Love and Honor (Knights of Honor Book 7)

by Alexa Aston

  “Will you be able to grind the pigments? Has your wrist healed enough to do so?”

  She saw the concern in his eyes. “I think by tomorrow I will be fine, Edward.”

  “May I examine it?”

  Her gaze met his. Rosalyne swallowed at the intensity in it. She didn’t trust herself to speak and simply nodded.

  Edward moved toward her. His unique masculine scent invaded the space between them, causing her to grow lightheaded. She stiffened her knees, willing them not to buckle beneath her.

  Leaning into her, he reached behind her neck and untied the sling, bringing the ends over her shoulders and drawing them away. Rosalyne kept from throwing her arms about his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers.

  Barely.

  He tossed one end of the cloth over his shoulder and lifted her arm by the elbow. Bracing her arm, he placed it against his own forearm to steady it and then used his free hand to touch her wrist. The callused fingertips glided against her skin, gently prodding it, encircling it. Rosalyne couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

  Then Edward released it and guided her arm down to her side. He stepped behind her and reached around, using the material to recreate the makeshift sling once more. As he tied the two ends together, she could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck. Her belly flip-flopped wildly. She began to turn toward him, only to realize he moved away.

  “That should hold. You aren’t feeling any more pain, are you?”

  “Nay.” It surprised Rosalyne that she was able to get the word out.

  “I think by tomorrow, you will be as good as new. If not, I can remain and grind your pigments for you.” He thought a moment. “In fact, could I do so this afternoon? That way, you would only have to mix in the egg yolk and stir. You could do that with your right hand.”

  “All right.” She swallowed hard, willing herself to regain the power of speech. “I will show you what can be ground. Mixing paints can sometimes be a slow process. Or Uncle will use one color in part of the painting and then I add more pigment if he needs a deeper shade for shadowing or another section of the painting.” She sighed, trying to regain control of her emotions. “But having the pigment already ground will definitely save me time.”

  They spent another hour together, Edward grinding various pigments as she enjoyed watching the muscles in his forearms and his long, lean fingers at work. Finally, she decided he could stop, knowing she had more than enough pigment at this point to mix and paint large sections of the triptych.

  “I don’t mind fetching the eggs for you and mixing the paints,” he said.

  “Uncle Temp needs to be here for that. We won’t need to begin that process until he has transferred the ideas from his sketches onto the wood.”

  Edward propped one elbow on the table and asked, “So why tempera paints? What is so special about them?”

  “Egg tempera is incredible durable. Generally, it is unaffected by either temperature or humidity and it is long-lasting. When a painting is completed with egg tempera paints, nothing can match the satin sheen of its finish or how vivid the colors are.”

  “It sounds almost too good to be true. Are there any drawbacks to using it?”

  Rosalyne laughed. “Tempera is thin when applied.”

  “Like the gesso?”

  “Even thinner, which means is dries rapidly. An artist must truly commit when using it and use quick, deliberate brushstrokes in a crosshatching pattern. That helps add depth to the composition of the piece. When finished, the surface is a smooth matte.”

  He frowned. “That sounds complicated.”

  “Artists have used egg tempera paints for over a thousand years.”

  “Then ’twill probably be used for a thousand more.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Unless you or your uncle can invent something new.”

  Being in Edward’s presence had caused all thoughts of her uncle to flee. “Oh, I should go check on Uncle. I wonder if he is still sitting outside after so long a time.”

  Rosalyne found the chair moved back inside and Uncle Temp snoring softly in his bed. She returned and told Edward, “He is resting now but I know he enjoyed being in the sunlight.”

  “I used the last of the horehound this morning when I mixed the tonic for him. If we are through for the day, I would like to return to the market and purchase a bit more to have on hand in case his cough returns. Could I bring back anything for you?”

  She thought a moment. “Since today is Friday, the fish market is open. Let me get a few coins for you, for I would like to make fish for our meal tonight.”

  He waved her away. “I have enough to spare. Do you favor a certain kind of fish? Or does Temp?”

  “Choose your favorite and I will cook it however you like,” Rosalyne said. “It will also allow me to save the bones and burn them. Once ground, they are what will become the black in Uncle’s painting.”

  Edward looked at her as if she might have gone mad and shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I may be gone for a while and wander about Canterbury some, even take a look at the work going on at the wall.”

  “Then I will see you later.” He gave her a quick nod and left the cottage.

  Rosalyne retrieved the sketches so she could study them and decide what colors would be needed. She laid out the ones she wanted to use for the panel and deliberated on the colors she would use for each part. It was important that she see the entire painting in her mind before she committed to drawing anything on the wood.

  Satisfied with her final vision for the triptych, Rosalyne retrieved her charcoal. Bowing her head, she offered a quick prayer to the Living Christ, begging Him to guide her hands as she worked to glorify Him through this panel. Selfishly, she added her wish for Archbishop Courtenay’s resounding approval and acceptance of her as the artist of this work. If she had the holy man’s approval and it was made known that she had produced the triptych, mayhap she would begin to receive her own commissions. That would allow Uncle Temp to stop working and she could be the one who provided for their needs.

