Her stomach squeezed. She pressed her palm to the place, dumbstruck for once in her life. His skin gleamed with color: a fine ruddiness in his cheeks, a warm walnut on his hands and neck.
He was beautiful, as beautiful as a fallen angel or a pagan god. And he stared back at her as if he could not believe she stood there, as if he knew her, as if he were as dazzled as she.
She turned in panic toward Helga. "My f-father sent me for some tonic," she said breathlessly. "Oh, and I need yarrow and lungwort for the priest."
Helga gave her a curious look. "Did you run all the way?"
"Er, w-well," Rica stammered, then realized what a good excuse it made for breathlessness. "Only through the meadow."
Helga laughed. "Our Rica is not a lazy girl—she's been seeing to the kitchens and gardens since she was ten—but she loves to escape when she does."
The visitor laughed and Rica glanced sideways at him. His teeth were big and strong and white, his lips red as apples.
A little ache bloomed in her breast. Like a lady stricken with the beauty of a knight in one of the poems the priest had forbidden her, Rica felt faint and star-struck and bewitched.
She smiled at him.
He swallowed, then glanced away quickly, a dusky stain on his cheekbones. "Is that so?" he asked.
Having lost the thread of conversation, Rica frowned. "Is what so?"
"That you like to escape when you have finished your chores?"
"Er, yes." She looked at Helga. "Shall I get the tonic? I know what to do."
"Oh, I'll fetch it, child." She patted her shoulder. "Stay here and keep the young man company while I get it. He is a good student. Tell him about your thoughts on sickness."
Rica nearly bolted, followed after the robust old woman no matter how odd it seemed. But the stranger's voice halted her. "Please," he said in his resonant voice. "Do not go. It is rare enough a girl thinks at all. I would hear your thoughts, if you would tell them."
"It is nothing," she said. "I only see that my father is much better when he does not eat certain things "
"Oh? What sort of things?"
She twisted the stem of a stalk of chamomile lying on the table. "Goose and duck, old mutton, beef. Even frumerity seems to sit ill with him." With a slight shrug, she again glanced at him shyly. "He growled a lot at first, but he no longer gets the bellyaches he once did."
"And how came you to this thought?"
"I watched to see when he grew ill." She frowned. "Not such a difficult step to take."
He leaned forward. "But not a step all would see." He met her eyes and Rica, unwillingly, saw a glimmer of respect there. A man who would listen to the thoughts of a woman?
She inclined her head and felt her hair fall over her arm and wrist. "Anyone with any intelligence would see it."
"Ah," his grin was swift and devastating. "And we all know how widespread intelligence is."
His phrasing somehow made them a unit, two apart from the teeming masses. It was the first time anyone had thought to recognize her ability to reason.
"Common as tamed boars."
He laughed. What a beautiful mouth he had, Rica thought. Generous, as if it could give—
Startled, she flushed with a painful intensity. A third sin in less than an hour—perhaps four if she counted thinking of the poetry that the priest had forbidden her to read.
But, as with her hat, the damage had been done. Her gaze caught on his throat, long and brown. His shoulders were broad beneath the dark jupon, his calves well shaped in his hose.
The small ache in her chest bloomed as wide as a poppy, touching her breasts and belly.
Then her wandering gaze fell upon his hands. Powerful they were, with the look of hard work in the long dark fingers. But it was the cleanliness of them that struck her. No dirt clung beneath his neatly trimmed nails. The knuckles were scrubbed.
And she became aware of a heady, warm scent the wind blew toward her, a scent of clean male skin mixed with a unique, elusive smell. His smell.
"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly frightened.
"Has your Helga not told you of her student?" His voice dropped to a rough, low tone. "She has told me of you."
"You?" Rica's eyes widened. She sought and found the round yellow patch on his chest, the mark of his Jewry. Her heart squeezed painfully and her words came out on a disappointed note she could not control. "I thought you a burgher's son, by your clothes."
