A Tender Magic

by Linda Madl

  With that she replaced the shining lock and the ring into the open box and handed it to Garrett.

  He took it carefully, studying with great curiosity the long golden curl lying twisted on a cushion of green velvet. He glanced searchingly at Leandra again. She watched him with somber apprehension.

  Something stirred inside Garrett's chest, something deep, troubling, and forbidden. Something he didn't want to acknowledge. Yet to stare at the thick braid of golden hair resting on her shoulder enthralled him. To behold the loose lock of her hair in the box was daringly intimate. A sharing of something that she offered only to her betrothed—to her lover. With concentrated effort he resisted the desire to caress the golden lock while all the people in the great hall watched.

  Someone coughed and cleared his throat, someone who sounded like Father John.

  Garrett dragged his gaze from the golden curl and remembered why he stood in front of all these people and this solemn young woman. He snapped the gift box closed and took a deep breath. “My lord, Reginald, will be most pleased with such a distinctive and unique gift. I shall forward this to him immediately. I know that he will be eager to wear the ring of Lyonesse's great oak and to tie the lock of his betrothed's hair to his helmet."

  Approval roared from the vassals.

  A smile of relief flickered across the lady's face, soft yet brilliant, and so utterly disarming that his dislike of her nearly melted. He grinned, his confidence regained and his heart oddly lightened. Somehow he had said the right words. The lady knew how to smile, and she was truly lovely when she did. Success was his despite the surrender.

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  Chapter Four

  "THE FEAST WILL begin!” Highlord Aidan called out. He struggled to his feet and motioned to the servants to set up the tables and spread the white cloths. The minstrels immediately began to pipe a lively tune. “Come, join your lord's betrothed for the meal, my son,” Aidan called. “Sit, sit. There is room for your men, too."

  Conversation filled the hall once more. Garrett relaxed a little when Leandra almost smiled at him as he sat beside her. In silence and without touching, they washed their hands in the bowl of rosewater offered by a page.

  The kitchen procession boasted platter after platter of delectable and artfully arranged courses. There was even a cockatrice—an amusing delicacy made of a spice-stuffed capon and a suckling pig sewn together and garnished with feathers and fruit.

  He watched a blush spread across Lady Leandra's face when the jester—complete in his bell-trimmed suit of colors—rode into the hall astride a donkey. In one hand he balanced a silver platter of a carefully wrought subtlety. The traditional marzipan had been sculptured into the form of cupid, complete with bow and arrow.

  "The cupid,” she said, glancing at him from beneath dark lashes. In her embarrassment she pinkened prettily. “'Tis in honor of the earl and me."

  "Of course.” The delicate color that flooded into her cheeks distracted him. Perhaps she was not a conventional maid that he could approve of, but near enough to deserve his best. Taking his supping knife from his belt, he began to carve meat, his duty as a guest. She refused to eat much, but he attended her with pride because he knew—and he'd often been told—that taking care of a lady at the table was among his finer accomplishments.

  Midway through the serving of the cockatrice, the abbey bells rang vespers, and the hall grew quiet. The guests rose.

  Bewildered, Garrett joined the assembly in rising respectfully. Leandra turned to her father and waited. The feast marshal helped Highlord Aidan from the table.

  "I go to my evening prayers now, children.” The old man raised his hands in a gesture of blessing, much as a priest would. “Make merry and show our guests a good time.” With a farewell nod in Garrett's direction, the highlord grasped his staff, stepped stiffly from the dais, and toiled down the length of the hall and out the door—a wise man sojourning to his mountaintop.

  When the doors closed behind him, the assembly heartily resumed wolfing down food, guzzling drink, and doing their best to follow their lord's instructions. Garrett noted the lady found nothing amiss in this. Apparently she took so much on herself because her father was always in his chapel.

  As the trenchers were being cleared away, the highlord's niece ensconced herself in the vacant chair next to him.

  "Remember me? I'm Leandra's cousin and her waiting lady.” She planted her chin in the palm of her hand and leaned forward so that her breasts plumped against the scoop neckline of her gown.

