A Midsummer Knight's Kiss

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Dare I tell you?’ he asked, more to himself than her, glancing back to the noisy room they had just left.

  ‘Tell me what? You know you can always tell me anything.’

  ‘When Sir John talked of us m-marrying earlier, what did you think he meant?’

  Rowenna tilted her head thoughtfully. ‘I suppose he thought that as cousins we might be expected to wed. I haven’t really given it much thought.’

  ‘What if I told you I do plan to m-marry? That is, I hope to...’ he said, his voice low.

  He looked hesitant, his warm eyes filling with a light that could only be described as adoring. Rowenna blinked. The conversation had taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn. Her heart began to race, drumming a beat beneath her ribs that felt violent enough to break them.

  ‘Tell me,’ she breathed.

  She would accept him, of course. For years she had idly daydreamed that Robbie would return and marry her since his jest the night before he had left. She had never met another man she preferred and she would be able to enjoy her stay in York without the task of trying to find a husband who would marry a bastard’s daughter.

  ‘Her name is M-Mary.’ Robbie’s eyes burned with passion.

  A deep blush rose to Rowenna’s throat. She hoped it would not creep higher than the top of her bodice. He loved someone else, not her. Embarrassment filled her belly, made her writhe inwardly, and for once she was thankful for the lessons that had been drummed into her by Lady Danby. How fortunate she had not blurted out the answer to a question that had not been asked, nor ever would be.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Robbie was waiting patiently for her reaction with a solemn expression that made him look vulnerable despite his strength and height. Rowenna shook herself from her reverie and waved a hand as if blowing away cobwebs.

  ‘I just thought... After you mentioned Sir John’s mistake, I thought you were going to ask me. Can you imagine? How foolish you must think me!’

  She giggled to show how amusing the idea was. Robbie looked confused, then gave a quiet laugh.

  ‘Who is your Mary?’

  ‘She is Sir John’s niece.’

  A knife buried itself in Rowenna’s breast. Of course Robbie would have been introduced to many young women. That was one of the intended consequences of living in another nobleman’s household. The letters she and Robbie had exchanged had always been warm and affectionate, but ink and parchment could not compete with a flesh-and-blood woman. Rowenna had been cloistered away in the middle of the moors as surely as if she had taken holy orders.

  The disappointment that was beginning to fill her belly felt too acute for the dashing of a hope she had not even been completely aware of and she couldn’t honestly say at that moment whether she was more envious of Mary for capturing Robbie’s heart, or of Robbie’s opportunities to meet lovers.

  Robbie’s eyes took on a faraway look. Rowenna wanted to clap her hands in his face to wake him from his daydream.

  ‘She has golden hair and the bluest eyes you could imagine. She is tall and slender and graceful.’

  Everything Rowenna was not.

  ‘You wrote nothing of this to me!’ She slipped her arms around his neck and scolded him in as light-hearted a manner as she was able to muster. Robbie slid his arms around her waist. How cruel that he could touch her in such a tantalising, tormenting way and suspect none of the emotions that swelled inside her.

  ‘And does your Mary return your affection?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not know. I have never spoken to her. She arrived only last month from a convent and already has m-many suitors.’ Robbie looked wistful. ‘You know I struggle to speak, but if I prove myself worthy in the tournament perhaps I can find the courage.’

  Rowenna raised her eyebrows in astonishment. ‘You don’t know if she cares for you, but you intend to ask for her hand?’

  Robbie looked doubtful. He was still embracing Rowenna as he talked about Mary, which no devoted suitor should contemplate. She unwound her arms from about Robbie’s neck and took his from her waist, holding them before her.

  ‘I did not believe you to be so bold. I wish you luck, if that is what you desire.’

  ‘And what of you?’ Robbie asked. ‘Does anyone own your heart?’

  Rowenna walked to the window, tossing her hair back over her shoulder breezily so he didn’t read the answer in her eyes. ‘Who is there in Ravenscrag who could? That is why I begged Mother and Father to let me come to York during the tournament. To find a husband.’

