by Lynn Kurland
"Why is your brother not providing escort?"
She crossed her fingers and lied. "He is dead, sir."
A silence prevailed. At least she had stopped his questions.
"Do you swear to come back on the morn?" he asked after what he apparently decided was a respectful pause.
She turned the gold coin in her fingers. "Will you have another coin then?"
"Yes. And gratitude." His grumbling assent told her he was not used to offering gratitude.
The air grew even warmer between them. There was a kind of expectancy she'd never felt before. He waited, patiently, but she suspected that it did not come easily to him. She would have thought otherwise for both a soldier and a minstrel.
"I will try to come in the morning. At sunrise," she said.
He nodded, taking it as his due. She didn't understand that either.
"Where will you stay?"
He shrugged. "Under the skies."
"It will rain tonight."
"I've been rained upon before."
She wanted to tell him to go to Clenden for warmth and shelter. Her father never turned anyone away, much to the disgust of her mother. But if she did that, he would discover who she was and likely tell someone that she had been alone in the woods. Men did not keep secrets well. Then her father would know she had disobeyed and would likely put a guard on her.
So, instead, she nodded.
"If you do not come, I will hunt for you," he said. "You have my coin."
She turned the shilling once more in her hand, then tossed it back to him. "No, I do not. Use it to feed your poor horse. The neglect is shameful."
Before he could say more or gather his wits, she turned and ran through the trees. He started after her, only to see her grab the reins of the horse he'd seen earlier. Before he could reach her, she'd used a fallen log to mount and was racing away.
three
What servant cared more for a nag than for a gold coin?
It humbled him. And shamed him, although the horse's condition was none of his doing and, in truth, the beast's lot had improved considerably in his company.
He thought about following her, but he knew his nag couldn't keep up with hers, nor did he wish to scare her away. He could only hope she returned.
He wondered who she was. She said she had a master, which meant she was a servant of some kind. But what kind of servant was given leave to ride a fine mount like the one she had, even to exercise her?
The daughter of a stable man? That was a possibility. It would explain her riding ability. But what explained her skill with a lute?
He wondered how she would look with her hair flowing down her back. Underneath the cap, it had been the color of bronze, a rich gold-red, and her eyes were indeed unique. A gold-flecked gray-green that had widened with anxiety when her gaze met his. She had been ready to bolt, and yet there had been courage there too.
He was making too much of it. She was a servant. She was most likely bound to the land or to the house. And except for the hair and eyes, she was no beauty. Her mouth was too wide, her chin too sharp.
But her voice was like that of a songbird, sweet and pure.
Her songs actually had a melody to them, unlike his own toneless strumming. If she would but instruct him for a day or so, he felt sure he could continue his quest with no one suspecting he was not as he presented himself. He would do something fine for her, in return. He would buy her freedom and make it possible for her to go wherever she wished.
In the meantime, though, he would have to find a place to camp. She had warned him that trespassers were not welcomed, and he did not want to be turned away from this household. He'd been told there were three daughters of marriageable age, and he wanted to look them over in his own way and at his own leisure.
He turned to the white horse that so obviously had been responsible for the censure in her voice. "Come on, nag," he said, tossing in his hand the coin she had thrown back to Mm. "Let us see if we cannot find you some decent feed."
He turned and started walking back to the last village, the one where he'd learned about the festive activities planned at Clenden. He wanted the horse to look improved on the morrow when he met with her again.
If she appeared.
She was too late. Her father's men were up, and so was the stable lad.
At least she saw none of her suitors in the courtyard. She doubted whether they would recognize her riding in as the lad. Her hair was tucked back under the cap and she lay on the mare's neck as she cantered inside, trying not to look at the faces of her father's guard.
Young Selwyn ran to take the horse. "The lord has been asking after you," he said.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I knew nothing, mistress, but he noted that your mare was missing."
By the furies, her father would pick this one day to rise early. "He did not blame you?"
"No, my lady," he said, but his forehead was knotted with worry. He needed this position, such as it was, and she knew it. He was the sole support of his mother, who had been widowed when a horse had kicked her husband in the head.
"I will let him know I spirited her out when you were busy getting feed."
"You had best go in through the kitchen," he said. "Mayhap you can make the stairs without anyone seeing you."
"My thanks," she said. She left the mare in his good hands. She disliked doing that; she would rather rub the horse down with her own two hands. But she may have tested her father too well.
Oddly enough, after this strange morning, a nunnery held less interest than it had before.
As she tried to slide through the kitchens without anyone seeing her, she thought again about the stranger in the woods. She had no doubt he had told it truthfully when he said he had been a soldier. He looked like a soldier. She'd seen enough quartered at Clenden to know the type.
He had cool eyes that missed little, and the scar above the left eye branded him a warrior. He also had the alertness she'd seen in soldiers—the gaze that never quite stopped roaming as if seeking danger around every corner. Such a man would have difficulty settling down to a sedentary life, or even a peaceful one as a minstrel. And yet he'd seemed determined to do just that.