  She regarded him with a look of admiration that made him sit back uncomfortably in his chair.

  "I remember,” he said. “You're the maid with a harp."

  "Yes, but I sing little,” she said. “Mostly I'm waiting for a husband. I haven't had the great good fortune to have an earl ask for my hand."

  He smiled at her joke, but avoided letting his gaze linger on those ripe breasts. She was a pretty thing, with dark curls and clear gray gaze, complemented by her amber velvet gown. But the coyness that glinted in her eyes and twitched at the corners of her mouth made him wary. “I'm sure a lovely maid such as you will find a worthy husband soon."

  "At Tremelyn perchance,” she suggested. “Have you been telling Leandra all about Tremelyn?"

  Leandra pushed her trencher aside. “Yes, Sir Garrett, we would like to hear about Lord Reginald's castle and about what you have brought us in the cogs."

  "If it pleases you, my lady,” he began, with a glance at Leandra. She nodded encouragement. This was part of what he'd been sent to do. He cleared his throat and began with the things Reginald had told him to say. “Tremelyn is a fine castle with a vast great hall and a large orchard. It is appointed in every way to be a comfortable home. ‘Tis well-built on high ground to withstand sieges. Just beyond the walls is a fine forest for hunting—"

  "What is the royal suite like?” Brenna interrupted.

  Garrett paused long enough to change his train of thought. “For the royal suite new silk has been spun and fine fabrics woven for the bed hangings. The earl's royal crest and Lyonesse's device is being sewn into a fine tapestry to be hung above—"

  Lady Leandra tapped her finger on the table. “That all sounds very nice, Sir Garrett. But in truth, I'm more interested in what arms the earl has sent for Lyonesse's protection."

  Garrett closed his mouth and stared at Leandra. The soft smile he glimpsed on her lips earlier was gone. Did she truly wish to speak of such military matters here and now? She returned an expression of sober expectation. Dutifully, he struggled to make the mental leap from suitor-once-removed to knight again.

  Brenna touched his shoulder. “So you see Leandra is like our sergeant at arms.” She pulled a face that begged indulgence. “She doesn't wear armor like some ladies. But she is a tolerable archer. Do tell us about the wedding plans. Will there be a tourney with handsome knights like you? For the feast, will the earl cut a pie filled with live birds?"

  Lady Leandra demanded his attention by putting a hand on his arm. “We'll talk of the wedding in good time, cousin. Sir, how many men-at-arms? And weapons? What sort and what number?"

  "The pirates are gone, Leandra,” Brenna groaned, leaning across him to speak to her cousin. “Who cares about weapons?"

  With a growing disapproval, Garrett sat back and glared from one lady to the other. How unalike they were. The cousin talked like a bride, and the bride did, indeed, sound like a sergeant of the guard.

  "Arms and fighting men are matters best left to men,” he said to Leandra. “Your father and I will talk of these things on the morrow, when the final betrothal papers are signed.” Then he reached for his goblet and hoped that put an end to the matter.

  Ignoring the silent Leandra, he favored Brenna with a reply. “Yes, I believe there will be the traditional wedding pie with four and twenty blackbirds."

  Lady Brenna clapped her hands in delight. “Good. I love it when they escape and swoop about so everyone dodges and scre
ams. Will there be a royal hunt? You know, the brigands have become so troublesome, we dare not even ride out to hunt without a heavy guard."

  Before Garrett could reply, Leandra rapped him firmly on the arm. Surprised, he turned to find her eyeing him with a fierce gaze. The princess was gone, and Diana the defender had returned. “You will discuss these betrothal details with me."

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd never met a woman like this before.

  "Did not the previous envoy make this clear to you?” Leandra asked. “All agreements are made in my presence with my father's consent."

  "That's true,” Brenna agreed, pushing a crumb of bread about the white tablecloth with her forefinger. “Uncle Aidan always takes Leandra's counsel. But why can't arms talk wait until the morrow? Will the wedding take place in Tremelyn's cathedral?"

  "No. Yes. I mean yes, in the cathedral. No, the envoy was ill. He did not give me details of the negotiations.” Garrett sat back in exasperation and refused to look at either maid. He knew exactly how Daniel felt in the lion's den.

  A motion at the edge of Garrett's vision made him turn to catch a meaningful look from Father John, who sat just down the table from him. The good father's glare of admonition reminded him that his duty was to win the lady and take her to Tremelyn. The rest was up to Reginald.

  "How many men-at-arms?” Lady Leandra demanded in a soft husky voice nonetheless resolute.

  He swallowed his irritation and forced the information to his lips without looking at her. “His lordship sent eighty-five men-at-arms. Thirty-five are bowmen."

  "Experienced or new men?"

  "All veterans. I selected them myself."

  "Excellent,” she said, as if she had every faith in him. His condemnation of her flagged a little. “What weapons do you bring?” she asked.

  "Pikes, crossbows, axes, maces, and longbows—of good Spanish yew. Do you wish to see the manifest now?” He couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone.

  "Spanish yew longbows. Excellent choices. No, I'll review the manifest tomorrow.” She nodded in satisfaction, either ignoring or failing to catch his tone.

  He continued. “Master Cedric is an excellent man to command the garrison. He is capable. Steady. Good with the men. He believes in thorough training and tolerates little rowdiness."

  "Master Cedric?” Leandra asked.

  "Yes. He will command the garrison."

  "You mean you aren't going to be commander?” she exclaimed. She sat back and stared at him, surprise in the lift of her brows. “But you are the knight Lord Reginald sent. He promised me a knight."

  "I am to set up the garrison and begin the training,” Garrett explained patiently as he fingered the stem of his goblet. He sensed danger here. He was not going to stay in Lyonesse. “Then I'll escort you safely to Tremelyn. Those are my orders directly from the earl."

  She regarded him in sharp silence. Inwardly he cursed. What would she object to now? What was she going to demand? He'd expected to sail into Lyonesse bay, to introduce himself to a simpering, grateful maid, and to start giving orders. What folly!

  Once more he mentally railed against Reginald for requiring this impossible undertaking of him—for pitching him against a deceptively delicate creature.

  "You have no faith in Master Cedric?” he asked, hoping to regain whatever ground he'd lost. “I selected the man myself. The earl approved of him. Would you dispute the earl's orders?"

  "Master Cedric may be a very skilled warrior, and he obviously has great concern for his men, but he was not the hero of the day. He does not have your presence,” she explained as if he should agree with her.

  "My what?"

  "So true, cousin,” Brenna agreed.

  Garrett shifted in his chair once more, uncomfortable under Leandra's appraising gaze. Brenna leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Please say you'll stay. If you don't, she won't go. Then what will we do?"

  Lady Leandra ignored her cousin. “Sir Garrett, you are the hero today. The Lyonesse men will follow you. I think it better that you stay here. Sergeant Ralph can escort me to Tremelyn,” she concluded as if the issue was settled and her pronouncement was as good as the earl's order.

  "An escort of your own men is not what my lord intends.” Garrett's forbearance frayed, he spoke through clamped teeth. “Great danger lurks on the road between here and Tremelyn. I will be your escort."

  "Great danger lurks off the shore of Lyonesse,” the lady countered without raising her voice. “Sir Garrett, are you not pledged as a knight to defend the weak? You have seen how weak we are."

  "I am pledged to the earl, and he wishes—"

  Tiny brass bells tinkled between their faces.

  Garrett jumped, and Leandra started. Brenna laughed. The noisome assembly in the hall grew quiet. The minstrels in the gallery above ceased playing.

  Once more the jester shook his handful of bells between Garrett and Leandra. Brenna clapped her hands with victory, then thumped the table with an open hand. “It's time for my dance. You are going to watch me dance, my lady? My lord?"

  Brenna tossed her head and fluttered her eyelashes at Garrett. He sat back in his chair, relieved to have this exchange with Leandra the Lioness interrupted.

  At a sign from Brenna, the minstrels started up the music, rich with the reedy strains of a pipe and the mellow strings of a harp. She danced away, light on her feet, her dark hair swinging across her back.

