“Sir?” Grace asked, to get the man’s attention who prepared his horse for travel. She felt a keen disappointment when she was unable to find The-man-in-the-hood, or find anyone who knew anything about him after the play ended the night before. Then she saw him at the performance in the village square, and she danced like she never danced before, putting her heart and soul into it in the hopes he would notice. By the end he was gone, and she was left with her disappointment again. But she ran to the stable as soon as the play ended, because she at least found his horse.
She watched the man’s back stiffen, and he turned slowly. He was much larger standing in the stable with her alone, than he appeared standing behind the crowds. The feeling washed over her she was playing a very dangerous game. A man such as he and Warner could kill her, leave her body behind, and no one would ever question the death of a lowly troubadour. She felt a shiver race up her spine. What were the chances this was Cyrille, if what Warner told her was even true?
“I saw you at both plays. Which did you like best?” Slowly he moved away from his horse. A tall slick, black animal who appeared breed for travel and not fighting, but she saw this man was a fighter, by the sword strapped to his side. He was also a man of wealth, judging by the fine fabric of his clothes. She detected a limp to his right leg.
He stood in the middle of the stable aisle, the scent of hay, manure and horse permeated the air, but she found it comforting. He stood straight, rigid even, his feet planted slightly apart, his hand, she noted, was close to his sword. With the hood covering his face, concealing any of his thoughts, she was sure no man in all Christendom could be more intimidating.
“You could play an elf well,” he said, in a raspy voice.
She cocked her head to the side and frowned, as she studied him. “You did not like the others?” she asked, taking two steps closer.
By his posture she could tell he did not like her questions, or perhaps it was just her. She found a little anger forming inside herself that this man, with his hood and limp, should lay judgment at her feet. “They were fine.” She studied him and by the tone of his voice, despite being hidden by the raspiness of it, she felt he was nervous.
“But I would make a better elf?” she asked, moving closer still, so she had to tilt her head back to look up at him.
He stared down at her, but remained still. He was so tall and big, it did not escape her notice he could probably crush her with one blow from his big fists. Her eyes went to his hands. His shirt sleeve was long, coming down over the back of his hands, but she saw scars. He was hiding scars beneath his hood.
“I have several other plays I perform. But the two you saw are the newest and most popular, at the moment.”
The man remained unmoving, looking down at her, seemingly impassive, but it was not disinterest she detected. Anything that kept him so straight and on guard, had nothing to do with her.
“What is your name?” she asked with a smile, as if he did not stand before her, unbending, unwelcoming.
“Why?” he asked.
Grace shrugged. “I just wish to know your name is all? Is there something wrong with that?”
“Sir Cyrille LeForte.”
The stable spun wildly in her peripheral vision.
For a moment Grace forgot she was not a child standing in front of Cyrille for the first time. Being a precocious child, Grace often found herself in places she was not supposed to be. As she was the day the young pages found her, and began teasing her about her freckles. She was close to crying when Cyrille came to her rescue, telling them to leave her alone, or next time he would teach them a lesson. She couldn’t have been more than six, but she ran to the chapel, and kneeling before the altar, she vowed to God she would love him throughout all eternity, and no other. Now he was standing in front of her again.
As youths, their paths didn’t cross again for a long time, but Grace never forgot the dashing young page who stood up for her. One day, she heard all the pages and squires were free of their duties for a day, and were having a joust in the field next to the village. She watched Cyrille like a hawk throughout his mock battles. When the day drew to an end, she rushed to his side with ale, so he would quench his thirst. All the other boys began to tease him about it, and he turned down the offer, though the sweat dripped from him. But she understood, he was a warrior who could not go about being teased. She was sure when they were all older, beyond the teasing age, he would come around.
More time passed, and he went to war. Grace cried and fell into a deep depression, worried their love would never come to fruition, and fearing more, he would be injured and have no one to help him. Or he would die, and never know how much he was truly loved. When the army returned, she rushed out, taking him a plate of food. Surely the man would be famished after his travels.
She waited for the men to dismount among the throng of people who gathered. When she finally went to him, she called his name and offered him the tray of food. He spared a glance for her, but another female voice called his name and he turned away, embracing her, kissing her. Grace became furious, because he shattered her dreams in that one action. She yelled at him, flinging the food at his back, and ran away. That was the last time she saw Cyrille. Her father and mother did not get along, and the next morning her father sent them away, to live with her mother’s sister. Far to the south, was all Grace knew of her aunt’s whereabouts. She wished she knew more, because her mother died along the way. Left alone in the world, Angus and his wife took her in and she travelled with them, watching their troupe grow, as she did, until it became an impressive performance. Angus wanted to see the world, but he loved his homeland, and in the end settled for seeing it. They were not made up of nobility, but the dregs of society, with a thief or two among them, along with a whore or two married to them. It was an odd family, but they became her family.
