Heart Of A Knight

by Barbara Samuel

  It mattered little how the thread emerged this first time. Lyssa expected it to be lumpy. But she did wish to see Isobel learn to hold the wool and spindle in a way that would stand by her in the years ahead. "Good," she said and minutely adjusted Isobel's hold. "Now a little more. Very good."

  Against her will, Isobel was pleased. Lyssa saw the reluctant pleasure on her face. Her nature was sparked by competition, and she had only come to realize she would be a poor chatelaine to a great lord's house if she could not even weave.

  Mary, too, picked up a spindle. "I will sit with her. I know you must ache to go to your loom."

  Gratefully, she smiled. "I do." She settled on the bench and simply embraced the feeling of sitting here, where she had so longed to be these many, many months. The sight of the women, their heads bent peacefully over their tasks, gave her a sense of deep contentment. Bright morning sunlight flooded the room from four embrasures, unshuttered to allow the breeze and light free entry. Over the top of her loom Lyssa could see a tableaux of treetops and sky and a hazy line of hills, all blues and greens in a dozen hues.

  It was that view that had inspired her to weave the tapestry on her loom now, a hunt seen in the richest shades she had been able to procure. With a happy sigh, she picked up the shuttle and bent over the work.

  "I hear Robert got 'is comeuppance last night at Dark Thomas's hand," Nurse said.

  Mary lifted her head curiously. "Did he?"

  Lyssa grinned in memory. "He did. I thought he might faint of fright before he was hauled away to clean the stables." She threaded the shuttle through the warp, and chuckled. "Did you not think he would faint, Isobel?"

  "Who would not faint with so great a beast hovering over like the dark angel himself?"

  "Is this the same maid who vowed breathlessly that ballads were written for the likes of such a man?" Lyssa asked incredulously. "What can have changed your heart in a few short hours?"

  Isobel scowled. "The smell of my brother!"

  All of the women laughed, and in the midst of it, Alice came in, bringing with her a scent of herbs and sunlight. Her hair was hidden under a simple white scarf, and again Lyssa was struck with the extraordinary beauty of her huge, dark eyes. "I linger to hear a complaint, and miss a joke," she said.

  "They were laughing at me," Isobel said sullenly. "Or rather my brother, who smelled of dung when he returned last night."

  "Ah." Alice smiled, and Lyssa saw one tooth was gone. Not in front, but off a little to the side. It did not mar her appearance. "I've heard a bit o' the boy's tongue meself. He would have been strapped soundly at Roxburgh."

  "At least I made no fool of myself over the lord as some did," Isobel said, and with exaggerated gestures, blinked her eyes and put her hands beside her face. "Oooh, my lord, you are so clever! Oooh, sir, what big thighs you have! Oooh, sir, such lovely lips to kiss me with. Oooh, my lord, I'll let you win if you bed me quick."

  Lyssa's face flamed. "No more."

  But Isobel had worked herself into a fine state. "'Tis true. Can you deny it, you flirted and tittered, keeping him there at your side all evening?"

  "Enough!" Lyssa shouted. "Leave me. Now."

  With a gleam of triumph, Isobel flung the spinning aside and left.

  The others were silent, and Lyssa could think of no word to dispel the mood, not in her present state. She could feel the color in her cheeks, in her ears, in the tingling flush of humiliation as she bent back over the loom. Snippets of the evening came back to her, fueling the heat: her gaze sliding over his legs, her breathlessness and blush when he flirted with her.

  Oh, she was a fool! If Isobel had seen it, no doubt Lord Thomas had seen it, too.

  "Can it be," Mary asked softly, "that our mistress has at last seen a man who captures her eye?"

  "Nay," Lyssa said strongly. "Isobel only wishes the creature herself."

  A bawdy laugh rumbled out from Alice. "And what woman would not?" She laughed again and she clapped a hand on Mary's shoulder. "Our own Tall Mary has tales of that, I warrant."

  Mary hissed something below her breath at Alice, and forgetting her own humiliation, Lyssa looked up. "Is that so?" She smiled, ready to tease a little of her own. "Can it be our Mary has been smitten, instead?"

