“Amice!”
“Hush, Isabella, I speak my mind. Yes, your man is very fine, shapely and fine. Does he smell of mint? I wager he does. Not very colorful in his dress, though you can ginger him up, and my, his horse is old…”
Isabella did not hear the rest of her friend’s pithy remarks. Looking down she was lost, her mind a whirlpool of thoughts and impressions as the rest of the street vanished to her. She had forgotten how magnetic his eyes were, with their soft tones of green and hard notes of gray, and how aquiline his nose. He was watching her, indulgence sparkling in his tanned, craggy face and tugging at the corners of his singer’s mouth, as if he knew very well what she was about and did not care. Even in the earliest days of her marriage Richard had never stared at her like this, as if he kissed her with his eyes.
He had caught one of her flowers, she realized as he held it aloft, showing it to her before tucking it away into one of his big, black, serviceable leather gloves.
“Fine as my best black pepper,” Amice was concluding, while Isabella struggled to hold onto herself, not abandon her sense utterly. Remember Sir William’s threats and the danger to Matthew. She lifted her hand away from the edge of the cage and waved to the tall, strong figure below. Stephen is surely my lord, my kind and noble lord, and I am forced to beguile him. Shame engulfed her in a scalding tide.
I must do this, for Matthew.
Not in so extreme a way, her mind scolded, but it was as if her body no longer obeyed her reason. Stephen’s smile was a welcome and in truth what time had she? In another moment he would be gone, passed, and her family would blame her. If she did not do this now they might never allow her to see her son.
It was the work of a single step and then done. As she forced her stiffened limbs to stir, Isabella glimpsed the rich tapestries, captured in France and hung from the first floors as trophies. She saw the shields, taken from the battlefield of Poitiers and ranged along the street in a triumphant display, glinting back at her. She thought of Matthew in his brave blue coat and fell out of the cage, a desperate launch, wondering if the cobbles would hurt. Catch me, please catch me.
In a slow fall, slow as a snail, she saw Stephen’s smile falter, heard Amice’s desperate, “Issa!” and then she was floating, down and down.
Catch me, please catch me.
Chapter 3
Stephen spurred his horse forward and snatched her from the air, stopping her headlong crash onto the street. His arms burned, sinews and tendons twisting and wrenching as he clung on, feeling her slip away. In that instant, when his shoulders felt dislocated and his groin rammed painfully against his saddle and his docile little gray nag whickered, close to a scream, he was near to yelling himself. How could one so slight and small weigh so much? Still she dragged him down to the ground, where the faint scatter of rose petals would give them no protection.
“Stay!” he roared, to himself, to her, as from the edge of his vision he saw the knight of the garter catch his horse’s bridle, his bearded mouth a round ‘O’ of shock. Even Prince Edward, veteran of many a charge, had frozen.
He heard cloth ripping, wondered from the hot-metal sizzle in his arms if his muscles were ripping, and then it was over. She was netted in his grasp and whole.
I have caught a falling angel, he thought for a wild instant, and then the fancy was gone. He shook the stinging sweat from his eyes and looked at her, snug in his arms but gasping like a landed fish.
“Are you hurt?”
She shuddered, her eyes tightly shut like a child fearing punishment, her mouth trying to work as she fought to answer him. Any anger that he might have felt at her folly in leaning out so far vanished. He could tell—and he had seen enough battlefields to know—that she was uninjured in body, but shocked to her core. He saw, too, how very thin she was, and now, once fallen from her cage, how very pale.
“Peace, lass, you are safe.” He brought her before him onto his saddle, settling her sideways so she was cushioned against him. “All is well.” He stroked her shivering limbs and heard the burly knight growl in his ear, “You are excused duties, Fletcher, ‘tis clearly safe enough. Take the silly wench away and let us move on.”
Around him, seeping back in tides of sound, he could hear the crowd gasping and applauding and Prince Edward saying to the French king that the maiden had been overcome by his royal presence.
