by Alexa Aston
“You showed tremendous improvement, Gylbart,” she praised.
His eyes lit with enthusiasm. “I cannot wait to practice again with Ralph with what I know now. The audience will cheer like madmen when they see us attack one another.” He frowned. “I did not do nearly as well as when Marcus worked with me.”
“He did?”
“Aye. When he and Rand joined the troupe, Marcus told me my sword skills were lacking. He tutored me.” A sheepish smile crossed his face. “He didn’t show nearly the patience you did, Jess. He’s so tall and commanding. I’m a little afraid of him. I just hope I can remember everything you’ve shown me.”
“If you don’t, we can always go again. It would help if I could witness you and Ralph at practice and make a few suggestions.”
Gylbart shook his head. “Nay. Ralph would never listen to advice given by a woman.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said, determined that King Ralph would work with Gylbart and allow her to watch—especially if he wanted those new costumes made up.
“I need to return to the stage,” Gylbart said, panic in his voice. “I’ve lost track of the time. Thank you, Jess.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried away.
She watched him running up the rise and noticed Marcus sitting at the top of the small hill. Jessimond wondered how long he’d been there. Gylbart greeted Marcus and disappeared. Marcus rose and came down the hill. Jessimond’s heart began beating rapidly.
“I see you took Gylbart under your wing.”
“I heard you did the same,” she countered.
He chuckled. “You seemed to have had better success tutoring him than I did.”
“Gylbart’s a bit afraid of you,” Jessimond said. “I think both your size and skill with a sword intimidated him. And mayhap, you were a bit gruff during your lessons. I am much calmer and more suited to teaching someone.”
He eyed her a long moment. “I’m surprised Gylbart listened to a thing you said.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because I am a woman—and only a man can teach sword skills?”
A slow smile lit his face. “Because if you’d been showing me how to swing a sword, I wouldn’t have heard a word you uttered. I would be mesmerized with how beautiful you are.”
Jessimond felt her face go hot, both at his compliment and how he stared at her. She looked at the sensual lips that had been next to hers only a short while ago and a yearning for them, as wide as an ocean, enveloped her.
Marcus took a step toward her. Jessimond hoped he would kiss her again. They were alone and that was not a frequent occurrence when part of a large troupe.
He reached out and captured her braid, which had fallen over her shoulder. Lifting it to his face, he brushed the tail against his cheek. He lowered it—but didn’t release it. Instead, he wound it around his fist, ensuring she wouldn’t go anywhere. They stood so close that her breasts almost touched his chest.
Jessimond knew what was coming and prepared herself. She only hoped she would be as believable as one of the mummers speaking his lines.
“Where did you learn how to fight like that?” Marcus asked, his gaze unwavering.
“At Kinwick.”
She didn’t know him well enough to trust him with the entire truth. Even if she did, he might accidentally let it slip and then the others would learn of her true identity. Already, she had enjoyed being a part of the company and living a different kind of life. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to give that up.
Not even for a man who kissed like Marcus de Harte.
“Kinwick. Where you were a servant.” Doubt lingered in the air.
“Aye. I helped care for some of Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn’s grandchildren. Their son, Sir Hal, is Kinwick’s captain of the guard. He and Lady Elinor have three children. As a knight, Sir Hal believes it important for his children to learn sword skills from a young age. In fact, ’tis a family tradition that Lord Geoffrey’s cousin, Lord Raynor Le Roux, carve and gift a wooden sword to each de Montfort child. He has continued this practice with every grandchild who has arrived.”
Jessimond took a breath and laughed. “Poor Lord Raynor is kept quite busy since there are six de Montfort children. It seems one of the wives is always birthing another babe.”
Marcus took in what she said and then asked, “But what does that have to do with you?”
She was now ready to make the connection for him.
