Heart of a Knight (23 page)

Thomas braced himself, hunkering to take the butt with his shoulder, but he misjudged and the man ploughed into his chest, and slammed him backward into a tree with such force his teeth slammed together and the wind left him in a whoosh, leaving him gasping.

For a blind minute, Thomas could not catch his breath, and managed only to hold off half the rain of blows from the wild little man with fists like rocks. They landed against his face and his ribs and once in his eye with a shattering pain before Thomas rallied. He caught the man's head in his hands and twisted, breaking his neck as cleanly as a hen's.

Which left only Red, who smiled nastily. "Come, my little bird. They fell like flies, but I'm a man, and I'll fight for that prize."

Thomas circled warily. Man-to-man, no weapons, for all had been scattered, he measured his opponent. Thomas was taller and broader, but Red outweighed him, and there was about him an air of cocky survival and singular lack of fear at facing a giant that made Thomas know he faced the battle of his life.

And like the small man, Red took the initiative, barreling forward with a speed and force that belied his size. This time, Thomas met it squarely, gritting his teeth to absorb the force, finding a grip on the blubbery body. They rolled and pounded, and staggered to their feet, and fought some more, until

Thomas staggered with exhaustion. Only his dread at Lyssa's fate should he fail kept him on his feet.

At last, Red threw a wild punch and staggered, tripping over a branch. Thomas leapt upon him and with the same brute force he'd used before, he broke Red's neck with a barbarian roar.

For long moments after the men burst upon them in the grove, Lyssa stood frozen in shock and terror, torn between fleeing in hopes of eluding the bandits, or staying to be of some help to Thomas if he needed her.

But when Thomas seized the sword, she let go a breath, knowing that a man so powerfully strong, armed with a broadsword, could slay these three rough bandits with no more effort than swatting a trio of flies.

And he had tossed it away.

Thrown it.

Away, out of reach.

Stunned, Lyssa stood where she was, her arms hanging loose at her sides. With bewilderment, she watched him dispense the men, batting the first aside with barely a breath, taking longer with the second, struggling with the fierceness of the small bandit, taking blows he need not have suffered.

She covered her mouth to stifle her cries when she saw his blood drawn. When the big redheaded man finally clambered to his feet to fight Thomas to the death, she found her wits and bolted. With only his hands, even Thomas might fail, and she would not pay the price of his folly.

She ran until her lungs near burst, stumbling and tripping, her hair and gown torn by the branches and brambles, her feet ripped to ribbons, for somewhere her slippers had come off and her soles were unused to such rough treatment.

Blindly, she ran, knowing what fate awaited her if the filthy creature bested Thomas: a slow and torturous death, and much suffering before the breath left her. She had no weapon but her fleet-ness.

A gnarled branch, reaching bony fingers through the dry earth, snagged her at last, and Lyssa sprawled, face first, to the ground. The blow scraped her hands and knocked the wind from her, and she lay there for a moment, trying to collect herself enough to move again.

Her hands trembled violently. Nay, not only her hands. Her whole body trembled with fear and the hard run and the punishing fall, and she did not think she could find the steadiness to stand.

Instead, she slumped against the tree, covering her face with her raw palms, and tried to push away that vision:

—
he lifted the broadsword with two giant hands, as if to bring it down in wrath upon the heads of the brigands, but
flung
it, flung it away, so it went sailing, end over end, into the forest, so heavy Lyssa heard it land with a cracking of branches and a thud
—

Flung it away.

"Lyssa!" The voice, booming and dark, came from Thomas, and even with her fear and sorrow and the trembling reaction, Lyssa found herself bolting to her feet, a glad cry on her lips. He was not dead!

Then she pressed her lips together to hold back the greeting, knowledge rushing through her at a gallop, showing her all she did not wish to know, fitting all the odd bits together.

"Lyssa!" More intent now, worried.

"Here," she called.

And now she heard him running, as she had run, his feet making more sound as he crashed through, as if a huge stag were coming. He came into sight, his face bloody, his hair tangled with leaves and branches, his tunic unbelted and loose.

In his hand, he carried the sword and scabbard.

Looking at him, Lyssa knew two things.

This day had changed everything between them, everything in her life. All she had known to be true and real until this moment narrowed to nothing at the sight of Thomas alive and whole but for bruises that would heal. He'd opened all the long-shuttered rooms of her soul, and poured his bright light through them.

