by Lynn Kurland
"I did not mean to lie to you," she whispered. "But if I told you who I was, I feared you would go."
"I think not," he replied, bringing her hand to his mouth. "Will you come with me now?"
"I lied to you," she said.
"Sometimes there is reason to lie," he replied.
"No," she said in a broken voice. "There is never a reason good enough. I might have brought ruin upon you. You must leave now, and I cannot go."
"Because I am not a lord…"
She took his hand and kissed it. "Because it could well mean your death, and I cannot do that."
"I should make that decision."
"There are others too," she added, and he saw a tear hover at the side of her left eye. "My father. My sisters. Even my mother. They will all suffer. I cannot let that happen."
"Will spending your life in a convent help that?"
She looked up at him. "Willa… should not have told you."
"Willa is a good friend."
She smiled. "She is. And nothing must happen to her. She is in my room now pretending to be me. I could not leave her there."
He studied her. "You have grown some."
"A layer of clothes," she said. "And now you must hurry before the guard changes."
"That will not be until dawn." The fingers of one hand continued its clasp of hers. Those of his other hand touched her face, caressing it. "My wood sprite," he said, his heart beating so loudly he thought she must hear it. "You are beautiful. And gallant."
She turned around abruptly. His hand dropped from her face, but the other caught her arm and kept her from fleeing. "What if I were a lord?" he asked. "One more important than those fops who care of nothing but money?"
A faint smile appeared on her lips. "I am not impressed with lords. 'Tis one reason I… care for you. You have earned everything. It gives you character I do not see in others."
A knot of uncertainty twisted his stomach. He had thought his true identity would solve all their problems. He'd even thought, mayhap, that she would fall immediately into his arms. Now he wondered whether revealing his identity would make things a great deal worse.
"If I promise to take care of everyone… ?"
"You cannot promise such a thing. My father did not support the Yorkists but neither did he support the Tudors. Many have already lost their lands. The men he… chose for me have ties to Lancaster. The only way I can… lessen the insult to them is to enter the convent."
"You would not be able to ride. And sing."
For a moment, despair seemed to cloud her eyes. Then she seemed to will it away. "I will be content. You must go. A friend has a horse saddled and waiting outside the walls just inside the forest. You can leave by the postern. Willa has offered some wine there too. They should be asleep."
He leaned down, brushing her lips with his.
Her face tilted upward and her arms went around him just as his surrounded her. His kiss roughened, stirred by a bittersweet emotion he could not define. Instead of backing away, her mouth, her tongue, met his with equally fierce need. He was a fool for lingering, and yet he could not leave.
Lynet knew she should go. And make him go. But one last kiss, one last remembrance of something bright and shining and wonderful. Every moment was dangerous for him, and yet… she rejoiced in the fact that he knew it and still he stayed. The fact that she had lied to him had not mattered. She'd feared he would hate her for the lie and for putting his life at risk.
She should have known better. He feared nothing, and that fact terrified her.
She felt the barely restrained passion in his large body. She felt it in herself. A wildness, a yearning that made her want to go with him. That she could not gave rise to wave after wave of despair. And yet she knew she could not let him see it.
Instead, she met him desire for desire, need for need. Her lips didn't yield to his, they challenged his. She stood on tiptoe, her arms tightening around his neck, feeling the roughness of his face, the hard tense muscles in his arms and chest.
Anguish, deep and bleeding, sliced through her like a knife. Her fingers stroked the back of his neck, seeking his warmth, compulsively needing to touch him. She knew she should make him go, but just a moment more. A moment that would have to last a lifetime.
His tongue entered her mouth, and she felt sensations she had never known before. Her body strained against his in primal need as she met caress with caress, hunger with hunger. How could love be so agonizingly painful?
Then she heard a stirring behind them, and so apparently did he. His lips left hers, and his gaze went to the guard. He left her, and she felt an immediate loss. She watched as he picked up the guard easily, his strength so long hidden under the minstrel's clothing evident. He put the man in the cell, then turned to her. "We should tie him."
She leaned down and pulled up her gown and tried to tear a piece from her chemise. It wouldn't tear.
He grinned at her, then reached for the guard's knife and in seconds had several pieces of cloth. Quickly, he tied the guard's hands behind him, then gagged him. He did it with such efficiency of movement, she knew he had done it before. He was, she realized suddenly, no ordinary soldier. He did everything with an assurance and confidence that came from command. She'd been around soldiers enough to know that. Why had she not realized it before?
Her heart pounding, she watched as he closed and locked the door, then took her arm with his hand. "Who are you?"
"We must go," he whispered, his hand still holding hers.
But she stood her ground stubbornly. She had played a role. Had he? "Who are you?" she asked again.
"Does it matter?"
"It must," she said brokenly. "Lives…"
"No one will be hurt," he said. "I swear." He looked into her eyes. "I have never broken a vow," he said, his silver-blue eyes boring into her. "Do you believe me?"
The world stilled in that moment. Her gaze met his. Intensity reigned there. Questions. Hope even.
It was the hope that reached her. The vulnerability she had seen before. And yet there was confidence too. A confidence she believed.
