"Finer than your cousin?"
"Oh, much! Edward came only once or twice a year, but John was there all year-round." She sighed, thinking of childhood with longing. "Oh, those were happy, golden days, when I knew so little of the world." She lifted a shoulder. "Perhaps it is ever thus. Childhood is golden for us all."
"Not all." The words were soft, with hints of remembered pain, and Lyssa watched him touch the figure of the huntsman with one finger.
"Was yours painful, Thomas?"
He roused himself from some far-off place. "Aye."
But though she waited, he added nothing. She inclined her head. "Will you say no more?"
"What point in living old pains?" He moved away from the tapestry frame and again sat down next to her. "I should like so fine a thing to hang in my hall one day. Have you some small weaving that I might take with me when I go?"
It pleased her. "None so fine as that. But mayhap I do have some small thing." She put the bundle of wool aside and briskly moved to a trunk. "There are many here that I have worked through the years. Come find one you like."
"All these?" he asked, bending to grasp a handful of woven goods.
"Aye."
He admired the stack of them, one by one, commenting on the arrangement of grapes in one, the expression on a dog's muzzle in another. Lyssa fair beamed, for none had ever given the work of her heart so much attention. Thomas picked out things she liked best in each, the glimmer of hidden water in the forest, the detail work on a spur, the embroidery on a woman's sleeve. She found herself leaning close over his arm, pointing to a shadow or a detail or a bit of work that had been difficult, explaining how she'd solved the dilemma, or how little satisfied she was with the end work.
He paused when he came to another hunt scene, this one smaller than the one on her frame. "And this?" he asked.
Lyssa hesitated, then took it from him. "I have not looked upon this in many years," she said quietly. "There was much I had yet to master." She brushed her fingers over a knotted tangle of primrose, nestled against the trunk of an oak. The knot-work was yet uneven and showed the impatience of youth.
Still, there was much she did like. The scene was gilded with dappled, bright gold light, and through the shadows were scattered the jeweled tones of spring flowers. There were ladies astride in vividly colored gowns and flowing hair. She smiled. "The hair pleased me."
Holding the fabric, she found herself awash with memories of the girl she had been when she'd labored over it: a curious, exuberant girl who was soon to be married though she had not known it. The tapestry burned with the youthful joy she had felt in those days. It reeked of hope and delight. "I wove it when I was fourteen," she said, and felt a plucking melancholy over the loss of that girl, over the passage of time that had gone since then.
"Fourteen," he repeated, and took it gently from her hands. "A happy fourteen." He held it loosely, then looked at Lyssa. "What thing came to steal the joy from you, Lyssa? From these bright flowers, to those dark colors there?"
She looked at him, thinking of the events the years had wrought. "My parents died, and I was married, and the plague came. There is not so much light in the world now as there was then."
"So much." He lifted a hand, hesitated, and brushed her cheek with his fingers. "Would that I could light the world again for you."
Standing before the tall knight in his red tunic, his hair so black against the yellow candle flame behind him, Lyssa was bemused. "If I were to weave this moment, there would be light aplenty in it. You have brought color back to my world."
He stroked her cheekbone, his eyes piercing. "You did not say your husband's dying, only your marrying."
Lyssa felt herself being drawn into his spell. In panic, she ducked her head and turned away. "A husband, sir, steals the joy from any maiden's eye."
"All husbands?" he asked, and she felt him behind her, close but not quite touching her.
She took a breath. "Aye. In this world, 'tis a husband who rules and a wife who serves. I find I have no liking for service."
"Ah. But do we not all serve some master? Even the king must pay homage to God."
Lyssa whirled, and found him far, far too close. She stepped back and nearly stumbled over the stool by her loom. Thomas snagged her arm to keep her from falling, and somehow, then, she found herself next to him, held close to his body.
"Let me go," she said, but the word came out on a ragged whimper, one that sounded of desperation.
He slid an arm around her waist, hauling her tightly against him. Lyssa bent backward, but Thomas only leaned forward with her. Her head began to spin.
