Heart Of A Knight

by Barbara Samuel

  Nurse made a sour face. "Twould be my pleasure to burn it, my lady, but she won't allow it."

  "Perhaps I might arrange an accident," Lyssa said, and smiled. Isobel had outgrown the gown two years before, but she liked it all the more now.

  The bodice fit too tightly, and a good deal of bosom spilled into the low square of the neckline. Isobel adored the attention it drew to her—and she cared little whether it was the meanest villein or the most toothless old man who was inflamed. A troublesome child.

  Nurse lingered. "Won't ye let me pretty you up tonight, my Lyssa?" She touched her cheek. "You've a nice pink look to your cheeks, and our knight in the hall is quite dazzled. 'Twould do you good to be the one they stare at now and again."

  Lyssa brushed the hand away, not unkindly, and kissed her cheek. "I've no love of their pawing and grunting."

  "Ah, my sweet, you—"

  Gently, Lyssa pushed her. They had traveled this ground many a time, and Lyssa had no wish to hear it again. "Go. Tend my troublesome stepdaughter and see that she does not create a riot in my hall before supper."

  Alone, Lyssa flung open the trunk that held her gowns. Most she had not seen in the better part of a year, and many were made of fabrics she'd woven herself. She took deep pleasure in fingering them, remembering a day weaving these threads, or spinning those. Some she had forgotten completely.

  But as she tried to select one from the collection, none seemed right. A vision of Isobel in her red tunic made anything Lyssa might select seem a poor second.

  With her hand on a soft yellow wool, dyed with marigold petals, Lyssa scowled. Never had she cared what men thought of her. She was not Isobel, displaying herself for hungry admiration. She had no need of it. Nor any understanding of Isobel's need of it.

  There seemed to be some vital womanly thing missing from Lyssa's heart. As a girl, she had giggled with Tall Mary about kisses, and hung on every word of her tales of bedsport, but never had she spun fantasies of particular males, as the other girls did. She'd had few men to dream of, it was true. Woodell was remote, and had few visitors except when Edward rode out to visit his uncle. As a small girl, Lyssa had been quite thoroughly smitten with her handsome cousin, but had been too young at the time to dream of kisses.

  And then she'd been married. That experience had plainly illustrated how little talent she had for pleasing men. She had been a singular failure as a wife. A man like Philip, well past his prime, should have been able to find pleasure in the fresh body of a young wife. The ballads and the gossip in the village at court had told her as much, for as long as she could remember. A man liked a young wife.

  But Philip had not loved bedding Lyssa, and no matter how she'd tried to perfume herself or tempt him, he only took her out of duty to get himself another child. Memories of the cold, silent grunting stirred only a sense of misery—she had loathed the feeling of his hands on her. He took pains to be gentle, but it never ceased to hurt, and never had her body flushed with the pleasure that had been promised her by Tall Mary and a dozen stories and more ballads.

  Letting a vivid blue silk trail over her hands, she wondered if that part of her, that part that other women used to please their husbands, had gone to her threads and looms. They certainly kindled more passion and pleasure than a man's hands.

  If that were true, she was happy with the exchange. Threads and looms could never be felled by plague. They would not fall prey to a wandering siren's eye. They would not break a heart. With a small chuckle, she decided she'd got the best of the bargain. Perhaps she might never know the passion of a great love, or even be able to understand Isobel and Tall Mary's drive to touch and be touched by a man, but neither would she pine away for love, or weep furious tears of betrayal as she'd seen some do.

  The blue silk, sliding over her skin, felt soft as feathers. It pleased her, and she drew it out to wear. It was a simple garment, and needed no surcoat, and the whispery softness would be a pleasure against her flesh. Carelessly, she shed the gown she wore, and stood naked on the Arabian carpet. A breeze blew through the windows, breathing against her breasts and buttocks, cooling the perspiration on her spine. Her hair slithered over her shoulders, and swung against her hips and thighs, tickling a little. A puddle of sun warmed her toes.

  Luxuriously, she stretched her arms over her head and reveled in the combination of textures and sensations. It was like a weaving, sun and hair and wind, all over her, delicious and reassuring.