  Yet deep within, she knew this would never occur. A woman, as an artist, would never be accepted in society.

  With a deep breath, Rosalyne began to outline various people and objects on the glistening surface. It had done her good to go through the preparation process with Edward. Since she had done it so many times before, she went into it sometimes without being mindful of her actions. But this piece was much too important for her to grow careless. She had enjoyed sharing each step along the way with Edward, seeing his wonder as the bare wood became something different and important.

  Now, she needed every bit of her talent to produce a work of art worthy to reside in Canterbury Cathedral. Thousands of pilgrims would see this each year when they visited Trinity Chapel to pay homage to the martyred Thomas Becket and the Black Prince. Knowing how many people would view her panel should have made her nervous but Rosalyne instead felt uplifted, believing she could accomplish anything.

  The charcoal glided effortlessly over the poplar and she lost herself in the drawing as it slowly sprang to life. Excitement grew within her. She couldn’t wait to mix her paints and apply them. This would be her best effort. Already, she knew Uncle Temp would be so proud of her.

  Finally, she lifted the charcoal away and stepped back to study what she had done. Rosalyne cocked her head one way and then another, happy with what she had accomplished. Her fingers itched to pick up her sable brush and paint over these outlines, then fill them in with color.

  “Rosalyne?”

  She froze. Edward’s voice came from behind her. She had lost all track of time and should have been aware of her surroundings. Rosalyne gripped the charcoal in her fist to hide it from him. She plastered a huge smile on her face and turned to greet him, hiding her drawing hand with its charcoal slightly behind her in the folds of her gown.

  “Uncle has done a wondrous job!” she proclaimed. “I cannot wait to see the paint added to these figures.�
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  Rosalyne saw the question in his eyes turn to anger.

  Edward marched toward her and grasped her shoulders, towering over her. “Your uncle did not draw this, Rosalyne. You did.”

  Chapter 11

  Edward clutched Rosalyne’s shoulders in his fingers. He did not understand why anger pulsed through him.

  But it did.

  He looked beyond her to the wood he had labored over the past two days and thought how it transformed from mere poplar to what he now beheld. The small sketches on parchment had come to life in bold lines. Lines that Rosalyne had drawn.

  His gaze returned to her. “You did the drawings, as well. I am certain of it.”

  She shrugged away from him, crossing her arms protectively. “And what if I did? But, why do you think so?” Defiant eyes stared back at him.

  “Because I just spoke to Temp. He was seated in his chair in front of the cottage when I returned. His eyes still looked sleepy from his long nap and he mentioned he had only risen a few minutes ago and decided to take in more fresh air before we ate. He could not have completed what I see, much less neglect to tell to me that he had worked so diligently on the panel.”

  Her teeth caught her bottom lip. Defiance melted away into worry. She dropped something from her hand and then rushed toward him. The fingers of her right hand bunched the material of his gypon, grasping it in desperation.

  “Please, please—do not tell Uncle Temp what you know,” she begged. “He means for me to do all the work on this triptych in secret and I do not want him to worry.”

  “I won’t tell him,” Edward promised.

  Relief flooded her face, flushing it a rosy hue. “Thank you.” She released his gypon and let out a long sigh.

  A fierce need to protect this woman swept over him. Edward took her hand and found it cold, despite the warmth of the late May afternoon.

  “Why must you keep your talent a secret, Rosalyne? If I could do what you can, I would shout it to the world.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Uncle Temp has taught me everything he knows. From the time I was small, he’s guided me. He believes I have already surpassed his skills and that my talent is rare.” Her mouth trembled. “I’m afraid nothing will ever come of it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She snorted. “Who would hire a woman as a painter? Not the Church. Uncle has the foolish idea that once Archbishop Courtenay sees the finished panel and gives it his resounding approval, we will step forward and reveal who the true artist is. I have humored Uncle Temp in this scheme but I cannot allow him to make the facts known. The Church does not allow women to hold any kind of role. Having a triptych placed in the most holy chapel in all of England, where it would be seen by thousands of pilgrims each year, would be considered blasphemy if the truth came out and others learned a woman created it.”

  Rosalyne pulled away from him and brushed the falling tears from her cheeks. “We will earn a goodly sum from the archbishop for this painted panel, more than ever before. I will continue to accompany Uncle to any portrait commissions he receives. It is his habit to never paint a subject in person. He only sketches them from different angles and then uses the sketches to paint in private. I will be in the same room with him and do my own drawings. No one ever notices me. I am always in the background. That will allow me to produce the paintings for as long as Uncle’s health remains and the tremors in his hands are not obvious.

  “After that? We will have to live frugally. We own this cottage, so there will always be a roof over our heads. I can continue to sell eggs at the market. We can take in renters such as you once you leave. If Uncle Temp’s health grows worse, I might even sleep on the floor in his chamber to care for him better. That would allow me to rent out my room, as well.”

  Edward saw how fiercely independent Rosalyne was. He also understood the argument for keeping her role in the triptych silent. But he would never allow her to live in penury, especially after Temp was gone. He planned to take care of her. Even marry her.

  He just couldn’t reveal his plans to her—yet.