“Since I watch over the children, I do more than feed and bathe them. I sing to them. Tell them stories. Play with them. I also take them all around the estate. After they were given their swords, sometimes they needed someone to spar with them. The soldiers in the training yard didn’t have time to do that. The children grew to learn one another’s strengths and weaknesses and tired of fighting each other.”
“That’s where you came in?”
“Aye. I had been present at all of their lessons and assimilated the knowledge. It took several tries once I put a sword in my hand to physically understand what my mind already knew. Once I did, I truly enjoyed sparring with all of the children. I’ve done it for several years now.”
He tugged on her braid. “You are exceptionally good at it. Better than some men I’ve known.”
Jessimond smiled. “I will take that as a compliment, coming from a knight.” She paused. “You are a knight, Marcus, aren’t you?”
She asked not only to draw attention away from her, but to learn something more about him.
When he remained silent, she said, “I figured you and Rand to be knights-errant, not associated with any liege lord, and that is why you were able to join the Vawdrys’ troupe.”
“I do give allegiance to a lord,” he finally said. “Rand, as well. We are on an interesting mission. Taking the long way home.”
His words puzzled her. “Your lord does not mind you doing so?”
Marcus shrugged.
Jessimond wasn’t satisfied with his silence. Before she could call him out, though, Jopp interrupted them.
“Jess!” the boy cried.
She looked up and saw him running down the hill.
“What’s wrong, Jopp?”
“Hamlyn stumbled and fell against the stage. His forehead is split open and he’s not making much sense. Moss said you are a healer. Can you come help?”
“Of course,” she assured the boy. “Let me get my case of herbs. Run back and let Moss know I’m coming.”
Jopp took off again like a bolt of lightning and disappeared over the rise.
Marcus released his hold on her braid and took her elbow, helping her up the hill. Jessimond retrieved her case and exited the tent.
“You’re going . . . like that?” he asked, waving his hand up and down her. “’Tis not decent for you to be seen in such a way, Jess.”
“I’m not going to take the time to change my attire when a man needs my help,” Jessimond said curtly and strode off.
Chapter 10
Jessimond ignored Marcus when he caught up to her. She’d done her best to explain how she came to have such unusual skills for a servant, much less a woman. Either he would believe her or not. She didn’t want to waste any more time trying to convince him.
As they arrived at the booths, she asked, “Do you still have coin?”
“What do you require?”
“A cup of strong wine to bathe Hamlyn’s wound.”
“Wait here.”
Marcus ventured to a nearby stall and soon returned with a cup he’d promised to bring back. They continued on their way until they reached the stage. Several mummers either stood or knelt in a circle. Hamlyn lay in the center of them, a large gash across his forehead. Blood streamed down his face and covered the front of his tunic.
Jessimond sat next to him, opening her case. “I heard you took a nasty fall.”
“Bloody knee gave out on me,” the mummer complained. “Made me stumble. Fell head first into the corner of the stage.”
“Jopp said you were a li
ttle confused.”
“Nay. Not anymore, Jess,” Hamlyn assured her. “You’re Jess. I’m Hamlyn.” He pointed to and named several of the mummers hovering nearby. “We’re at Lord Guy’s estate. ’Tis a Tuesday. Truly, I’m right in the head. Saw a few stars when it first happened but I’ve been awake the entire time. Hurting,” he added, looking as if he wanted her sympathy.
“Well, I’m here to fix you up,” she promised.
Jessimond had been around others who’d suffered head injuries, a few who remained confused for several days. Hamlyn had his wits about him, which was very good news.
“First, I’m going to cleanse your wound,” she explained. “I’ll sew it up after that and you already know I’m an excellent seamstress. It will only take a few stitches to close.”
She opened her case and took out a bit of ginger. “Chew on this.”
Hamlyn eyed it with suspicion. “What for?”
“’Tis ginger. In case your head is aching or you feel a bit of nausea, it will help calm your stomach.”
He thought it over a moment and then slipped it between his lips. “That’s strong,” he declared.
