked carefully about her before she darted into the illumination, dashing across to the safety of the gate. She slid through, relief coursing through her—

"Now what could you be about so close to lauds, I wonder?"

The voice, low and female, scared a thousand days from Isobel's life, and she whirled, her heart stopped in terror, her hands shaking. A woman emerged from the shadows—a woman Isobel had never seen. Her tunic was the rust-colored, rough home-woven cloth of a peasant, and she wore a simple wooden cross around her neck.

But nothing else about her was ordinary, not in any way. She carried a veil in her hand, and black hair spilled around her, loose and wavy and shining in the moonlight. Her face was clear and unlined, her mouth as red and lush as cherries. Isobel knew the power of women's bodies and faces, and she saw immediately that this was a woman men would love. Deep-chested, sensual, her eyes long and alluring in the milky light.

Backing away, her cloak held close to her throat, Isobel asked, "Who are you?"

"I am Alice Bryony, my lady. And you are the lady Isobel, come late from the sea."

The widow. Isobel had been imagining a widow like Old Mother Crow, wizened and dry. Alice Bryony looked like no widow she had ever seen.

Isobel raised her chin haughtily as she could manage. "You have no leave to ask my business, then."

She turned to move away, her heart thready in her chest.

Alice spoke, stopping her. "True enough, my lady. But a woman alone, so late, does well to heed the warnings of another."

Cautiously, Isobel turned back.

The widow stepped closer, pushed Isobel's hood from her head, plucked a loose leaf from her hair. Shivering, Isobel endured it, hoping her expression was cold. The woman trailed a hand over her cheek. "You are too young for such dangerous games, child. Soon or late, there will be one you cannot bewitch."

"I play no game."

The smile was oddly kind. "Ah, child, I saw you, dancing. There is passion in you, is there not? Something that drives you to wander, seeking to fill that empty ache."

It was too close. Stung, Isobel was tricked into revealing the truth. "Nay," she whispered harshly. "'Tis only I wish what they have—to take at will the pleasures of the flesh. I should have been born male."

"You only need a husband, girl. One who knows how to please you." She moved away, as if dismissing Isobel. "You'll see."

Isobel opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. She rushed after the woman. "You will not tell that you saw me?" She tugged a ruby ring from her finger and pressed it into the woman's hand. "I vow I will not wander again if you will not tell."

Alice pressed the ring back into Isobel's hand. "Make no vow you cannot keep," she said, and moved away again. At the door, she turned and quietly said, "I will not betray you, Lady Isobel, but you will owe me one thing. Are we agreed?"

Her speech was fine for a peasant, Isobel thought, but she grasped at the offering gladly. "You need but speak," she said.

Alice nodded. Isobel turned and hurried back to her bed.

The next morning, Lyssa was awake long before the village stirred. It was a great joy to awaken in her own bed, to the pools of sunlight spilling through the open shutters, and the scent of the woods filling her chamber. All was silent but for the annoyed lowing of cows yet to be milked, and the whistle of birds who'd not indulged themselves in the night's reverie. Lyssa lay still, simply taking it in—home!—before she rose to wash and dress.

She made her way to the kitchen. By noon, there would be men in the yard and women in the kitchen, and the usual bustle of the castle putting things right again, but for now Lyssa made do with black bread and watered wine. Then, eagerly, she made her way to her solar, her dogs pattering behind her.

Here was the heart of her life, of her very dreams. She flung open the door and took in a glad breath, seeing by the dust that the room had lain undis-turbed these many months. Needles of yellow light poked at the shutters. Lyssa flung them open to the breaking day, letting in vast puddles of sunshine.

She brushed at spider trails collected on her loom. A half-completed tapestry waited there, a hunt scene in deepest greens and blues. She blew at the dust on it, and inclined her head, pleased that her memory had proved true. It was a beautiful piece.