The black eyes hardened a notch. "My father is a merchant," he said. "A rich one—but I am his fourth son and he has granted permission to let me study medicine." He turned his face toward the city. "The pestilence chased me home, but as I wait for better days, Helga has been kind enough to share her knowledge of herbal cures with me."
"And a bright, quick student he is," Helga interjected, emerging from the cottage with several packets of muslin tied in string. A fat black-and-white cat wound around her ankles, and somehow she avoided tripping. "Solomon has learned in a few months what's taken me four years to teach you."
Piqued, Rica lifted her chin. "Perhaps he has better reason." The words came out on a rather more annoyed note than she had intended, and she caught the tail of a grin hidden behind Solomon's hand.
"Oh, now, sweet," Helga said with her husky chuckle, "I meant no harm."
Rica clasped the packets close to her chest and lifted her skirts. "Come, Etta, it is time to return."
Etta rose from the ground, where she had squatted to stroke the cat's wild long fur. Next to her, Leo whined jealously and licked her hand. "Good dog," she said in a clear, high voice.
Helga gasped. Rica glanced at her in alarm, shaking her head quickly once. Then, unable to stop the swell of joy in her chest, she crossed the yard and hugged the midwife. "It's the third time today," she whispered against her ear.
"You must come tell me about this soon," Helga whispered in return, squeezing Rica's arms.
Rica smiled and lifting her skirts, hurried after her sister, who was heading back toward the castle.
* * *
In spite of the fact that Rica watched her sister almost continuously, there was no further manifestation of the strange, alert behavior until late afternoon.
Upon returning to the castle, Etta bent over her tapestry frame and with monotonous concentration, poked the needle in and out, in and out of the fabric. The dog flopped next to her on the rushes, content to sleep nearby his mistress if nothing else were required of him.
Rica leaned restlessly against the embrasure, waiting for her father. There was a newer wing than this two-hundred-year-old keep with its damp walls, but Charles clung stubbornly to his solar, giving the newer quarters to his guests. The lower-slung addition could not hope to compete with this eagle's view of the courtyard and all its goings on.
Below were kitchen maids in the garden, collecting new greens for supper. From some unseen place, a musician plucked a lute, readying it for the evening's entertainment. The priest sneezed his way across the courtyard. Along the walk, two men-at-arms paced slowly, their lackadaisical attitudes shouting of the peace that had reigned since the new emperor had taken his throne. There were always dangers so close to the river, but the reckless, bloody days of Rica's childhood had settled now in this simple peace.
Charles came in, his hawk on his arm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. "Papa!" Rica exclaimed. "Come sit down."
"Do not flutter so, child," he grumbled, but did not shake off her hands. He allowed her to remove his outer garment, then wash his face with a cloth dipped in cool water.
"You are too fat, Papa," Rica said with a frown. "If you do not stop putting food in your mouth every minute, all summer you will suffer thus."
He waved a beefy hand. "You have taken all my favorites from me. I eat only what is left."
Rica smiled as the color began to return to his cheeks. He was not, in truth, terribly fat, although a round belly filled his tunic well enough. But even the moderate extra weight had him billowing as h
e took the stairs, flushing in the heat of a summer's day, and sleeping poorly. "It will be easier now we have fresh food. I will go pick cherries for you tomorrow."
He winked and patted her hand, his good humor returning with his wind. "As you wish, liebling. You have been right thus far." He shifted to pour a cup of ale. "Did you bring me some magic potion from Helga?"
"I gave it to Matilda. She will send a girl up with it." She kissed his cheek. "I will leave you," she said with a smile, knowing he would nap until supper and that he hated admitting to an old man's weakness.
Charles caught sight of Etta and frowned. "Take her with you, girl. I am weary of her sitting like a stone in my corner."
"She is not deaf, Papa." Rica whirled, furious at his bad-tempered words, and touched her sister's slim shoulder. "Come, I will dress your hair and you may do mine."