  Did his smile falter? Was the slight twitch of his eyelid any indication that this news was unwelcome to him? Rowenna gave a careless laugh that belied the longing that was now churning within her breast.

  She peered out of the window across the city. Who else was arriving for the tournament, preparing to be knighted, seeking someone to fall in love with? Robbie was not the only man in York. There was no need for him to ever know that he had been one of the potential suitors she had hoped to attract. If he thought her affections lay elsewhere, that might spark his interest.

  ‘I intend to marry well, Robbie. I won’t settle for anyone less than a knight or nobleman. Or a merchant who is hugely wealthy, at least. Then I’ll take him to Wharram Danby and parade him before Lady Stick and she’ll have to admit she was wrong.’

  Robbie looked surprised at her ferocity. ‘Do you w-want a loving husband or a prize stallion to show off?’

  She burst into peals of laughter and was pleased to see Robbie start to grin.

  ‘You once promised you would find me a husband, do you remember? On our last night together.’

  ‘Yes. I do.’ Robbie gave her studious look and she wondered if he was recalling what he had said just before he had promised that.

  ‘I’m not sure I know anyone worthy enough to do you credit.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Or brave enough.’

  She laughed and swiped a hand out to bat him on the arm as she had used to. Not ladylike, but intimate in a way she would not dare to be with anyone else. He reached out and caught her wrist, trapping her hand in his. They stood together in the shadowy storeroom, hands clasped. Rowenna squeezed his fingers.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘And I you,’ Robbie said. ‘May we both find what we’re looking for and achieve the happiness we deserve.’

  He kissed her cheek, then ducked through the low doorway. Rowenna rinsed the cups and left them to dry. When she returned, Robbie was at the door, bending to kiss his mother’s cheek. He gave Rowenna a wink and left.

  * * *

  As she prepared for bed, Rowenna’s thoughts kept returning to the way her heart had leapt as Robbie mentioned marriage. She could be happy with him.

  Most of the times when she had imagined the grand knight whom she would marry to prove she was a lady, he had borne Robbie’s face. Now they were reunited she could not shake the image from her mind. The disappointment had been over Robbie, not envy for his opportunities.

  She sighed deeply as she unlaced the ribbon of her bodice, causing Lisbet to give her a strange look. She slipped into bed, wriggling down between the twins, and closed her eyes.

  The way Robbie had spoken about Mary sounded more like infatuation than true love. He barely knew Mary and would be slow to muster the courage to speak to her. Meanwhile Rowenna would contrive to spend as much time with him as she could. Robbie’s affection might kindle into a hotter flame than the one that burned for Mary. And if it didn’t, then as she had told him, there would be men aplenty to win her heart.

  Chapter Four

  Robbie brought his buckler up in front of his face and twisted at the waist. He succeeded in deflecting his opponent’s sword before it struck him full on the helmet and the sword glanced off the edge of the small round shield instead.

  Spectator
s roared. Beneath the cries of excitement, the whining scrape of metal on metal set Robbie’s teeth on edge. He stepped back, feet apart, together, apart once more, light on his feet and bracing himself for another onslaught. He shifted his hand on the grip of his short sword and prepared to duck again. Deflection was the key here. That and not receiving too many blows that would leave his body pummelled to wine pulp.

  Was Mary watching? Robbie gritted his teeth, knowing that to risk even the quickest glance towards the fences that held back the crowds would leave him open to attack. He had beaten his first opponent, a red-haired squire from Derbyshire, but lost to his second, so this bout would decide his fate. He swore inwardly that he had been drawn against Cecil. There were friendly grudges that both would like to settle, and an opponent with no reason to fight him beyond the competition would have been preferable.

  Cecil raised his sword once more. He grunted, giving Robbie enough forewarning to be able to skirt to one side and receive only a light strike to the hip with the flat of the blade.