The room was lined with benches, and beneath them sat baskets of varying sizes. Some contained spun threads, most of wool, but some of flax and hemp, and some even of her dog's long fur that she'd spun in experiment. Others held raw material, ready to be carded. One held her precious silk thread, and she tugged it from its protected place and removed the cloth she used to cover it. Within, spools of the precious thread glowed in jeweled hues—emerald and ruby and sapphire. She fingered them and smiled.

For this did she live—for the pleasurable rhythm of spinning and weaving, for the voices of her women, rising and falling in gossip and laughter and anger as they worked, for the warm sight of dogs sprawled in a corner and cats creeping in to pounce on a stray thread.

A voice broke into the quiet, startling her. "So fair a maid could only be the lady Elizabeth."

There was impertinence in the peasant vowels. "I am no maid, but you've named me rightly." Lyssa turned, raising a brow, to see a woman framed in the arch of the door. "You must be Alice Bryony." Lyssa had expected an old woman, bent and tooth-less. This woman was only middle-aged, her body still slim. A plain white wimple covered her hair. Great blue eyes dominated her strong boned face. "The widow healer."

"Aye." She gave a little bow of her head and an almost mocking curtsy.

"I have been told your potions staved off the plague."

"Twas no more than a simple tonic, milady." She moved into the room, lightly touching the tools and fabrics and threads scattered around. Lyssa found she did not mind it.

Lyssa settled on the bench. "Will you sit? I would hear of your cure."

"'Tis no mystery." She did not sit immediately, but rounded the room carefully first, like a cautious cat. "The villagers were healthy to begin—and I gave them blood purifiers to keep them hale."

"The world would pay a king's ransom for it."

"Twould not save the world. The poor are oft too weak to begin. Your villeins are well-fed. I built only on what you left." She picked up a basket and smelled the contents. "You spun nettle?"

Lyssa lifted a shoulder. "I've spun a good many things over the years."

"So I see," Alice said, looking around her. "Lord Thomas told me we are to stay here. I would serve you as your woman, if you have no girl to do it."

Lyssa considered her offer. Alice was of no small intelligence, and Lyssa was drawn to her calm maturity—not like Nurse, who fussed as if Lyssa were still a child, or Tall Mary with her simmering resentments. Still, 'twas wise to move slowly. "I will think on it." She gestured to the bench. "For now, sit with me, Alice, and tell me of your travels."

At last Alice lit. "There is little to tell. Our village was hard hit by the plague, and when we left, there were only a handful of guardsmen, my lord, and me to go. The guards fell ere we'd been gone a month." Grimness tightened her mouth. "You saw what we saw, my lady. We feared we'd find no other left alive in the world."

Lyssa only gave a small nod.

"We were making our way to London when the blizzard stranded us here. We took shelter, and the rest you know."

"Lord Thomas must be a kind soul, to have offered protection to a widowed peasant."

An unreadable expression moved on the great dark eyes. "Aye," she said. "As he has been kind these many months to your villeins."

"Tell me more of your lord," Lyssa invited, curious. "Where was he fostered?"

Alice shrugged. "I think he did not foster anywhere."

Lyssa inclined her head, absorbing that. "How unusual," she murmured. "But perhaps things are different in the north."

"I cannot say."

Of course she could not. Like as not she had never traveled more than a few miles until this great journey. "You must be glad to have gone on such a grand adventure."

Alice looked at her, and Lyssa had the distinct feeling the woman was laughing somewhere deep inside where it did not show. "Aye. A simple woman, wandering the roads of England like a lady."

Lyssa chuckled at the hint of mockery in her words. "A quick wit and quicker tongue," she said. "I dislike stupid servants. Can you weave?"

"Aye."

"Good. Come you here this afternoon, and we will talk again, Alice."

Alice stood, giving Lyssa a nod, more respectful this time. "As you wish, my lady."

Lyssa smiled as Alice left her. The woman was a surprise—and perhaps something of a puzzle, as well. There was something, elusively just out of reach, that Lyssa felt she ought to be seeing. Perhaps it would be best to put the woman in some position where she might keep a close eye upon her.

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