No one will be hurt.
She didn't know who he was, or what he was. But she did believe him. She didn't even question that belief.
She slowly nodded.
"A pen and ink," he said. "Can you get them for me?"
Her mind still swimming with emotion and her body still reacting to his, she nodded.
"I will wait here," he said.
She hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave, afraid that her confidence would falter if she did, then she took one of the candles impaled on a vertical spike along the wall, and quickly sped to the oriel off the great hall where her father kept books. It was a measure of the fact that her father did not consider the minstrel a threat that there was but one man on guard.
She took the quill and ink, and two pieces of parchment. She wrote a brief note of her own, saying she had tricked Willa, that she loved her father. She hesitated, then left it on his desk. She was committed now.
When she returned, Robin was pacing. She saw the tension in his body, and she was struck again at how much he seemed to have changed in the past few hours. No longer was he the whimsical vagabond musician. No longer did amusement sparkle in his eyes.
He took the paper and ink and wrote quickly. No common soldier here. Few commoners could read or write.
"What are you saying?"
He looked up. "That I will keep you safe and that no one else is to be blamed." He hesitated, then added, "And I am inviting him to a wedding." He suddenly dropped to his knees. "Will you marry me?"
She looked down at him. He did not look comfortable on his knees. She knew immediately it was no common position for him. He was asking her to trust him. Asking for her faith. Asking her to believe him. And in him.
No one will be hurt.
She swallowed hard. She had never reached out to anyone before. She had never really trusted. Doubts still nagged at her.
"There is but one horse. My father will come after us. He will… kill you."
"Trust me," he said again.
To the depth of her soul, she did. God help her, but she did. "Yes," she said simply.
A smile such as she had never seen before crossed his face. It was blinding. "I love you," he said.
She didn't have to tell him the same. She knew her face did it for her.
He placed the note carefully on the table where the guard had sat, then together they quickly moved along the corridor to the kitchen, then out a door. Staying in the shadows, she led him to the postern. The guard, as she expected, was asleep.
She opened the gate. He took her hand again and once through they ran together toward the wood. Great billowing clouds shrouded the moon and stars, and she knew they were virtually invisible.
They reached the horse. It was a strong, swift one, and he gave her a boost, then swung up behind her with the ease of a born horseman. She leaned against him, feeling his strength, taking courage from it as they first walked, then trotted toward the road.
The breeze was stiff, the sky still black. As they left the woods, rain began to fall. His arms tightened around her, and the last of her doubts faded. For better or for worse, she had given over her life to him.
She half turned and her right hand touched his face. "Where are we going?"
He chuckled. "I was wondering when you would ask. Home, my love. To Worthington."
"And is your name truly Robin?"
"Nay, it is Duncan, Marquis of Worthington, and you will be the Countess of Worthington."
A marquis!
Mary and Robin.
She leaned back against him and started to laugh.
Then she heard the rumble of his laughter behind her. Joy bubbled up inside, joy and wonder and contentment. Everything would be all right. Her father would be overjoyed at such a union. She didn't know why the masquerade. Perhaps the same as hers. A few moments of being ordinary, of being wanted for oneself and not a title or money or position. They had years to find out. To explore and explain.
To love.
She looked upward. Rain still splashed around them but she started to see the first early glow of dawn. Her lord, Robin—nay, Duncan—gathered her closer in his arms and turned the horse toward the rising sun.
Home. They were going home.
Epilogue
Worthington
The wedding was to be magnificent.
Even Henry Tudor—the new king—was at Worthington to attend the ceremony. He had made his pleasure known that one of his favorite, and most loyal, lords had chosen a wife, and had chosen—to his mind—well. He'd welcomed an alliance with the north counties.
His gift was a pair of white horses.
He had arrived two days ago, a month after sending the horses. He'd erupted into laughter as he heard about the unconventional courtship. "Worthington never does anything the easy way," he'd said. "You are a good match for him, Lady Lynet."
Lynet visited the stable, and the matched horses, on the morning of the ceremony. She had worked with Duncan's staff for more than a month making the manor presentable, and now she needed a few moments of peace before standing in front of the king, her family and scores of important guests to say her vows.
She knew she should return to her chamber. Her sisters were probably waiting there to help her dress. They had been in residence since soon after that first initial visit by her father.
She would never forget the shock in his eyes when he learned that the contents of Duncan's note were true. He had ridden through the gates of Worthington accompanied by an ill-equipped group of men. He'd been raging. Until, that is, he'd discovered that the man he'd come to punish was one of the most feared and respected lords in the realm.
Until he heard that the dowry for his daughter totaled more than all the lands he owned.
Until he heard Duncan's offer to help with the marriage portions of Lynet's sisters.
Until he saw the way, he said, that his daughter's eyes sparkled.
And until he learned of Henry Tudor's blessing upon the union.
The latter was enough to quiet any rumors about his daughter and now he basked in the newfound prestige among his neighbors. He had arrived just two days ago with his almost speechless wife who preened and fussed over Lynet as she never had before…
One of the nearby horses nickered lightly and she smiled. She didn't have to turn around. It was the nag her minstrel had ridden into Clenden. But the mare was no longer a nag. She was sleek and well-fed and a favorite of the household.