  Now he was behind Cecil, who had foolishly manoeuvred himself into one corner of the square. It was Robbie’s turn to strike a blow. Cecil was short, which gave Robbie an advantage, but thickset and powerful, which did not. Cecil lunged forward as Robbie brought his blade around. He drove his buckler flat into Robbie’s belly and managed to knock Robbie off balance, but carried on lunging. Recovering quickly, Robbie brought the sword around in an arc and caught the flailing man across the shoulder blades. A second blow delivered rapidly to the lower back sent him sprawling forward. His buckler fell from his hand and another roar went up. Cecil raised his hand in submission and Robbie had won.

  He lowered his sword and held out a hand to help the fallen man to his feet. They clasped hands, bowed and faced the arbitrator.

  ‘Robert Danby, squire to Sir John Wallingdon of Wentbrig, is victor in this round.’

  A pennant bearing Sir John’s orange-and-blue standard was added to the growing line on a board showing which squire had won honour. Robbie felt a warm rush of pride at the sight, mingling with impatience. Today he had fought under his lord’s colours. How long before he would be a knight and fight for his own honour and name? The two men retrieved their weapons and left to loud applause. They slumped beside each other on a bench and wearily removed helmets and breastplates. Half the day had passed before Robbie had taken his turn in the square. The sun was high overhead and the slight breeze did not even begin to penetrate the thickly padded layers each man wore beneath their mail shirts.

  ‘Well fought.’ He held his hand out to Cecil, who shook it before running his hands through his corn-blond hair. ‘I thought you had me once or twice.’

  ‘Perhaps next time I will. Are you competing again today?’

  Robbie shook his head. ‘Tomorrow I’ll try my hand at the archery butts, and of course, I’ll join the melee on the third day.’

  Unlike Cecil and a number of the other squires who entered their name into every event, Robbie was content to watch the knights demonstrating their skill. The longing to prove his worth was almost a physical pain, but he reminded himself there would be enough time to once he was knighted. The chance to observe and learn was rare.

  A pageboy brought ale. Robbie downed his in three gulps before untying his hood and letting it fall to the ground. His damp hair was plastered to his head and when he finally removed the padded gambeson, his hose and the usually loose-fitting linen shift beneath it were sodden with perspiration and clinging uncomfortably to his body. He thought longingly of the fast-flowing beck at Wharram, where the water rushed ice-cold even in summer, and felt a sudden pang of homesickness.

  He peeled off his shift and plunged his head and shoulders deep into the trough. The water was not as cold as he would have preferred, but was still invigorating. He held his breath and scrubbed at his scalp, face and body, then righted himself, tossing his head back. The water streamed from his hair, down over his chest and back in cooling rivulets that ran down until the tape at the waist of his hose was damp. He could already feel the muscles in his thighs, torso and arms beginning to stiffen from so much exertion.

  He drenched and wrung out his shift, and began to vigorously wipe away the sweat from his body until his skin was damp and tingling. He dropped the now-sodden and grimy cloth over the edge of the trough.

  ‘Can you find my clean shift?’ he called to Cecil.

  The requested garment was flung at his head from behind, flopping over his face, but an accompanying giggle in high female tones told him it had not been Cecil who had carried out his request in such a silly manner. Robbie pulled the shift off his head. He looked around to discover Rowenna standing behind him. Lisbet and Anne stood to one side of her, arm in arm. The twins had grown into bonny girls, but were so similar that Robbie couldn’t immediately tell which was which.

  ‘You were talking to yourself,’ Rowenna said, her voice bubbling with amusement. Robbie glanced around. Sure enough she was right. Doubtless Cecil had returned to Sir John’s company, leaving Robbie to follow at his own pace.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ Robbie asked. This area was reserved for the competitors and their aides.

  Rowenna’s eyes gleamed. ‘One of the guards comes to Father’s workshop from time to time. I smiled sweetly and said I had a message for my cousin. Who is Cecil?’

  ‘Cecil is my friend. Does your mother know you are here?’ Robbie asked, unable to imagine strict Aunt Joanna sanctioning her daughter sneaking into a camp filled with young men, even if her target was a cousin. Guilt flitted across Rowenna’s face.

