Heart of a Knight (32 page)

Lyssa thought hard on
the plan after they left her, examining it from all angles. In the end, she made her way through the halls, avoiding the heavily traveled lower passages, and choosing a more roundabout trail through the upper reaches of the castle. Through the line of arched embrasures on the third floor, she could see torchlights flickering and hear the sounds of laughter and music. The new guards had brought with them a fresh lot of gossip.

Lyssa worried over Isobel, and her flirtations. She hoped Nurse was keeping an eye on the girl. Lyssa could not bear one more worry this night.

She found the door to Thomas's chamber open, a brace of tallows lit against the encroaching darkness. Robert lounged on a bench, tossing nuts into the air and attempting to catch them in his mouth. By the scattered mess on the floor about him, he missed more often than he succeeded.

At the sound of her step on the stair, he started guiltily. "My lady!" he exclaimed, kneeling hastily to sweep the nuts into his hand. "Lord Thomas has not yet come in. I only waited to—"

"It matters not, Robert. Tidy up, then run and find him for me. Have you made things ready for the journey to London?"

"I have. Will my lord travel with us?"

"I know not. But you will. 'Tis a good thing for a boy to be at court."

His face shone. "Thank you!"

"Go," she said. "Find me Lord Thomas. I will wait here for him."

The boy scurried out. Lyssa paced the room restlessly as she waited. The room smelled of Thomas, those notes of forest that she would never smell again without thinking of him. She remembered, suddenly, how she had smelled that scent in her own chamber upon her return, and it seemed a long time ago. Her life was much changed.

The wait was not a long one. She had just settled on the high bed when he appeared, filling the doorway with his great height. His expression was wary and sober. "You sought me, my lady?"

Lyssa stood. "I did."

He came into the room, but did not approach her. "So, you are to be wed," he said in a low voice.

"I am." She looked away, wondering again if she had the courage for such a ruse. She had not even the courage to tell him plainly that she loved him, that she would follow him across the world, that she was willing to lie to her king to save him. If she could not even tell him, how could she act?

"Thomas, we must speak of this with calm. I have in mind a plan, but do not know if you will be willing to bear the risk."

"I have risked much thus far," he said, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. "I cannot think how much more I might risk than my own neck."

Lyssa, keeping her back straight, moved from him, looking toward the wide expanse of her lands. "But you have risked your neck only here, in this small shire, where few would know a true knight."

He scowled. "Am I still so rough?"

"Nay! 'Tis not that." She looked at him. "I have no wish to wed another, Thomas. Between us, Alice and Mary and I have concocted a plan."

And now she bowed her head, blushing a little. While it was true he'd shown devotion to her, perhaps it meant little to him after all. "If you would be my husband, Thomas, I would petition the king for his dispensation in the matter—he was quite fond of me once, and I married at his wish the first round. Mayhap he would look kindly on my suit now."

"Marry?" he echoed in a low voice.

She couldn't bear to look at him. "If it displease you, you need only say nay, Thomas. I'd not betray you, even scorned."

"Marry
me
," he repeated once again.

"If you cannot, Thomas, I would know it now, for I must marry quickly." She swallowed, and forced herself to raise her chin to meet his gaze. This at least, he had to know. "For I carry in my body a babe who will be born by St. John's Day next, and I'll not bear the shame of a bastard."

Still, he only stared at her, his eyes almost a torment of blue. "You carry my babe," he said.

"Aye."

"And you would marry me or marry another, but quickly, to give it a name."

It finally came to her that he was unsure of what she offered, and why. Lifting her chin, she replied, "Not only for the babe, Thomas. For myself. It is for myself I wish the match."

His reaction startled her. With a swiftness that belied his size, he closed the distance between them. Gathering her close, he knelt and buried his face against her belly, pressing his forehead to her. His hands dug into her back, almost bruising in their fierceness. He made a sound between a groan and a cry, then pressed a kiss against her belly, and rose up, and took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth with the same fierce tenderness.

And yet, he did not speak words of love. "I have risked death for much less," he whispered, putting his brow against hers, his hands loose around her neck.