When he didn’t spit it out, she thought that was a good sign. Jessimond took small bits of linen from her case and motioned for Marcus to hand her the cup of wine. She dipped a square into the liquid and smoothed it over the gash, repeating the action several times until the area was free of blood. She would use water to wash his face once she got him back to the camp.
“I’m going to sew the slice together now. It will sting some,” she warned.
Hamlyn eyed the cup on the ground. “Are you through with the wine? I could drink what’s left to help with the pain,” he offered.
“An excellent idea,” she said, handing him the cup.
He drained it quickly and set it aside.
“Lie still.” Jessimond thought a moment. “In fact, it would be good for someone to hold your head.”
“I will,” Marcus volunteered.
He sank to his knees and placed Hamlyn’s head between them, then gripped the mummer’s head with both hands. Jessimond knew Hamlyn wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Quickly, she threaded a needle from her case and pinched the skin together. Using a combination of a fell and running stitch, she mended the skin in a few minutes and then coated the wound with honey to promote healing. Winding a long strip of linen around Hamlyn’s head in order to keep dirt from the wound, she secured the end.
“You’ll be good as new but will probably have a small scar as a reminder of your misadventure,” she told him. “What you need to do now is rest.”
“But we have a play to perform in just a few minutes,” Hamlyn complained.
“Not today,” Jessimond declared. “You need to sleep. I’ll even watch you to see that no fever develops.”
“You’re treating me as a child, Jess. And who will take my place? Next to Ralph, I have the most lines,” he lamented.
Jessimond knew that was the true reason he wanted to remain. These mummers fought for time in the spotlight. She believed Hamlyn would go out, bloody tunic and all, merely for the chance to perform and receive adoration from the audience.
“I can,” Gylbart quickly volunteered. “I’ve always thought the role better suited to me than you.”
“You’re the narrator this time, Gylbart,” Elias interjected. “You can’t narrate and act at the same time. ’Twould confuse the crowd.”
Marcus rose to his feet. “I’ll step in,” he offered. “I’ve done that before.”
“True,” Elias agreed, “but only for a small role. Both Hamlyn and Gylbart have many lines in this play.”
“I can do it,” Marcus assured the troupe’s owner. He turned to Gylbart. “Which part would you rather take on?”
“Definitely Hamlyn’s,” Gylbart said, his eyes glowing in satisfaction.
“Then it’s settled.” Marcus looked down at Hamlyn. “Let me help you back to the tents.”
“I can do that,” Jessimond said. “I’d like to give Hamlyn some chamomile boiled in water. It will help soothe any headache that occurs and possibly prevent fever.”
“We’ll do it together,” Marcus insisted.
He helped Hamlyn to his feet and they got on either side of the mummer. Jess retrieved the wine cup to return to the merchant and told Jopp to close up her case. The boy handed it to Marcus to carry and they set off.
“Are you sure you have time to do this?” she asked.
“Aye,” Marcus said. “Bartholomew will play several songs before the play begins.”
“Do you really know all the lines?”
“Most of them,” he revealed. “If ’twere Hamlyn’s part I took, I do know all of them. I’d need to in order to give Ralph the right cues so he could deliver his next line. But the narrator? That’s different. I know most of what Gylbart says. As long as I set each scene up properly, the crowd won’t know if I’ve tweaked a line or two.”
They gave the merchant his wine cup back and then took Hamlyn to the tent he shared with several mummers. Placing him on the pallet, Jessimond had Marcus remove Hamlyn’s blood-soaked tunic. She would try to get the stains out later. Quickly, she bathed his neck and face with water and he lay back, looking exhausted. He thanked them and promptly fell asleep, his snores filling the tent within seconds.
“I was going to boil the water and chamomile for him but I hate to wake him to drink it. Sleep restores good health. I suppose he can sip it later.”
Jessimond started to kneel next to Hamlyn and then found herself rising. Marcus had her elbow and tugged her to her feet.
“What are you doing? I need to stay with Hamlyn.”
