Heart Of A Knight

by Barbara Samuel

  She gave him one last glance. "Good-bye, Lord Thomas, and good journey to you."

  He only inclined his head slightly.

  Without another word, Lyssa dashed from the grove, making her way to the shadows along the north wall where none would see her, and into the safety of the castle.

  Chapter 9

  Thomas stood rigidly in the dark orchard, willing his blood to cool. He cursed the pride that had led him to act such an ass. All he'd hoped for was a simple kiss to take with him in memory. He'd not expected to find such harmony between them, nor such a heated, tangling depth of kisses. In truth, he'd suspected the lady might be a cold bed-mate in ways. Tonight he had learned she was simply unschooled.

  God's teeth, but he wished to do the schooling!

  Breathing in a gulp of cool night air, he clenched his fists and tried to think of some safe, dull thing.

  But all over him he felt the lingering impression of Lyssa's body. Along his arms and hands trailed ghostly strands of hair. Against his chest was the soft thrust of a breast, against his engorged and randy member was a firm thigh. Her scent lingered in his clothes and on his palms, and he closed his eyes to taste again her tongue and lips, so sweetly wanton she'd nearly driven him to a frenzy.

  He breathed deeply and let it go, tipping his head back to ease the muscles there. Never in his life had he so desired a woman.

  And never had one been so completely out of his reach.

  After a time, the rush of blood calmed, and Thomas grimly sat on the stone bench, listening with half an ear to the music growing wilder in the grassy courtyard beyond the trees. Laughter, bawdy and shrill and drunken, rang out, and there were the squeals of flirtation and high good humor. Many a babe they'd have come spring.

  He'd see none of them. The thought gave him a quick, sharp sense of loss. When the guards and knight had ridden through the gates, he'd known he would have to leave this place, before he was exposed by some careless word or unremembered knight.

  'Twas his curse that none who met Thomas forgot him, for he was well-marked by his size and darkness. He had a good memory, but one knight in mail and helm looked much the same as another, and he'd not always seen every face in the parties that came to Roxburgh to hunt.

  He could not chance that one he'd never marked would now remember him.

  He'd stayed well out of sight this night, save when he joined Lady Elizabeth and danced with her, and it had been late by then. Still, it was a foolish chance he'd taken, and he might well pay with his head.

  And for what? For lust over a woman he would never possess, who would marry for duty some high-placed lord and get him some brats.

  With a growl of frustration, he lowered his head to his hands. What a foolish coil! Lusting for a lady of the manor at risk of his own neck, tossing away not only his own chance for a better life, but Alice's chance as well.

  For a woman. A woman like all women, who wanted to be petted and kissed and told sweet things and cradled close. Such a simple thing, and so pleasant to give. He loved the smell of them, and their needfulness and the fragility of their visions of themselves. So easily wounded, so simply pleased. All any of them asked was a husband of some laughter, and some tenderness, a handful of babes and a little freedom to live as she wished—it seemed so little to want.

  And so wretchedly difficult for any of them to find. It grieved him that he could not settle, that his life was such that he could not choose to be with one woman and tend her, and be that man who would stroke her back, and her breasts, and please her and laugh with her, and share her worries.

  But it had not been given him, so he was left with only these stolen nights, giving pleasure and taking it, stealing it from the husbands that were to be, from the lives that would be whole without him.

  While he wandered.

  "Thomas?"

  The voice, coming soft from the darkness, startled him, and he jerked upright. Tall Mary, her pagan red hair trailing over her shoulders, her eyes bright with drink, was clearly surprised to see him here. "Come," he said, waving a hand for her to sit with him. Tonight he had need of a friend, and Mary had been thus for many months now. "I have me a heavy heart."

  She smiled and sat next to him. "I have me a willing ear."

  "'Tis time I took my leave of this place, and I find I do not wish to go."

  "I suspect your wish to stay has to do with a lady I saw rushing through the shadows."

  He glanced at her, wondering if she were up to some trick. In the two weeks since he'd sent her away from him, she had been merely pleasant, seemingly accepting that friendship would be the only thing between them now. Mildly, he said, "What lady?"

