The Maiden and Her Knight (14 page)

She pressed her lips together, trying to calm herself. “If you will put your left arm in the sleeve…”

“That would be which one, my lady?”

“The injured one, of course,” she whispered. “If I didn't know better, sir knight, I might believe you were trying to delay the proceedings.”

“You might be right.”

He slipped his left hand into his sleeve and she slowly—very slowly—pulled it up. “My lady, I think
you
are deliberately taking a very long time getting me dressed.”

“You wish me to hurry?”

His eyes darkened and his chest rose and fell as his breathing quickened, like her own. “Not at all.”

“Then don't complain.” Leaning tantalizingly closer, she held the right sleeve for him and he eased his arm into it. “We are not alone.” She should remember that, too.

“I am damnably aware of that fact, my lady.” He inched back a bit and spoke in a louder voice. “It is a good thing this shirt has big sleeves. And here I grumbled that the seamstress must have been thinking of a giant when she made it.”

Although it was necessary, she regretted the loss of intimacy. “It does seem very large for you.”

“Actually, it wasn't made for me. It is my brother's shirt. I, um, borrowed it.”

“You mean you took it without asking.”

“One could say so.”

“I get very angry when Isabelle does that.”

“Well, he made me angry first. I'll take him a new one when I go home.”

When he left her, as he must. Her hands shaking, she picked up his tunic.

The door to the dispensary opened. Lord Oswald sauntered inside, his gaze sweeping over the room, the medicines and the people in it. She froze as he bowed to them in greeting. “My lady, Sir Connor.”

Deciding she should not act as if anything were amiss or unusual in what she was doing, she helped Connor put on his tunic.

“What may I do for you, Lord Oswald?” Brother Jonathan asked as he stoppered the small vial of medicine for her father. “I hope you are not ill?”

“A touch of indigestion today, nothing more,” Lord Oswald replied with a genial smile that made Allis breathe easier as she stepped away from Connor. “Knowing that such a clever physician was nearby, I thought to avail myself of your services.”

“As well you should. I shall be happy to give you something. What are the symptoms? Gas? Burning?”

“Burning. Well, and belching, too, if I am to be completely honest,” he replied, winking at Allis.

She returned his smile, liking him. Indeed, she wished he were their neighbor, rather than Rennick. For one thing, he was a man one could trust. For an
other, he was already married, to the very wealthy heiress of a Norman duke.

“I, too, hope you are soon feeling better, my lord. If Lady Allis will help me with my sling, I can be on my way,” Connor said.

“I trust your injury is healing well,” Lord Oswald inquired.

“Brother Jonathan tells me it is, although he warns me I must take care a while yet. I shall endeavor to obey.”

She deftly slipped the sling over his head and maneuvered it into position, taking care not to touch him more than strictly necessary. He carefully put his arm through it.

“Good day, my lady, my lord, Brother Jonathan,” he said as he strolled toward the door. As always when he left her, she thought of the moment he must do so for the last time, and a little bit more of her died.

“Here is the draft for your father, my lady,” Brother Jonathan said, handing her the vial.

“Thank you. Good day to you, and to you, too, my lord.”

“I look forward to seeing you at the evening meal, my lady,” Lord Oswald said, bowing again as she passed him by. “Perhaps we can persuade Sir Connor to give us a song.”

She stopped. “A song?”

“Oh, yes, my lady, he is a most excellent singer, or so his father used to say. I assumed you knew this about him.”

“No, I did not.” Fear skittered along her spine. They had been too careless, too wrapped in their own desire. Lord Oswald wasn't blind; perhaps he had seen…guessed…

And what of Brother Jonathan? To be sure, he had seemed to be absorbed in his task, but they should have been more careful. She shouldn't have stayed. She should have asked Brother Jonathan to bring the potion.

“He's Welsh, is he not? They are all fine singers, or so I understand.”

Her alarm lessened. “Yes, I've heard that, too.”

“So we shall ask him, shall we?”

“You don't think he will be offended? He is a knight of the realm, after all, not a minstrel.”

Lord Oswald smiled broadly. “Oh, I think if a pretty woman asks him, he might do almost anything, especially if he hopes to impress her.”

Another chill of dread spread outward from her spine. “What makes you think he hopes to impress me?”

