Then another aspect of his question occurred to her: Telor had not expected her to take anything she had not been made free of, even though there was no reason at all not to take it. That was wildly different from her whole life’s experience, and she considered what it meant in terms of remaining with Telor—if he were willing to keep her. Perhaps his silence and irritability when he spoke to her was because his decision about her was teetering on a knife edge. If that were true, then anything she did that disgusted him or showed her to be less than he expected would push him toward letting her go. Carys was not sure what she wanted herself—except for being absolutely certain she wanted the decision to be hers.
She touched Telor and said, “I thought the food was given for value by the alewife, that it was what you had left because Deri could not eat. If I took what I should not, I am very sorry.”
Telor freed one hand from his rein to pat Carys’s, which lay lightly, as if uncertain of its reception, on his arm. He was aware of a feeling of surprise at how well everything was going after all the bad news they had had the previous day. Chippasham lay just over the rise of ground ahead, and there was still no sign of trouble. If their luck held and the town and the road east were free of war, they would be in Combe before dark. And what had seemed like such bad luck—picking up Carys—had not turned out so ill at all. Of course, had she been the slovenly drab she looked to be when they found her or the kind of coarse, shrill animal who usually managed to survive in a troupe of players, he might have been in real difficulty in Castle Combe. Instead, she was a charming, modest girl, who seemed, miraculously, to have escaped the worst corruption of the women among the traveling players. She even spoke correctly, with an accent very like his own; perhaps she came from Bristol.
“No, no,” Telor said. “You did nothing wrong. It was Deri’s breakfast you ate.” His voice had a smiling sound as he went on, “I am sure he will say you were welcome to it.”
“She was,” the deeper voice of the dwarf put in, “and you would do me a favor if you would stop talking about food.”
Carys laughed, a gentle cascade of sound that even made Deri smile. She was delighted with the response her probe with regard to honesty had received. Now she knew two things that Telor demanded—cleanliness and honesty.
“I am glad you did not say to stop talking altogether, for I have a question I must ask. Am I to be a girl or a boy if we go into Chippasham?”
The question made Telor stop his horse again and turn fully in the saddle so he could look Carys up and down. He did not answer while his eyes passed over her, and she did not flinch from him, merely looking back questioningly. Telor grimaced. She was even more attractive than she had been earlier, for her fox-red hair, now completely dry, curled wildly around her little pointed face, and her eyes were a sparkling dark gold in bright daylight.
Telor looked away, sighed, and started the horse again. “I cannot believe anyone would take you for a boy.”
“Oh, yes,” Carys assured him. “People see what they expect to see—all but a very few. If you say ‘boy,’ they will ‘see’ boy. Also, I will change my walk”—she laughed lightly—“when I can walk, and change the way I use my hands and speak too. But these clothes will not help. If I pull the tunic up over my belt to wear it short like a boy, it will be seen that the braies are far too long.”
“Apprentice boys are often given clothes too large because they are expected to grow.”
“Yes…” Carys drew the word out doubtfully. “But no boy could be expected to grow into this length.”
“A minstrel’s apprentice must be decently dressed,” Telor agreed, and then, distracted by a different problem, which the word minstrel brought into his mind, asked, “Can you sing?”
“Yes, of course.” Carys was surprised at the question. She thought every player could sing and dance, at least enough to make one in a seeming chorus even if voice and grace were somewhat lacking; her voice and grace were not lacking. “I can play the Jew’s harp a little too,” she offered, and then added anxiously, “but only a very little, a few chords. It is not my skill.”
“I will not ask you to play duets with me.”
“Good.” The word was spoken lightly, but Carys was pleased because Telor sounded amused rather than annoyed. He was too sure of himself to be envious of any ability she had at music, she thought, and that was very good.
“I might be forced to have you sing, though,” he went on thoughtfully. “Mayhap no one will notice you; there will be many guests and many servants, but you must be able to perform if I am asked why I took an apprentice.”
“I sing well enough for that,” Carys said, “especially if they think me a boy. My voice is not too high and very clear. I played a boy sometimes.”
Telor did not react to that odd statement—usually boys played women’s roles—because his mind had gone back to the long braies. He hoped most sincerely that Carys would escape notice, but de Dunstanville was a prying kind of person. If it came to his ears that Telor had taken an apprentice, he was very likely to want to see the “boy” and give Telor orders about whether or not to keep him. Any oddity in appearance must be avoided. The braies would have to be shortened so they would not fall down as they had in the alehouse.
“Can you sew?” Telor asked.
“No,” Carys replied immediately and forcefully.
She did not associate the question with her remark about the braies being too long, and she knew what happened to women who could sew. They spent every free moment in mending, sometimes to the detriment of practice time. She was very tempted to stay with Telor, but not if he intended to make her their cook and sewing woman.
“Oh, well, it does not matter,” he said, rather surprised at her vehemence. “I can stitch well enough to fasten up the braies.”
Regretting now that she had sounded so shrewish but still unwilling to have anything to do with sewing, Carys said, “No one ever taught me. I do not remember my mother, and Morgan certainly could not sew.”