  It was too hot for a chemise, and Lyssa ignored it. She donned the gown, thinking of the day she had dyed the raw silk with indigo until it was a color that exactly reflected the sky. As it slid over her nakedness, sweeping over breast and belly and thighs, she took pleasure in that, too.

  Who needed the rough touch of a man, when there were so many other touches to enjoy?

  * * *

  Thomas sat next to Lady Elizabeth at supper. The meal itself was no quandary. With his usual gusto, he gave himself over to the meal of roasted rabbit, cooked in onions and carrots and mustard. A smoky wine, as deep a red as fresh blood, gave gusto to the meat, and in the corner, two youths played a pipe and drum. He was a simple man, and had known much privation. A supper such as this was a fine luxury.

  And it was all made the more wondrous by the presence of Lady Elizabeth. He drank of her, too, forgetting to keep his distance as he'd intended. She was bright and quick, and he liked the way her eyes glittered when he made some jest. Her hair was again woven away from her face, and the sleek darkness glinted red and gold in the flickering flame of torches on the walls. She wore a simple tunic, belted low about her hips, and no jewels at all.

  He thought she did not need them. Next to her, Isobel seemed overdone, her hair threaded with jeweled velvet, a heavy collar harnessing her throat, gold on her wrists and fingers. Her gown was laced tight to display her body boldly. She flirted with him, but Thomas lightly, deftly played her—he'd had no small acquaintance with women who saw him as deliciously forbidden yet made a game of it in front of jealous husbands.

  He thought Lady Elizabeth had not noticed until she leaned close. "Well done, sir."

  He grinned.

  Pushing away the trencher before her, she leaned on the table. "You promised to play chess with me."

  He'd hoped she had forgotten. "That I did."

  "Robert, fetch the board, if you please. And clear us a space."

  The boy huffed, but did as he was bid.

  "He is old to yet be with you," Thomas commented as she began to put the pieces of the game on the board. "Has he not been sent out to be fostered?"

  She lifted one shoulder. "It should be done, but the cursed plague has made a mockery of all life's plans."

  "It has." He studied how she arranged the carved figures, scrambling madly through his memory for the rules. He knew only that it mocked battle, with foot soldiers and strategies. "I fear I have forgotten much, my lady. You will have to teach me all anew."

  "'Tis very simple," she said. "I must keep my king—" she pointed to the tallest figure, "safe and healthy. He is limited in his movements, so I have built a castle to protect him, and stationed knights and guards around him. His greatest ally is his queen." She pointed to a long-haired figure beside the king, "for she has great powers and much wisdom, and she will lay down her life for him if need be."

  "All women should be so noble."

  She smiled. "You see who commands this kingdom. 'Tis not the poor, impotent king."

  "Ah, so there is the secret of your love for the game."

  "Aye." Quickly, she illustrated the way each figure could move, whether back or forward, straight or crooked.

  Thomas absorbed it carefully, beginning to see how the strategy might work. It would be well not to waste the small soldiers, who formed a wall to protect the king, but then how could he release his other warriors, particularly that powerful queen?

  "So serious a gaze, sir!"

  Jolted from his study of the board, Thomas looked up. For one smal
l moment, less time than the space of a breath, he was dazzled once more by all she was, so clean and high born and beautiful, and a knot formed in his gut, part fear, but much more desire.

  It was the desire that lent him strength. He smiled lazily. "Twould wound my pride most mortally if I were trounced by a female. And I do vow your eyes are bewitchment enough to muddy the wits of a far more adept knight than I."

  He was only flirting lightly, forgetting himself, but her reaction was swift and surprising. A faint wash of color rose from her breasts to her brow. Her gaze skittered to his lips and back to his eyes, and even over the length of his arm before flying off to some fascination on the bare floor.

  A blush. He inclined his head, puzzled more than a little. He would expect it of a maid, but not so lovely a widow, who'd like as not been wooed by the finest lords in all of England. If they were fool enough to overlook her beauty, her rich fief alone would tempt them.