“Look at him. He’ll sleep for several hours. Come back and watch me in the play. You can check on Hamlyn after it finishes. I’m sure you’ll find him snoring the day away when you return.”
His hand still held her elbow, causing a wild flutter inside her. She swallowed, unsure whether to stay or go, but she definitely wanted to see Marcus as a mummer. That won out.
“All right,” she agreed.
“We’ll have to hurry,” he said. “Come on.”
Marcus’ fingers slid down her arm and caught her hand. He took off in long strides. Jessimond had to trot to keep up with him. The entire time, she was aware of her hand enfolded in his.
It seemed as if it were made to belong exactly where it rested.
They pushed their way through the crowds as Bartholomew sang a stirring ballad. Marcus pulled her to the very front and moved her between two men. One gave him a challenging look. Marcus glared and the man’s eyes dropped to the ground.
“I will see you later,” he told her. “Enjoy the play.”
The audience applauded at the end of Bartholomew’s song. The troubadour caught her eye and motioned to her. Jessimond shook her head violently, knowing what he had in mind.
He ignored her protests and said, “My singing companion has just arrived. I know she would love for us to share a song with you. Jess? Come up.”
Reluctantly, she stepped forward. Bartholomew grasped her wrist and pulled her onto the platform next to him.
“We’ll do one from the other night. Just follow my lead,” he whispered.
“I might die before a note comes out of my mouth,” Jessimond said, frightened to her core by the large crowd gathered in front of them.
“Then close your eyes. Let the music lead you,” Bartholomew advised.
The troubadour began strumming his lute. Immediately, she recognized the song they would sing but she couldn’t recall any of the words. Panic squeezed her chest, making it hard to breathe. Then Jessimond did as Bartholomew recommended and shut her eyes. She listened to the music and then Bartholomew’s mellow voice. The crowd receded from her mind, replaced by the song.
When the chorus began, Jessimond joined in, harmonizing as they had around the campfire the other night. Even she could hear how well their voices blended together and she started to relax
. The second verse began and the words came to her. She sang them and the chorus again. As it ended, Bartholomew nudged her. Jessimond opened her eyes.
“We’ll do the final verse together,” he said.
She nodded and decided to bravely leave her eyes open as she continued singing. Her gaze never fell upon one person. It simply skimmed over the crowd. All she saw was a blur of faces in the sea in front of them.
Then the song ended. The audience roared their approval, clapping and stomping. Jessimond knew her face flamed as Bartholomew took her hand and had them bow, acknowledging the applause.
“You were wonderful,” he said, his admiration obvious. “We should do a few songs together each performance.”
“I’m no troubadour, Bartholomew. I’m a seamstress and healer.”
He gave her a knowing look. “We’ll see about that.”
Jessimond hopped down from the stage and returned to her spot in the front row. This time, the angry man made ample room for her, complimenting her on what a sweet voice she possessed. She nodded her thanks and focused on the stage, knowing Marcus would appear soon.
He came out and the crowd’s noise began to die. Marcus caught her eye and winked at her, causing a blush to spill across her cheeks. He had changed from his tunic and pants into one of the Greek togas and a pair of sandals and looked divine. His olive skin contrasted sharply with the snowy white toga. Jessimond became fascinated with his muscular calves and thighs, longing to allow her hand to follow their curves. His bare arms appeared massive, as if he could lift felled logs with no effort. Again, she wished to run her fingers up and down them. He wore some type of crown, composed of gold-looking leaves, though his hair looked as wild and untamed as usual.
In a word, he was perfection.
Never had Jessimond been so physically attracted to a man. This knight looked like a god from old, stepped down from Mount Olympus. She wondered again about his odd story of bearing allegiance to a liege lord and yet here he was, a part of a mummer’s troupe. Despite that, she’d found him to be intelligent and caring toward the others in the company, always willing to lend a hand and often taking a leadership role. She wished to unravel the mystery that was Marcus de Harte.