As Etta complaisantly settled her threads in a basket, Rica shot her father a look.
He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow, unapologetic.
Before they left the chamber, one of Charles's vassals appeared, Rudolf der Brumath. A tall man with the grace of a young stag, he smiled genially toward the girls. "I hope I do not interrupt."
"No." Rica smiled. Unlike most of the rest of the castle inhabitants, Rudolf always included Etta in his greetings and she liked him for that.
He bowed now over Rica's hand, then Etta's, turning the latter's over. "I see your wound has healed," he murmured.
Etta bent her head, and a rosy flush of color stained her pale cheeks. "Aye," she whispered.
Startled, Rica glanced quickly at her sister, then toward Rudolf, who smiled gently into Etta's face. Although she knew Rudolf extended his kindness toward Etta in order to win Rica's favor, she thought now there might be a way to use that kindness.
Giving him her broadest smile, she said, "Perhaps you will sit with us for the entertainment tonight."
Rudolf bowed his golden head. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."
Rica smiled again and took her sister's hand. "Till later, then."
Out in the passageway, Rica noted Etta's flush. "He is handsome, is he not?" she whispered.
"Yes," Etta whispered, looking with wonder at the hand he had kissed.
Rica hugged her sister. "Come. I will dress your hair with lavender flowers. Tonight, you will be a beauty such has never been seen before."
* * *
The meat was already upon the table before Rica and Etta appeared, and by that time Charles was fuming. The scent of braised pork taunted him with savory fingers, plucking at his belly with teasing temptation. Around him, the faces of other diners were smeared with the grease of the fat, rich cut.
He picked without interest at the broth and bread before him, torn between the bellyache he would face if he indulged his hunger and the deep satisfaction of chewing hard.
So when Rica, then Etta, appeared in the great hall, he frowned. His gaze darted from one to the other. He frowned outright. Rica always led, always. But was that Rica?
For the first time in his life, he could not tell them apart. Both wore richly embroidered surcoats over pale gowns, their identically creamy shoulders displayed. One girl had braided her hair with ribbons, the other had left hers free to tumble in a glory of silver and gold over ripe breasts and graceful arms.
As they took a place at the table, Charles heard the awed stilling of speech that grew below the buzzing of the ladies. Every man in the room had fallen completely, absurdly silent—no doubt, Charles thought grimly, contemplating all manner of ménage à trois with his nubile daughters. Elbowed by wives and nudged along by his own warning glance, the men quickly lit again the flame of chatter.
Charles ate slowly, watching his children. The one with the braid . . . now, that must be Etta, for she was the more modest of the two. That one's gown skimmed the edges of her collarbone, and she wore no bangles about her wrists or waist.
So it was Rica who had left her hair loose save for a small weaving of gillyflowers and lavender, Rica whose womanly curves swelled above a low-cut gown, Rica whose hands made bells ring on her bracelets. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. For though her head was demurely lowered as Rudolf next to her whispered something into her ear, he saw her smile in the strangely ripe way she had, even as a flush stained her cheeks.
A queer release rippled through him. Perhaps there would be no trouble over this betrothal. He'd not even known he was worried until the pair had met in his chamber this afternoon.
What a fine marriage they would make! Both were so strong and fair, and Rica was sturdy, unlike many of her class. She would bear fine sons. Rudolf, in spite of his wearying piety, was healthy, and he carried the blood of the noble Brumaths in his veins.
Charles looked at Etta, sitting quietly. Perhaps there was even hope for this girl. Surely there would be some lad willing to trade her silence for her beauty. Someone gentle but a bit stupid.
He scanned the trestle tables. Ah, he thought, spying the son of a squire—a black-haired youth of some bearing. Hugh was famed for his handling of difficult horses, but even his mother admitted that was the extent of his intelligence.
Charles lifted his cup. Perhaps. There was not only the matter of her silence, however, but that of her virginity. Sobering, he touched his belly, aching now even with the bland food he was allowed.