  He bent his head closer. His gaze lit on a loose wisp of long dark hair that fell across the pearlescent flesh of her shoulder. "That is a pretty blush, my lady. Would it deepen if I whispered—"

  Her chin came up abruptly. "Save your flatteries for those who are moved by them, sir. I would play chess."

  She was moved, but he simply inclined his head and gestured toward her. "Then we will play."

  * * *

  The game proved more difficult than Lyssa expected, so much more so that she suspected she had been fooled by his protestations of ignorance of the game. His strategy was unusual, and followed no plan that she could discern, but it was quite effective.

  It did not help that she could not keep her attention focused on the board. Lord Thomas was an imposing presence, and hard to absorb all at once. She watched his enormous hands, big as platters, as he moved his pieces. They were huge, but like Lord Thomas himself, they were graceful and deft. She liked the long, elegant fingers and the strong palms, and admired the play of small bones as he plucked a pawn up and moved it forward. It was a hand that could be gentle, as she saw when he reached down beside him to stroke the head of the pup who trailed him devotedly. But she had no doubt there was strength and size enough that he could crush that same pup's head if he were so inclined.

  The hands were not all. He straddled the bench aggressively, and her gaze flitted over the length of his hard-hewn thighs, and the heavy weight of his member between. Even she, with her limited experience, was not so foolish as to imagine a man came large only in hands and legs and not elsewhere.

  Her mind recoiled at the thought.

  Of all, she liked best his face, with eyes the color of a block of indigo, but liquid and expressive—now teasing, now sober, now dancing with laughter. His mouth was not like the mouths of most men. It was wide, the lips full and red, appealing in a face so hard and dark. His teeth were good and white and strong, and flashed easily with his smile.

  It was, strangely, a face she could look upon easily and without fear. She recognized its beauty, but also something else—this was not a man given to cruelty or brooding.

  But there was something about him that nagged at her. It was more than the fleeting troubled expression she caught on his brow, but she could not name it.

  Watching, Robert snorted rudely as Lord Thomas positioned his king behind a half-circle of pawns at mid-board.

  Isobel, too, watched the game, leaning on the table lazily, her splendid form sprawled along the bench. "I admire a man who can do something different."

  "You admire men," her brother retorted.

  Lyssa looked up in surprise. The pair of them stuck together like feathers to honey—it was rare they disagreed. But obviously, Robert had decided the knight was worthy only of his scorn, and Isobel had decided quite the opposite.

  "Please, Isobel," Lyssa said, "sit up and give us all a little breath of air."

  Like a cat, Isobel moved languorously, a small, smug smile on her face, only to lean over the table, displaying her considerable charms for Thomas.

  Lyssa quelled the urge to roll her eyes, but Thomas seemed not to notice at all. Quite suddenly, she liked him for that.

  "Your move, my lady."

  With a start, she realized his odd strategy had put her in grave danger. A curious half-circle of pawns flanked his king and bishop, and the warrior queen bore down on her king. But the worst threat was a pawn who threatened her queen. Lyssa frowned, and reached for the lady to move her, but realized almost as quickly that she would have to sacrifice the queen to save the king. She raised her brows. "And so she dies as she has lived, serving her lord at the loss of herself."

  Thomas smiled. It was slow, and full of mischief. "Mayhap the lady need not lay down her life."

  Lyssa looked back at the board in sudden worry. Had she missed something?

  Thomas reached out and took a knight that protected her king. She was neatly trapped—rook at her back, pawns scattered, the queen helpless in her corner. With a defeated smile, she reached out to lay down the king. "Well done."

  His smile was broad and cheerful. "I have remembered me more than I thought."

  "I suspect you did not forget at all."

  That great hand covered his breast in mock horror. "Do you doubt my honor?"

  "I will play," Isobel said, straightening.

  Lyssa looked at her in surprise. "You loathe the game."

  "'Tis made different by Lord Thomas."

  "Aye," said Robert, "he's made of it a peasant's fantasy. Pawns taking the king." His voice dripped disdain.

  Lord Thomas glanced at the boy, then at Lyssa. "He is my page, is he not? To discipline as I will?"

  Lyssa met his gaze with amusement. "That he is."

