Heart Of A Knight

by Barbara Samuel

  For there stood Thomas, naked as the day of his birth, gathering close the small body of an also naked woman. Lyssa, her hair scattering over her body like a fairy cloak that only enhanced her allure. Isobel stared as Thomas's hands moved over Lyssa's body, such giant, beautiful hands, so gentle as they traced the line of her back and the swell of her hips with a tenderness that made Isobel want to weep.

  Then he lifted his head, and his face showed clearly in the illuminated night, that high brow and sensual mouth framed with black hair, beautiful enough without the expression that crossed it. Isobel's eyes filled with tears as Thomas lifted his hands to Lyssa's face, and touched her cheeks with his thumbs, and gazed down upon her, his face a work of art in its wonder and joy and yearning.

  And love. Tears ran down Isobel's cheeks as she watched him bend and kiss Lyssa—oh, so sweetly!

  A wave of such emotion rose in Isobel that she turned, covering her mouth with her hands to keep the sounds from spilling out as she ran from the scene, her mind playing over and over that sober, joyous expression, that depth of feeling, that love.

  Oh, to be so loved!

  Swiftly, she took shelter in the empty kitchen, and there on the rushes, threw herself into her weeping. To be so loved, so revered. To have Thomas look upon her that way, she would have done anything.

  Instead, she was burdened with a lovesick calf who only wanted her for her beauty, because he could strut her about his friends, and they would be envious of his good fortune in bedding such a wife, and never would he know there burned in her breast a soul hungry for all it could not claim because she was a woman and not free to make her own choices. In six weeks hence, she would be wed to him and Lyssa would be here at Woodell, claiming what should have belonged to Isobel.

  When the storm of weeping passed, Isobel lay on the bench in misery, trying to think of some plan. When it came to her, so simple and clean, she wiped her face and sat up.

  If Lyssa had a husband, she would be forced to send Thomas away. In Stephen's ear, Isobel would plant the obvious need, and let him think he had come up with the idea himself, and let him run off to the king and tell tales.

  Isobel would still be forced to marry, but at least she would not suffer alone, nor would she have to think of Thomas gazing that way upon her noble stepmother, for he would be gone.

  * * *

  The raw wool Lyssa had dyed to several shades of blue had been spun, and she wove it now into her tapestry, the woad for sky and a woman's gown, the meadowsweet for small flowers littering the ground beneath the horses' hooves and gradations of sky. The deep cobalt she stitched into jewels along a sleeve, and gave to the eyes of a proud knight atop a great black destrier.

  As she worked, she hummed along with Nurse, who sang a ballad of lost love. Alice had a deep rich alto that ran as counterpoint, and Isobel, ever vain about her voice, sang the melody in a voice as light and sweet as a blackbird.

  Into the high solar spilled the deep light of late summer, richened to a dark gold with the dust of harvest, proceeding even now in the fields visible from where Lyssa sat.

  In spite of the dearth of rain mid-season, the harvest was the richest in years. A fact for which they could all thank Thomas, who'd seen to the planting in her absence. She wondered how many of them realized that simple fact.

  The peasants, like as not, did know whence the harvest came. She could see the small figures in their dun and white and blue, bent into round shapes as they wielded their tools against a backdrop of ripe yellow grain. The swinging scythes caught the sun on the upward swing, sending brilliant flashes of light dancing across the solar walls. The colors and shapes appealed to her eye, and as she wove blues through her tapestry, she was already planning the next. Hunt scenes offered drama and beauty and a chance to dye the deepest hues, but something about the subtle colors of harvest tugged at her now.

  She found herself wondering why she'd never noticed that simple, clean beauty before this—and thinking on what a pleasant challenge it would present. That clean, unbroken sky could perhaps be done with meadowsweet blue. Silk, perhaps. But not silk for the fields. Wool, spun very fine, dyed in ragwort and black oak and mayhap even a little onion skin, a good strong orange to give the eye a sense of that richness.

  Forgetting the work before her, she narrowed her eyes to blur the scene in order to better see the colors of the trees. There would be a lovely challenge. She might weave a little heavier twine there—or better yet, softest wool, dyed black and grayish green with blackthorn and mother-wort.