“Come, come, my lady!” Lord Oswald cried jovially. “Surely you cannot be ignorant of the way he regards you?”

“It matters not how he looks at me,” she said, drawing herself up as she lied through her teeth. “I am a betrothed woman.”

“Yes, but not yet married, and he is poor and handsome. A man in such a position might try to improve his lot by marrying a lovely heiress. If I were young and unmarried, I would be pursuing you myself.”

She thought of time she had shared with Connor, moments of genuine affection as well as passion. His feelings were sincere, and honest. She believed that to the core of her heart, where her own love lived. “You flatter me, my lord,” she said with a cool smile. “And now you must excuse me, for my father is waiting.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, watching her leave.

A
s they dressed for the evening meal later that day, Isabelle glanced at her sister's reflection in the small mirror in the bedchamber they shared. Isabelle sat at their dressing table brushing her hair, while Allis changed her gown from a plain woolen one to something finer. Isabelle had already donned a very pretty gown of pale blue embroidered about the round neck and cuffs with red and yellow flowers.

“Sir Connor is wonderful with Edmond,” Isabelle remarked.

“So I gather. Edmond is very pleased.” Allis drew on her blue velvet gown with the satin-lined, green cuffs that reached nearly to the floor. “His voice was almost loud enough to raise an alarm when he told Father about his ‘training.'

“His excitement did not help Father's aching head, I'm afraid,” Allis finished with a sigh.

Isabelle rose and came behind her to tighten and tie the lacing at the back of her bodice. “I think he's wonderful.”

“That's a nice thing to say about your brother.”

“I was talking about Sir Connor. Don't you think he's wonderful?”

Mindful of Lord Oswald's possible suspicions and not wishing to raise any in Isabelle's mind, she carefully replied, “I like him, and I am certainly very grateful for the time he has spent with Edmond.”

Her task finished, Isabelle came around to face her. “You should come and watch with me tomorrow.”

She wanted to very much, but she feared she couldn't mask her feelings well enough. Indeed, it was difficult to mask them now. To hide her face, she reached for the green girdle lying on the bed. “I have too much to do—and I think you shouldn't bother them.”

“I'm not a bother. I sit on Sir Connor's stool and do not say a word. If I were a bother, surely he would ask me to leave,” Isabelle said as she sat again and began to braid her hair.

“You are the daughter of the lord of a castle where he is a guest.”

“I still think he would ask me to leave if my presence was interfering.”

That was likely true. A man who would upbraid his king surely wouldn't hesitate to ask Isabelle to leave if she was a nuisance. “I cannot take the time.” Which was also, regrettably, true.

“He's very handsome, isn't he?”

Allis reached for her pale green scarf and forced
herself to speak with a nonchalance she certainly didn't feel. “Who?”

“Why, Sir Connor. Who else are we talking about?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Granted he's not as handsome as the baron, but he's very good-looking.”

In the process of lifting her scarf over her head, Allis stilled. “You think Rennick is better looking?”

“Of course! You needn't sound so shocked. Everybody thinks he's very handsome. Why, Merva says—”

“I can guess what Merva says.” As she continued to put on her scarf, it crossed her mind that she should try to limit Isabelle's exposure to that particular maidservant and her loquacious tongue. Unfortunately, that was an edict that would probably prove impossible to enforce. “I am surprised that you think so.”

“Well, I do. And more importantly, the baron is rich.”

“You sound as if you think that of supreme importance.”

“I do. So does every noblewoman.”

“I don't.”

Isabelle swiveled on her stool and stared at her sister incredulously. “That's not what you said before.”

Pretending to be absorbed in adjusting the girdle about her waist, she said, “I cannot deny that wealth or lack of it is an important consideration—”

“What else is there? Connections and alliances, I suppose,” Isabelle replied, answering her own question. “I think the baron has everything one could hope for in a husband. He's good-looking, rich and our neighbor and ally. He's been very helpful since Mother died. What more could you ask for?”

There were so many things Isabelle didn't know, or
she would never say such a thing, or believe it, either. She would understand why a woman who hoped for an honorable, kind and faithful husband would never wish to be his bride. But she was young yet to have her mind polluted by the vile nature of what some men could do in the name of their rights and the rule of law. “I am surprised you have not talked of love.”

“You have never talked of love, either.”

