Heart Of A Knight

by Barbara Samuel

  His heart ached, that heart over which he'd held no control. For in truth, if minds fell in love, none would love foolishly, but hearts… Hearts were not so easily controlled. His own had been snared the moment Lyssa came through the gates of Woodell that first day. From that moment, there had been room for no other, for all women grew pale and insubstantial when Lyssa appeared, all fire and strength and shining black hair.

  In the pouch on his belt, he carried the small weaving she'd given him. He fingered it now, thinking of the bright colors she'd seen in the world at fourteen, and how they'd dulled—as her world had dulled—when she married.

  But still the flame burned in her, even after the husband and the stepchildren and even the plague. Absently, he brushed the weaving over his mouth, thinking of Lyssa coming down the steps like a warrior the morning he'd been hauled out of the dungeon, her bare feet so small and white and clean. And he thought of her coming after him in the field the day they'd quarreled, calling him the worst names she could summon: lout and swine and other mild words.

  He smiled.

  The faintest scent of her clung to the small tapestry, a scent of herbs he could not name, herbs that clung to her hair. That hair that had cascaded around them as they joined, softly or tenderly or wildly. He thought of the sounds of deepest pleasure he'd coaxed from her mouth at such times, and the low, throaty chuckle she had learned to let go.

  His heart held close a hundred visions of her.

  But mostly, he thought of her sitting in a pool of sunlight in her solar, humming some happy little ballad as she wove her colors into some scene that lived only in her mind till she captured it from the air and made it real for the world to see. There did the Lyssa of his heart live, that woman who was so drunk on colors, so pleased with the work of her fingers. She wove flowers in her hair and even the fur of her beloved dog.

  And of a humble peasant, she'd woven a knight. Not because she wished it, but because he did.

  Absently fingering the tapestry, he thought of her heartbroken weeping against him the night she'd dreamed his death, and her insistence then that she do as she was bid. That they not dare the ruse. He'd not believed she meant it.

  It irked him that she still did not grasp how grave a danger he'd faced from the beginning. In part, she was right that he'd not mingled with many who might know him from that other life. But 'twas not her decision to make, whether he would gamble his life.

  She wanted to save him—

  He sat upright, thinking again of her tears, that heartfelt, deepest weeping. What she did, she did for love. The only thing she'd asked of life was Thomas himself, and when she thought—against all odds—that they might attain happiness, she had been sure the fates would punish her in the most severe way imaginable.

  With his death.

  What a fool he'd been!

  What Lyssa needed was a knight to claim her, not some petulant boy who ran off into the night because his feelings had been hurt. He'd lacked courage to fight for her, feeling her too far above him.

  But thinking now of the despair in her eyes, he knew she loved as truly as he—and what was worth dying for was surely worth fighting for.

  He did not know he would have to wait for the dawn to enter the gates of the city. In the end he was glad of it, for he caught an hour or two of sleep before the watchmen let the small crowd through, sleep he needed to steady him for the wonders and horrors that awaited him within the walls.

  What struck him first was the stench, stench that had its root in the open ditches running like wounds through every street. And it was crowded! Even so early there were more folk about, on foot and on litters and on horseback like himself, than he'd seen in the entire sum of his life. One street in London held more people than his whole village and the castle combined.

  In stunned amazement, he gaped at them. Rich and poor mingled, lush velvets and rough rags, pretty and stout and even very, very fat. A woman rotund as a barrel of ale swayed from side to side with each step, and Thomas wondered that she could even stand upright. There were beggars on some corners, some with disfigurations of such misery Thomas ached for gold coins to put in their mean cups.

  He passed bakeries giving forth a mouthwatering steam, and butchers with blood running from the stalls, attracting crowds of clever dogs the butchers chased away. There was a whole street of shoemakers and one of tailors, and—he was forced to cover his nose—one of tanners.

  It was thrilling and dismaying, and at last Thomas had to stop to ask direction to the king's quarters. The woman, a merry-eyed matron of some standing by her clothes, laughed aloud. "You're new to the city, then?"

  He gave her a rueful smile. "Aye, that I am."

