“Eva, my position is grand and well-respected. My husband treats me well, and is good to the many people in his realm. Is that not why they call him Philip the Good?”
The duchess smoothed a hand down Eva’s hair. She was surprised to see a sheen of tears in Isabella’s eyes. “I cannot deny—my life is filled with prosperity and comfort, lavish dwellings and wardrobes. Many servants and fine feasts. Yet still, there is still loneliness in my heart. I think only love could fill that empty place.”
So the duchess knows not of love? Surely, a woman of her nobility has all that life offers. Except . . .
“I know you have lost two children,” Eva murmured. “My heart grieves for you.”
“I thank God every night for Charles, my wondrous son. But my only daughters, Eva, are like you. Sisters from other mothers. Flanders’ flowers, those whom I have chosen to gather and nurture. To teach.”
To teach. The thought had never entered Eva’s mind.
“What should I seek to learn from you, Lady Isabella?”
“You should learn the value of love, over everything else.” She cupped Eva’s cheek in her hand. “Even if you do, you may not find what you seek. Like me, you may have to settle for a life the fates have in store for you. Heed this—do not be in any hurry to bind yourself to a man for status’ sake. The fates may be kind. Look at Alys. She is, like you, of noble blood. Yet she has been blessed beyond measure to find true love with Rutger, a blacksmith’s apprentice. I admit, I envy her.”
The duchess’ tears spilled over now, even as she smiled sadly. Pulling a lace-edged cloth from the sleeve of her kirtle, she dabbed at her eyes.
“Remember ye this. Status and wealth and power are like strong wine. They are heady and sweet, and can blind you to reality. There is one place in your heart, however, they can never fill. Only true love can make you whole.”
Chapter Eleven
The noise in the Great Hall for the evening meal was thunderous. The fare was lighter than usual because there would be more feasting around the bonfire, but it mattered not to Eva. Eating was the last thing on her mind. She’d been overrun by emotions today, starting with her embarrassment in the garden, followed by her intense discussion with the duchess.
The air in the castle fairly crackled with excitement. Eva wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to the next days’ events, or dreading them. Fear and uncertainty clouded the joy she saw in all the other sisters’ eyes.
She also wasn’t sure if she believed what Lady Isabella said about true love. Alys may have been happy with Rutger, and Margriet with the gatehouse guard. But somehow, their unions did not exemplify Eva’s romantic notion. Surely, if one was patient, it was possible to find true love with a man who literally swept her off her feet with bravery, strength, and chivalry. Was it not?
Was it so wrong to dream for the ultimate in a lifelong partner?
It made Eva wonder if, mayhap, she had some soul-searching to do. Was she seeking an impossible dream? Truly, it would be wondrous to marry a brave and noble knight. But at what cost? And would love be a part of such an arrangement?
Then, there was the uncertainty. Knights went off to battle. Some never came home.
Darkness had just begun to fall over the castle when the call rang out for all fires to be extinguished. Servants had ceased stoking the hearths hours before the evening meal, so all had burnt down to mere glowing embers. Eva followed the other girls around the walls of their quarters, snuffing out the candles and torches. Finally, the only light remaining was a fat, tallow candle Alys carried to lead the girls down the halls to the front door of the keep.
The night was clear but cool, and Eva wished she had taken Alys’ advice to carry a cloak. She now stood with pebbled arms around the great tower of wood, huddling in close to her sisters to stay warm. Soon men carrying flaming torches set fire to the smaller kindling at the base of the pyre. Within minutes, the dry branches caught, and bright flames licked up the sides toward the sky. When they reached the top, a great cheer went up around her. Warmth filled Eva from the inside out.
The May Day festivities had begun.
Servants flowed out of the bailey bearing trays filled with delightful pastries and tiny meat pies. The bigger men wheeled barrels out on a cart, and long lines formed almost immediately. The villagers brought their own cups made of metal, wood, or clay, and waited patiently for their share of the mead or ale.