"What do you fight when I touch you, my lady?" he asked in that black silk voice. "Is it the fire that burned in you when you were fourteen, and was killed by a cold husband's touch?"
She struggled a little. "What do you know of my husband?"
"That he was too old for you."
Lyssa kept her hands on his chest, fighting the allure he cast. The scent of his skin enveloped her like smoke, that dark forest smell, that leaf and seasons scent that was all things pleasant in her mind. With her eyes on his mouth, she said quietly, "I did not please him."
"He did not please you, I think."
When he would have come closer, Lyssa put a hand between them, put her hand over his mouth. "Do not, Lord Thomas. I do not wish to ache for things I do not have. Please."
"Ah, Lyssa," he said quietly, but eased his hold on her. She would have bolted, most likely falling in her haste, but he steadied her on her feet before he let her go. He straightened. "That do I understand. 'Tis better not to wish."
Inclining her head, she asked, "What could you have longed for that you do not have?"
His eyes hardened, and she caught a hint of that brooding darkness before he shrugged. "To be a king's cousin. To have lands that do not lie fallow. Many things." He looked at her, and drew himself tall. "In this moment, I burn for you."
It was nearly as bold as if he touched her. Lyssa felt the tips of her breasts pearl, and wondered if he saw. The weakness made her angry. Sharply she said, "'Tis only that I do not tumble into your bed like all the rest that makes you wish for me, Thomas. That I have will enough to resist your charm irks you, just as Isobel throws a tantrum because you are the one man she cannot attract to her!"
He lifted one dark brow. "Ah, so there's the truth of it. You think I aim to make a conquest."
"Not think. 'Tis plain as the sun in the sky!" She turned away from him. "I should have given Isobel her way and let her wed you instead. You could have tortured each other all the years."
He grabbed her arm and spun her round to face him. "Do not class me with that girl," he said in a dangerous voice, the cadence of his words blurring deeply. "She cost me my pride and humiliated me before the world. I d'na take any unwilling to me bed, nor shame them, nor wound them. They came to me and I pleased them. Tha's all."
Lyssa went still, taken aback by his fury. She had forgiven Isobel, and had not considered that it would not be so simple for Thomas.
But anger rose from him in dark waves, and she saw his pride was most grievously wounded. She thought of him standing with his hands bound like a common criminal, and remembered that he'd spent a night in the dank dungeon, bound and jailed. "Forgive me," she whispered, and touched his beautiful face, touched the raw cut on his cheekbone that Isobel had left on him. "God's heart, Thomas, I did not think."
He made a soft sound and captured her head in his huge hand, and before Lyssa could protest, he kissed her. And this was not like the kisses of the night before, gentle and controlled. This was a dark, deep kiss, hungry and hard, and Lyssa found herself crying out at the welcome taste of his need.
His need. She tasted bitter pride and old pain and almost unbearable yearning on his lips. He hauled her close, half-lifting her into the brace of his arms, and Lyssa could only grasp blindly for him before she tumbled out of balance.
And all else disappeared but the taste of Thomas
on her tongue, the feel of Thomas holding her with such fierce heat, kissing her with such fierce desire. When he lifted his head at last, his eyes were black and hard.
"I burn for you," he said again, and the need wound through his voice, making it raw and husky. "But I am my own man. And I have my pride. Do not forget that, my lady."
"Thomas," she whispered, unsure of what she meant to say.
It mattered not. He shook his head, putting one finger against her lips to halt her words, then put her on her feet. "Good even, my lady."
He left her, closing the door behind him so Lyssa was alone again, and bewildered. She stood where he'd left her, her hand to her tender mouth, and realized he never had said why he'd come.
Chapter 12
An air of taut expectation seemed to hang in the air over the next few days. Lyssa felt it along the back of her neck, and down her spine, a sense of waiting that put her eternally on guard.
