Heart of a Knight (34 page)

It did not change her certainty that she'd made the right choice. Better this eternal loneliness, knowing he yet lived, than the certainty of his death upon her conscience. Better to imagine him laughing with babes who lived a kinder life than their father had known, or danced with the woman lucky enough to call him as husband than to know she was responsible for his torture.

Better, even now, to think of him claiming his dream of a knight's life.

When he'd drawn his sword last night with such ease and power, his eyes sparking with the dangerous threat of a confident warrior, she'd been angry, but proud, too. He'd cleared the last hurdle on his path. Now he was a knight in truth, worthy of the name, and able to serve any lord who saw fit to—

A huge wave of grief washed over her, not so much piercing as all-encompassing, edgeless and formless and gripping. She gasped at the sudden pain of it, catching her arm around her waist.

She was such a coward! So deep a slave to duty that she could not even claim her heart's deepest desire. She could not brave a lie to her king, even without threat to herself. She could not bear the risk. The dream of his head bobbing on a pike haunted her. How could she bear such a thing?

And yet, Thomas, too, had made his points. He risked discovery wher ever he went.

Whether she claimed him as her lover or not.

Pressure built in her, the pressure of a decision not easily made. 'Twas true he faced risk wherever he traveled, that if his true birth were known, he'd likely face death, given the state of the realm.

But he did not grasp Lyssa's wealth, nor the numbers of enemies he would gain by simply taking her to wife. The list of those who'd claim her lands and gain close ties to the king was a long one, and they'd seek some way to bring Thomas down. The light of attention she drew would be too bright for the secret his past carried.

The party rode now through the more populated stretches of land near London. It had been several years since Lyssa had come this way, and as they passed through one small village after another, she saw fields that were overgrown with grass and weeds, fields that should have been freshly tilled after harvest.

She saw, too, the neglected cottages here and there, where a family simply had not survived. There was one small village where all the cottages bore that air of neglect, shutters hanging askew, a thatched roof that had fallen in, a fence gone unmended, the tiny chapel unwhitewashed. It made Lyssa remember things she'd rather forget forever.

Isobel, too, seemed to be reminded of those dark times, for she dropped back to ride alongside her stepmother. Her eyes were grim. "What a cruel time that was," she said when they passed. "I still dream of the rats."

"I try not to think on it, but it comes back every now and again."

"Think you it will ever come again?"

"I pray it does not."

Lyssa looked over her shoulder, wondering if Thomas had set out from a village like this one, if he had lived in a cottage like these. And she shuddered to think of him like that, unwashed and roughly clad, his only beauty in his strength and size and winning smile. She hated to think of him pulling a plow or rutting with a toothless wife with dull hair.

She heard her thoughts with a shock. What difference did it make whence he'd come or where he'd been born?

Was his accusation true? Did she mind that he was not nobly born?

As the questions formed, the party cleared a rise. And before them spread the clustered glory that was London. The river that gave it life ran in a wide silver ribbon through it, water choked this harvest season with barges and boats of many sizes. And beyond lay Winchester, where the king awaited.

The king. Her cousin Edward, who'd always smiled upon his pretty relative and made such a play of spoiling her. Ever had Lyssa reveled in that connection, as well as his special attention, knowing even as a very small girl that it set her apart.

Above.

Uncomfortable, but determined to think this through, Lyssa looked at Tall Mary, who rode next to John Tyler. Always Mary had been Lyssa's dearest friend. Together they had run the slopes of the hills, and through the shadows and meadows of the forest, both of them wild and clever as foxes, free as the birds soaring through the bright blue skies of their childhood.

But Mary had been hastily hidden away when the king came to Woodell. Never once had Lyssa thought to loan her friend a gown and have servants wash her hair and scrub the dusty face clean so she might be presented to the king.

And never had Mary hinted such a thing would please her, though Lyssa had not missed the excitement rising in her eye as they grew near to London.