  ‘She told me to be quick and not tell my father. Is Cecil a squire like you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s Sir John’s Squire of the Table. I’m his Squire of the Body. I care for his armour and horses. That’s my favourite duty.’

  She giggled. ‘Cecil’s role seems a better thing to be. Less chance of being bitten by a horse and more opportunity to eat the best sweetmeats.’

  ‘I like the horses. They’re peaceful to be around. Placid and uncomplicated.’ And they didn’t care if he stuttered his way through life, Robbie mused.

  ‘Is that what sort of company you like? I think I’d prefer the sweetmeats.’

  Rowenna laughed and licked her lips, the pink tip of her tongue skimming slowly around them as she presumably imagined the sweet delights Robbie had access to. He looked at her thoughtfully, remembering he had offended her by using her childhood nickname the night before. The description of dumpling was no longer appropriate.

  A slight annoyance at being abandoned by Cecil fought with relief that his companion had done so before Rowenna arrived. Cecil had dropped heavy hints after Robbie’s return the previous night about the identity of Robbie’s mystery visitor, which Robbie had shrugged away with tales of his family. Unable to forget that Cecil had dismissed Rowenna as a grey-faced scholar, he was in no rush for them to meet and disprove the assumption. It would not do for the fickle Cecil to develop an interest in Rowenna.

  Rowenna’s eyes were dancing and her rosy lips creased into a wide smile as she stared at Robbie. Today the front of her hair was pulled back from her brow, parted in the centre and pulled into submission in tight, beribboned braids that looped down at either side of her ears. The braiding had pulled her skin taut, drawing her eyes wide so they reminded Robbie of a cat. She licked her lips once more with the tip of her tongue and fixed him with a firm look, which only served to increase the comparison and make him feel like the mouse she was about to pounce on.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you today. Did you watch my bout?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no, we were watching the jousting.’

  Disappointment pricked his chest that his family, not to say his dearest friend, had not found him enough of a draw, but before Robbie could express his regret Rowenna broke into another laugh.

  ‘Oh, I’m only teasing. Of course we watched
you! How could we not? We all did.’ She tossed her head towards the lists, causing the loops of hair to sway back and forth against her cheeks. Robbie wondered if the tight braids gave her a headache and found his fingers longing to undo them and free her dark locks from their captivity. He still had the blue ribbon she had given him, kept safely in his travelling chest, and the notion of claiming another to keep it company appealed to him.

  Lisbet and Anne rushed forward, hugging him. Lisbet, Robbie deduced, spoke for both of them to praise his efforts while quiet Anne held his hand. At Rowenna’s suggestion they released him and skipped off arm in arm to look for the woman selling candied plums. Robbie and Rowenna were left standing alone among the bustle that carried on around them. She had not offered her own congratulations yet.

  ‘Did I impress you? It’s been a long time since you last saw me fight,’ Robbie asked with what he hoped was a light-hearted tone.

  ‘I’ve never seen you properly fight, only play-act,’ Rowenna said. Her merry expression grew serious, the elegance reasserting itself in her face as it had the previous night when she had spoken to Sir John and then the fawning cousin who had interrupted their walk home and briefly claimed her attention.

  ‘You were magnificent, though I barely could stand it at times. I was so worried you would lose. It looked so dangerous!’

  She stepped closer to him, reached out and put a hand on Robbie’s aching ribs, right over the tender red place where he had received the worst blows at his left side.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ she asked anxiously.

  Her palm covered what he already knew would become a livid bruise and her slender fingers spread wide beneath his arm while her thumb rested unsettlingly close to his nipple. Her hand was soft and warm against his moist, naked skin. No woman had touched him so intimately before and the nerves in his flesh, which had already been stinging from the vigorous scrubbing down, began to burn hotter from the contrast with her cool palm. He instinctively flinched at the gentle touch. Rowenna flinched, too, and jerked her hand away hastily.