  She was unprepared for the virulent hatred that flashed in Mary's eyes before she covered it. "What use has a knight for a peasant maid? Amusement he has at the ready, like they all do."

  So Thomas had, like all men, availed himself of the village maids. "Did they go willingly? I'll not have a rapist under my roof."

  "Nay!" Alice protested. "I've known Lord Thomas since he was a wee lad, and he has no wish to harm. If any maid lay with him, she went to him of her own wish."

  "They went all willing, my lady." Tall Mary stood, her eyes averted. "Forgive me, but I have remembered I promised to help my mother wash."

  "Oh, do not go," Lyssa protested, reaching for her hand. "It was only a jest. We'll talk of other things."

  Mary allowed her hand to be clasped, but she did not soften. "'Tis nothing here—I promised my mother."

  Forgetting the others, Lyssa looked earnestly at her friend. She had missed her. "Please, Mary. I would not for the world allow a man to ruin the peace of my friendships."

  At last Mary raised her eyes. "Then you have not known him long enough, my lady." She pulled free. "I must go."

  Once again, a dull silence fell into the room. After a moment, Nurse took up her humming, and it eased a little of the knot in Lyssa's chest.

  She took a breath and let it go. "My mother told me there would be a day when, no matter how I loved Mary, no matter that we'd been like sisters all our childhood, that the gap between us would be too wide to cross." Without knowing why, she looked to Alice for comfort. "It seems that day has come."

  Alice let her hands fall to her lap. "They are both jealous, my lady, if you do not mind me saying. Mary cannot be a lady as she wishes, and Isobel is only a foolish girl who needs a thorough bedding."

  Surprised, Lyssa laughed. "I had not thought of it quite that way."

  "Perhaps you've not been thoroughly enough bedded yourself, my lady." Her smile was friendly, making the comment bawdy, without offense. "And you cannot see Lord Thomas is virile as a stallion."

  "I think not of such things."

  "So I've seen." Alice picked up her sewing.

  "Maybe you ought," Nurse added.

  Lyssa picked up the shuttle. "And be snarled in the storms of the heart, like those we just witnessed? I do not wish such turmoil."

  Alice only made a soft sound that could have been agreement or not.

  It seemed they would let the subject go, and Lyssa let go of a sigh, trying to reclaim the lost sense of peace she'd felt only moments ago. In the companionable silence, Nurse began to sing a ballad softly, and Alice sewed, and Lyssa wove, and at last the sense of peace came back. The gentle quiet of women working, with the colors of the loom and the feel of the threads, and all was as it should be.

  Toward midday, Lyssa sent Nurse to find Isobel, and Alice stayed, helping Lyssa put the baskets the way she liked them.

  "You are an intelligent companion," Lyssa said. "And not meek, and I think you will not try to treat me as a child, so I have decided I would like you to be my servant, to tend my hair and clothes, but only if you might manage without depriving the village of your talents."

  Alice bowed, the most subservient gesture Lyssa had seen of her. "Twould be my honor, milady." She straightened, a hint of a smile on her mouth. "You seem to need little tending, so your villeins will not suffer."

  Lyssa nodded. In Alice, at least, she sensed she had an ally. It would seem she needed one.

  * * *

  Tall Mary stormed through the hallways till she reached the bailey, then she ran, full out, her chest tight with fury and loss. Last night, she had gone to Thomas, as she had done many times before, clean and oiled, and hungry for the pleasure he gave with such gusto and good humor.

  All t
hrough the wet spring and into the summer, she had gone. As had two others in the village—for who could stop them? Mary had tended him first, and in her mind had first claim. She suspected he liked her best for her sharp tongue. But mayhap the others thought the same—Gwen for her big pretty breasts, Mary Gillian for her sweet voice and gold and pink face. Who knew?

  Darkly, Mary stormed down the road. For them, it was different. The very things they boasted of made them marks for men seeking wives, while Mary had nothing. Too skinny, too tall, too sharp-tongued. Her father was the wealthiest freeman in the village, but she had three older sisters, so there was no rich dowry to tempt any to lie against her skinny breast.

  And now Lyssa. Always, she had been beautiful, with her hair so long and dark, and her small, rounded form and her big green eyes. Always had Mary wished to be Lyssa.

