Heart of a Knight (4 page)

At her feet, Griselda shifted eagerly, and made a soft sound of greeting. Lyssa heard a booted step on the wooden planks of the tower floor, and turned, expecting Harry.

Instead it was
him
—Lord Thomas, who halted some distance from her. The impression of shining darkness and great size startled her anew, and she only looked at him, unable to call a single word to her lips.

"Good even, my lady," he said, quietly.

"Good even, sir."

Griselda whined and got up to greet him, going over to lick the knight's hand. "It seems you have won an admirer," Lyssa said.

Lord Thomas rubbed his great hand over Griselda's head, and scratched her muzzle with sure, simple movements. His eyes twinkled. "A wise creature."

"And all know what discerning beasts they be," she returned easily. "Satan himself has his hounds of hell."

His chuckle was robust. Lyssa watched him offer his hand for Griselda's grateful kiss, then he stood once more, hanging back, as if he were some peasant. Perhaps he did not wish to frighten her; so large a man was surely not unused to inspiring distrust and fear.

"Come, sir," she said, lifting a hand to draw him into her company. "I am not so fearsome as that."

"Are you not, my lady? I heard much of you these months." As he stepped forward, he lifted one dark slash of brow. His scent enveloped her, and once again, Lyssa noted her reaction curiously. His size, his darkness, his scent—all moved her oddly, for she'd never found much to admire in men. She'd been too young before her marriage, and after it there had been few men about. To ease her puzzlement, she let a smile quirk her lips.

"The villeins have told stories of me, have they?"

"They have." With lazy ease, he leaned a hip against the wall. "They say you are as kind as you are fair. None starve in Woodell. That's what they say."

It pierced her. "You lie, my lord," she said tightly.

A taut stillness came over him. "Lie? No, I do not lie."

"When you speak of the peasants, you do," she said firmly. "They were angry when I left them."

"Aye," he said, surprising her. "They were that. But they missed you, as well. And, if ye don't mind me saying it, the guardsmen you left were cowards for running away—plague or no."

"So, then I must be coward, too."

He lifted a shoulder, but said nothing.

Lyssa scowled. "What purpose would it have served to stay here and fall sick? Who then would care for the villeins if I did not return?" She found she'd dug her fingers into the grainy stone of the wall. "And how could I take them all with me?"

And still he said nothing. Lyssa chanced a glimpse of his face, and it held no censure. "It did no help, in the end," she said with a sigh. "The villeins fared better here than they would have with me." Her mouth twisted with irony. "We fled and fell to plague. They stayed and did not."

"God has his will," Lord Thomas replied quietly.

"Aye."

He shifted. "In truth, 'twas like as not the brews of Alice Bryony that saved your village."

"Alice Bryony?"

"The widow who came here with me. Her talents were known well in her village."

"I would meet this paragon."

Lord Thomas chuckled. "She is no paragon, my lady. I suspect she dances all with the peasants, there." He pointed at the hill. "She will tell you she did no magic, no wondrous thing—only gave them a tonic to keep them hale."

"I suspect there are many who would pay a king's ransom for such a tonic."

"Mayhap there are, but she does not take coin for her potions." He straightened. "Why do you not join the festival tonight?"

Lyssa folded her hands, looking away to the fire on the hill. They would not welcome her, not there. "'Tis enough to simply be again in my home."

"Twas a long exile, then?"

"Aye. Since Whitsuntide last."

"They'll be glad enough to have you back again." He moved and the sword clinked against the wall.

Lyssa glanced up—up and up and up. A giant, he was. Taller than any man she'd ever seen. Her head struck him mid-chest, and his arm was near as broad as her waist. "You must be much valued in battle for your size, my lord."

A crooked grin cut the darkness of his visage. "'Tis good to have any advantage in battle." The grin broadened, and he tilted his head to meet her curious gaze. "And you—is it an advantage at court to be so small and neat?"

"'Tis more advantage to be the king's cousin," she replied dryly.

He scowled. "So high born."

It seemed to trouble him. Lyssa saw a faint frown crease his broad, high forehead, and he took his eyes away from her, as if they might give offense. "Are you so easily intimidated, sir?"

"Aye—you are much above me in birth." He lowered his head. "I am but a poor knight, with lands lying fallow, and a crumbling castle in the cold north."

Something about his speech had been bothering her. It was not quite rough, not quite polished. When he said he was from the north, she breathed a sigh of relief. Strange customs they had there, and stranger speech. To put him at his ease, she shook her head. "Who among us has not been born of the land? Lady, knight, or peasant—even king—we are all the same in bed asleep."

