Anger and humiliation spread through him, sticky and black as tar. With a furious gesture, he flung the contents of his tankard on the ground, and stepped close to her. "I'd thought you made of sterner stuff, Lady Elizabeth. But you're as weak as any of your kind."
"I did not intend to wound you, Thomas."
"Fine way ye have of showin' it." He heard his carefully practiced accent bleeding away, and did not care. "Did ye not think I'd mind you takin' my babe away to another? Do ye think I won't be burnin' with a murderous heart on your wedding night?"
"My lady," came a deep, gravelly voice. "Is all well?"
Thomas whirled to see Margrave, the blackmailed messenger who'd brought the news from the king. "We're fine, sir," Thomas said dismissively. "Leave us in private."
The man ignored him, hand on his sword. "My lady?"
Enraged, Thomas pushed Lyssa behind him and drew his own sword. "Did you no' hear me?"
Warily, the man measured Thomas, and Thomas, with a giddy sense of triumph, saw that Margrave had been aching for such a moment. Though smaller and less muscular than Thomas, he was wiry, and no doubt far more skilled with a sword.
With a tight smile, Margrave drew his own sword. "Dark Thomas they call you," he said. "And many a tale do they tell. Are you so unlucky at love that you must take what should be willingly given?"
Lyssa rushed between them. "Put your weapons down!" she cried. "There is naught here that cannot be salved with cool heads."
"Out of my way, Lyssa," Thomas said, his eyes glued to his opponent. A heat, like the thrill of a hunt, rose in him, tangled now with darker emotions roused by Lyssa's betrayal. A sense of power, of knowing, moved through his sword arm and he felt the weapon balanced and deadly in his hand, felt his body tense and ease all at once. For months now, he'd ached to test his skill in true battle, rather than in a safe sunny field tilting at a boy or a hay-stuffed effigy. Bloodlust filled him, and he felt as feral as a hound.
And in the face of the black knight, Thomas saw the same swift challenge, the same thirsty pleasure. His eyes on Thomas, Margrave said, "My lady, his name has been on Kivelsworthy's lips for a fortnight, and I'd welcome the pleasure of gutting him for your daughter's honor."
"This is madness!" Lyssa cried. "You!" She pointed at Margrave. "Kivelsworthy is mad for Isobel and misread what happened. Do you think I'd let him stay in my walls with the stain of rape against him?"
She pointed the other hand at Thomas and glared at him. "And you—you do vent yourself wrongly, knight. If you've a wish to run someone through, at least do not punish one who has no crime against him."
She looked like a pagan queen, standing in the dusk with her arms outstretched and the fire of righteousness in her brilliant green eyes. With a long, promising look at Margrave, Thomas sheathed his sword, and at his capitulation, Margrave did the same.
But their eyes met, and spoke. Another day.
"May I see you safely within, my lady?" Margrave said with a slight bow.
"When I think it fit to retire, I'll see myself within," she said. "Meantime, I have business with Lord Thomas, if you would be so kind."
With a mocking smile, he said, "Of course."
Thomas choked on the civility of the pair of them, and with a curse, flung the cup on the ground. When Margrave was safely out of earshot, Thomas said, "Waste no more of your breath on me, my lady, for well do I see the way the wind now blows."
Lyssa reached for him, imploring, but he stepped out of reach. "I do thank you for the chance to be crowned a good and proper knight, but if it be the same to you, I'll be taking my chances alone from here." Alone as he'd ever been.
She stood straight and tall in the gathering night. "'Tis only foolish pride speaking, Thomas."
"There are times pride is all we have."
"Then go with God, my love."
He whirled, and took her by the arms. "Do not call me by endearments again!"
"Ah, then are we back to lout and pig?"
The words near startled a chuckle from him.
With a sense of cool clarity, he really saw her, in this very moment. Her face, tilted up to his, was tired and pale, and Thomas ached to smooth away the burdens laid upon her. He ached to bend and kiss her sweet lips, and breathe heat into her limbs. Instead, he simply slid his hands down her arms and took her hands into his, and lifted them to his lips. "Ever am I your servant, my lady. You need but speak my name, and I will be there."