Stephen dipped his head to the shivering girl. “Forgive me, lady, I forgot myself in that moment. You are fallen a long way from a glovers’ shop.”
Her eyes snapped open then, very blue and wide.
“Forgive me.” Her voice was low and sweet, but steady, as her breath was now steady. “I am sorry, sir.”
“You should be, and I demand a forfeit.” Before he knew what he would do, Stephen was kissing her, gathering her even closer, her unguarded lips yielding and quivering under his. He ran his tongue across her teeth and caressed her mouth with his, sorry now to have startled her, but by God he had startled himself.
He broke their embrace, then, unable to stop himself, he kissed her again. Her skin was smooth as a pearl and inexorably he was drawn to the deep, enticing groove between her breasts…
Enough, man. Restraining himself, he lifted his head. “No debt,” he said, stripping off a glove and cupping her flushed face with his hand.
“I am sorry,” she repeated, and then, more quietly, “Thank you.”
“Move on!” grunted the knight, prodding his gray horse with his booted foot. “You are holding up the prince!”
Abruptly, Stephen became aware again of the onlookers and nobility, the prince, Edward of Woodstock, smirking with a knowing expression on his long, narrow, bearded face and the retinue taking their cue from him, laughing as if he and the woman were court jesters. Keen to be away from their scrutiny, Stephen reined back and turned his mount out of the procession into one of the side streets.
This alley was clogged with filth and rotting scraps, ankle deep in waste and rats. I am mighty glad she did not fall down here. Still, despite the sudden gloom and ordure stench he allowed his horse to plod at its own pace and his dog to browse and nose as it would, giving them all respite.
“My friend. Please, I must tell her I am safe,” his passenger whispered. “She has such a dread of heights.”
“If she saw you fall, she knows I caught you.” Answering, Stephen remembered a tall black woman in a red dress, staring from an upper window. Recalling the black woman’s horror, he felt aggrieved on her behalf and now sharpened his address to the girl. “Were you overcome by the sight of the French king? I know he and Edward of Woodstock are both fair, and I have learned at court that such coloring is greatly admired.”
“I am not of the court,” she said at once, then stopped. He knew then, from her tiny pause, that whatever she said next would be false. “It is a very warm day, sir.”
“Indeed.” And from that blush, you are a very poor liar. Usually falsehood irked him but if there was more here than a simple misstep, he decided that he did not care. She had fallen out of her cage when he, Stephen, was passing. “And now we meet again, Mistress Angel. Or should I say Mistress Truant?”
Her color deepened.
Enjoying himself, Stephen went on. “You know my name, may I ask yours?”
“Isabella.” She cleared her throat. “Isabella of London.”
“But no glover.”
It should have been impossible for her to blush any more but she did. “I fear not.”
Had she trembled then? “You have no need to fear. May I take you home, Isabella? That is, if you will admit to me where you live?”
She nodded once, then worried at her lower lip, her bright eyes as blue as cornflowers. No longer shaken, she still looked surprised, but then she could not be any more surprised than he himself. He had not done this kind of jesting for over two years, when he had gently teased Cecilia. For an instant he felt disloyal, yet where was the harm? “Show me,” he coaxed.
****
&n
bsp; Stephen was not smiling. yet nor did he frown. He looked patient and quiet, his black eyebrows faintly raised as if he guessed and was amused by her confusion. “Point my horse, then,” he said, while she was wondering what to say. When she nodded so he would not consider her entirely witless he grinned, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. She felt him urge his horse forward and the narrow shop fronts changed as they plodded on, passing a few stragglers in festive demon masks.
Be witty, amusing, available, threatened Sir William in her head, all traits that had been crushed in her by Richard. What would amuse a royal armourer, who mixed with princes and kings? But he likes me. She knew that from the way he held her, from his swift admiring glances whenever he thought she was looking elsewhere, and from his kiss. She wanted to bring her fingers to her mouth and trace where his sweet mouth had lingered.
I shall have much to reflect and dream on tonight, but I must not day-dream now.