  Mary laughed. "'Tis plain you are besotted with Lyssa, Thomas." She lifted her chin. "And I do not blame you. Ever has she been beautiful."

  He shook his head. "You point to her as the beauty, and she points to Isobel. Isobel—" he gave her a wry smile. "Like as not Isobel sees no other beauty, save her own."

  "A vainer child was never born. She does irk me." She raised her eyes. "But beauty mattered little to Lyssa. She wanted to be peasant with me, so all would leave her to her tapestries and weaving."

  Thomas reached for Mary's slim long hand, clasped light in her lap. "I know me another who does not know her worth."

  She ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. "Nay, I know all too well that worth."

  He brushed the hair back, so he could see her face. "I see a pretty mouth, made for telling truths, and wide eyes made for seeing, and a heart as wild as wolves. I see honor and pleasure in your strong face, Mary."

  She looked at him sadly. "But no beauty do you see. And your loins do not leap, and there is no yearning in you." She bowed her head to hide her tears, but Thomas saw them.

  He squeezed her hand, feeling a pinch in his chest that she did not know all she was. He regretted that he'd not been stronger when they came to him, one by one, to warm his bed. "I would not have given you this grief," he said sadly. "I curse myself for it. We should never have lain together, for I knew I could not stay."

  "What I gave was freely offered," she said, waving a hand impatiently. "'Tis only my foolish woman's heart that longs to see on your face that shine that is there when you look upon Lady Elizabeth." She lifted a shoulder. "Or, in truth, on any man's face."

  "There is a husband for you, lass. Believe that."

  Mary closed her eyes. After a moment, she lifted her head. "So why do you leave, when your heart is here?"

  "'Tis time enough. I only stayed to serve when she had not enough guards, nor any man to foster Robert. There are men at arms aplenty now."

  "You will ever mourn the lady."

  A swell of remembered heat pulsed through him. "Aye, that I will."

  For a moment, she was silent. Then she said, "If your heart ceases mourning, will you think on me, Dark Thomas?"

  Soberly, he gave a single, slow shake of his head. "Nay, that I will not do. You must find you a husband who will give you the love you crave."

  "I want no other," she said, and stood, smoothing her gown over her slim form. She gave him a saucy smile. "Not one more tumble, my lord, to remember all the others?"

  With his eyes, he gave her the appreciation she was wanting. "'Tis more tempting than you know," he said, and thought of Lyssa, sensually moving against him. "But ours was a pure and simple thing, and I'll not dishonor that memory by lying with you when I crave another."

  "Curse you for your honest heart, then, Thomas." She sighed. "Mayhap we'll never meet again in this life, but I am yours as long as you are in the world."

  "Mary—"

  She held up a hand. "'Tis asking nothing of you, my lord. Well do you know that I do what I wish." Quickly, she bent and kissed his brow, then bolted away, into the darkness.

  Heavy with guilt, Thomas rose and went to seek out Alice. They would leave Woodell on the morrow, to seek their fortunes elsewhere. 'Twas too dangerous to stay here any longer.

 
But he did not find the peasant in the yard, nor in the hall, where drunken men-at-arms lay sprawled on the trestle tables. A pair sang a badly pitched tune of whoring and drink. Thomas angrily went back to the bailey, keeping to the shadows as he scanned the crowd. No Alice.

  Too late, he spied Isobel, flushed and too brightly garbed, coming toward him. There was pure intent on her face. Thomas was weary of confrontations with females this night, and had no kindness left in him to flatter a vain child. As if he had not seen her, he ducked into the stables.

  And realized it was not a wise move. Like the rest of the servants, peasants, and castle inhabitants, the grooms were dancing in the bailey, drinking and singing and hoping to find some willing woman. Thomas turned to leave, but Isobel, breathless, her eyes aglitter, rushed in behind him.

  "Do you have a moment, sir?" she asked prettily.

  "Nay," he replied briskly, and would have pushed by her, but she put her body in front of him, and he halted to avoid touching her.

  "Only one moment," she said.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. There was a new air about her this night, a pitiable desperation that plucked his sympathy. She did not wish to wed and he felt some sympathy over that. "Only a moment, Isobel. I must find Alice."