  To Garrett's surprise, Lady Lioness fell silent and watched her cousin's performance. He, too, was soon caught up in the music's lively beat and the airy melody. Brenna moved lithely, with grace and flow, the sort born of talent and the loving kinship of rhythm and song and body.

  In dismay he watched Wystan twist on his bench, craning his neck to stare spellbound after the swaying skirts of the young temptress.

  When Lady Brenna saw Wystan's obvious admiration, she laughed. Alluringly, she danced across the hall, took the squire's hands in hers, and drew the boy out onto the floor. Red-faced and mesmerized, Wystan's gaze fastened on Brenna's reeling hips. He stumbled over his own feet, his ardor beading his forehead and newly furred lip with perspiration.

  Garrett groaned silently and rubbed a hand across his brow. His little brother still had a lot to learn about women.

  The rowdy vassals cheered their dancing guest, young Squire Wystan, stamped their feet and clapped their hands.

  The hounds, full of banquet scraps, waddled across the floor, scampering a few steps to avoid being trod on, and stretched themselves out on the hall's hearth, near the blazing fire.

  * * * *

  LEANDRA SETTLED BACK in her chair, her gaze on her lively cousin, but her troubled thoughts lingered on the handsome man at her side. How could it be that this knight, the hero of the day, was not the warrior who would command the garrison guard? She had fought through all those long hours of negotiations to win just such a knight from the earl. And now Sir Perfect would not stay.

  She clutched the heavy, oversized betrothal ring tighter in her hand, the smooth gold pressing painfully into her fingers. Sometimes miscalculations required adjustments, as did the ring. She could make the ring fit. Ribbon wrapped through it would make it snug. For Lyonesse's sake, she would leave a fighting man behind when she left.

  Before long others joined the dancing. The jester, Tyler Wotte, was on the dance floor, too. He capered about, making all laugh with his improbable, out-of-rhythm movements. He gamboled up to the head table, gave Leandra a stumbling bow, and invited her to join the dance. She could not refuse.

  With courtesy she turned to Garrett and invited him to join them. His frown was daunting. Relief swept over her when a good-natured grin returned to his face. He stood up, taking her hand full in his as a friend would—not by her little finger with his little finger as a lover would.

  They joined the lively dancing, skipping around the hall in a great, thunderous circle. Sir Garrett laughed with the others and did his part to set the hall arumble with stomping
feet.

  Out of a gaggle of women in the corner blindly stumbled Brenna, a veil tied across her eyes. “Beware! Beware!” she cried, her arms outstretched to grab the nearest body.

  Leandra scolded herself for not remembering that a rowdy game of blindman's bluff was one of her cousin's favorite amusements—when there was a guest she wanted to kiss.

  Brenna swept around in Sir Garrett's direction. He stepped neatly beyond her reach. Those nearby laughed knowingly. Leandra ducked beneath her cousin's grasp and turned in time to see Wystan approach. The crowd grew quiet yet, small bubbles of laughter burst now and again.

  As was the custom of the game, the young squire tugged off his hood, worn loose about his neck, and with it swatted at the hem of Brenna's gown.

  She giggled. “What are you doing? Where did all of you go? I know you're there even though you whisper."

  Wystan swept his hood out just enough to snap at Brenna's skirt again. She squealed and laughed, whirling in his direction. “Who was that? Leandra? Do you bait me?"

  "Not I, cousin,” Leandra called from behind Brenna.

  She watched as Wystan stooped and whipped the hood about once more. Instantly Brenna staggered forward, nearly tripping over the squire. Garrett grabbed his brother's collar and dragged him from the lady's clutches.

  The jester jumped up in Brenna's face.

  Certain that she had whom she wanted in her grasp, the lady threw her arms around Tyler Wotte's neck without removing her blindfold and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

  The jester kissed back—a wet, smacking kiss.

  Leandra smothered giggles behind her hand. The crowd shrieked delight, tears of laughter streaming down the faces of those who'd partaken heavily of the pear cider.

  Suspicious at last, Brenna ripped off the blindfold to come face to face with the grinning jester.