  "Can ye see him, even at this distance, m'lady?" Alice said, raising the blue eyes that were so much like her son's.

  Lyssa ducked her head to her work. "I am only plotting my next tapestry," she said, knowing Alice saw through her ruse. In truth, Lyssa could pick out Thomas, towering above the others in the fields. Twas a poor view, to be sure, but enough to fan the low fire of happiness burning deep in her heart.

  "I can see him," Nurse said wickedly. "That black head shining."

  "And see the color in her cheeks," Isobel put in.

  "Had I a stallion of that worth in my bed, I'd be rosy-cheeked meself," Nurse said with a cackle of laughter.

  Steadfastly, Lyssa ignored their teasing. "You all must have eyes like hawks, for I see naught but fields and peasants toiling."

  Alice chuckled softly. "She does have the sweet bloom of a pleased wife on those pretty cheeks."

  Lyssa kept her head down. These weeks since Thomas had come to her bed had passed in a liquid, golden haze. They had attempted to maintain an appearance of their former cordial, but formal relationship, but Lyssa suspected her women were not the only ones to have guessed Thomas came to her in secret.

  When she failed to tease Lyssa into a response, Alice nudged Isobel. "You'll be wearing that contentment on yer cheeks soon enough, eh? Only weeks now to your wedding night."

  "And Lyssa, too, for surely the king will find a husband for her soon enough." She cut her eyes toward Lyssa. "Mayhap we'll be blessed with two weddings at once."

  Lyssa looked up sharply. "I've had me one husband," she managed calmly. "I'm in no hurry for another."

  Anxious to deflect the speculations surrounding Thomas, Lyssa did not think how Isobel would take the words. The girl had been growing prickly again as the wedding approached, and she had shown no signs of being smitten with the dashing Stephen. Hoping to kindle a longing for the youth in Isobel's breast, Lyssa had finally sent him back to court last week. He'd gone unwillingly, but Lyssa convinced him finally that his suit would be better mounted from a distance.

  Guiltily, Lyssa knew she'd also done it to give herself more freedom, for Stephen watched Thomas all too closely.

  The attempt to raise Isobel's pleasure for the youth did not seem to be bearing fruit. In fact, there were clear signs that Isobel was returning to her former tricks. Bit by bit, the demure mask she'd donned seemed to be falling away. Her dress grew more bold, her flirtations more dangerous. Once, Nurse had caught the girl sneaking out in the middle of the night, and now slept on a pallet before the door in their shared chamber.

  Bitterly, Isobel said now, "Oh, was my father so loathsome a creature that you're ruined forever on marriage?"

  "Nay, Isobel. 'Twas not meant that way."

  "Then tell me what you meant."

  Lyssa took a breath. "Your father was a good and kind and honorable man, Isobel, but he was many years my elder." She smoothed a rough stitch. "I have no wish for any husband, and only desire to sit here in my solar with my women, thinking on new scenes to weave and how to accomplish them."

  Isobel gave forth a disbelieving snort. "Do you think we do not know how you lie? How he slips into your bed, night after night?"

  Nurse spoke sharply. "Hold your tongue, girl. 'Tis no business of yours what your mistress does."

  "Nor yours," Isobel countered. "And yet, what did I hear not a moment hence? 'See that pretty blush on her cheeks.'" She stood up, flinging aside the embroidery in her ha
nds. "Do you think I am too stupid to see him groping at her below the tables?"

  "Enough," Lyssa said. "Nurse, take her to her chamber, and do not let her go down to supper tonight."

  Isobel cried out in frustration. "Nay, not again! I only speak what any with an eye can see plainly! Is that so much a crime?"

  Ashamed, Lyssa thought to soften her stand, but Alice spoke before Lyssa could. "What ails you, girl?" she said, catching Isobel's hand. "What storm can be so dark that you cannot tell us and let us help you?"

  "What is there that is right in my world this day, I ask you?" Isobel said in a mournful voice, her shoulders slumping. "A husband I am told I should rejoice to have, who moves me not, and my life ordered and put upon me with no voice from me about what I wish or do not?" Her eyes filled with tears of frustration, and she dashed them away angrily. "Why can I not take lovers as I wish, as Alice here does? Or lust for some low knight, who makes me cry out in the night? Or tease the pretty youths as does Nurse there, with her missing teeth?"