Of course, when it came to the baron, that was true. Even now, she could hardly bring herself to talk of love and Rennick DeFrouchette at the same time.

“It is a great pity Sir Connor isn't rich,” Isabelle said with a sigh as she tied a bright blue ribbon around the end of her braid. “Otherwise, I would be doing all I could to compel him to ask for my hand.”

She couldn't fault her for her taste. “You are too young,” she said, picking up the barbette.

“I wonder what his kisses are like.”

“Isabelle!” Allis snapped as she adjusted the barbette. To speak of his looks was one thing; to imagine his kisses was…something else.

“It's not a sin to wonder about kisses, is it?” Isabelle demanded. “That's not exactly lust, I don't think. It would be a sin if I imagined more, I'm sure, but not a kiss. I'd wager he kisses very well indeed, and I'd be willing to bet that Merva knows. I think I'll ask her.”

“You will do no such thing!”

Isabelle rose and gave her a smile. “I'm only teasing, Allis. I won't ask—but I still think he's likely a marvelous kisser.”

He certainly was, but she had better not think about that, or let Isabelle's jests trick her into displaying more emotion.

She began to tidy the brushes and pins on top of the table. “Just as long as you don't intend to find out.”

Isabelle turned back her cuffs. “He wouldn't kiss me even if I wanted him to. I asked him if he would wear my scarf in a tournament and he said no, he's too old for me.”

“Isabelle, you should not have asked. It was inappropriate and unbecoming a lady.”

Even as she spoke, guilt tweaked Allis's conscience. Once more, she was playing the hypocrite, for if anybody in this chamber was acting inappropriately and unbecoming a lady these days, it was she.

“He said he wouldn't ask to wear yours, either.”

Although that was wise, she felt disappointed nonetheless. “Of course he could not. I am betrothed.”

“Which apparently means you cannot even think about kissing anybody else. Really, Allis, what is so wrong with talking about Sir Connor? It's not as if you or I were going to propose marriage to him.” Isabelle took Allis's hands and looked at her beseechingly. “You're not angry with me, are you?”

“No, I'm not.” As Connor lightened her dark days, so she should seek to keep Isabelle happy. After all, she had been upset by Isabelle's mournful sadness and guilt after Percival's death, so she should be glad to see evidence that she was recovering, even if she would prefer a different subject. “Come now, it's time to go to the hall.”

She went to the door and held it for Isabelle. “In the hall I will hear no speculations about kissing,” she warned as they went down the tower steps together, smiling to show she was not completely serious.

Isabelle's eyes gleamed mischievously. “What if I whisper?”

“Are you trying to make my hair go gray before its time?”

“What about Sir Auberan?” Isabelle mused. “I cannot even picture kissing him. His lips are too moist. It would be like kissing a toad.”

“Have you ever kissed a toad?”

“No, but I can imagine.”

“So can I—and I imagine Auberan would be worse.”

They laughed genially, as they had not done in a long time.

“We shouldn't be making sport of one of our guests,” Allis said with a touch of remorse.

“Why not? I mean, his face when he tries to look manly, like the morning of the tournament—it looks like he has indigestion.”

“I was thinking cramps.” They both started laughing again. “Oh, we must stop, or I'll never be able to look at him without grinning like a jester,” Allis said.

“I…I'll try,” Isabelle said, gasping and giggling at the same time. “To stop laughing, I mean. I don't think I'll be able to face him ever again. That would be asking too much, especially if he wrinkled his forehead the way he does.”

“But maybe if we laugh at him enough, he'll finally go home.”

“I'm delighted I am the cause of so much merriment.”

His face red with rage, Auberan stood at the bottom of the steps.

Horrified at being caught making sport of a guest, Allis flushed with embarrassment. “Sir Auberan, I—”

He held up his hand. “Say nothing, my lady. Since I am not deaf, I comprehend you perfectly. I will pack my baggage and be gone in the morning.”

He turned on his heel and marched away in high dudgeon.

“By the saints,” Isabelle breathed.

Allis leaned back against the curved stone wall. “That was most unfortunate.”

“At least he's leaving.”

“Under terrible circumstances, and he'll tell everybody about our rudeness, too.”

Isabelle put a sisterly arm around her shoulder. “Do not take this so much to heart, Allis. He's not worth worrying about.”