And he had as black a heart as any man who'd ever walked the earth. When she gazed at him, knowledge in her breast, she was proud that the tears in her eyes did not fall and shame her.

"How do you fare, my lady?" he said, coming toward her with a quick step, his hand outstretched. "They're dead, you have naught to fear."

Lyssa went rigid, backing away, holding up her hand to ward him off. "Do not touch me," she said. Her voice broke on the last word, but she forced the rest out, ragged though they were. "And you may walk five paces behind as suits your station."

He glanced at the sword, a single betraying glance that told her all she needed to know. Blindly, she turned from him and began the trek back to the castle.

And Dark Thomas walked five paces behind.

 13

"
Find me Alice Bryony at
once," Lyssa said to a girl by the well as she strode through the gates. "Send her to me in my chamber."

The girl's eyes widened at the imperious tone, and she dipped quickly. "Aye," she said, and raced away.

Lyssa did not trust herself to do aught but move with brittle straightness directly to the quiet of her own chamber. If she eased that posture for even a moment, she feared unbearable emotions and knowledge would spill from her in an hysterical rush. As it was, she could barely walk with any dignity through the hall. Her gown was soiled and showed tears at the elbows where she'd fallen, her hair no doubt littered with leaves and grass and tangles.

Breathing hard, she made it to the curving stairs to her own chamber, and lifted her skirts to run the rest of the way, slamming the door behind her before letting the tears fall.

"Oh, I am a fool!" she cried out, and buried her face in her hands. It had been growing, in her most secret of hearts, that she would petition the king to wed Thomas of Roxburgh. The king was fond of her. He would wish to grant her what he could, and it might behoove him to combine such estates.

And today, in the forest, when Thomas had flung away his robes, and moved toward her with his magnificent form, with his huge gentle hands and his skillful lips, she had dared to believe he might truly love her, this magnificent creature, born of night and forest, who was as virile as Woden himself.

Bitterly, she wept. Inconsolably. For what could console her for the loss of that dream? That loss of Thomas, who had lied and lied and lied. She staggered to her bed, and there wept herself into sleep, where nothing had been ruined by that telling moment in the forest.

By dusk, Thomas had gathered his things and sent word to Alice they would depart at dawn—if indeed he lived so long.

When all was prepared, he stood by the wide embrasure that looked over the estate, over the neat green and yellow fields, divided by hedgerows trimmed each spring by village draw. Shadows crept from the forest, swallowing the village with its tumble of cottages and small church, and edged up the hill to the castle walls. Faintly came the sound of a girl singing some happy song as she worked.

His heart was a thick lump in his chest, a lump formed of regret and yearning and unfulfilled dreams. Here had he learned dignity, and some small mannerly ways, and how to hold up his head. Here had he learned the wisdom of listening, and the vagaries of chess, and a hundred small things he could not name in the moment, but had enriched him nonetheless.

But for all that he would miss the physical place of Woodell, he would grieve for the lady most of all. With her straight bearing and clear brow, she had shown him the shape of true nobility. In her grace and honor, he had seen what all ladies should aspire to be.

And in her arms—

He bowed his head, unwilling to allow that pain to surface yet. He could only bear to think of some of it tonight.

But he owed her his story. And so, he donned a plain tunic made of rust colored wool that he had carried with him only because Alice had woven it for him. He tied it with a simple leather thong, and put on clean stockings with his simple shoes, and went to her without guise, as himself.

He found her in her solar, not even pretending to weave or spin, only staring dully toward the darkening landscape. A brace of tallows smoked and flickered on a table nearby the door, putting her face in shadow.

It came hard to him to remember, but he entered in his soft shoes, and knelt before her. "I'd tell you my story, if ye'd hear it, milady."

"Oh, do not kneel to me, Thomas," she said in a pained whisper. "I cannot bear it." She did not look at him.

He stood and clasped his hands behind his back, finding in himself after all, a measure of dignity that was now woven into him by his sojourn here, something that could not be stolen. And in that place of quiet dignity, he waited for her to speak.

Without looking at him, she said, "What is your true name?"

"In that I did not lie. Thomas is my name. Roxburgh is my village."

"And where does it lie, this village?"

"In the north, hard on Scotland. And all lie dead there, as I told you."

She turned then, and raised her wide green eyes to his face. At the grief there, he near weakened and reached for her. He only avoided it by gripping his hands tightly behind his back.