  But Lyssa did not even know. When they swam as girls in the river, guiltily shedding all but their shifts to frolic in a shallow, moving pool, Lyssa had been completely unaware of the beauty of her curved form, of the colors that she was made of. She thought not at all of her body or her face or her form. She thought of duty, to her country and her king and Woodell, and she thought of her cursed threads and looms, and never a thought for the richness of beauty her form contained.

  Beneath a spreading oak nearby the river, Mary sat in the shade and wept.

  Last night, Thomas had turned her away from his door. Gently, for he had no wish to wound her—she saw that much—but turn her away he did. And told her to let the others know he wished no more for the village girls to come to him. He would not shame the lady so.

  Shame the lady. As if village girls did not lie with lords as common practice. Not all, surely, but there were girls in every place who found it a pleasure, who knew how to keep the babes from them, so they were not disgraced.

  Mary had never thought herself that sort till Thomas came to Woodell. And there would like as not be no other man in her world, her life, ever. He was the only one who'd taken her as she was, and even found enjoyment.

  But now Lyssa had snared his eye. Mary had heard it in his voice when he said her name, a hushed kind of awe and wonder as his tongue rolled the precious syllables in his mouth, "the lady Elizabeth."

  And now Mary could not even have back her own friendship with that lady, for she had been very foolish indeed this morning. She had revealed too much, and let her jealous heart carry her away. Lyssa had been wounded, and still Mary could not thaw, and that had been cruel.

  Lyssa would forgive her. Mary had only to ask. But in truth, she did not think she could bear it. Could not bear to watch as the knight and the lady fell to love.

  For she loved Thomas most dearly herself.

  * * *

  Troubled, Lyssa ate a bite of cheese and bread at midday, then scrounged through the buttery for a basket. Isobel was nowhere to be seen, and Robert was busily polishing spurs. She smiled when she saw him, but did not draw his attention from his task. It was only a beginning, after all. She would not expect him to find a kind word for she who'd allowed his humiliation.

  She had a particular basket in mind, one woven tightly of river reeds. It was missing. None of the kitchen maids had seen it, and she went to the hall to look in the aumbrey. It was meant to hold only masers and the like, but things had been shuffled about some during her exile.

  It wasn't there, either, but when she straightened, she spied a neat stack of various baskets piled on a shelf behind the hearth, and she cried out happily. "At last!"

  "Such glee for a simple basket."

  Lyssa turned, a swell of something rising in her chest at the sound of Lord Thomas's voice. He had come from the bailey, and stood at ease in a simple tunic, belted around his lean waist. She thought of all the turmoil he'd caused this morning in her solar and hardened her heart against him. "'Tis my favorite for berrying," she said. "They should be ripe now. I awoke with a taste for them."

  "You must not go to the forest alone, my lady. It has become the homeland of thieves."

  "I will not go far."

  He crossed his arms and gave her a half-smile. "Then I will go not far with you."

  She had told herself she was not prey to the foolishness that so enraged Isobel this morning, but as he smiled, she knew she had lied to herself. He was a magnificent creature, so tall and strong, with that pelt of thick hair falling over his shoulders and the glint of such blue eyes. He seemed easy to approach, and that made him all the more dangerous.

  With as much coolness as she was able to muster, she said, "I have gone out to seek berries in these woods since I was a small child. I know where the thieves lie, and how to defend myself. You need not trouble yourself."

  As if he knew her thoughts, he smiled all the more. "Twould be no trouble, my lady. I would count it an honor to walk with one so fair."

  "You do have a nimble tongue, sir." She narrowed her eyes. "But I am no village maid or romantic girl. You needn't waste your flattery upon me."

  "Aye." He stiffened. "And you are cousin to the king, while I'm a lowly knight with no land worth claiming and only my sword to make my way." There was no smile on that mobile, beautiful mouth now. "Forgive me, my lady. I forgot myself." With an oddly formal bow, he turned to leave her, then paused. "You should not go to the forest alone. I will send a guard to go with you."

  Lyssa imagined dull Harry trudging along behind her. "Oh, wait," she said with no small irritation. She lifted her skirts and hurried after him, shoving the basket into his hands. "I have spent a year with only Robert, Isobel, and Nurse." She cocked a brow and wryly looked at him. "You'll do."