“I don't want anybody to feel unwelcome at Montclair.”
Except Rennick DeFrouchette
.

“Why don't you let me see if I can help? Auberan likes me. Maybe he didn't hear everything and I can persuade him to stay.”

“He certainly heard the last thing, and that was bad enough.”

Isabelle got that mischievous gleam in her blue eyes again. “Ah, but you said it, not me. That may make all the difference.”

Allis slanted a suspicious glance at her sister. “And just how do you intend to persuade him to stay?”

“I certainly won't kiss him, if that's what you're wondering about.”

“Good.”

“I might imply that I would consider it, though.”

“Isabelle!”

“Would you rather he spread vicious tales about the rude chatelaine of Montclair?”

Isabelle had her there. “Very well, but don't make any promises you don't intend to keep.”

Her sister's expression hardened a little. “I won't. I wouldn't let poor Percival wear my scarf, would I? And I hold my honor as dear as you do, Allis,” she said before she hurried after the disgruntled young nobleman.

“Better, I hope,” Allis whispered as she followed.

 

All through the evening meal, Connor was sure something was wrong. Sir Auberan behaved like a sullen child and Lady Isabelle treated him most solicitously, as if trying to soothe wounded feelings. Allis looked as she had in the hall that first night—solemn, cold, unapproachable—even when she glanced his way.

Perhaps that was because of the arrival of Lord Oswald in the dispensary. He had been taken aback, too, and worried about what the man might think. Fortunately, Lord Oswald's words and actions had not given him cause to fear that the man might misinterpret—no, correctly interpret—their feelings for one another.

Could it be she was reconsidering their growing bond? If so, why should he be surprised? She had much to lose.

“Sir Connor!” Lord Oswald called out as Merva cleared the last of the fruit from the high table where he sat in the earl's place. “I have heard you sing well, like all your countrymen. Would you favor us with a song?”

He didn't want to sing. He wanted to be alone with Allis and find out what had happened, yet he could hardly stand and make that pronouncement. “It's not true that every Welshman can sing,” he answered genially enough, despite his worry.

“That is not what we hear.”

“Perhaps I should be more specific,” he replied with a smile. “Not every Welshman can sing well, but most Normans can't carry a tune at all.”

“Oh, surely you are being modest! Your father used to brag of your voice, along with your other attributes. Will you not grace us with a ballad?”

“I haven't sung anything in a very long time,” he demurred. That was true enough, and there were only three kinds of ballads he knew: one kind extolled the past glory of Wales before the invasion of the Norman pirates and brigands, not something the Normans were likely to appreciate; another was about the glory of battle, not something he wanted Edmond to hear; and the last was about love.

“Maybe he's just being careful and doesn't want to risk being insulted.
Somebody
might say he's showing off, or sings like a dog howling at the moon,” Auberan muttered, glaring at Allis.

Obviously, she had somehow insulted him, or he thought she had. As upset as he was, Connor couldn't imagine Allis purposefully insulting anyone, not even Auberan.

“Will you please sing for us, Sir Connor?” Allis asked, and there, in her eyes, he finally saw a hint of affection and tenderness. She wasn't asking him as she might a servant, but as she would make a request of a friend. Or a lover.

Maybe whatever had caused Allis to be so different had to do with the sulky Auberan and not him, which was a comforting thought. “I will gladly sing, as long as you all bear in mind it has been a long time and my throat is likely rather rusty.”

Edmond's eyes widened, and Connor gave him a
conspiratorial grin as he got to his feet, the better to breathe for the long notes. “Not real rust. More of a croaking I'm afraid of.”

“I'm sure the Welsh would say even one of them croaking is better than a Norman's singing,” Auberan sneered, as he crossed his arms and looked away, as if determined not to listen.

“Well, a Welshman might, at that. Shall we let the ladies judge if I croak, or do somewhat better?”

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he filled his lungs and began to sing a song in Welsh that was not a ballad about Wales, or battle, or the love between a man and a woman.

It was the lullaby his mother had sung to him, a soft, delicate tune of sweet spring days, the ewes and their lambs on the hillsides at dusk. He closed his eyes, thinking of his mother and the way she would brush the hair back from his brow at night before she kissed his forehead and bade him good night.