With a lump in her throat, Lyssa knew why she had not done it. She'd been born to duty, true enough. And ever had she been told what was good and right and proper. She'd taken to her role, knowing nobility was her lot and nearly all in the kingdom ranked lower than she.

What would it have cost her to bring Mary to the king, and let the girl give him flowers as Lyssa herself had done? In these moments of anguished honesty, Lyssa knew it was her own standing she'd been afraid to risk. By admitting her best friend was only the daughter of a freeholder, she'd been afraid she would show herself unworthy of the lofty place she'd been given in life.

Who had made these rules of birth? That one should rule and one should serve? That men should order women, and women submit, that a handful of rich nobles should live in splendor and peace while peasants rotted in their villages? Who had ordered such a world?

And why had she had to lose Thomas to see the error in her thinking?

She could do naught for that now, but a sudden thought bloomed in her. Isobel, too, had suffered these last months. Isobel, who rebelled because the only life she'd been given was ruled by everyone but herself. The girl was lusty and high-spirited. She wished to have sex and laugh loudly and rule her own world.

And while they were both bound by the rules of a world they had not made, perhaps Lyssa could give the child more time to find her own way. Perhaps Isobel, if given breath and freedom enough to find a husband of her own choosing, would not be so unhappy.

Impulsively, she turned to the girl. "Have you found any love in your heart for Stephen, Isobel?"

Isobel turned startled eyes toward her. Consternation drew down the pretty brows. "I have tried," she said slowly.

"But have you found any fondness for him?"

Isobel sighed, then slowly shook her head. "He is too mild. He only annoys me."

Lyssa laughed, surprised she could find the spirit in her to do so. "What sort of man do you prefer?"

"Is there some trick here?"

"Nay. I am earnest, Isobel. I did not even think to ask. Does your heart quicken more over a man with more color?" She thought of Margrave with distaste, but Isobel had warmed to him, far more than she had to Kivelsworthy. "Is Sir Margrave more to your liking?"

"Margrave is old," Isobel said with widened eyes. "He was a friend of my mother!"

Lyssa hid her smile. "Forgive me. I only meant to ask if his sort of man is more to your taste—dark, rather than fair."

Isobel pondered a moment. "'Tis not so much blond or dark," she said slowly. "Stephen is handsome enough for any girl, but—" She sighed. "He has no life in him. Only soberness and love." Isobel rolled her eyes. "'Tis passion in a man that makes me want him. Like your Thomas."

Lyssa flushed but did not give way to it. "Aye," she said quietly. "Lord Thomas has passion for living in him."

"How could you bear to let him go?" Isobel whispered. "Had I a man who burned so for me, I'd lash him to me with a rope and never let him escape."

In surprise, Lyssa looked at her. "Burn? But Stephen burns for you, girl. Can you not see it?"

"Nay," she said petulantly. "I am only a pretty prize for him to display to his friends."

Lyssa privately thought that was not true, and to her surprise, she saw that Isobel was attracted to the youth and did not know it. But the past years had taught her a thing or two about the contrary mind of a young girl. "You may be right," she said mildly.

Isobel tossed her head. "I do know my mind."

A call rang back from the guardsmen at the front of their party. The gates of London were before them. Lyssa found herself taking a deep breath as they took the fork in the road that led them to the palace. Next to her, Isobel sat straighter on her mount.

Both fell silent, each to her own thoughts, and the fate that awaited each within those grand walls.

It had been the longest, most miserable night of his life. Thomas rode till nearly dawn, then found a place not too far from the road and curled up in the leaves to sleep.

Or at least attempted to sleep.

The ground was hard and cold beneath him, sticks and brambles making him shift once, then again, and again, till at last he had swept all but the hard ground itself away. In the brush, animals skittered and birds hooted—or he hoped 'twas birds and animals.

He'd grown soft, he growled to himself, his shoulder aching against the earth. Once he'd not have blinked at these minor discomforts. Once he'd never have noticed the low growl of hunger in his belly, for in spite of the good supper he'd eaten, that had been many long hours, and a hard ride past. The remembered smell of the pasties, savory with onion and spice, made his mouth water.