His laugh rumbled from deep within that broad chest, and the resonant baritone sent a rippling up her spine. She moved a little, trying to dislodge the tingle.

"You do set high value on beds, my lady."

"Do I?"

"You do." Comfortably, he leaned on the wall, putting his face on a level with her own. His black hair captured light from some unknown source and it shone in glossy splendor over his shoulders. Healthy, like the rest of him.

She looked away. "No more than any woman concerned with comfort, I think."

"But those peasants dancing on the hill do not sleep in beds stuffed with feathers and wool and sweet herbs."

"No," she admitted.

"Nor do they nestle their heads in pillows smelling of perfume, nor lie under piles of thick furs. A peasant bed is scratchy hay, if indeed they have a bed at all."

Before she could stop herself, she said, "You liked my bed?"

"Aye," he said slowly, the word rumbling on that bear's voice. He managed to imbue the single syllable with many layers of meaning, and Lyssa could not help thinking of his big body cradled in her soft wool mattress, his great head supported by her perfumed pillows, his black hair scattering over the linen. "Aye, that I did."

"There are others you'll find to your liking," she said.

"Won't be needin' one but for a night."

"Will you go so soon?"

"'Twas not my wish to overstep my bounds, my lady. We only wintered here when the roads grew impassable. We have stayed so long to give help to the villeins." A grimness touched his mouth. "There are bandits wild enough in the forest—and they raid at will. Seemed a cruelty to leave the villeins undefended."

"I am grateful. And glad I am that you oversaw the planting as well. Come winter, 'twill be a great blessing. We saw too many fields lying fallow as we traveled."

"As mine do," he replied. "Land gone wanting for lack of hands to work it."

Ah, so he longed for his own home, as Lyssa had done. "You must return to your land, then?"

He glanced at her, then back to the fire leaping against the sky. "Not this season—there are none left to work it." He shifted his arms on the wall, and the movement made muscles bulge against the fabric of his tunic. "I'd thought to go to London, and offer land to poor tradesmen for their help."

It was a wise plan. Still, Lyssa gnawed her lip, eyeing that bulging swordsman's arm, the powerful length of fingers hanging loosely against the stone. There were only a handful of guards to defend against the brigands in the forest.

She lifted her head. "Mayhap you will think on staying here with us." She looked at the new-planted fields. "Until the king finds me a husband to bring men to protect my lands, or the harvest comes in." She laced her fingers primly. "I would pay you handsomely."

He gave her an unreadable look, and she had the sense she had offended him in some way. "I will stay if you ask it, my lady, but no money will I take for it."

"But, sir, there is much—"

He straightened. "I've been a-lyin' in your bed these many months, eating in your hall, and will take none o' your coin."

There it was again, that strange rough way he spoke. "Your lands must be close to the border, indeed," she said with a smile.

She would have sworn he blushed—his harshly slanted cheeks seemed to grow dark. "'Tis not always endearing."

"I mind it not," she said. "Will you stay, Lord Thomas? Lend your sword to the villeins and me until the harvest is brought safely in?"

He stared at her through the darkness, a harsh look in his eye. "Aye," he said, at last, and bent in a courtly bow.

Lyssa found her gaze on the glossy crown of his head. His hair flowed forward, liquid as water, to hide his face and the hard, broad brow.

"I have made ready the chamber in the south tower." She smiled. "The bed there is quite fine."

"No doubt." With a nod, he moved away. "I'll leave you then."

"Good night, Lord Thomas." She watched as he moved away, oddly graceful for all his size.

At the door, he paused. "There is one thing you might do for me, if you will, my lady."

"What might that be?"

"As you have seen, my manners are rough."

"'Tis no shame, my lord. Not all are bred to courtly skills."

"I would like to be among those who are so skilled," he said gruffly. "Will you teach me?"

A hard, swooping squeeze closed around her heart, making it hurt. This brawny knight had his pride, and she would do well to remember it. With a gentle dip of her head, she lifted an edge of her skirt. "I am your servant, sir."

He did not smile. Instead, he gave a curt nod and left her.

  3

When at last Lyssa made
her way back to her chamber, Tall Mary was waiting. Lyssa's bed had been shaken and plumped, and a rushlight burned in the sconce on the wall. Mary sat on the wide embrasure, her face turned toward the night and the sound of a ballad being sung by some invisible voice: