by Alexa Aston
Lost in his reverie, he didn’t notice when the woman left. Edward stepped back and saw she was now missing. The companion she’d stood by offered him a friendly smile.
“Not a pilgrim come to see Becket, but one wishing to pay homage to our famous Black Prince?”
“I have heard many stories of him,” Edward said, reminding himself to remain in his role of Edward Munn, a simple worker and not a knight who aspired to be like the Black Prince.
“This is the man who should have been England’s king,” the older man said firmly. “His son makes a mockery of his grandfather’s ways.”
The stranger’s words shocked Edward to his core. If spoken in London, ’twould be considered treason. Edward felt tainted merely standing next to someone who had voiced such a blasphemous opinion. He tried to mask his surprise but he obviously failed.
“I have disturbed you, my friend. If so, I am sorry,” the man apologized.
“Excuse me.” Edward turned away and left the chapel, not wanting to be lured into a conversation with the outspoken fellow. He would return another time to see the rest of the chapel and study the architecture of the church in more detail.
What he wanted to do now was find the mystery woman.
He hurried outside and scanned the crowded street in front of him, looking in both directions. Luck was with him. He caught sight of her moss green gown and hair, made more golden by the sunshine that fell upon it. Striding her way, he quickly closed the gap between them, thanks to his long legs and her much shorter ones.
As he drew close, he grew curious at the scrolls she carried under one arm. Edward had never seen a woman serve as a messenger and wondered if she delivered missives for a living. Something about her intrigued him like no woman ever before.
He came within a few feet of her, ready to reach out and touch her shoulder—but something held him back.
’Twas his knightly code.
Guilt rose in him. A knight was sworn to tell the truth at all times. How could he speak to this lovely creature and introduce himself by giving her a false name? That was no way to approach a woman, especially one who interested him so. Edward backed off, slowing his pace to allow distance to be created again between them.
But what of when his task had been finished? He would like to meet her then. Leaving matters in Fate’s hands wasn’t good enough. Canterbury was a huge city and he might never lay eyes upon her again.
Edward once more closed the gap between them. He would merely see where she went and that she arrived at her destination safely. If she went into a cottage and stayed, he might assume she resided within and he would know where to go when his time in Canterbury came to an end. But what good would that do him? To meet an intriguing woman and then leave the next day, never to see her again?
What foolishness had overcome him?
Still, he continued to follow her and decided he would make sure she got to where she headed without a problem. He thought it odd that she was unaccompanied and used that as an excuse to shadow her.
Suddenly, he heard something rumbling in the distance, above the din of the street noises. Then a scream. Then more. His eyes looked ahead and saw a team of horses running wild, with no driver to slow them.
And they ran straight for the woman.
With a burst of speed, Edward reached her seconds before the uncontrolled horses did. He flung himself through the air, knocking her out of the way in the nick of time.
They both landed hard on the ground, Edward falling on top of her and then scrambling off so as not to crush her. He quickly came to his feet and latched on to her elbows, drawing her up.
The deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen met his. Her mouth fell open. Nothing came out.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I . . . I think so.” She looked around. “What happened?”
“Someone must have lost control of their team of horses. They stormed toward you.”
“I could have been killed,” she whispered. Her eyes grew larger and she licked her full, bottom lip, causing something to stir within him.
“I am Edward. Edward Munn.”
The woman bestowed a radiant smile upon him. “And I am Rosalyne Parry.”
“’Tis a good name for you, for roses seem to bloom in your cheeks.” Edward winced after the poetic words left his lips. He never said anything that wasn’t practical. To blurt out something whimsical like that to a woman he had just met was unthinkable.
“I thank you for the compliment, Edward Munn.” She smiled a moment longer and then it dissipated. “Oh, no!” she cried. “My sketches!”
Edward looked and saw the wind had carried them away. Rosalyne broke away from him and began chasing the parchments as they blew down the street.
Though he did not know the significance of the drawings, he knew they meant a great deal to her. He would save them—and learn something about this woman who intrigued him so.
Edward raced past Rosalyne. He planned to retrieve every bit of parchment.
And gain a few answers along the way.
Chapter 6
Rosalyne scrambled after her drawings. She had spent far too long on them only to lose them because of an unexpected accident. If she could save the single one the archbishop approved of, all would be well.
The trouble was, she didn’t know which one that was—and didn’t have time to inspect a page when she retrieved it.
The man who’d saved her from what most likely could have been death raced by her. His long legs covered twice the ground that she could in half the time. He grabbed one of the parchments and kept running. She tried to keep up with him as he dodged between people and carts and behind stalls. Finally, Rosalyne gave up, out of breath. She moved from the middle of the road and watched as he collected every one of her sketches.
Without breaking stride, he hurried back to her, hitching the bag he carried back up on his shoulder. As he approached, she admired his tall, muscular frame and handsome looks. His hair seemed dark at first but glints of burnished auburn shone through in the bright sunlight. A strong jaw and sensual lips drew her in. She had been mesmerized by his hazel eyes, seeing both greens and browns within them in the short time they had spoken together.
“I think I have them all,” he said as he reached her. “Were there five total?”
“Aye.” Rosalyne watched as he placed one atop another, resting them on his knee so they didn’t touch the ground. He rolled them up as a group and handed them over to her.
“Much thanks, Edward Munn,” she said gratefully and winced as she reached out to collect the drawings from him. Her left wrist throbbed painfully. It hadn’t bothered her during all of the excitement but now that she had her artwork in hand, she realized she must have injured it in the fall when Edward pushed her from the path of danger.
He shrugged. “They seemed important to you. And ’twas partly my fault that you lost them.” He paused. “May I ask what they are for?”
“Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll tell you? I feel I owe you something. At least a cup of ale.” She slipped the parchments under her left arm and tried to keep the wrist of that hand still.
Edward grinned. “I have never been a man to turn down a cup of ale, least of all if offered to me by a charming woman.” He offered her his arm and she slipped her good right hand into the crook.
“Why don’t I carry them for you?” he asked. When she didn’t speak, he added, “I promise nothing will happen to them. If any more wild horses come our way, I’ll run like the wind with your drawings—even if I must leave you behind to fend for yourself against the runaway beasts.”
She chuckled. “All right.”
Taking the group of parchments, he secured them under his arm. “Which way?”
Rosalyne led him down the street, enjoying the nearness of him. His arm seemed hewn from rock where she gripped it. He smelled wonderful, a mix of something masculine that gave her a heady feeling. Never had she reacted to a man in such a
way. She seemed almost lightheaded as her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. A swirl of something ran inside her, something she couldn’t put a name to.
But it felt splendid, all the same.
They strolled at a leisurely pace as Rosalyne asked, “What do you do in Canterbury, Edward?”
“Nothing, so far. I only arrived in the city a few minutes ago. I hope to join the workers who toil on the wall.”
“You should have no problem in being hired. You are young and strong. They are always looking for new men.”
“’Tis good to hear this. I am only a score and I have the strength of two men or more.”
“And you are so modest,” she teased.
Edward laughed. “Should I hide what few talents I possess? I have a hardy back and can lift whatever stones need to be moved. I could easily lift you, Rosalyne, and move you wherever you needed to go.”
She sensed the blush spilling across her cheeks. “My own two feet will get us back to my home, Edward. No need for you to carry me anywhere.”
He gave her a lazy smile, making her heart skip a beat.
“Do you live far?”
“Nay, our cottage is up ahead on the left.” She pointed it out. “The large one on the end, with the enclosed yard.”
They reached the front door and entered. Edward had to duck his head since he was taller than the door’s frame. He placed the rolled drawings on the table. Reluctantly, Rosalyne released his arm.
“This is a large abode,” he noted. “Do you live here with your husband? Your children?”
“Nay, I have no husband. ’Tis my uncle’s place. I have lived with him since I was a babe. My parents both died of fever and Uncle Temp took me in and has cared for me ever since.”
“Was he the man you stood with in Trinity Chapel?” Edward asked.
“You were there?”
“Aye. Visiting the great cathedral was the first thing I did when I arrived in Canterbury. I saw you in the chapel but you stared at the blank wall and saw nothing around you.”
“I was there with Uncle Temp. He is a painter and I assist him in his work.”
“A painter? Why would someone paint the stone walls of a chapel?’
Rosalyne laughed. “Nay, he paints people and panels. Noblemen hire him to paint their portraits. It is becoming a practice within the nobility, to capture your likeness in a picture to pass on to your descendants. Uncle Temp paints several portraits each year. I accompany him to the great houses and prepare the surface of the wood and mix his paints.”
“You do?” He gave her an appreciative glance. “That is most unusual. I would enjoy hearing you tell me about this process.” He thought a moment. “But the sketches I saw were not for portraits, were they?”
“Nay. Archbishop Courtenay commissioned Uncle to create a new panel for Trinity Chapel. He and I had come from a meeting where the archbishop approved the final sketch to use in the project. Uncle Temp showed me where the panel would rest inside the chapel today. I wanted to see the space so I could envision where the triptych would be displayed.”
“And your uncle needs to view his sketch while he paints this panel?”
“Of course. Some artists refer constantly to the sketch they’ve made while they paint. Others actually duplicate the sketch faintly on the wood itself and then use it as a guide while their brush strokes over it.”
“Hmm. Which does your uncle do?”
“Actually, he has used both methods in the past.”
But Rosalyne preferred drawing what she would paint directly onto the wood. That was why having the exact sketch she had labored on for hours proved critical. She wanted to use it to include every detail before she ever picked up her brushes. It would aid her immensely as she painted since tempera paint dried at a fast rate. An artist had to commit quickly and be assertive with the brush when working with this paint.
“Please, have a seat, Edward,” she told him. “I have been remiss. I promised to offer you ale. I will return shortly.”
Rosalyne went to their kitchen and tried to pour the ale but her wrist had now begun to swell. She found it difficult to do anything with one hand and groaned in frustration.
“Do you need help?” Edward stood in the doorway, his large frame filling it.
She frowned. “I seem to have injured my wrist when I fell. It is troubling me some.”
But what really troubled her was that she needed both hands to begin work on the panel. Rosalyne drew and painted with her right hand but she needed both of them to attach the wood planks together and sand them down, as well as glue the linen atop the wood and apply multiple layers of gesso. She feared the injured wrist would stall the process and knew her uncle’s unsteady hand could not replace hers. She had yet to begin the panel and she was already far behind.
Tears welled in her eyes as frustration built within her.
“You are distressed. In pain,” Edward said. “Let me help you.”
Rosalyne angrily brushed a falling tear away with her good hand. “What can you do?”
He smiled. “More than you think. My sister, Alys, is a healer and she practiced on my two brothers and me while we were growing up. Mother would give us different complaints to act out and it was up to Alys to determine what ailment we had and work to bring us back to good health.”
“There were four of you?” she asked wistfully. “I always longed for a brother or sister.”
“Not four but six of us. I also have two younger sisters.”
“Where are all of them now?”
She watched him frown a moment and wondered why he was reluctant to share information about his siblings.
Finally, he spoke. “Alys married and has children of her own. Her twin, Ancel, works the land with his wife, Margery. My brother, Hal, has gone to London to try and earn his fortune. Nan and Jessimond are still at home with our parents.”
“And you left to come to Canterbury, to do the same as Hal?”
“Aye. I did not want to farm. I would rather use my hands. Canterbury seemed to be a place of opportunity. But enough talk about my family. Let me examine your wrist and see if I can bring you some relief.”
Rosalyne offered it to him. It amazed her that a man with hands so large could be so gentle as he ran his fingers around her wrist and probed it. A sensation of butterflies flapping their wings erupted in her belly and she swallowed, trying to tamp down the giddy feeling.
As Edward manipulated her wrist, he said, “I actually learned quite a bit from Alys. For instance, I know to rub the slime of a live snail against a burn. If you do, ’twill heal quickly.”
Rosalyne shuddered. “Then I am glad I don’t suffer from a burn. I cannot imagine allowing a wriggling snail to rub against my skin.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“The good news is that it is not broken, only sprained. Tell me how your wrist feels now,” Edward said. “I can see it’s slightly swollen when compared to your other wrist.”
“It is somewhat tender. I feel mild pain but nothing severe.”
“Even better. I wouldn’t begin to guess what type of poultice you should put on it. It may bruise some but you haven’t injured it greatly. It should be good as new in two to three days but that means you must rest it until then. I know Alys would wrap it tightly and have you keep it elevated.” He thought a moment. “I can also make you a sling. That way ’twill be cradled against you and you won’t be tempted to use it. Do you have some cloth that I can use to fashion one?”
“Aye. I will retrieve it for you.” Rosalyne went to her bedchamber and found a long length of material that would work. She paused and took a deep breath before re-entering the room. The effect this stranger had on her confused to her no end.
But his company proved fascinating.
“Will this work?” she asked.
Edward nodded and took the cloth from her, using his teeth to split it before he yanked hard to tear it apart. He wrapped the smaller piece around her wrist several times, binding it fir
mly and tucking in the end carefully to keep it in place. Then he stepped behind her and reached around, placing her wrist against the material. His chest brushed against her back, causing frissons of electricity to skirt through her. He brought the ends up and tied them behind her head, his fingers brushing against her neck. The blood pounded in Rosalyne’s ears.
Edward turned her around by her shoulders so that she faced him. They stood so close that she feared he would see her cotehardie jump from her heart bumping fiercely against it. Rosalyne stared into Edward’s dreamy, hazel eyes, bewitched by them. She fought going up on tiptoe to place her lips against his. Never had she kissed a man before—and never had she longed to do so.
Until now.
“That should hold it in place,” Edward said, his voice like a silken caress.
They stood gazing into one another’s eyes until the sound of the front door creaking open startled her. Rosalyne stepped back guiltily, feeling her face flame.
Uncle Temp entered the room and stopped in his tracks, a puzzled look pinching his brows together. “What’s this?” he asked. “Why, ’tis the stranger from Trinity Chapel. What are you doing here?”
She quickly said, “This is Edward Munn, Uncle. Edward, my uncle, Templeton Parry. This man saved my life today and the sketches you drew for the archbishop.”
Her uncle closed the door behind him and faced them. “How so?” Then he studied her more closely. “What has happened to you, Rosalyne? Why is your arm in a sling?”
“I am fine, Uncle, but I promised Edward a generous cup of ale for coming to my rescue. I’m also famished. Would you help me bring in food and drink and we shall tell you the story?” She looked at their guest. “Please, have a seat, Edward. We will return shortly.”