  "Well, you don't look as if you'll call much trouble, but be wary, boy. There's more sinners per mile in London than in hell itself."

  He thanked her, and led his horse the rest of the way, wondering at his own boldness as he rode to the gates. A stiff-lipped guard asked his business, and Thomas gave the answer he'd thought of on the way: "I am Thomas of Roxburgh, and I come on an errand regarding Lady Elizabeth of Woodell, the king's own cousin."

  To his surprise, the guard waved him through. It could not be so easy as that?

  It was. Another minion heard his speech, and led Thomas, blinking at the splendor, to a small garden where a tawny-haired man sat with a dark, plump woman. Early morning sunlight fell over the wall to gild the scene, the finely carved table piled with food. There was a mound of some red fruit Thomas could not name on a tray of silver, and other fruits, dark and small, and he thought he knew a fig when he saw one. He saw bread white as a cloud, and a dish of butter. A page carried out a cup of hot liquid and the man made some joke to him.

  It was a scene of such placid domesticity that Thomas did not realize it was the king and queen themselves until the servant who'd led him to this quiet place bid Thomas wait in a stone archway, and hurried forward to speak to them quietly.

  Only then did his heart turn cold at his brash-ness. His mouth went dry and had he a cap to twist, he'd have been hard put to avoid it. As it was, he contented himself by brushing the front of his tunic, and remembered he'd lain in the leaves, so combed his fingers quickly through his hair.

  Then King Edward himself lifted his hand toward Thomas and called, "Come, man. What news?"

  Thomas forced himself to move with dignity toward them, neither rushing nor dawdling. As he came close to the table, he realized with a sense of sudden panic that he'd no idea how to bow. Surely one knelt for the king of England and his queen? He dropped to his knees and bowed low. He could not think, in his panic, of what words to name them by, so he said nothing.

  "Rise, son," said the queen. "What pretty manners! Sit and break your fast. 'Tis a quiet morning, and I'd hear of my sweet Lyssa. How does she fare? Is she on her way to us?"

  Warmed by the woman's voice, Thomas sat, and blankly looked at the table. Recognizing nothing, he gave his attention to Philippa. Her dancing eyes and warm mien instantly eased his discomfort. "She is well," he said. "She'll be here this afternoon."

  "And she sent us a handsome emissary to bear the good news." Philippa smiled and touched her husband's arm. "Wonderful."

  Thomas shot a quick glance toward the king, wondering if he'd mind his lady wife referring to another man as handsome. Edward only smiled, plainly indulgent. He was a lion of a man, with a lean face and well-tended mustache and beard of darkest gold. His eyes were blue and sharp, though not unkind.

  "I thank you for the offer of breakfast," Thomas said in a rush. Hearing the blur of his country words, he slowed down, taking time to enunciate as Lyssa had shown him, choosing each word with care. "But I am here on an errand of which you may not approve. And the lady does not know I have come ahead."

  Philippa inclined her head, her dark eyes brightening with curiosity. "Not approve?" she said with a smile.

  He addressed the rest to her kind face. "In truth, my lady, I have come to ask for her hand."

&nbs
p; As if his words muted even the birds, Thomas felt them both go utterly still, waiting. He took a breath. "I have nothing—only fallow lands to the north, where all the village was killed by plague. No land. No money."

  "What have you to offer, then?"

  "Only my honor, my lady. And my love." A vision of Lyssa's green eyes pierced through him, and Thomas closed his eyes. "My deepest, most abiding love."

  "Love?" said the king. It was the first word he'd uttered, and it rang with amusement. "Elizabeth is one of the richest widows in the kingdom, and you speak of love?"

  "I do, my liege." Thomas bowed his head.

  Philippa leaned close. "Does she love you in return?"

  "Aye," he said roughly. "But she does ride to you to do her duty to her king and country, hearing no word that I speak to put it right."

  "Does she now?" There was something richly appealing about the queen's dulcet voice. "I know a little of love and separation."

  In surprise, Thomas raised his eyes.

  "My lady, do not—"

  Philippa smiled over her shoulder, and Thomas saw in the expression a depth of humor and love of the sort born only in the sharing of many, many interwoven days. She turned back to Thomas, and sobered. "Your lands lay fallow, you say? The plague?"