  His face was still.

  Lyssa shook her head with a smile. "I jest, sir. You think yourself a lowly knight, but I think you a pleasant companion." She sighed. "I've spent the morning with a bevy of women who sang your praises to the heavens, and even had two storm away from my solar in fits of jealousy. I blamed you for ruining the peace." She inclined her head. "I suppose you cannot help it if besotted women swoon behind you at every turn."

  "'Tis a curse not all men could bear," he said mockingly.

  She tucked her hand at the bend of his arm, forcing herself to ignore the hard round of muscle that made her fingers feel like tiny twigs. "Let us go, then, before the light fades."

  As they took a path from the south wall into the forest, Thomas said, "Tell me, Lady Elizabeth, how it was to grow up in this place, with the king as your cousin. Did he ever come here?"

  Lyssa smiled. "He did. I loved him greatly." She stepped over a pronged branch, lifting her skirts to keep them free. "He is very handsome, and I thought he was made from the sun when I was small, so noble and proud on his horse, and all the pipes and fanfare when he arrived. We ate very well when the king came, even if it was a poor season, with many special treats they saved only for him. And he is fond of children, so he brought presents from court for me—a special pair of slippers or some bauble for my hair."

  "He sounds kind. I had not thought a king would be kind."

  "'Tis not a very great virtue in a king."

  He glanced down at her. "No."

  The forest was still and smelled of sap and spice and generations of leaves that made a carpet beneath their feet. Light dappled through the overhanging greenery in gold swathes, and dust danced in the fingers of sunshine. Lyssa felt the vague disquiet of the morning leave her. "Once," she said, "I saved the king's life—or so he says."

  "Now there's a tale I'd hear."

  "It isn't a very grand story. Because everyone made such a fuss when he came, I brought him presents as well. A handful of wilting flowers or a pretty rock I'd found by the river. But once, it was the feather of a free hawk, and it pleased him very much. He said it would bring him special luck in the hunt, and put it in his hat before the party went out."

  "Ah. That is a special gift. Hawks are wise creatures."

  "When they came back, Edward told a dramatic tale of a boar, injured but not yet dead, who'd gored one man and
came after him. There was no escape, and although the other men had tried, the creature was crazed."

  "There's no animal more terrifying. Have you ever seen one?"

  "Only to eat it," she said with a light smile.

  "Go on. What magic saved the king?"

  "No magic. A hole in the forest floor. The beast ran into it, and tumbled and broke its legs. But Edward told all it was my feather that saved him."

  "No wonder you are fond of him."

  "Aye." She sighed. "As long as he finds me no husband, I will be fonder."

  "You do not wish to marry again?"

  "I found no joy in it," she said simply. "And I am certain I wish to take no more children into my care. Isobel and Robert have been difficult for me."

  He paused to step over a fallen tree, and turned to hold a hand out to Lyssa. "Do you not wish for babes of your own?" There was a faint melancholy to his words.

  "Once, I did." She considered. "Mayhap, I still do, in the odd moment, but not enough to—" she halted abruptly, realizing that she confided too freely in this stranger.

  But Thomas was astute. "Not enough to bed another husband?"

  She lifted a shoulder in agreement.

  He extended his hand then, to help her over the tree. Lyssa hesitated, then moved forward and allowed him to put his hands on her waist, and lift her clear of the log as easily as if she were a kitten. For one breath, while she was in the air, she looked down and saw that his eyes were the color of sapphires, that deep, pure, bottomless blue, and his hair spilled backward from his face, glinting in a ray of sunlight. Her heart caught. As he set her down, his thumb brushed the side of her ribs, and a kindling tingle moved through her lower belly. It surprised her enough that she stared up at him, wondering—

  "My lady?" Thomas asked.

  Lyssa shook her head. "You lifted me as if I were a child. I have known many knights, but few of your size."

  He inclined his head, and bent to pick up the basket. "Ever have I been so. I know not how it would be to be so small as you."

  "Is your father large, sir?"

  "He was. 'Tis his mail and helmet I wear. 'Twas made in Spain for my grandfather."