Tears filled her eyes, and she said, brokenly, "Thomas—"
But dangerous emotion welled in him and he hastily turned away, making his way to the stables, for he would away tonight, or never leave her side.
And he had to leave her, else he'd be humbled evermore. He saw a vision of himself, crawling into her chamber whilst her husband battled in some far-flung war, saw himself watching their children call another man father, and knew he would rather die than see the respect drain slowly from her eyes. Nay, he'd leave her now, even if he mourned her the rest of his days.
Before he could change his mind, he went to the stables and saddled his horse and set out in the darkness for London with naught but his horse, his sword and mail, and a warm cloak. After an hour, he realized he ought to have brought bread with him, at least, for he had not even a penny to his name.
Even so, he did not turn back. What he had was more than he'd been born with, and he'd kept his belly full enough in the past. 'Twould not hurt him to be hungry again.
Chapter 19
Lyssa did not sleep well, particularly after Mary and Alice, hearing what she'd done, turned cold backs to her and slept on the floor on palettes they laid upon the clean, sweet-smelling rushes.
She had hoped Thomas would rethink his rash departure, but there was no sign of him as they all gathered on the next morn in preparation for their departure. She wondered what meaning the soldiers would put on it when Margrave told them Thomas had left over a quarrel with the lady in the yard.
She had no doubt he'd told them. When she mounted, trying to keep her expression blank to hide the despair welling in her, she caught the black knight's eye, and was chilled to her soul over the glitter in the cold pale depths. Likely he'd guessed they were lovers, but Lyssa could not find it in her to care. She was a widow these four long years, and none would fault her for taking a willing man to her bed.
The morning was bright and crisp, with the first taste of autumn in the apple-scented air. It gave her a sharp sense of mourning, this evidence that the summer would soon be gone. The long golden summer she had spent with Thomas.
For days she had known that she would lose him, that the fleeting sweetness of their time had drawn to an end, but she'd thought he'd somehow be part of her days, that she might glimpse him now and again, or hear word of him. Not this sudden, abrupt departure that left a wide, gaping wound in her breast.
His absence made the whole world seem more silent. Even on these past days as they traveled, she had been aware of him, riding with Robert or one of the guards, or chatting amiably with Mary. Lyssa could glance up and see his dark head shining, or catch the notes of his robust laughter floating on the breeze, or simply reach out with something inside of her and touch that essence of him, knowing he felt when she did it.
It had been the comfort of his nearness, while she resisted her need to touch him, be with him, that had persuaded her that she could live with the decision to wed Lord Harry. As long as he was somewhere close by, she could bear it.
Now she reached with that heart of her and felt nothing. Nothing. He was gone.
And though Lyssa had braced herself, she did not know if she could bear his absence. No more to breathe his scent, or touch his skin, or share some gossipy tidbit that would make him laugh. No more to be startled in her solar with his bold smile and the bolder way he took her.
It did not change her certainty that she'd made the right choice. Better this eternal loneliness, knowing he yet lived, than the certainty of his death upon her conscience. Better to i
magine him laughing with babes who lived a kinder life than their father had known, or danced with the woman lucky enough to call him as husband than to know she was responsible for his torture.
Better, even now, to think of him claiming his dream of a knight's life.
When he'd drawn his sword last night with such ease and power, his eyes sparking with the dangerous threat of a confident warrior, she'd been angry, but proud, too. He'd cleared the last hurdle on his path. Now he was a knight in truth, worthy of the name, and able to serve any lord who saw fit to—
A huge wave of grief washed over her, not so much piercing as all-encompassing, edgeless and formless and gripping. She gasped at the sudden pain of it, catching her arm around her waist.