"My future wife," Duncan said, placing a kiss on her neck. "I thought I would find you here."
"You should not be here, my lord. They say seeing your wife on her wedding day will bring bad luck. Willa will be horrified."
"Seeing you will never bring me bad luck. It brought me the best good fortune in my life."
She turned and looked up at him. How had she ever not known he was a man of honor.
"Even with my mother?" she said wryly.
"She gave birth to you, my love. I can admire her for that alone."
She reached up her hand. Her fingers caressed the severity of his face. The glow in his eyes softened it, though.
And in a few hours he would be hers. Totally and absolutely hers.
Her Robin. Her minstrel.
Her love.
His fingers caught hers, and brought them to his lips. "Are you ready, my wood sprite?"
"Aye, my minstrel," she said, a chuckle erupting deep in her throat. "Now and forever."
"I will compose a song for this occasion," he said, laughter dancing in his eyes.
She looked heavenward, except there was only a roof.
"You said forever," he reminded her.
"So I did," she replied, tightening her fingers now intertwined with his as they turned toward the great hall… and soon the priest. But as she met his eyes and saw the love in them, she knew they would not need a song. It was already in their hearts.
The
Bachelor Knight
Deborah Simmons
one
"My lord! My lord!"
Heedless of the shout, Sir Berenger Brewere stood staring off into the distant hills, lost in thought. The peaks were too far away, he mused, and hardly steep, but still taller than the lands around him. With that thought, Beren swung his gaze across his demesne, feeling a curious mixture of pride and longing. There were no mountains here, no rocky crags, only gently rolling slopes. But all of it is mine.
"Sir Brewere!" The use of his surname roused Beren at last, and he turned slowly to cover his lapse. How many years would it take him to recognize his own title? King Edward had bestowed upon him the barony and fiefdom for services rendered during the war in Wales, and Beren lived like a lord. Why could he not answer as one?
Beren sighed, turning away from the heights to the young squire who shouted to him so eagerly. Now what had sent the boy racing to find him? he wondered. A call to arms? A visit from the king? Farman, a youth Beren had plucked from obscurity, was far too easily excited. Whatever it was, no doubt Beren must now set aside his half-formed plans to view the distant hills more closely and attend to some business of knighthood, whether it be war or justice that commanded his attention.
Farman halted before him, a bit breathless after his run from the castle to the grassy slope where Beren waited. " 'Tis a messenger, my lord, bidding you away!"
'Twas from the king then, Beren thought. In years past, he had served other lords, but now he was vassal to none except Edward himself.
"A summons to court?" Beren asked. He was not certain where the king was in residence, but he knew the spot likely would be overrun by fools and greedy, jealous courtiers—a situation he little liked. However, Beren hid his distaste from his squire as he began to stride back toward the castle that bespoke his allegiance, if not to the court, to Edward himself.
"Nay!" answered Farman wide-eyed. "'Tis a summons, a
right, but not from the king. 'Tis a demand that you go at once to a place called Brandeth, at the behest of someone called St. Leger."
For a moment, Farman, and all around Beren, faded away at the mention of his old patron, Clement St. Leger. He drew in a harsh breath. Brandeth. 'Twas a name he had not considered in years, though he had begun his life there.
"Lest you refuse, the messenger, a bold fellow indeed," Farman commented in an outraged tone, "reminds you of your oath. 'Recall to him his vow,'" Farman recited. "And then he left, without even waiting upon you, my lord!"
Stirred from his thoughts by Farman's indignation, Beren glanced down to see that the youth was practically in a froth that anyone, let alone a mere messenger, should fail to make the proper obeisance to Sir Berenger Brewere, knight of the realm, holder of vast lands, baron to the king. Beren smiled, for he did not take himself quite as seriously as his squire.
Farman eyed him quizzically. " 'Tis a jest, then, my lord?" he asked.
Beren's smile faded. "Nay, 'tis no jest, but a duty I am bound to fulfill," he answered. As if pausing his pace might mire him once more in memory, Beren walked swiftly now, the squire hurrying to keep up with him.
"But who is this St. Leger? Some foreign king? I have heard naught of him," Farman replied.
"That does not make him less," Beren said, a bit sharply. The squire was becoming too full of himself, too accustomed to visits of the mighty and royal to recall that a man was measured neither by his fame nor his bloodlines.
"But why should you, the greatest knight in the land, have to wait upon him?" Farman asked, stubbornly insistent upon his master's importance,
Beren halted, his eyes drawn to the distant peaks and beyond to that which he could not see: tall cliffs and crashing surf and a castle set amongst them. He murmured an answer, half to his squire and half to himself, "Because I swore an oath, and a knight's vow is broken only by death."
Ever alert, Beren had noted the changes in the lands around him, the seabirds on the wing and the tang in the air that spoke of the ocean. Old feelings stirred, unwelcome, making him irresolute for the first time in many a year, and he faltered for a moment before urging his destrier on.