He must somehow see them both settled before the year was through. Then he could die in peace.
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HEART
OF A
KNIGHT
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara Samuel
Dance of Desire
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "You have bewitched them all, Lord Thomas," she said lightly. "All the women in the village, and Alice, who sings your praises to the very sun, and Nurse."
"And you, my lady?" he asked quietly.
She did not answer for a long moment, and Thomas grew aware of the movement of her breasts below the shift, and the faintly hurried sound of her breath. Had she been anyone else, he might have pulled her to him then, kissed that smooth brow and the straight nose, and both of her eyelids.
But, although he felt the ethereal spirit of desire tangling around them, causing the very air to dance, he did not move.
PROLOGUE
Woodell Castle
Candlemas Eve, 1351
On a cold Candlemas Eve, the peasants of Woodell Village crowded into the church. They huddled there for warmth as much as for the mass, for beyond the walls raged a blizzard that had not stopped in three days. Candles burned in the gloom, flickering against the gusts that could not entirely be kept out, and Mary Gillian's baby cried in bursts from the teeth pushing through his gums, giving voice to shivering number. Weary they were of winter, and longed for the warmth of spring.
Tall Mary, so called for her ungainly height and to separate her from the other two Marys in the village, clutched her warm, woolen cloak around her. She gave silent thanks to Lady Elizabeth for it, even if she had ridden off and left the villagers here to face the uncertain future alone.
The church doors suddenly burst open, letting in the cold and the night and the wind. The frightened villagers turned as one. Tall Mary's heart pinched with terror as she thought of the brigands from the forest who had so plagued them these past few months.
A giant stood in the arched doorway. Black hair fell wet and wild around his head, and his mantle was soaked. Behind him, snow rose in fierce whirls, white against the night.
But Mary saw at once the rich mail he wore, finer even than Lord Philip's, and she knew he was no thief. He moved into the church a few steps, and Mary, who sat toward the back, had a clear look at him. The hair would be thick and nearly black when dry, and even through the week's growth of beard on his cheeks she saw the aristocratic cut of his chin and nose, the unmistakable intelligenc
e in his eyes and high brow. He wore a fine green mantle with gold all around the edge, and at his waist hung a great sword with jewels set into the handle. He stood there, blinking, as if he were ill.
As the villagers stared, silent as awed children, a woman sailed past the knight. She was not of the same cloth as he. Mary saw the rough weave of her cloak, the threadbare places on her veil, the simple wooden cross hung about her neck.
Still, she moved as if she knew what she was about—striding up the good stone tiles of the nave to kneel at the altar. She bowed her head and crossed herself, then turned to face the villagers, putting her back to the priest, who stood with his mouth agape at her boldness.
Mary clutched her warm cloak to her chest, imprinting the scene upon her mind in all its detail. Around winter fires for years to come, this story would be told, and Mary would tell it best, for that was her only gift: remembering the things others forgot, and weaving them into a grand tale. She would remember to speak of the yellow light of the many candles burning in the gloom, and how that light glinted on the gold in his mantle, and how the jewels winked in the hilt of that great sword.
And she would remember the woman, standing before them to say, "My lord seeks shelter," as she pointed to the knight. "Will ye give him leave to sleep in the deserted castle there, in exchange for his sword to protect you?"
The villagers gaped at her. Mary peeked at the man through her lashes, now admiring the thick muscles of his thighs beneath wet cloth.
John Wood stood. "I say we let him. The Lady Elizabeth cared little enough for our health and happiness."
A shout of agreement rose.
So it was that the knight was taken to the castle, where a fire was made for him, and food cooked. And at last, Mary herself led him to the finest chamber in the keep, where curtains hung round the bed, and even a rich Arabian carpet covered the floor. The knight knelt and touched it with his hand. "I've never seen such a thing," he said, the first words he had spoke.
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