She was such a coward! So deep a slave to duty that she could not even claim her heart's deepest desire. She could not brave a lie to her king, even without threat to herself. She could not bear the risk. The dream of his head bobbing on a pike haunted her. How could she bear such a thing?
And yet, Thomas, too, had made his points. He risked discovery wherever he went.
Whether she claimed him as her lover or not.
Pressure built in her, the pressure of a decision not easily made. 'Twas true he faced risk wherever he traveled, that if his true birth were known, he'd likely face death, given the state of the realm.
But he did not grasp Lyssa's wealth, nor the numbers of enemies he would gain by simply taking her to wife. The list of those who'd claim her lands and gain close ties to the king was a long one, and they'd seek some way to bring Thomas down. The light of attention she drew would be too bright for the secret his past carried.
The party rode now through the more populated stretches of land near London. It had been several years since Lyssa had come this way, and as they passed through one small village after another, she saw fields that were overgrown with grass and weeds, fields that should have been freshly tilled after harvest.
She saw, too, the neglected cottages here and there, where a family simply had not survived. There was one small village where all the cottages bore that air of neglect, shutters hanging askew, a thatched roof that had fallen in, a fence gone unmended, the tiny chapel unwhitewashed. It made Lyssa remember things she'd rather forget forever.
Isobel, too, seemed to be reminded of those dark times, for she dropped back to ride alongside her stepmother. Her eyes were grim. "What a cruel time that was," she said when they passed. "I still dream of the rats."
"I try not to think on it, but it comes back every now and again."
"Think you it will ever come again?"
"I pray it does not."
Lyssa looked over her shoulder, wondering if Thomas had set out from a village like this one, if he had lived in a cottage like these. And she shuddered to think of him like that, unwashed and roughly clad, his only beauty in his strength and size and winning smile. She hated to think of him pulling a plow or rutting with a toothless wife with dull hair.
She heard her thoughts with a shock. What difference did it make whence he'd come or where he'd been born?
Was his accusation true? Did she mind that he was not nobly born?
As the questions formed, the party cleared a rise. And before them spread the clustered glory that was London. The river that gave it life ran in a wide silver ribbon through it, water choked this harvest season with barges and boats of many sizes. And beyond lay Winchester, where the king awaited.
The king. Her cousin Edward, who'd always smiled upon his pretty relative and made such a play of spoiling her. Ever had Lyssa reveled in that connection, as well as his special attention, knowing even as a very small girl that it set her apart.
Above.
Uncomfortable, but determined to think this through, Lyssa looked at Tall Mary, who rode next to John Tyler. Always Mary had been Lyssa's dearest friend. Together they had run the slopes of the hills, and through the shadows and meadows of the forest, both of them wild and clever as foxes, free as the birds soaring through the bright blue skies of their childhood.
But Mary had been hastily hidden away when the king came to Woodell. Never once had Lyssa thought to loan her friend a gown and have servants wash her hair and scrub the dusty face clean so she might be presented to the king.
And never had Mary hinted such a thing would please her, though Lyssa had not missed the excitement rising in her eye as they grew near to London.
With a lump in her throat, Lyssa knew why she had not done it. She'd been born to duty, true enough. And ever had she been told what was good and right and proper. She'd taken to her role, knowing nobility was her lot and nearly all in the kingdom ranked lower than she.
What would it have cost her to bring Mary to the king, and let the girl give him flowers as Lyssa herself had done? In these moments of anguished honesty, Lyssa knew it was her own standing she'd been afraid to risk. By admitting her best friend was only the daughter of a freeholder, she'd been afraid she would show herself unworthy of the lofty place she'd been given in life.
Who had made these rules of birth? That one should rule and one should serve? That men should order women, and women submit, that a handful of rich nobles should live in splendor and peace while peasants rotted in their villages? Who had ordered such a world?
And why had she had to lose Thomas to see the error in her thinking?
She could do naught for that now, but a sudden thought bloomed in her. Isobel, too, had suffered these last months. Isobel, who rebelled because the only life she'd been given was ruled by everyone but herself. The girl was lusty and high-spirited. She wished to have sex and laugh loudly and rule her own world.