  A knot of fear knitted itself in his throat, but Thomas spoke around it. "Aye. Nary a soul left standing, but a few that ran for the forest."

  "You are," the king said suddenly, cutting a bit of the strange fruit, "either a grand fool or very bold, to tell so large a lie to gain admittance here."

  At "lie," Thomas blanched. Squaring his shoulders, he met the king's piercing gaze. "Both, my liege. And besotted besides." His mouth tight, he said, "Does that matter none at all?"

  "We will think on it," the king said. "Leave us."

  Thomas rose instantly and bowed low once more. "My deepest thanks for hearing my suit, my lord, my lady."

  He heard a small chuckle from the queen, but dared not look back.

  * * *

  'Twas just past noon when the party from Woodell passed through the gates of London, and never had Lyssa been so glad to see an end to a journey. She was unused to such long riding and she ached with it. Her stomach had grown easily unsettled, as well, and she had a powerful urge to simply retire to some cool, darkened chamber and sleep. Even the dull ache of missing Thomas ceased to matter—only the vision of that soft bed.

  But of course, it could not be done thus. There was commotion and movement over their arrival, and kisses from long-missed friends and distant relatives. To Lyssa's dismay, even her sister waited to greet her with falsely cheerful hugs and kisses. "You've grown up," Eleanor said with her unpleasant smile. "Not nearly as skinny as you were, are you?"

  Lyssa sighed. Eleanor had been dangerous when Lyssa was a babe and Eleanor a much wiser, older sister who wanted with a child's ferocity to have the world she'd lost when Lyssa was born. She was not dangerous now, but still unpleasant. She'd grown into a handsome woman, with that stoutly sensible good bearing and intelligent eyes. It mattered not now that she'd been a homely child, except in her heart, where it still ruled her every hour.

  Lyssa kissed her cheek. "You look lovely as always, Eleanor. The peacock blue brings out the glow in your skin."

  Eleanor preened faintly, but seemed to be full of some gossip. "Let me take you to the rooms you've been given, and help you wash." She touched Lyssa's hair. "I'll comb out your hair."

  Lyssa looked to Tall Mary for help, but the woman was swallowed by the number greeting the new arrivals. Nor did she see Alice. "I do my own hair now," she said. In her present state, Eleanor's combing would move her to tears.

  "Surely not always!" Eleanor protested. "I vow I'd be most gentle, sister."

  Lyssa spied Alice, looking bewildered by the bustle and noise and finery. "Alice!" she cried, reaching through the bodies to snag her sleeve. "Come!" She widened her eyes to show her urgency, and Lyssa did not know if the woman had forgiven her or was only relieved to see a familiar face, but Alice reached out and gripped Lyssa's hand fiercely.

  But before they'd gone three steps, the queen herself emerged from the milling group and gave Lyssa a grand smile, planting a kiss to her cheek with an odd air of mischievousness dancing in her eyes. "Let her be, Eleanor," Philippa said. "The king has summoned her and will not wait."

  Lyssa gaped, then glanced over her shoulder to see that Alice was not too overwhelmed. Some small flash of something caught her eye, and she looked up toward the gallery.

  And there stood Thomas, looking very grave.

  Chapter 20

  "It seems you've found a most passionate admirer," Philippa said. "And what a lovely young man!"

  "What?"

  "And so ardent." Philippa swept Lyssa along in her wake, the dark eyes dancing. "I do like handsome and intelligent young men—and young women—about me."

  "Aye," Lyssa said vaguely, her mind still trying to fit the figure of Thomas into the scenario here, in this place.

  "And so bold, he was, striding in this morning, on a false errand."

  Lyssa stopped dead. "This morning? False errand?" She gripped Philippa's hands fiercely. "My lady, what has he done?"

  A tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "That is news I save for your king."

  Urgently, Lyssa tightened her grip. "Please, my lady, I must know!"

  "Calm down, my sweet. 'Twas naught more than an avowal of love. And a bold and dashing avowal it was, too." She chuckled, obviously charmed.