"We lie to the king in this ruse," she whispered back, ietting her fear come forward.

"Nay, Lyssa. 'Twill only be me who lies. If we do this thing, I would have this one protection—if we are found out, only I will bear the brunt of the punishment. You will be as surprised as any to learn the truth."

She measured him, thinking of the child, and nodded.

His hands tightened. "Swear it."

"I swear to you, Thomas, that if we are found out, you will bear the punishment alone."

"Then marry you I will, my lady," he whispered, and kissed her, deeply, richly, with hunger and joy, and Lyssa met it with a kiss of her own, a kiss of joy and gratitude.

She dreamt she was at court, at a splendid banquet, with king and queen and princes and knights all feasting and toasting some grand event. Yellow candlelight splintered on the silver masers, and danced against the jewels on the women's gowns and on the king's fingers.

And then she saw what the festivities were about, as the crowd parted, and a young squire, handsomely adorned, carried something into their midst. She could not quite make out what it was, but suddenly recognized the page as Robert, and cried out his name, thinking to ask him what it was she had missed.

Then, as if he'd heard her call, he turned and held up his prize. Lyssa finally saw the gruesome trophy as he raised it up high—a severed head, gray-skinned, stuck on a pike.

He waved it gleefully, laughing, and around her, nobles lifted their cups and toasted their good sense, and laughed, and Lyssa felt ill with the pleasure in such misfortune. Robert leered, bobbing the trophy in her face, and said, "He's not so pretty now, is he, my lady?"

And with horror, Lyssa saw it was Thomas.

She awakened with a scream, sitting bolt upright in her own chamber, Thomas safely next to her. His hand fell on her shoulder, but so overcome was she by the horror that Lyssa shuddered violently, and pulled away. She buried her face in her hands.

"Lyssa," Thomas said, and sat up with her, putting his hand on her back, brushing back her hair. "Twas only a dream."

But she knew it was not. It was a warning.

Duty.

She'd allowed her love for Thomas to mislead her in duty. It was not so much the marriage her king had arranged, that marriage she wished to avoid. Nor did she shirk any duty in her household, or to those who depended on her.

Except Thomas. And to him, for all he'd given, she owed the highest duty of all. She'd thought that was marriage, but her dream had showed her there was an even more noble thing she must do: set him free.

For she could not bear to see him die simply because she loved him, simply because it was her selfish wish that he be her husband. Better he should live, and thrive.

She buried her face against his burly shoulder, feeling his jaw at her temple, his hands on her back, and let the tears come again. "I had a most fearsome dream, Thomas."

"Do you wish to tell it to me?"

"I dreamt I saw your head on a pike." And saying it aloud brought back the horror a thousand-fold. She shivered, and he drew her close. "By the saints, I do love you more than my own life, Thomas," she breathed.

He pressed a kiss on her crown. "You do not believe there is happiness in store for us," he said. "You fear that the joy we've known is gift enough, and we'll not be given more." He lay back, taking her with him so they could lie, face-to-face in the darkness. "But there are more miracles in the world than any we know. We should never have met and loved, but have. Might not heaven have some purpose in that?"

She raised her head. "You love me?"

Gravely, he smoothed her hair from her damp face. "Aye, Lyssa. I love you, with all the width of the sky, and the depth of the earth itself. How can you doubt my love?"

"You had not said."

"Nor did you."

With a sense of loss, she touched his face. "Then let me speak it now, my love." She traced the line of his brow, the edge of his jaw. "There is no color like the black of your hair, no heart so courageous, no hands as sweetly tender." With the tips of her fingers, she touched his mouth, then followed with her lips, suddenly very sure of her actions. "I love you—and for that, we must not marry."

Even in the dark, she could see the white of his good strong teeth as he smiled. "Not marry when we love?"

"I feel in me a certain dread that if we do this thing, you will die." She took a breath. "And that is the one thing I cannot bear."

He brushed dampened hair from her face. "And what do you think will happen if you go marry your loathed lord, and I go my way into the world, and am discovered then? Think you my fate will be less cruel?"

"But if you go far away, there is less danger anyone will know you. Go to France, or Ireland, where you will be safe, and none need ever know your secret."