  It was dark in the stables, but for a wide bar of light cast by a torch just beyond a window, and Isobel had positioned herself cleverly to be illuminated by it. Now she leaned back against the wall, a position that put her lush figure at best advantage, and lifted wide blue eyes, biting her lip. None would see her from beyond, but Thomas knew she wished him to look at her. With a sigh, he crossed his arms. "Speak, lady, for I do have me errands to complete."

  "I am to be betrothed in the morning," she said.

  "So I heard. A fine young knight, by the look of him. You are fortunate."

  "Nay!" she cried, and yanked her veil away from her head angrily. "I do not wish to marry some boy. I want a man who knows how to please a woman."

  He saw where she meant to lead him. "I cannot help you," he said, and turned to go.

  She moved swiftly to block him, her hands on his arms. "All men need a wife, Lord Thomas. If you bedded me tonight, they would let you be my husband instead."

  He shook her off. "You are as vain and spoiled a child as I have seen. I would not take you to wife even if I were able, which I am not."

  With a furious cry, she slapped him. "You're a beast!"

  "Aye," he said darkly, and tried again to move past her.

  Still she would not cease, but came at him, grabbing at his arm. "Wait! If you do not do it willingly, I will force you."

  He looked down. "None here have power over my life."

  Feral anger burned in the wide eyes, twisting her face to a parody of its angelic proportions, and she stepped back. Thomas moved toward the door.

  She screamed. It was an unholy sound in the quiet, a sound of terror and pain. He whirled, thinking of pitchforks and nails.

  But Isobel stood where she'd been, and her only injury was self-inflicted: she had ripped her bodice from shoulder to shoulder, leaving her breasts bare.

  A red angry scratch marked her from collar bone to nipple, already welling blood. As he stared, horrified, she banged against the stable wall, her elbows and shoulder and even her face, and screamed again, the sound bloodier and even more unholy than the first. It would carry to London.

  "Stop!" he cried, and reached for her, to halt her fury before she injured herself the more. He caught her by the arms, and she lashed at him, kicking wildly, and slapped, and thrashed, screaming and screaming. Her nails slashed over his face.

  Too late, he saw how neatly he'd been trapped. Her screams pierced the revelry, and in seconds a swarm of armed men surrounded him and the sobbing Isobel, who pitifully caught at the shreds of her bodice as Thomas, horrified, let her go. He saw her as if from a great distance, trying with deliberate lack of success to cover her naked breasts. The vicious scratch over his cheek burned.

  He said nothing in the ensuing noise, only stared silently at her as guards shackled his wrists and swirled around Isobel, staring with avid eyes till a man thought to offer her a cloak. From below her hair, she gave Thomas a look of purest triumph.

  As they led him away none too gently, Thomas vowed the one thing he would not do was ever marry the conniving she-devil. He would hang first.

  * * *

  Lyssa slept deeply, her dreams a patchwork of blue eyes and rats coming from a river to infect a whole village with plague, and of a strange, high scream she could not place. It blended with images of bodies and—

  A voice wove itself into the disturbing dreams. "My lady! Lady Elizabeth." A rough hand shook her shoulder. "Lyssa, wake up!"

  She finally pried open her eyes. "What? What is it?"

  Mary stood by the bed, her face smudged, her red hair a tangle on her shoulders. Genuine terror showed in her dark eyes. "My lady, they've taken Thomas."

  "What? Taken him?" Blearily, she remembered he was to have left today. "Who took him? Where?"

  "My lady, wake up! He is in the dungeon, shackled like a criminal. That beast of a girl said he raped her, or tried." Tears welled in Mary's eyes. "I know he did not, Lyssa. I offered my own self to him only moments before." She pulled the covers from Lyssa's body. "But they won't listen to a village girl. You must come."

  The words made Lyssa cold, and she sat upright. Mary held out a shift, and Lyssa let it be draped over her head. "When did this happen?"

  "Last night." She held out a long-sleeved robe. "Hurry. Her betrothed wants to kill him."

  "What girl?" Lyssa struggled with her hair, tugging out one lock from her sleeve.

  "Isobel."

  Lyssa stilled. "Isobel."