Eva glanced around her, wondering if she and the other girls would be offered some of the drink. To her delight, Alys appeared holding two pewter goblets.
“Merry May Day!” she said as she tapped her cup to Eva’s.
The mead was sweet but strong, and after only a few sips Eva felt woozy. The footing in the field was uneven and soft, so she was afraid to venture far from the spot where she and her sisters stood. Rutger appeared shortly after the blaze began. He guided Alys away from the crowd, his arm looped possessively around her waist. When the rest of the girls all scattered, laughing and chattering with other young people from the village, Eva was sorely tempted to flop down in the grass and content herself by simply watching.
Just before she sank to the ground, she felt fingers grip her elbow. Turning, she looked up to see Mathieu.
“Good evening, milady. Are you enjoying our bonfire?”
Eva’s breath caught as she studied the tall man beside her. Firelight danced over his chiseled features, reminding Eva once again of how handsome the ostler was. His oaken hair shone in waves over broad shoulders clothed in a crisp, ivory tunic. The leather lacings at his neck were undone, allowing her a peek at peat-brown curls on his chest.
A sudden flutter in her belly made Eva even more unsteady on her feet. She swayed, and Mathieu gripped her arm tighter.
“The footing, or the drink?” he asked, his eyes gleaming. He shot her a broad grin. “No matter. We’ll find a grassy spot and settle down to enjoy the show.”
He led her far enough away from the crowd so they wouldn’t get stepped on, then lowered to the grass, pulling her down beside him. A shudder ran through her. Was it the night air, or being so close to this alluring man, one who smelled clean and spicy?
He felt her shiver and asked, “Shall I fetch you a cloak, Eva?”
She shook her head and snuggled in closer to his side. The warmth of his body through the linen was much more enticing than a rough woolen cloak.
Mathieu peered into her cup and noticed it was empty. “More drink?”
Eva knew she shouldn’t. Her dinner had been scant, and the sweet drink was going straight to her head. Before she could answer, he offered her his own goblet.
“Here. Drink, and ’twill warm you from the inside out.”
Aye, she thought, that might be true. But mead wasn’t the only thing making Eva’s cheeks feel warm even as the air around her grew colder.
He’s the ostler, she reminded herself, though that persistent voice in her head was growing smaller, weaker.
After the platters of treats ceased to appear, a group of minstrels gathered and filled the air with melody. A dulcimer and flute sent tremulous notes to waft around Eva, bringing with them the magical joy music always did. She smiled and laid her head on Mathieu’s shoulder.
Eva laughed as she watched villagers herding their goats and cattle up the hill to pass through the fire’s smoke.
“Why do they bring livestock to the bonfire?” she asked.
“To bless them. These people strongly hold to the old customs and beliefs. The smoke from the bonfire is supposed to purify and protect all from evil. Even the animals.”
A twitter ran through the crowd when Philip and Isabella appeared, arms linked. They looked the part of royalty, Phillip in a bright blue tunic and braies, and Isabella in a flowing kirtle of the same shade. From her double-horned hennin fluttered sheer silk that looked to be made from spun gold. Following them was Admiral La Laing in his usual red cloak with a pearl-studded roundlet on his head. At his side, decked out all in black a
nd topped with chainmail, strode Captain Knape.
Eva cringed when Knape spotted her and flashed her a devilish smile.
The procession made their way through the throng, stopping often to make small talk with the castle folk and villagers. Eva watched them, her mouth agape. She had assumed the nobles would simply watch the festivities from a high window in the keep. Yet here they were, wandering about the field with the rest of the crowd.
They are real people, Eva realized with a jolt. They weren’t too proud to mingle among the commoners. Her childish belief in nobles as some kind of godlike beings flickered.
She’d almost forgotten Mathieu was at her side until he shifted, his beard-scruffed cheek brushing against hers. A bolt of heat shot through her. She turned toward him and leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. His breath was hot and smelled spicy, like the wine.