  In terror, Lyssa only stared at her. Thomas had strode into the king's court and made avowals of love for her? She made a sound of despair and pulled away. "Is the man mad?"

  "Did he lie, Lyssa?" Philippa grew concerned. "Is there some trick afoot?"

  The words served to bring Lyssa to her senses. Taking a breath, she said, "Nay, my lady. There is no trick. I am only taken aback by his gallantry."

  "Come, then. Let's hear the ruling, shall we?"

  And Lyssa found herself swept into the solar of her cousin Edward. At the sight of him, standing by the window, Lyssa was again six years old, seeing her beloved cousin, who brought so much glamour and excitement and bustle with him. He was still trim and strong and tall, his hair a thick mane on his neck, his face as lean and handsome as ever. She smiled. "My liege," she said with a smile. "I vow you are more handsome each time we meet."

  He turned. "Elizabeth!" Laughing, he held out his arms, as if he too, were remembering the child she had been.

  Lyssa flew to him, embracing him deeply. He chuckled, hugging her warmly. In a moment, he let her go, and Lyssa found her attention snared by the tunic he wore. He'd ever had a taste for the richest velvets in hues so deep they seemed nearly liquid, but this—!

  She touched his sleeve in wonderment, astonished at the softness, and the clever, minute pattern woven into the ruby colored folds. "'Tis magnificent," she exclaimed.

  Edward laughed. "Trust you to note the cloth of my tunic when so much of your fate hangs in the balance."

  "My fate," she repeated and shook her head. "My fate is out of my hands, but cloth is well within my realm."

  Fondly, he smiled. "Sit, child, and let me speak awhile with you."

  Lyssa perched on a bench, looking to Philippa on her chair. The queen gave the smile that had won her so many devoted admirers, so filled with benevolent sweetness and genuine caring that none could resist it—or her. Not even Edward, who still held his wife in rare esteem and devotion. Lyssa had never heard of him taking a mistress.

  Propping one foot on a bench, Edward leaned on his knee. "I had a most interesting visit this morning early—a plea for your hand from a man who says he has nothing but fallow lands and an empty castle to bring to you."

  At the recounting of their careful lie, Lyssa bowed her head.

  "Ah, you seem to recognize the man."

  "I do, my lord." Her voice barely raised above a whisper.

  "I am intrigued, Elizabeth, I will admit. '
Twas brave to march to me and present his suit so boldly. A heart so brave and devoted 'twould be a good thing in a husband."

  As if two giant fingers suddenly clenched, Lyssa felt her heart pinch so violently she feared for a moment she would die of fear and anticipation. "Aye, my lord."

  "But I tell you honestly, girl, I risk serious disturbance in my court if I say nay to Harry now."

  She winced at the name.

  "You dislike the man?"

  Lyssa glanced toward Philippa, who gave her the faintest nod. Lacing her fingers together tightly, Lyssa said, "He has ever lusted for my lands, my liege, not me. I was wed once for property and it was not a happy union."

  "I knew that, and do regret the match. I could not see that Philip Mereworth was too old and too devoted to his first wife to make a good husband to you. For that, I am sorry." He lifted a shoulder. "Still, there is much to be lost if Woodell is mismanaged, or falls to the wrong hands, and I'll not risk it on a foolish whim."

  Lyssa waited, her body hot and cold by turns. It seemed she could not quite catch enough breath into her lungs. The two parts of her mind warred—the selfish half which ached to have Thomas for her husband, and the more noble hair that knew he might well be doomed if she agreed.

  "And did he speak the truth when he said you do love him in return, but only came to me to do your duty?"

  She closed her eyes. "He did."

  The silence then stretched so long that Lyssa grew frightened that she'd roused the king's anger, and lifted her head.

  But Edward only gazed out the window, his lips pursed in thought. "Tell me of him, Elizabeth. How came you to love this knight?"

  So Lyssa told him about finding Lord Thomas and his widowed servant. "We arrived too late for the planting, sire, and my guards—the knaves—ran off, leaving the castle undefended whilst we weathered the plague by the sea.

  "When we did return, there was already grain sowed and growing, and Lord Thomas had defended the villeins against the bandits that fill the forest now."

  "So he tended the place well, did he?"