“I remember you,” she finally said, finding her tongue.
Cyrille appeared to grow even more in height, as he took a deep breath.
“My father was the blacksmith.”
She watched the hood as he inhaled sharply. “The ale girl?”
Grace scowled, that was not the way she hoped he remembered her after all these years. In her mind, he pined for her, at least was remorseful he ignored her and her gift.
“What happened to you?”
“My father sent us away,” she stated, and suddenly she had the urge to be far away from this man, so he could not reject her again.
“Why?”
Grace shrugged.
“Grace.” Her name came from his lips, but not in the rasp he was speaking. It was more a whisper, soft. She felt her body respond as she lost the urge to flee. How silly that remembering her name was enough to ease her mind.
She nodded her head.
“I went to look for you the next day.” Still his voice was a whisper, low and enchanting. “I couldn’t find you.”
“You have now.”
“I wanted to apologize, but even then I did not realize how cruel my actions were when I returned. You were always kind to me. I always wondered why. When you were gone, I couldn’t help but think how fleeting life was. How quickly people could be gone, before we even knew them.”
Grace dropped her gaze to the floor, so he did not see the tears she tried to fight. Wasn’t that what she wanted, to have some kind of effect on him?
“Do you remember when you were a page and you found the other boys teasing a little girl about her freckles?” She looked up to see Cyrille’s nod. “I was that little girl, and you were my knight in shining armor.”
“You thought that you loved me?” His voice sounded astonished, and she felt ten times the fool.
“I made a vow before God.” She wasn’t about to tell him she did not think, she knew she loved him to her very core at such a tender age. Even now, that love she held locked inside her for so long, was fighting to get out.
“I guess you are glad now you do not love a man such as me.”
“I’m sorry I am not the man you thought I would be.” He turned away to move back to his horse.
“Wait!” her voice was sharp. He turned to face her again, and she felt uncertainty. Many years had passed, she was no longer that same little girl who wanted to forever walk in God’s light. How could she possibly think Cyrille would be that same chivalrous boy?
“I made a vow before God I would always love you and no other,” she said in a rush. She never told him that she loved him, and they went their separate ways. Perhaps this was her opportunity to right that mistake. “I have never loved another.”
He stood there, his hood flaring in and out, as he breathed heavily. “You don’t want to love me,” his voice was louder again, raspier.
“Why?”
“I am no longer a man,” his voice was whispered, and she heard pain.
“Why do you say such a thing?” she asked, taking a step closer.
“Because I’m a monster.”
“Do you lurk about at night and kill poor wretched souls who find themselves unfortunate enough without the light of a fire to chase you away.”
“No!” he sounded annoyed, before he began to cough. “I am unfit to look upon,” he said, in a whisper again.
“You are a medusa and will turn me to stone?”
“I am scarred!” he snapped at her, followed by another bout of coughing.
“Scars? I can show you scars,” she said, and lifted her tunic up to her hip. “Remember the rope we would swing out over the water on?” Grace looked at him, and was pleased to see his attention was back on her, riveted to her, she didn’t even see him breathe as she stood before him, with her hip bared to him, her stockinged legs well defined by her clinging hose. A thought flashed through her mind she was playing with fire.
“I was scared the first time, and wouldn’t let go of the rope. By the time I couldn’t hang on any longer, I was over the pile of brush that was always there. A stick nearly impaled me,” she said, pointing to the long jagged scar, and drawing out her last words so it sounded as if it truly was a life or death experience. She knew he knew what rope she spoke of. All the kids from the village and nearby manor used it at least once. It was anticlimactic however, since it did not swing very far off the ground. Jumping off the giant rock was the more fun of the two, but there was something about the rope that terrified her.
Cyrille continued to stare at her for several minutes, before shaking his head. “That is just a little scar,” he snapped, his voice rasping. He lowered it to say, “I wear this hood because I have many.” She continued to stare at him blankly. “I have no eye,” he yelled, and his voice failed on the last word.
“How did this happen?” she asked calmly, because he did not move to turn away, or advance. He continued to stand straight and tall, looking down at her.
“I was taken prisoner, they were sadistic, and cut my eye from me, and tried to burn me.”
“Who took you prisoner?”
“An Emir in the Holy Land.”
“You fought in the Crusade?” she asked, and a sense of pride ran through her. She knew this man, had loved this man, who went to fight for good and right alongside their king.
He only nodded. She had the urge to throw her arms around him and tell him of her pride, but suddenly his stance changed, and he turned his head away.
“Please cover yourself,” he said, his teeth clenched.
“Do you not like what you see?” she half teased, but another part of her was terrified it was true.
His head swiveled back toward her, and she saw the passion in his eye, mixed with pain.