His gaze skittered over her face, his eyes soft. “I cannot stay late. There’s a hunt in the morn,” he began. “Philip and Isabella always like to go out on May Day to fatten the table for the feast. So, I won’t be joining the others in their search for the hawthorn . . . ”
The hawthorn. Eva remembered Alys mentioning this, but knew not what she was talking about.
“Aye . . . the white flowers we saw on our ride. Why do they gather this?” she asked.
Mathieu’s gaze swept her up and down, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I forgot. This is your first May Day.”
Eva bristled. “And so what of it? I may have been sheltered, but I’m not an ignorant fool. Tell me of this hawthorn and why the young people gather it.”
Mathieu’s eyes sparkled as he laughed out loud. “Nay, you are no fool, milady. And neither meek nor shy.” He paused to drain the last of his wine. “So. The hawthorn has white bark, and white flowers, and blooms right in time for May Day. The wood also burns white-hot—you’ll see, if you’re still here, when some of the folk throw their branches onto the bonfire.” He sobered, searching her eyes. His voice lowered to a sultry growl. “They say the flowering bush represents the purity, and the heat, of desire and love.”
Eva’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, momentarily at a loss for words.
His breath smelled like honey from the mead, and Eva’s eyes drifted down his pale scar from his eyes to his full lips. They looked so soft, so warm. When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled through her chest.
“’Tis May Day Eve, milady. May I steal a kiss?”
Her eyes fluttered upward until their gazes locked, and she nodded. In the next moment, Eva’s whole body went still, even as a flame erupted within her brighter than the bonfire.
They were soft, those lips, edged with the roughness of his beard. The combination was tantalizing. At first, his touch was gentle, a mere brushing of lips over hers. When she sighed, though, it was as though a flood gate opened. Matheiu’s mouth slanted over hers, parting her lips with his tongue.
He tasted like honey, too. Eva was surprised at how intimate a mere kiss could be. She leaned in and answered his strokes against her tongue. A strange fluttering began in her chest and dropped lower, into her belly, then farther down, until a throbbing commenced between her thighs. Never had she imagined—
Suddenly, the world began to spin around her, and she broke the kiss, gasping. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten to breathe.
He was smiling at her as his fingers came up to stroke her cheek, his thumb running lightly across her lower lip. “They say the eve of May Day has a sort of magic,” he began, studying her face with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. “I’d have to say, if your kiss is any indication, the magic is not simply a fairy tale.”
Eva’s blood pulsed in her ears so loud she could hear naught but his words. The roar of the fire, the shouts of the crowd, the music, the bleating of the lambs—’twas all gone. There was only she and Mathieu. Nothing else in the world existed, or mattered.
“You seem to be weaving a spell upon me, Eva of Utrecht,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers once more.
Something deep inside Eva, though, clenched, and she pulled back. He’s just the ostler. The words echoed in her brain again, like an internal warning. Like an instinct, yet one Eva was not at all sure she wanted to heed.
She cleared her throat, laying her fingers on his chin. “How long before you begin your training as a knight, Mathieu of Liège?”
It was as though a bucket of cold water had doused the man. Immediately, he drew back and reached for the mug he’d set on the grass beside him. He turned from her, staring into the bonfire, his posture rigid.
“I believe I told you once before, milady. I do not intend to seek knighthood. I’ve seen too much.” His voice was flat.
Eva didn’t understand. He’d seen too much . . . of what? Of battle? Was fear holding Mathieu from pursuing his title? His sword and spurs?
That, she decided quickly, would never do.
Silence fell between them, icy cold, like the night. No longer did the flames warm her, nor was she close enough to feel his body heat. A shudder racked her shoulders as a strange sadness filled her.
She sighed. “I should like to go in search of some hawthorn.”
Mathieu would not meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, Eva. I must return to the stables shortly. I cannot take you to the woods for hawthorn. And heed this—you cannot not go unescorted.”