The poor girl was ashamed at her lack of womanly accomplishments, Telor thought. That was why she sounded angry. “It does not matter,” he repeated gently. “You can do something better.”
The horses were coming to the top of the rise as Telor spoke, and he gestured Deri to move to the side of the road near the trees, where they would be less visible. On the crest, he stopped once more and looked down toward the town. The distant fields, green with early crops, seemed unharmed, and Telor thought he could make out a small figure here and there working unhurriedly. He looked at Deri, who had brought his pony alongside.
“Well?” Telor asked.
“It looks safe enough,” the dwarf answered slowly, shading his eyes with one hand, “but let me ride ahead while you stitch up the braies.” Then he turned his head, frowning against the ache, and looked at Carys. “You had better ride astride from here. A boy would not sit to the side, and you had better hide that dress and shift.”
Without waiting for a reply from either Carys or Telor, Deri began to unfasten the pack mule’s lead from his saddle. Telor looped his reins over his pommel, took Carys’s hands, and helped her slide to the ground, which made it easier for him to dismount. Deri handed her the mule’s lead and started off. Carys was frightened for a moment, wondering if she could get out of the way if the beast decided to run after Deri, but the animal stood placidly, only switching its tail. Timidly, Carys stretched a hand to stroke the mule’s neck. It had a soft, warm feel to it that she liked, and the mule, used to good treatment, whickered softly in acknowledgment of the caress. Telor, who had tied his horse and come to take the mule, laughed.
“Deri spoils her,” he said, “but she is a good creature, gentle and clever and not at all stubborn. In fact, when Doralys sets her hooves and will not move, it is most wise to look carefully for what is wrong.”
Smiling, Carys dropped a little curtsy. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doralys.”
“If we are to be formal,”
Telor said, putting out his arm for Carys to lean on and helping her hobble to the sapling where his horse was tied, “I must also introduce you to Teithiwr, who, I regret to say, has more brawn than brain but also has a pleasant temper.”
The words and the obvious pleasure Telor had taken in her tentative approach to the mule encouraged Carys to pat the horse’s shoulder and say, “I thank you, good sir, for your kindness in carrying me so patiently.”
The animal, which was grazing, ignored her. Telor, who had bundled the dress and shift into a saddlebag and was opening another, shook his head. “Stupid beast. If he were not, he would attend to you on the chance of getting an apple or a carrot instead of grass.”
“Maybe you underestimate him,” Carys said very seriously “The grass is fresh and green at this time of year, whereas the apple would be very old, most likely rotten, and the carrot would be much too young, hardly more than a thread.”
Telor laughed again as he turned toward her, unwrapping a stout piece of woolen cloth that had a needle and two pins stuck into it and held a few small windings of yarn. “But horses prefer rotten apples,” he explained. “They will eat all they can find under a tree and get drunker than Deri was last night.” Then he looked at her and shook his head. One of the legs of the braies had come down and was piled in creases around her ankle, covering her foot. He came close and went down on one knee, saying, “Fold the leg to the right length, and I will stitch it up.”
Carys did as she was told, but she eyed the needle, which Telor was threading, with some apprehension. “Are you going to sew it on my leg?” she asked at last.
“Why not?” Telor responded. “That will be quickest.”
Not wishing to say that she suspected he might sew her to the braies, Carys sought wildly for some other objection to state. “But…but I do not think it will look right to have the folded-up part on the outside, and it will show when I am astride the horse. Also, I cannot yet stand for long on my bad ankle, and you cannot sew while I am sitting.”
“You will have to take the braies off, then,” Telor remarked indifferently.
He did not feel quite as indifferent as he sounded. There had been women enough in Telor’s wandering life, from great ladies, who wished to know if the tall minstrel was as romantic as his songs, to village maidens, who found in his gentle manner and refined speech an irresistible simulacrum of their dreams of a noble lover. In every case he had done his very best to fulfill each woman’s dream, and he had heartily enjoyed the pleasure he brought his partners. But knowing the kind of life the art he loved required him to lead, Telor had never thought of wooing a woman. All the advances, subtle or blatant, had come from them, and somehow part of the spice of winning the favor of coupling was lacking. Besides, for Telor there was an emptiness in the taking and giving; it was not true sharing and could not be renewed and built upon to create a solid edifice of devotion.
There was no sexual overtone in Carys’s words or manner, yet when Telor suggested she take off her braies, he felt excitement stir in him, a warmth stealing across his loins and the faint, indefinable, but exquisitely pleasurable sensation as his shaft filled. And oddly, her curt nod of agreement, which was actually as indifferent as his remark had attempted to be, increased his excitement.
He was shocked and somewhat repulsed when she pulled up her tunic right in front of him and untied the braies, but that disappeared when he saw her carefully pull down the shirt so that it covered her to her knees. The modest gesture made the tide of passion rise in him until Telor was grateful that he was kneeling so that his physical reaction was hidden.