  Lyssa met Alice's eyes and between them passed a wearisome knowledge. Softly, Lyssa said, "'Tis the lot of women, Isobel, that our lords and kings order our lives."

  "'Tis unfair!"

  "Aye," Lyssa said, and with an ache she thought of Thomas. "And not for the world would I have chosen a woman's lot for so strong and fair a maid as you, but God chose your sex, and you must find the best way to make do. Think on that husband you will gain. He is young and strong and virile. He's handsome enough, there will be envy at court when you wed him, and you'll bear beautiful children."

  "And my daughters," Isobel said, "will be sold to the highest bidder as I have been."

  Alice leaned forward. "Would you rather her be born in a mean cottage, with only a straw bed and chickens underfoot and the smell of old fish in the walls?"

  Isobel looked at her.

  "Would you rather, child, that the daughter of your loins be easy prey for e'ry knight and lord who takes a fancy to her? Would you rather she labor day and night to see her own children fed?

  "Would you rather she bear the shame of a bastard born to the lord of the house, soiled so none will take her to wife, but leave her in a cold, miserable cottage, forgotten and feared, to rear her child as best she might with her herbs and simples and her wits?"

  Isobel's eyes filled with genuine tears now. "Alice," she whispered. "I am so sorry. Where is your child now?"

  "Gone to a better life, thank the saints," she said tersely and did not look at Lyssa. "Think hard on what you would throw away, Isobel. 'Tis a life most would kill to claim for their own."

  And listening, Lyssa understood for the first time what Alice had undergone to give her son a better life. And she wondered—if Lyssa had been born to such a lot, would she not have taken the chance fate offered so capriciously?

  Moved, she said, "You are a brave woman, Alice Bryony."

  Alice met her gaze. "No braver than thee," she said, and both of them knew what she meant.

  * * *

  Sun and work had made Thomas hungry, and when he returned to the castle, he wandered by the kitchen, hoping to coax bread and butter from one of the kitchen girls. Mary Gillian fetched him a new baked loaf, and butter, and a tankard of ale, which he sat on a bench in the sunlight to eat, trading jokes and stories with her.

  When he was finished, he made his way lazily toward Lyssa's solar, trying to think of some thin errand that he might offer as his excuse if her women were about.

  He found her alone, her back to him as she worked on the tapestry frame. For a moment, he paused, admiring the small bones at the back of her neck, exposed because she'd swept that wealth of hair into her lap to keep it out of her way.

  Happy to find her so easily, he purposefully closed the door and pulled the latch into place. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound, and protested, as he'd expected. "Thomas, anyone might wander by!"

  He grinned, and reached for the hem of his tunic, shucking it wickedly as he moved toward her. "Wander by? Up the tower steps and to this door by chance?"

  Her eyes darkened in that way he'd grown to know, the lids growing heavy and seductive as she looked at him. "What reason would I give for locking the door with you in here, should they come?" Her words were whispered, token protest, and Thomas chuckled.

  He bent to kiss that slice of exposed neck, and slid a hand into her bodice, lightly clasping a breast, taking pleasure in the silky weight against his palm.

  She caught his hand and turned on her stool. "Thomas, I fear we do not have much time left to us."

  He knelt before her, reaching for the laces at her bodice. Deftly untying them, he fought back the pang her words gave. "Then we must not waste what hours we do have."

  "Thomas," she breathed, lifting her hands to his head, and pressed a sober, heartfelt kiss to his brow. "I cannot bear to think of it, of you being elsewhere."

  "Nor can I," he said gravely. The bodice was loosened and he smoothed his hands over her white shoulders. With reverence he bent and pressed a kiss to the graceful line, smelling on her neck a grassy warmth that came from the herbs she used in her hair. "So I do not think on it." He lifted his head and kissed her wine-red mouth. "Nor should you."

  Willingly she came to him and they made love slowly and tenderly on a nest of their discarded clothing. The room was warm, and afterward, they lay naked in the pools of light, unashamed.