Pride rose up like a hissing snake to disguise her disappointment. “I don’t believe I asked you to escort me,” she shot back. “In fact, I believe I will make it an early evening as well.” She struggled to her feet, resentment clutching her gut.
She had no reason to be angry with Mathieu, yet she was—spitting mad. With whom? With herself, for her affliction, and her inability to navigate confidently on her own? Or for inability to douse her childish fantasies?
I waited for love, but it never found me. Isabella’s words came back to haunt her. Confusion clouded her thinking and frustrated her. As always, though, she bandaged her pain with pride.
But when she looked behind her and saw the distance to the gatehouse across the field, her chest tightened. Yes, she wanted to be independent and not in need of any assistance. But she also had not the courage to cross the uneven terrain on her own, in the dark.
Sheepishly, she turned back to Mathieu, noting with another jolt of disappointment that he had not risen to his feet with her. He sat, hugging his knees, staring into the fire, as though nothing had passed between them. As if they had not just shared an intimate kiss. She sniffed. It took every ounce of will she possessed to ask for his help, but she had no choice.
“Would you mind escorting me back to the bailey, Mathieu?” she asked.
He looked up at her, his expression impassive. “Why of course not, milady.”
*
Mathieu passed through the stable to perform his ritual nightly check before returning to his quarters. He’d drank a bit too much mead, he decided, yawning and scratching his chest. Hopefully the morning would not be painful. He had to be awake early, with dogs rallied, horses saddled, and falcons hooded by dawn.
The hunt should have been his only concern, the only thing on his mind. But Satan’s cods, he’d let the girl get to him again. Thoughts of Eva filled his head with even stronger medicine than the wine.
She’d felt so soft and willing next to him tonight. Even through her woolen kirtle, he felt the swell of her breast as she snuggled into his side. Her hair, scented with lavender, tickled his cheek when the breeze lifted the silky strands. And when he claimed those plump, pink lips with his own, his entire world tilted.
Unfortunately, the magic did not last. It was a moment, nothing more.
There was an invisible wall between him and Eva. He sensed it, and wondered if it was one she’d constructed specifically against him, or against the world in general. Mathieu knew her affliction embarrassed her. But instead of graciously asking for help, she always lashed out first with prideful arrogance. Was her reaction a defen
sive move?
Arrogance. The thought crashed down over him like a mace to the head. She’d asked him yet again about his intentions to pursue knighthood. He had told her before he was content with his position as ostler and falconer for the court.
Did this Eva of Utrecht—this afflicted, bastard daughter—truly think him beneath her?
Anger rose within him, demanding its usual satiation.
Mathieu halted at the last stall before his quarters and turned into the space, nudging aside the hindquarters of the horse—ironically, Captain Knape’s blindingly white destrier. Drawing back his fist, he let fly a punch to the wooden boards beside the steed. The horse jumped, but thankfully did not lash out with a hoof.
From somewhere on the other side of the stable, Kleine Uil screeched.
Chapter Twelve
In the next moment, it seemed, morning was upon her. In the distance, smoke wafted still from the mound of the spent bonfire’s embers. Eva peered out through the window of the girls’ quarters into the bailey below. It was barely dawn, the horizon just now glowing with the imminent sunrise. None of her sisters were yet awake—the older girls had stayed out late gathering hawthorn. The younger ones always slept until summoned to break their fast.
Eva watched as a pack of brown and white spotted hounds emerged from a pen beside the stables. Mathieu herded them, fondling their floppy ears and laughing when they jostled for his attention. A spark of warmth stirred in her chest as she watched the ostler interact with the animals.
A kind heart, she thought. Any man who cares so for the humble beasts must possess a tender heart.
Several of the knights meandered from their camp toward the stable carrying bows and quivers of arrows, long swords sheathed on hips. There was no tenderness exuded by these men, who ignored the dogs, even as the creatures approached to sniff at their legs. One man even kicked out at one of them, causing the dog to yelp and slink away. He ignored the glare Mathieu shot him.
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