Except that to Carys, who had spent a third of her short life avoiding sexual advances, Telor’s feeling was clear as soon as she looked at him. Originally, her attention had been concentrated on removing the braies while hiding her knives and not losing the fold that showed the proper length, so she had sunk down to the ground quite near Telor as soon as she slid them over her buttocks under the cover of the shirt. When she had the braies free of her feet, turned inside out and folded as they should be sewed, she reached out to hand them to Telor. Their eyes met; Carys gasped and dropped the braies. Instinctively she grabbed for the tunic and pulled it down too, right over her feet, which she curled under her defensively.
The slight flush that passion had raised in Telor’s face was deepened by embarrassment. Unfortunately, the knowledge that Carys had perceived his desire only intensified it, nor did her shrinking from him make her less desirable. Not that Telor took any pleasure in Carys’s fear. He reacted to that in the only way he could reassure her without words, by snatching up the braies and turning away from her.
Startled by his sudden movement, Carys gasped again as fear of abandonment for refusing him replaced fear of assault. The second alarm was as brief as the first had been, for it was plain that Telor was passing the needle through the cloth, and he would not be doing that if he intended to leave her behind. She stared at the back of his neck, which was very familiar to her from her position on Teithiwr, noting that it was much redder than usual. Was he very angry? she wondered. But Telor did not get red in the face when he was angry—Carys had noticed that when they had quarreled about the bath and about her right to perform. The red was fading before it occurred to her that the man was blushing.
Carys was more puzzled than she had ever been in her whole life. All of her experience told her that men took a woman’s body when they wanted it without asking or caring what she felt. But Telor had twice subdued his desire for her when she showed herself unwilling. That was nearly incomprehensible to her. She had learned how to discourage desire in Morgan and Ulric, but when drink or some other stimulus had wakened it despite her coldness, each had taken her without caring a bit that she was bitterly unwilling. And she was utterly in Telor’s power, even more than she had been in Morgan’s or Ulric’s.
As she watched Telor a very strange feeling took hold of Carys—a desire to reach out and stroke the back of his neck, which somehow looked innocent and defenseless, an impulse to give him whatever he desired, to make him happy. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. That would be a stupid thing to do, she told herself. Today he was gentle, but who knew what he would be like tomorrow; perhaps he only restrained himself because she was still strange to him or because, despite what he had said about her craft lowering the value of his, he hoped to make a profit out of her. And anyhow, she knew that lust brought out the very worst in men. It would be crazy to show a willingness to couple with a man to whose company she was bound for a time. The ugly thoughts brought a weight to her chest and a lump to her throat, and a little shuddering breath, half sob, escaped her.
“Do not fear me, Carys,” Telor said, turning his head but not his body toward her. “I will not harm you.”
“But it is your right.” Carys choked on the words, hardly believing she had said them and unable to stop herself from adding, “I owe you my life and many lesser things also—the food in my belly, the comfort of—”
“Do not be a fool,” Telor snapped, bending over his sewing again. “I did for you no more than any man owes to any other by Christ’s law. If there is a debt, you may pay it by succoring someone who needs help in the future.”
Instead of the simple words “thank you,” Carys felt another argument rising to her lips in favor of paying her debt in a more direct way by filling his present need. She clapped a hand over her mouth, wondering what was wrong with her. After a shocked instant she realized that she actually wished to couple with Telor and had lied to herself about it. That was as puzzling as Telor’s behavior. Carys felt shaken; all the premises on which her world rested seemed to be falling apart. Why hide from herself that she desired a man? She had had similar impulses in the past, albeit not often, and had never hesitated to satisfy them. And that was the answer, Carys thought. Each time she felt she had found a man who could give her what other women spoke of, she had been disappointed—and she did not wish to be disappointed by Telor. She liked Telor.
Just then he got to his feet to hand back the braies, and seeing her expression, he bent to take her chin in his other hand. “Come, Carys, we will go along better together if you put this idea out of mind. I do not mean to make light of your gratitude. I understand it, but I am a man, not a green boy, and I do not need to have you pay such a price. Now put on the braies and forget the whole thing.”
He then walked away a few yards up the road and stood with his back to her, seemingly watching for Deri’s return. Carys drew on the garment, barely managing to pay enough attention to what she was doing to prevent her toes from catching in the large stitches and ripping out Telor’s work. She was a prey to so many mingled emotions that she felt dizzy, but soon an exasperated amusement came out on top. It was all very well for Telor to tell her to forget his desire, that he could master it, but what was she to do about her own?
Chapter 5
Carys had found no answer to the question she had asked herself even when they reached Castle Combe late in the afternoon. Telor had not spoken to her again until after Deri returned. The dwarf’s presence seemed to break a current that Carys had felt flowing between herself and Telor. In fact, although she knew it was impossible, she felt as if she had been assaulted by waves of “wanting” all the time Telor had stood with his back to her looking out at the road.
She told herself that she must be imagining it, that no one could tell what a man was thinking and feeling from the set of his back. And the fear that she would make herself ridiculous—as well as entangling herself in a situation she might bitterly regret—kept her from any overt word or action. Nonetheless, imaginary or not, that sense of aching desire held in check was waking in her a strange and violent response. Her small, hard breasts felt fuller and softer, the nipples uncomfortably prominent and sensitive, and peculiar warm ripples in her thighs and groin tempted her to open her legs.
The Rope Dancer Page 7