In part, she blamed the weather. Nary a drop of rain had fallen in a fortnight. Crops drooped in the fields, their colors no longer a verdant lush green, but a limp, dull shade. Daily the sun rose in a clear blue sky, and burned all the day with no hint of cloud. The heat made tempers short; worry made them impatient. Lyssa slept with the windows unshuttered, lying naked on her bed, hoping for any hint of breeze from the river. By day, she bound her hair into a tight braid, and wore her loosest clothing, but she, too, felt the malaise, and began to fret over the possibility of fevers. There were still few rats about, but the mice seemed to crawl from every cubbyhole, from every corner.
To make matters worse, twice in the past week, a band of outlaws in the forest had made their presence felt. A prize sow was stolen away in the night, and a brace of rabbits went missing another night. Minor infractions, but Lyssa sent guardsmen to the village at night nonetheless.
One still, hot afternoon, Lyssa sat alone in the orchard, embroidering a sleeve for Isobel's wedding dress. The shade cast by apple trees overhead gave some relief from the heat, unlike the wind that blew through in annoying gusts. It felt fresh from a fire, and smelled of dry grass and dust.
Around her, the castle seemed enchanted. Not a creature stirred, no busy servant gathering onions for supper from the gardens, no guards pacing the walk, no children skittering in a game of ball through the bailey yard. The dogs slept as if dead in patches of shade close to a cool wall or in the shadows cast by the towers. Not even the birds sang. There was only heat and stillness in all the world.
It gave her a sense of melancholy, calling forth as it did the terrible days of the pestilence, the stillness echoing the emptiness of villages deserted or dead. The world had been bleak indeed, and even now, deep into summer, it was hard to believe that bleak pestilence had finally raged its last time. But it seemed it had; none had come ill with it for a year or more.
With a sigh, she looked out to the quiet yard and the open doors to the hall and kitchens. This was not the stillness of death—only the somnolence of a hot afternoon. If she listened very carefully, she could hear the faint voices of girls in the kitchen, laughing and gossiping, and beyond, from the fields, a distant shout of a man performing his boon. The guards did not walk the walls, but kept watch from the cool dimness of the tower, for the sun beat down on their heads till they were ill.
Come evening, when cool breezes blew in from the river, the place would awaken from the spell the heat had cast, and there would be music and laughter, dice and chess, and dancing in the hall. The men Stephen de Kivelsworthy had left behind had brought much new life to Woodell.
She wove her needle in and out, sewing a border of bright blue flowers on the sleeve, thinking the color would compliment the girl's eyes. Isobel—now there was a puzzle. The girl had been as dutiful and demure as any mother could have wished. Since her betrothal, she had not stirred up one breath of trouble. She prayed dutifully at Mass, and made it her business to see to the comfort of the men of her future husband—without ever behaving in an untoward or unseemly way. As if she had changed souls with another girl, she was completely transformed.
It nagged at Lyssa. She did not like to think the girl's spirit had been entirely broken. Nor did she entirely trust the transformation—it was too complete, too fast. That rebellious heart must still beat in the girl's breast, but Isobel had hidden it well. Lyssa worried what plan she might be hatching.
Which might not be fair. Lyssa had found herself looking more kindly on the girl, treating her with more sisterly affection, and it pierced her to find Isobel hungry for that comfort. Perhaps Isobel's shame over her desperate act had wrought a true change. It happened.
A sound of voices reached her. Lyssa glanced up to see Thomas and young Robert crossing the bailey yard. Thomas carried a large basket, and he looked quite pleased with himself as he walked next to the animated boy.
Lyssa eyed Thomas with a quick burst of yearning. A yearning she tamped down. Since the night he'd come to her solar, Thomas had shown naught but the most courtly manners toward her, as if the kisses they shared had never happened.
She was not sure what to make of it. Nor whether to be glad or sorry.
Hungry for companionship, Lyssa called, "What have you there, sir?"
They caught sight of her and changed direction. Thomas wore a grin, and Robert even looked happy, half-skipping in the hot afternoon, his blond curls bouncing. She smiled at the sight of him; in spite of all that had happened with his sister and the odd aftermath, Robert seemed to hold no grudge toward Thomas. In fact, under the knight's tutelage, the boy was blossoming. He was still given to bouts of surly arrogance, but for the first time since his father died, Robert seemed to take some pleasure in life.