“Perhaps you need to see more to decide?” She pulled the rest of her tunic up, so both her legs were bared, all the way up to just below her breasts, so he got a glimpse of her flat stomach. She herself liked the feel of her stomach, the firmness of the muscles there. The other women in the troupe had soft stomachs, but hers was different, and she liked to be different.
She watched Cyrille’s hands clinch and release, and she wished she could see his face, to see the extent of the emotions she was creating. She was at a large disadvantage with the hood over his head. Was she pleasing him, or angering him?
“You do not know what I look like.” He was angry, she could hear it in his quiet voice.
“Then show me.”
He stared at her. The man was a true mystery. He was far different than the boy she knew. The boy was fun, she knew this by watching the other boys, Cyrille was always included in whatever they did. This man was silent and watchful, she guessed the hood taught him that.
He turned away, stalking to the end of the aisle, his limp pronounced. He was distracted, he would normally try to hide the limp she realized. He turned and stared at her still holding the fabric bunched beneath her breasts. “Come here,” he demanded, before turning away. He grabbed a stool from the corner, and entered the stall at the end of the stable.
She dropped the cloth and hurried forward. Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt faint. At the same time she felt exhilaration like no other coursing through her. She turned to enter the stall, to find Cyrille sitting on the stool, watching her. She advanced to stand in front of him.
After several moments that left Grace nervous, he said in a whisper, “Let me see you again.”
She reached for her tunic and lifted it again, as high as she had before. He stared at her stomach, his face level with it, before finally reaching a tentative hand up to place his palm flat on it. He lifted his head to look up at her, and she offered him a smile. After a moment he moved his hand, sliding it across to her side, his fingers gripping her, before pulling her forward, to stand between his legs. He leaned forward, and she felt the soft cloth of the hood touch her stomach, and his lips on the other side. Then he wrapped both arms around her waist and held her tightly for a moment. He kissed her. Cyrille kissed her! She felt as giddy as she did when she was a child and he stopped the teasing.
He released her, using a hand on her stomach to push her backward, at arm’s length. He looked at her another minute, then nodded. She let the fabric of the skirt slide through her fingers, to fall back into place. She took a step forward and reached for the string at his throat, holding the hood in place. She felt it give with her light tug, then the string came unwound, and she let it slip through her fingers to fall against the fabric at his neck. She sank to her knees in front of him, forcing him to drop his gaze to look down at her. She saw worry written plainly in his one eye.
She raised her hands, took hold of the edges of the hood, and slowly began to lift it. His neck was revealed, and the scars there matched the scars she saw on his hands. They were so thick here she knew the flame reached his face. His wonderfully handsome oval face, his crooked smile, she envied the baron’s daughter that day when he turned it on her. His square chin. Did she want to see? She remembered exactly the way he was. Did she really want to change that? Nothing could ever change that, she decided, lifting the hood further to reveal his chin. It was the same, only different, and she couldn’t help herself and rose up to kiss him on it.
She heard him suck in a breath, and his massive chest stilled as he held it. She lowered herself and met his gaze, only then did she hear him breathe again. She lifted the hood further, revealing the lips that were full, but not too much. She remembered dreaming of his lips, even before she knew what sex between a man and woman was. With his mouth she uncovered more scars, not just from the flames, but a blade.
“They were going to cut my tongue out,” Cyrille whispered, as she looked at his scars.
Her eyes went to his again, before she raised the hood more, up to his nose. Her eyes fell back to look at it. It was an attractive nose, full but not large, strong and rounded at the end. It remained,
and she almost laughed out loud because she feared it might be missing as well. Her eyes went back to his.
“Are you ready?” she asked, knowing the next would reveal the eye he was missing.
“No,” he replied, honestly.
Ignoring him, she stood up again, and with one motion, whipped the hood the rest of the way off his head. She gripped it in her hand, and she wanted to cry. His beautiful face was a myriad of scars, deep scars, and intensive scars. The pain he must have endured brought her forward, and she flung her arms around him.
“It must have hurt so badly,” she sobbed, as she clung to him.
“Not that bad,” he whispered, as he tried to pull her arms from around him.
“You lie,” she said, continuing to cry and cling. “Who nursed you back to health?”
“My sister.”
It should have been her. She sobbed harder because the touch of a sister could not replace the tender care of a lover. “She did all she could,” he insisted.
She shook her head. “I was supposed to be there. It was a part of my vow that I would comfort you and keep you well.”
Finally, Cyrille’s arms snaked around her, and a moment later he was holding her. Cyrille was holding her. She was touching him. She didn’t believe for a minute there would be anything to come of this beyond tonight, but she would accept it as everything else that came and went. She raised her head, taking his head in her hands, she began to plant kisses on his face. She wanted to take it all away and perhaps by touching him, kissing him, it would at least for a moment.
Suddenly Cyrille stood and pushed her away. Grace was devastated. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.
Angie Arms - Flames series 04 Page 20