She simply could not imagine a love ballad coming from the mouth that had frowned so.
But his plea had been so earnest.
She made it to her room without encountering her father or any of their guests. She said a brief thank-you to the saints. Her maid, Willa, was waiting for her, her face crinkled with worry.
"Your father is looking for you," she said. "One of the young men has made an offer."
"Did he now?" Lynet asked, biting her lip. All of a sudden, she compared each of them to the stranger in the woods. How quickly she'd lost her fear of him. He had been so large, so… severe in visage, and yet…
She was being silly. He was nothing but a wandering would-be musician, a man trying to survive by his wits.
Do you swear to come back in the morn?
She swallowed hard. How could she go out again? If one of her suitors knew she was meeting a man in the woods, her reputation would be destroyed forever.
Lynet turned her mind from the stranger and tried to concentrate on what her maid had just said. One had made an offer.
"Which one?" she asked.
"Your father did not say."
She thought about the three again. Which did she wish was the one? Of course, if the marriage portion was large enough, she knew she could have any one of them. Her father had been cagey about that, however. To his credit, he had hoped for a son-in-law who truly cared for her.
Her mind roved over the candidates. She had not been impressed by any of them and now, after this morning's odd encounter, even less so. Even the handsome Wickham was pale and puny next to the would-be minstrel. His eyes had none of the depth and complexity, nor was his walk as powerfully graceful.
She swallowed hard as Willa helped her into a shift and corset. She hated
corsets and usually did not wear them, but this morning she would have to placate her father and would dress to please him if not the rest of the household. She had promised not to disgrace him. She chose a gown that made her eyes greener.
Willa brushed her hair, parted it and left it to flow down her back. Her face was still rosy from her morning adventure.
"You look lovely, my lady," Willa said. "There is a sparkle to yer eyes. Is there one of the young lords that you fancy?"
Lynet looked closer into the mirror. Did she see a sparkle there?
Nay. It was just Willa's imagination. There was nothing to cause such a reaction.
She rose, steeling herself for the coming interview. She wondered just how much her father was willing to pay for a son-in-law. It seemed as if she were being bought and sold. The groom gave her a dower which, of course, he controlled; and her father gave her husband a marriage portion, which he could use in any way. It was, she thought, most unfair to her.
She had to admit her father had given her time to choose a husband. She was nineteen when most girls married at fourteen or fifteen. Her sisters were now sixteen and fifteen and complaining bitterly about their unmarried status. But she had so wanted to marry for love.
Love grew between married people, her father contended, but she had not seen it grow between her parents. They tolerated each other. She had wanted so much more. She had wanted a love that jongleurs and minstrels celebrated. 'Twas foolish, she knew. But still, she had hoped…
Now all she had was the songs.
Her father was waiting for her in the oriel behind the great hall. It was a small room lined with a large fireplace and many books, her father being a scholar by nature. She and her sisters had been fortunate in that he was advanced in his thinking and believed women should be educated as men were in Latin and philosophy and history. Her sisters had cared little about such subjects but she had been an avid student, which is why, she knew, she was his favorite and why he'd allowed her to wait so long for marriage.
But now he had need of an heir. He could wait no longer, and she suspected he had investigated the three suitors before inviting them and found them to be of good reputation.
He stood next to a fire now. "You left the castle," he said. '"And in a lad's clothing and without a guard."
She lowered her head. "You know how much I love to ride in the morning."
"'It is dangerous, Daughter. There are many soldiers prowling about now that so many have been dismissed. It is not safe and it is not… the way of a lady."
"I went early enough that… none would be awake."
"I want your promise you will not go again without a guard."
Her promise. Her sworn oath to the stranger. How could she make one that would nullify the other?
She tried to avoid the question. "Willa said you wished to talk to me about an… offer?"
He frowned as if he knew exactly what she intended, but her question had the effect she wanted.
"Kellum," he said with satisfaction. Of all of them, Kellum was most highly placed.
"He does not approve of educated women." she said.
His frown deepened. "He did not say that to me."
"He did to me. You would not want all your teaching to be for naught."
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I will talk to him about that. But," he added hopefully, "he is a fine-looking man and would produce handsome children."
"And ignorant ones," she said.
"Is there one of the others you prefer?" he asked, an anxious look on his face.
"Wickham kicked one of your dogs."
Her father looked more distressed. He could not abide cruelty to animals. "And Manfield?" he said with almost desperation.
"I think he prefers Evelyn."
Her father's eyes cleared. She had said nothing bad about him. "That is because you have not given him a chance. You are always disappearing and Evelyn is always here."
"I will make a bargain with you," she said.
He looked at her suspiciously.
"There are no brigands out at dawn," she said. "They are sleeping after committing their nefarious deeds." She didn't know whether that was true or not, but it sounded logical. "I promise I will choose a husband within the week if I can enjoy what freedom I have."