And while they were both bound by the rules of a world they had not made, perhaps Lyssa could give the child more time to find her own way. Perhaps Isobel, if given breath and freedom enough to find a husband of her own choosing, would not be so unhappy.
Impulsively, she turned to the girl. "Have you found any love in your heart for Stephen, Isobel?"
Isobel turned startled eyes toward her. Consternation drew down the pretty brows. "I have tried," she said slowly.
"But have you found any fondness for him?"
Isobel sighed, then slowly shook her head. "He is too mild. He only annoys me."
Lyssa laughed, surprised she could find the spirit in her to do so. "What sort of man do you prefer?"
"Is there some trick here?"
"Nay. I am earnest, Isobel. I did not even think to ask. Does your heart quicken more over a man with more color?" She thought of Margrave with distaste, but Isobel had warmed to him, far more than she had to Kivelsworthy. "Is Sir Margrave more to your liking?"
"Margrave is old," Isobel said with widened eyes. "He was a friend of my mother!"
Lyssa hid her smile. "Forgive me. I only meant to ask if his sort of man is more to your taste—dark, rather than fair."
Isobel pondered a moment. "'Tis not so much blond or dark," she said slowly. "Stephen is handsome enough for any girl, but—" She sighed. "He has no life in him. Only soberness and love." Isobel rolled her eyes. "'Tis passion in a man that makes me want him. Like your Thomas."
Lyssa flushed but did not give way to it. "Aye," she said quietly. "Lord Thomas has passion for living in him."
"How could you bear to let him go?" Isobel whispered. "Had I a man who burned so for me, I'd lash him to me with a rope and never let him escape."
In surprise, Lyssa looked at her. "Burn? But Stephen burns for you, girl. Can you not see it?"
"Nay," she said petulantly. "I am only a pretty prize for him to display to his friends."
Lyssa privately thought that was not true, and to her surprise, she saw that Isobel was attracted to the youth and did not know it. But the past years had taught her a thing or two about the contrary mind of a young girl. "You may be right," she said mildly.
Isobel tossed her head. "I do know my mind."
A call rang back from the guardsmen at the front of their party. The gates of London were befo
re them. Lyssa found herself taking a deep breath as they took the fork in the road that led them to the palace. Next to her, Isobel sat straighter on her mount.
Both fell silent, each to her own thoughts, and the fate that awaited each within those grand walls.
* * *
It had been the longest, most miserable night of his life. Thomas rode till nearly dawn, then found a place not too far from the road and curled up in the leaves to sleep.
Or at least attempted to sleep.
The ground was hard and cold beneath him, sticks and brambles making him shift once, then again, and again, till at last he had swept all but the hard ground itself away. In the brush, animals skittered and birds hooted—or he hoped 'twas birds and animals.
He'd grown soft, he growled to himself, his shoulder aching against the earth. Once he'd not have blinked at these minor discomforts. Once he'd never have noticed the low growl of hunger in his belly, for in spite of the good supper he'd eaten, that had been many long hours, and a hard ride past. The remembered smell of the pasties, savory with onion and spice, made his mouth water.
Women. Curse them all. His life had been a tangle of women this past year, this one and that one, starting with his mother and her mad plan. 'Twas she who'd led him down this path, and where did she lay this night? In a soft bed with the bodies of Mary and Lyssa to warm her.
But in truth, he had none to blame but himself for his misery. He'd lost his head over a noble maid, and well had he known better. Had he not seen his own mother's suffering those long years when she pined and dreamed for weeks unending, only to brighten and sing when the lord deigned to visit his seed upon her once again? Of all in the world, Thomas should have known better than to so place his heart.
In the brush, some tiny animal scrabbled close, then scenting Man, skittered away again. Exasperated, Thomas turned on his back, looking at the sky through the breaks in the trees. Stars swelled and diminished, tiny white pinpoints of candles, somehow calming.
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