  "He would not, my lady, I swear it. He has no need—the women—"

  "Shhh." Lyssa gripped the woman's arms. "No, he would not. Come. Let's see what we can make of this mess. Where is my daughter?"

  "Wailing in the yard."

  They hurried through the silent castle and Lyssa felt dread building as she rushed through the empty hall with its cold hearths. Pale dawn was only now breaking the eastern sky, lighting the uppermost edges of the pines and oaks, and the air was cool as she bolted out the door.

  At the sight that greeted her, she halted on the step. The remains of the feast, tawdry now in the light of the morning, were scattered over a wide area—abandoned cups and stained tables and groggy peasants wakening to the tumult. Stephen de Kivelsworthy and his men were gathered in the center of the yard, circling the shackled Thomas.

  He stood a head taller than any of the others, who surrounded him like dogs trying to trap a boar. But unlike a crazed boar, Thomas only stood grimly, his hands bound in front of him, his expression hard and proud. The night's wear showed in the tangle of his hair on his shoulders, and the grime from the bowels of the castle on his tunic. An untended cut marred his cheekbone.

  Lyssa was frozen, aching for the injury that had been put on him. Her heart cried his name, and as if he'd heard, he raised his eyes and met her anguished gaze.

  Never had she felt the power of a man as she did in that moment, staring at Thomas across the crowded yard with gray light filling the air. He stared hard at her, asking nothing, pridefully enduring.

  Aching, she tore her gaze away to seek Isobel, and saw the girl standing nearby Stephen. Even at this distance, her face was plainly battered. To Mary, Lyssa said, "How came she to be so bruised, if 'twas not a rape?"

  "I do not know if she was raped, only that it was not Thomas who did it."

  Torn, Lyssa narrowed her eyes. She could not believe Thomas would violate a child under any conditions—nor any woman, come to that. He was no fool, and as Mary said, he had no need of rape, nor did he own the brooding, hateful anger she'd oft seen in men who used their lusts for evil.

  Isobel, seeing Lyssa, began to weep softly.

  A dozen images crossed Lyssa's mind—Isobel's rudeness to Stephen, in spite of his youth and beauty; her
reappearance in the red gown she was forbidden to wear, and Lyssa's certainty that Isobel had some plan up her sleeve.

  And she thought of Thomas, huge and strong, cupping her face with tenderness, thought of his control when he asked her to let him go.

  She looked at him again. Pride on his brow. On his calm visage. In his posture. He still gazed at Lyssa, with an expression she could not quite read.

  "'Tis a matter of some delicacy," Lyssa said at last to Mary. "Find Nurse and bid her come to me, and then run to the kitchens for bread, cheese, and ale and take them to my chamber."

  "Aye, milady."

  Stephen, drawn by Thomas's calm gaze, turned and spied Lyssa, unbrushed and unwashed and clad only in a simple wrap, descending the stairs in her bare feet. "My lady!" he called. "I ask your leave to kill this man."

  Lyssa let go a sigh, carefully, so the youth's pride, too, would remain unbreached. Lifting her skirts, she crossed the thick, dewed grass. Soldiers parted to let her through, and she wove through a forest of swords and mailed bodies to stand before Stephen and Thomas and Isobel. She looked at Stephen first, as he would require, then at Isobel, who quickly lowered her eyes.

  At last she looked at Thomas. "You stand accused of attempting to ravish my stepdaughter, Thomas of Roxburgh. Did you do it?"

  "Nay."

  "My lady!" Stephen protested. "You cannot mean to simply—"

  She raised a hand. "Release him."

  "I will not."

  "You will," Lyssa returned calmly. "Then you will come to my chamber and sit with me and I will talk with you as long as you need."

  "We came on them, my lady—she was clearly being ravished."

  Lyssa turned to Thomas. "I think it did not happen that way. Am I correct, sir?" She held his gaze steadily, earnestly hoping he was as intelligent as she believed, and would know the details had no place in this public gathering.

  "You are, my lady."

  Stephen drew his sword angrily. "I'll not stand by and watch this travesty!"

  "Put it away." Lyssa stepped forward and put a hand on his sword arm, firmly. "I am mistress of this house in the absence of my king, and you'll do as I say."