Amice had been right, though. He tasted of mint and smelled of leather and a faint whiff of sulphur, perhaps from his time by the forges. What did he do as royal armourer? Did he ever use gold? That would be something in common between them. She opened her mouth to ask, then remembered just in time that he had not told her what he was or did, only his name. If she asked anything too close he might suspect her of seeking him out, of laying traps for him. Which is exactly what I did and must do again.
“Yes, my lady?” He must have sensed her question, possibly by her face. Richard had always mocked her for being too expressive.
They had reached the end of the alley and she pointed left. He turned the horse along another narrow lane, this one filled with stacked firewood and smelling of fish.
“Are you of London, Sir Stephen?” That was surely a safe inquiry.
“Not me, and no knight, either.” He admitted this without a seeming care, tucking his loose glove into his belt. He still wore the other, perhaps to keep the golden flower he had caught safe— she could only hope.
“I am of Kent,” he continued. “I miss the orchards and fields there.”
“We have apple trees,” she began, stopping as it hit her afresh that Matthew was somewhere in Kent. Surely the family will let me visit Matthew now? They must!
“Isabella of London,” Stephen went on, in a musing way. He leaned around a low-hanging jetty and tightened his grip about her waist as the horse ambled past a rooting pig. “You like London? Of course you must, for you are of the goldsmiths and they live richly.”
“And you do not?” she replied, stung by his implied criticism. “Your tunic is very fine, embroidered silk, I think, though you have burst a seam on the shoulder. I can mend it for you if you wish.”
What have I said? she thought desperately, as Stephen’s piercing eyes narrowed and she braced herself for a set-down or worse, a blow. But even as she stiffened she realized he was laughing.
“A most generous offer, mistress! Should I remove it now?”
Her easy blush, which she so detested, roared up her face, stinging in her cheeks, but she was determined not to be overcome. “Not for me, sir. Your wife might not approve.”
Abruptly, like a candle being snuffed out, the light in his face vanished and he looked older, grimmer. “I have none now—no wife, I mean. Where next?”
They had reached another junction of alleys. She pointed blindly right, cursing herself for her blunder in reminding Stephen of his dead wife and causing him grief, then realized too late that she had told him wrong. This way they were heading for the Vintry, the district of the wine merchants, a place of busy wharfs, warehouses and wine stalls, the place where her father did his business.
The thought of her father seeing her, spotting and ignoring her, as he always did whenever their paths crossed these days, made her shudder.
“Hey there. I would not have you faint again, or your kin will think me a ravisher.”
Stephen sounded truly concerned and she was ashamed afresh.
“Shall we set down a moment, take a little wine?” he went on. “This is the Vintry, I think, so we should be well served.” His full lips twitched, in returning good humour. “I can even ask a good-wife to stay by you as a companion, so your betrothed does not object.”
“I know very well where we are and I have no betrothed. I am a widow,” she responded tartly, seizing the chance to say it. Before he could say more she decided she would prove she was no fainting creature, lest he consider her soft. She seized the strut of an overhanging jetty with both arms, lifted herself away from him, swung and dropped neatly onto a house-step.
“Do you like wine?” she asked, as if what she had just done was the most natural thing in the world. Pride compelled her to add, “I know where to find the best in London, especially the spiced sort.”
Silently he dismounted and strode alongside her where, with her standing on the step, their heads were exactly level. He looked kind again, and amused, and overall very much as if he longed to tweak her hair in its gold crespine.
His lips hovered so close to hers that she could smell his breath and see the tiny folds and creases of his mouth. Would he kiss her again? Should she kiss him?
He smiled instead, and offered her his arm. “Well enough, Mistress Isabella, so lead on,” he said.
****
Isabella was an intriguing widow, Stephen decided, as they strolled beside the riverbank between the wharfs, passing a small skin of piment wine back and forth as they walked and talked. She was an enticing mixture of bold and shy—blushing easily but “escaping” from his horse. She had a rich and varied knowledge of wine. The one she had suggested he buy, flavoured with cloves, ginger, honey and other spices, was very good. She had offered to pay for it, too, but he had refused at once.