"Nay, Lyssa. I would die a little every day without you, and would rather it came in one swift fall." He touched her belly. "At least I would have tried."

"But think, my love! How will I feel, how will I face my life, knowing I had the power to set you free to claim your dreams, and I did not do it, but kept you selfishly close to me—and you are killed for my selfishness?" She pressed her brow to his chest. "I cannot do it."

"Lyssa, you are only haunted by a dream. Nothing more."

She looked up at him. "You felt yourself, that day I asked you to stay. Do you remember what you said? That I would be the death of you."

A troubled frown creased his brow, and she knew he sensed disaster, just as she did. "Twas my pride speaking that morning. I wanted you and could not have you."

She swallowed, aching at what she knew she had to do. "This is our last night, Thomas. There will be no more."

"We shall see," he said, and Lyssa could tell he didn't believe her. "Sleep now, my love. All will be clear in the morning."

Lyssa curled into him, pressing her naked flesh to his bare limbs, imprinting on her memory the feeling of his palm, warm and dry, against her back, the breadth of his thigh below her own, the sound of his breath against her ear.

But most of all, she breathed the dark forest smell of him, holding it close while she slept, for she would know it no more.

Most of the preparations for their journey had been done the day before, so the party set out early, just a little past dawn.

It was an impressive group, Thomas thought, surveying them from the great height of the black gelding, who was restless and blowing, eager to set off. Lyssa, Thomas, Isobel, and Robert, plus Alice and Tall Mary, who would go as Lyssa's attendants; a retinue of guards, both of Kivelsworthy's company, and that of the king. No bandits would be brave enough to set upon such a group.

Lyssa, flanked by her women, rode a gray mare of power and grace. This bright dawn, she was adorned simply, her hair woven into a simple braid, her gown a pale blue girdled with a simple cloth belt hung with a leather purse. No jewels winked at fingers or throat, as befitted a wise traveler.

Isobel, that jewel of female beauty, wore a gauze veil over her face and hair, in protection from the sun, and to hide her from the eyes of the lustful men in the company or along the road. By the eager way she rode, Thomas could read her anticipation.

And in truth, Thomas felt no small measure of excitement himself at the journey. Twas beyond his wildest childhood dreams to think of going to court to visit the king. Nay—not simply be privy to the court itself, but to be presented and actually speak to the king—'twas a wonder beyond his boyhood imagination.

As was much of his current life. Attired in one of his father's tunics, with mail that Robert had worked all day to clean and polish, his jeweled sword at his side, he no longer felt the lingering traces of that peasant he had been. He no longer felt an impostor, as he had when he'd first come to Woodell, and he knew he could thank the villagers themselves, and Lyssa, for the transformation. It no longer felt odd to order a page to do his bidding, or have a maid bathe his weary bones, or send Robert off on some errand he could have done himself. 'Twas the way of things, and he liked the feeling of it in his chest.

And now, now, they would play their ruse for the king. He caught Alice's eye and winked. A fine adventure.

In comparison, Lyssa was drawn and pale this morn. Thomas rode up beside her. "Still brooding about my head on a pike?" he teased, hoping to lighten her worry.

"'Tis no game, Thomas," she said darkly. "Say no more. I am ill-tempered this day, and will not be pleased by your antics."

He nearly teased her over that, but only winked instead, and rode up next to Robert, where he stayed most of the day.

He did not learn the reason for that drawn expression till the night before they were to arrive in London. The party had settled in a passable inn on the King's Highway. Lyssa and her women took two of the upper chambers tucked under the newly thatched roof; the rest would bed down in stable and hall.

Meanwhile, the robust goodwife at the inn busied herself cheerfully serving up tankards of especially fine ale to go with hearty meat pasties that were the specialty of the house. Thomas consumed the offerings with a hearty appetite and good humor, teasing Robert, making jests, laughing with the other men.

When Lyssa came down with Alice and Mary, she looked neither right nor left, but settled in a corner where the men would overlook them. Taking up his tankard, Thomas crossed the room to join them. "Best of the evening to ye, ladies."