Her father looked at her warily. "I suspect you would go anyway," he said.
"I may not be able to do so again after a wedding," she said.
"You will not let anyone see you?"
"Nay, and you know the servants will not talk."
"You have them under your spell, right enough," he grumbled. "They pay more attention to you than to your mother or me."
She said nothing. Just waited. It was not much of a bargain for herself, but then she knew her father was determined in this matter of marriage. And at least she could fulfill the vow to the stranger.
Her father mumbled a moment or two, then nodded his head. "Mind you, let no one see you or…"
"I will not," she said. "And I will be careful."
A look of resignation settled on his face. "Be careful, too, that your mother does not know."
"She will not."
He looked at her for a long moment. "I want nothing more than for you to be happy, my daughter, but there is a duty to family, to your sisters, to your mother. There must be an heir."
Lynet knew that. She knew how much her father had longed for an heir all these years. She had been selfish. She had wanted perfection when there was no perfection in the world. She had wanted her heart stolen, but there was no thief with honor.
She nodded.
"A bargain then, Daughter? Any of these three men would make a suitable husband, and if not one of them then you must tell me who."
"A bargain, Father," she assured him.
He did something he had never done before. He placed a hand alongside her cheek for the barest of a moment, then dropped it and turned away. He'd never expressed physical affection before. A gruff "well done" had been his highest praise.
A week. She had a week to fulfill her vow to choose a husband. Mayhap it was not a vow at all since it had been made under a certain quiet duress. But something in her heart told her she must honor it.
She knew it was something she had to do.
Would she return? She had thrown his coin back to him.
He found himself pacing near the pool even before dawn. His old nag stood not far from him, her head hanging down to eat the rich green grass even after stuffing herself with oats last night.
He wanted the lessons, he'd told himself. And yet it hadn't been the music that echoed in his mind, but the fine, stubborn face as she'd thrown his coin back at him. It had been a unique experience, a curious disdain.
What manner of a woman was she?
Duncan thought about the color of her eyes, the gray moss green that was filled with a ready intelligence. A woman masquerading as a boy. It was preposterous. Mayhap she had been a figment of his imagination. Or a spirit of some kind.
He had been here since the wee hours of morning, ignoring the winds that cooled the warmth of yesterday. He took Rhys's lute and sat where she had sat, and played one of the songs he knew. It was a French song about the Crusades. There was nothing gentle about it.
He finished it and suddenly knew he was not alone. He had lived by instincts these past ten years and yet he had heard nothing—not the whinny of a horse or a footfall. By the saints, but he was slipping.
"You have a good touch," a soft voice said. He turned where he sat and saw her standing underneath a large oak. He didn't see her horse.
"You came," he said, somewhat stupidly.
"I said I would."
"I feared I had frightened you."
"I'm not easily frightened."
She was wearing the same clothes she'd worn yesterday. He wondered now how he had ever mistaken her for a lad, even though once more her hair was hidden beneath a cap.
"I did not hear you."
"You sh
ould not hear someone when you are playing. You should be listening to the music."
"I doubt there was much musical about it. I've been told I am heavy-handed."
"Whoever told you that knew little. 'Tis your choice of songs that is heavy-handed."
He stood then, towering over her, though she was tall for a woman. "Your master? Does he know about me?"
"He knows naught other than I'm exercising his horse."
"To which house are you bound?"
"I thought you wanted to know about songs," she said, turning way.
"I do. Do not go, mistress." He couldn't remember when last he had pleaded with anyone, man or woman.
"No more questions," she said.
He nodded and handed her the lute. Her own hands were empty.,
Her fingers fondled it, ran lightly over the fine wood and tested the strings. He thought they sounded far better under her touch than his. " 'Tis a fine instrument," she said after a moment. Now there was a question in her voice; the lute was far too fine for a common soldier.
"A friend… wanted me to have it."
Her face immediately clouded and he realized she'd concluded that his friend had died. How was he to explain his friend was at Worthington, trying to straighten the keep for an intended bride?
"Teach me a few songs," he commanded, forgetting that he was a supplicant, a gypsy wanderer, not a marquis used to having commands immediately obeyed.
The startled look in her eyes told him he had made a mistake. He continued awkwardly, "I also need a few more lessons in…"
"Humility," she finished.
He couldn't stop the small smile he knew was forming. "Humility," he confirmed.
"A smile helps, too," she suggested.
"I've been told I am not very accomplished at that either," he admitted wryly.
"It is really not that hard."
"Is it not, mistress?"
"Can you not think of something fine? Like a sunrise? Or a pool like this one? Or a sunset?"
Her face had lit as if that very sun was shining on it. He had never seen anyone who took such joy in simple things. To him, those images held different meanings. A sunrise meant a new battle, sunset the coming of night and danger, and water had to be crossed usually at the most inopportune time.