  "I'm no page to you!" Robert shouted, jumping back as Thomas stood, rising and rising to his great height. "I am cousin to the king by marriage, and I'll not be manhandled by a common knight."

  If Robert had been less rude, Lyssa might have felt pity for him. Thomas loomed over the boy, fierce as a dragon, his shoulders casting a deep shadow over Robert's white face. His eyes went wide as Thomas reached for him, capturing him neatly at the back of the neck. "You've a tongue like a harridan, boy," Thomas said, and even that rumbling voice seemed darker.

  Robert cringed, holding his hands up. "Don't beat me, my lord! You'll kill me."

  "Quit yer grovelin'," Thomas growled, and Lyssa noticed the blurring syllables of his speech instantly. "I've better ways to train a boy to respect than to see him bloodied." He shoved Robert in front of him, and Robert stumbled forward. "To the barns with ye."

  "The—"

  "No more of yer tongue, or it'll only be worse."

  Lyssa quelled a chortle. Long had Robert needed a man's hand, and none had dared try taming him till now. The boy scurried toward the door, and Thomas paused. "I only mean to have him shovel dung an hour or two. 'Twill be good for him."

  "You have my blessing, sir."

  For a heartbeat longer, he did not move, and Lyssa found herself thinking he was magnificent. That thick black hair, the indigo eyes, his great size and grace. If more men were made as he was, she might not have grown so cold.

  "'Twas a good meal, and good company, my lady." He bowed his head. "Good even."

  "And to you."

  "Sweet dreams, Lord Thomas!" Isobel said.

  He gave her a brief nod, and followed Robert out the door.

  Isobel gave a sigh. "Oh, now ballads were written for a man like that."

  "You need a husband, Isobel," Lyssa said, unreasonably irritated by the comment. "A man need only have breath for you to wish to bed him."

  "Bed him?" Isobel gave her a wounded, shocked look. "And ruin my chances to wed? Nay." But her face shone as she stared after the departed Thomas.

  Lyssa eyed her stepdaughter through narrowed eyes. The low-cut gown, the unseemly way she carried herself, even the way she now absently brushed the tips of her fingers over her pale bosom—all were warnings to her guardian.

  "I have me a letter to write," Lyssa said.
She would send it to Edward requesting a husband for the girl. "Do not tarry. 'Tis time you learned to weave. By Tierce tomorrow, you will be in my solar."

  "Aye, my lady." Isobel lifted her smoky eyes, and Lyssa glimpsed contempt and pity.

  But one could not discipline a glance, and Lyssa simply left her. She would write the king and get Isobel a husband, and then she would be finished with her.

  Chapter 5

  To Lyssa's delight, all her women gathered the next morning in the solar. Isobel, sullen and swollen-eyed from lack of sleep, nonetheless did appear, and since there were no men to impress, she was simply dressed, with a veil over her head. Nurse perched on a bench below a window, and hummed to herself as she stitched flowers into the hem of a skirt.

  Lyssa had expected this pair. She had not expected Tall Mary, nor Alice Bryony. Mary came early, her red hair caught in a long braid, and Elizabeth exclaimed in pleasure. "Mary!" she cried. "I am glad to see you."

  She seemed her normal self this morning, her blue eyes bright, her white skin with the scattering of freckles over the nose clear. It was a face she much missed, but remembering Mary's strange distance two nights ago, she only patted the bench beside her.

  Mary sat. "Alice is coming. Michael Barley stopped her to ask some cure for his wife, but she said she would be along anon." She clasped her hands around one knee, crossed over the other, and inclined her head. "What have you there?"

  Lyssa held up a wad of raw wool. "'Tis time Isobel learned to spin."

  Mary grinned at the girl, who rolled her eyes. "Your hands will be soft as clouds. Think on that."

  "Come here, Isobel," Lyssa said, taking a wooden spindle from a basket. Deft with long practice, she spun a thread between her thumb and forefinger, and anchored it to the spindle. "This will be no trial. It has a rhythm, and once you find it, the thread grows smoothly and easily between your hands. 'Tis soothing."

  "I am in no need of soothing," Isobel returned with a glare. But she accepted the spindle and wool, and tried to imitate her stepmother.