These children had walked a hard road the past four years. They'd lost the mother upon whom they—and their father—had doted, and been forced to travel far from their home to live with their father's second wife. Then their father had died, and the plague had come, and they'd been exiled again. With a wave of compassion, Lyssa realized, too, how terrifying those long weeks locked in the kitchens of the manor by the sea must have been for those children, for all that it had spared their lives. When Lyssa had felt herself falling ill, she had locked them in with strict orders not to leave for any reason.
Poor creatures. As the boy drew close, she smiled. "You look mischievous, Robert. Have you a secret?"
"'Tis my lord's secret, lady," he replied, and gestured toward the basket Thomas carried.
At her feet, Griselda awakened suddenly and sat up, stretching her nose toward the basket. A small noise came from within. Griselda whined. Lyssa put aside her stitchery. "Is it, now? Well, sir, what have you in there?"
Thomas settled the basket on the bench beside her and unfastened the leather buckle, pulling back the lid with a flourish. "We thought it time to put an end to yer whining," he said in his lilting accent. "And rode in to town to bring you back a present."
As soon as the lid was lifted, out popped the head of a young cat, black and white, with alert green eyes, then another, with more white, and another, in hues of gold and black and cream. This last gave a plaintive meow.
"Cats!" Lyssa exclaimed happily, reaching to pet their heads. The calico spied the dog and hissed roundly, but the other two scrambled out of the basket and nimbly landed on the bench, stretching out their noses to scent the dog. Griselda quivered, her ears perked, and whined, her tail wagging, but she didn't lunge at them.
Lyssa chuckled. "Ah, Griselda, you're a fine dog," she said, and gave her a pat. "We've been needing good mousers." She smiled at Thomas, and picked up the reluctant calico, holding it close to her chest to comfort the trembling, half-grown cat. "This one is pretty," she said, bowing her head to the soft, clean fur. That was the thing about cats. Dogs always smelled of the hunt, or some aroma the dog found pleasant to roll in. Cats tended themselves and smelled sweet. She loved their softness, too, and the way some would curl against her and purr. "I have missed having them about."
Robert and Thomas exchange
d a look, and Lyssa caught Thomas winking at the boy. "Is there more to this secret?" Lyssa asked.
"Lord Thomas said you'd like as not give him a kiss for his troubles."
"Did he now?" She looked at Thomas, puzzled. Why had he kept himself aloof these past weeks, only to begin again?
In his twinkling eyes, she saw nothing of the brooding, angry man who had kissed her last. He seemed at times to be two entirely different men: one laughing and sensual, the other a brute soldier with rough manners and a dark heart. Today only Thomas the lover stood before her, a secret smile on his lips.
"Mayhap he meant I'd reward you with a kiss," Lyssa said.
Before he could pull away, Lyssa caught the kitten close to her breast and planted a kiss to Robert's smooth cheek. Thomas laughed as Robert yelped and pulled away. "Not I, my lady! Him." But even when he wiped at the kiss with his hand, Lyssa saw he was pleased. Even surly boys needed a little teasing affection, she supposed. Especially surly boys.
"Listen to the boy," Thomas said. "'Twas I who hoped to win the kiss."
"I have no kiss for you today, Lord Thomas," she said.
He lifted a brow, his grin spreading on his dark face. "D'you not?" He turned to Robert, winking. "I'll have to think on another way to win one, then."
Robert grinned impishly, then with the abrupt turn of a youth, said, "I'm hungry."
"Run and find you something to eat," Thomas said. "I do thank you for your service this day."
With that same lightness to his step, Robert made for the kitchens. "You've worked a miracle with that child," Lyssa commented.
Thomas shook his head and without waiting for her leave, sat next to her. "He lacked only a man to see him. Do you not remember how you longed to be noticed in those days?"
Lyssa smiled. "Why are we ever remembering childhood together?"
His answering grin was the best of those offerings—wide and white, setting his dark blue eyes alight with good cheer. "I know not. Perhaps we long to return to a time when we might have loved freely?"
Heart Of A Knight Page 14