  "Alice spoke of her youth today," Lyssa said, idly brushing her hand over his chest. "Were the villagers so unkind to you?"

  He captured her fingers, shifting to look at the timbered ceiling so he would not have to see the pity in her eyes. Rubbing her palm with his thumb to ease the tightness she suffered from her weaving, he said quietly, "Aye. Alice roused jealousy for her beauty, and then for the attention she roused in Lord Thomas."

  "You are named for him?"

  "She'd submit to torture rather than admit she loved the lout, but she was young, and he was dashing. Like as not, he made promises to care for her." He paused. "'Twas no short fling. He gave her three other children, all bastards, but he gave her a fine cottage to raise us in."

  Her body went still. "You have siblings?"

  "My sister did not live long, only a year or so. My brothers were both much younger than I." Richard and Michael, whom he still grieved. "The plague took them, along with everyone else."

  "I'm sorry," she said, and nuzzled closer.

  Thomas held her close, feeling the plush roundness of a breast against his ribs, her cheek against his shoulder, her thigh crooked over his own. She fit neatly beside him, as if carved for his shape, and he closed his eyes to press it upon his memory. "It raged like a forest fire through our village, and when it passed, only Alice and I remained."

  "So the land stands empty."

  "It does. Think you I might win enough with my sword to one day pay the boon to have peasants take up the land there again?"

  "You might. But I have heard there is much trouble on the land over this. There are too few men to bring in the harvests, and work the fields." He sensed hesitation in her. "There are new laws, Thomas."

  "Ah. So in truth, there may be no home for me henceforth." He sighed. "So be it. I will miss the land, but the life of a wandering knight is a far better one than I left behind me."

  But it would ever be without Lyssa. The knowledge made him feel hollow, and he clasped her closer, turning to press a kiss to the crown of her head, keeping within him the words of love he ached to spill.

  As if she heard them in her heart, she raised up to kiss him, her green eyes grave.

  Through the open embrasures came a new sound, and Lyssa lifted her head. "A horn," she said, her body suddenly tense.

  Thomas admired the breast poised so close to him, and smiled as he lifted up on one elbow to capture the tip in his mouth.

  Urgently, she pushed him away. "Thomas!" she cried, her fingers hard against his shoulders. "'Tis the king's horn!"

  Cold washed through him.
<
br />   Lyssa scrambled for her clothes, tossing him his braes and tunic as her hands found them. "Quickly!" she urged.

  Wounded, he did not move, only sat up and watched her as she struggled with her sleeves and slippers. Finally she stopped in exasperation. "Hurry!"

  But he had no wish to hurry down to hear the messenger of the king. No good would come of it. He felt in his bones that the horn sounded the end of this brief, sweet time he'd known with his love, and when she was dressed, and he in his braes, he caught her against him. "Do not forget, Lyssa, what we have known."

  She touched his face, then his mouth. "I could not forget, Thomas. Never." With regret, she stepped away. "But I do feel an urgent need to leave this room, before someone comes after me."

  Knowing she was right, Thomas donned his tunic and smoothed his hair. With a heavy sense of dread, he followed her down to the bailey.

  Chapter 17

  With a pounding heart, Lyssa rushed from her solar and down the steps, only halting near the bottom to smooth her hair and dress. She emerged into the hall with a calm, dignified manner. As if she did not dread this messenger with all of her being, she ordered cooled ale, fruit, and cheese to be brought, and a pallet prepared for the messenger.

  Only then did she go out to the yard.

  The messenger was a man she had not seen before, tall and slim in the black mail that the Black Prince had made so fashionable. He rode in with a small party of knights and squires on good horses. And as Lyssa came down the steps, she thought the messenger himself might have been called a black knight, for his hair was raven black around a harshly carved face.

  Isobel caught up to her, breathless as if she'd run all the way here. In Lyssa's ear, she whispered urgently, "That is John Margate. He used to visit my mother—they were childhood friends."

  Something in the girl's voice caught Lyssa's attention and she glanced sharply at the girl. But Isobel only moved quickly forward, a bright smile on her pretty mouth. "Greetings, sir!" she called. "You do not remember, I am sure, but you were friends with my mother, Anne Rudston."