  Rosalyne had no idea who he was. If she knew he came from one of the oldest, most noble families in England, she would withdraw from him. Edward needed to gain her trust and accomplish his mission in Canterbury before he shared his identity and offered for her.

  He took her chin in his hand, drawing it up till their eyes met.

  “Temp will not learn from me that I know you are the true artist,” he pledged. “Nor will anyone else.” His thumb stroked her smooth cheek, lighting a fire deep within him. He wanted to bank it yet assure her.

  Assurance won out.

  Edward lowered his mouth and pressed it softly against hers. He felt the shudder that ran through her at his touch, knowing she had the same effect upon him. He kept the kiss gentle so that it wouldn’t rage out of control as it had yesterday. Lifting his head, he brushed his lips against her forehead, hoping to comfort her.

  “I will tell you that I find what you’ve already done to be extraordinary. I look forward to seeing your actual painting.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sincerity shining in her eyes. “I need to begin preparing our meal.” She stepped back and he dropped his hand from her chin.

  “Since tomorrow is Saturday and a half-day, work will cease by early afternoon. Because of that, I will wait until Monday before I speak to those in charge,” he said. “Would you care to join me as I explore Canterbury? I would enjoy seeing more of it and definitely want to return to the cathedral.”

  Rosalyne gave him a brilliant smile. “I would enjoy spending Saturday with you. And that would allow Uncle Temp to pretend that he completed the charcoal on the panels while we are gone. I will make sure he understands.”

  Edward returned her smile. “I brought back haddock from the market. Let me help you with the evening meal and we can talk about what we will see tomorrow.”

  *

  Rosalyne kissed the top of her uncle’s head. “Finish your bread and ale. You know you need your strength to begin working on the panel today.”

  She caught the quick wink he gave her before she stepped away to return the pitcher and her cup to the kitchen. She rinsed the cup and dried it as Edward joined her. He washed his own cup and took the cloth from her hands so he could dry it before setting it on the wooden shelf.

  “Are you ready to show me Canterbury?” he asked, looking as eager as a small boy who’d just been given a sweet.

  Rosalyne was more than ready to spend an entire day in this man’s company and not think about the triptych. Now that she’d outlined what she would paint, a sense of calm had descended upon her. Mixing the colors always proved challenging but she had vast experience in doing so and already knew what shades would go where on each of the three designs. When Edward left on Monday to seek work, she would get a good portion of the panel completed. Once he returned, Uncle Temp could take credit for the work, just as he would when they came home this afternoon from exploring the city.

  “The weather is most pleasant today. There was a slight chill in the air when I went to mass earlier but it already had begun to burn off when I returned,” Edward volunteered. “I doubt you will need to bring a cloak to warm you.”

  “Then we can be off.”

  They bid her uncle a good day and left the cottage.

  “Where to first?” Edward asked.

  “I think that we should walk toward the heart of town,” Rosalyne replied.

  She thought that he was reaching for her hand to place on his arm, much as a knight or nobleman would do when escorting a lady, but then the moment passed.

  Did he know she was a lady? she wondered.

  Rosalyne couldn’t remember encountering anyone she knew calling out to her by name when he had escorted her home several days ago from the cathedral. No one had stopped by the cottage while he was there. Their neighbors knew how she and her uncle often worked on his paintings during the day while the light was good and so they
never bothered to visit.

  Then it hit her that Edward had offered her his arm when he had accompanied her to the cottage upon their first meeting. It seemed so natural at the time that she hadn’t thought to question it. Mayhap he had done so to steady her after her encounter with the runaway team of horses. She had been shaken by the incident and almost losing her sketches.

  Still, it struck her as odd.

  As they strolled side by side, Rosalyne decided to put the thought aside and enjoy the day. She asked, “Do you know anything about the city you have come to?”

  “Other than it has a cathedral?” Edward gave her a teasing smile, his hazel eyes full of mischief. “Aye, I know when William invaded England in 1066, he gained Canterbury without a fight. Why the citizens chose to surrender and not lift a sword to their enemy is a mystery to me.”

  Rosalyne looked up at him, noting the auburn highlights in his dark hair gleaming in the morning sun. “So you could fancy yourself as the fighting type? I suppose I could see that. If not for your humble birth, you have the size to be a formidable knight.”

  His jaw hardened. She wondered if she’d mentioned something he was sensitive about. She knew very little about where Edward came from, only that he had a large, loving family that he spoke fondly of and probably missed very much.

  Trying to smooth over the silence, Rosalyne said, “The city was once called Durouernon, which means ‘stronghold by the alder grove’, though the Romans who built their settlement here named it Durovernum Cantiacorum. When the Jutes came after Rome fell, they christened it Cantwareburh, meaning ‘Kentish Stronghold’. That is how the present name came about.”

  “That still does not tell me why an entire city would surrender without a fight,” he said without pity.

  Rosalyne defended Canterbury’s ancestors. “Ah, but I can answer that. Danish raids occurred here several times over the years. They pillaged and plundered and even burned the former cathedral to the ground, even murdering its archbishop. When William the Conqueror invaded England, the destruction the Danes caused was still fresh in the minds of Canterbury’s residents.”