“This is my suggestion, mistress, and I am glad to pay,” he told her and the smiling wine merchant, and he had not troubled to haggle, so content he had been with how the day was going.
“What is this called again?” he asked now, shaking the skin.
“Hippocras. Do you like it?”
“Very much.” He passed her the skin for the pleasure of watching her take a sip and of seeing her long white throat as she tipped back her head and swallowed. She had removed her gloves and he enjoyed seeing her slim, nimble fingers at work. She had the knack, too, which he had never mastered, of drinking from a wine-skin with delicacy, without spilling a drop.
“Are you a vintner’s child?” he asked, picking up a stick and throwing it along the riverside path for his dog. His docile gray horse shook its mane but remained content to be simply led.
“Once, yes,” she replied, a curious answer which she clearly knew was odd because she at once began asking him about the court, who so-and-so was like and what Queen Philippa looked like.
He answered readily—no need to do other—and told her a little of his own work, pleased when she asked him questions concerning his craft. The creaking treadmill cranes of wine wharf was behind them by this time and they were closing on a group of women washing clothes by the water’s edge when she stopped suddenly and turned about.
“We should go back. My family will be anxious.”
“Of course.” He offered his arm, which she did not take straight away, perhaps because she feared he would guess she was alarmed, but he could tell that already by the draining of color from her cheeks and lips.
She knows someone among those womenfolk and fears being recognized, but why? They are all maids, drab as sparrows. There is a mystery here, but it will keep until I know her better.
“Your husband was Richard?” he prompted, aware she had told him that earlier but wanting to keep conversation flowing and intrigued with what she might say. So far she had steered talk away from herself onto him.
“That’s right. I married him at twelve.” She tucked her narrow hand through his arm and seemed as deliberately blithe as a skylark. “A most trying age, I am told.”
“Seems too young to me,” he growled, sensing her comment ha
d been used too often against her.
She colored a delicate rose. “My husband, I mean Richard… he did wait until I was thirteen.”
Thirteen. My God. Poor little lass. What kind of man climbs into a maiden’s bed when she is only thirteen? “My Cecilia was closer to nineteen when we were wed.” He had been nineteen, a stripling, lanky as a young birch tree despite his labour in the forges, but merry then as a lark himself. “We were together ten years.”
“And content as any couple taking home the Dunmore flitch,” Isabella observed shrewdly, referring to the custom in Essex of awarding a couple who had lived together a year without quarrelling a side or flitch of bacon.
“Aye, aye, we would have won that, had it been a custom of Kent,” he admitted, lost anew in memories until he heard her say quietly, “We were not like that, Richard and me.”
One of the watermen of the river yelled something so coarse that, had the fellow been rowing closer, Stephen would have dragged him from his boat and thumped him. It had the virtue of making her laugh, at least.
“Was she very lovely?” she asked, and then shook her head, looking away from him to the barges on the river. “Forgive me, I am wrong to pry.”
“Hush! She was beautiful and you worry too much.” He took her hand in his, glad he had removed his glove, and swung it as they walked. Her token, the small gold flower, was still snug in his other glove.
“Please, you must take me home. I shall be missed,” was all she said.
****
They moved swiftly then, to Isabella’s relief. She had been disconcerted to see her mother’s maid by the riverbank, but fortunately the maid had not approached her and Stephen seemed to have forgotten the entire incident. As he put her before him on his horse which, as Amice had said, truly was old, he was humming a tune.
“Yes, Ulysses is an antique, but nothing worries him,” he said, catching her looking. “He is very good in processions and the like. Just as well,” he added innocently.
He mounted behind her and she could not think of a pert reply. Being cradled in his arms had been a floating, warm sensation, like a wonderful bath, and she had felt safe and protected. With him pressed against her—or was she against him?—she was conscious of him as a man. He was longer and harder in the body than Richard had been. She liked that, but despised the way she felt breathless, like a true maiden.
Lindsay Townsend Page 3