Women. Curse them all. His life had been a tangle of women this past year, this one and that one, starting with his mother and her mad plan. 'Twas she who'd led him down this path, and where did she lay this night? In a soft bed with the bodies of Mary and Lyssa to warm her.

But in truth, he had none to blame but himself for his misery. He'd lost his head over a noble maid, and well had he known better. Had he not seen his own mother's suffering those long years when she pined and dreamed for weeks unending, only to brighten and sing when the lord deigned to visit his seed upon her once again? Of all in the world, Thomas should have known better than to so place his heart.

In the brush, some tiny animal scrabbled close, then scenting Man, skittered away again. Exasperated, Thomas turned on his back, looking at the sky through the breaks in the trees. Stars swelled and diminished, tiny white pinpoints of candles, somehow calming.

His heart ached, that heart over which he'd held no control. For in truth, if minds fell in love, none would love foolishly, but hearts… Hearts were not so easily controlled. His own had been snared the moment Lyssa came through the gates of Woodell that first day. From that moment, there had been room for no other, for all women grew pale and insubstantial when Lyssa appeared, all fire and strength and shining black hair.

In the pouch on his belt, he carried the small weaving she'd given him. He fingered it now, thinking of the bright colors she'd seen in the world at fourteen, and how they'd dulled—as her world had dulled—when she married.

But still the flame burned in her, even after the husband and the stepchildren and even the plague. Absently, he brushed the weaving over his mouth, thinking of Lyssa coming down the steps like a warrior the morning he'd been hauled out of the dungeon, her bare feet so small and white and clean. And he thought of her coming after him in the field the day they'd quarreled, calling him the worst names she could summon: lout and swine and other mild words.

He smiled.

The faintest scent of her clung to the small tapestry, a scent of herbs he could not name, herbs that clung to her hair. That hair that had cascaded around them as they joined, softly or tenderly or wildly. He thought of the sounds of deepest pleasure he'd coaxed from her mouth at such times, and the low, throaty chuckle she had learned to let go.

His heart held close a hundred visions of her.

But mostly, he thought of her sitting in a pool of sunlight in her solar, humming some happy little ballad as she wove her colors into some scene that lived only in her mind till she captured it from the air and made it real for the world to see. There did the Lyssa of his heart live, that woman who was so drunk on colors, so pleased with the work of her fingers. She wove flowers in her hair and even the fur of her beloved dog.

And of a humble peasant, she'd woven a knight. Not because she wished it, but because he did.

Absently fingering the tapestry, he thought of her heartbroken weeping against him the night she'd dreamed his death, and her insistence then that she do as she was bid. That they not dare the ruse. He'd not believed she meant it.

It irked him that she still did not grasp how grave a danger he'd faced from the beginning. In part, she was right that he'd not mingled with many who might know him from that other life. But 'twas not her decision to make, whether he would gamble his life.

She wanted to save him—

He sat upright, thinking again of her tears, that heartfelt, deepest weeping. What she did, she did for love. The only thing she'd asked of life was Thomas himself, and when she thought—against all odds—that they might attain happiness, she had been sure the fates would punish her in the most severe way imaginable.

With his death.

What a fool he'd been!

What Lyssa needed was a knight to claim her, not some petulant boy who ran off into the night because his feelings had been hurt. He'd lacked courage to fight for her, feeling her too far above him.

But thinking now of the despair in her eyes, he knew she loved as truly as he—and what was worth dying for was surely worth fighting for.

He did not know he would have to wait for the dawn to enter the gates of the city. In the end he was glad of it, for he caught an hour or two of sleep before the watchmen let the small crowd through, sleep he needed to steady him for the wonders and horrors that awaited him within the walls.

What struck him first was the stench, stench that had its root in the open ditches running like wounds through every street. And it was crowded! Even so early there were more folk about, on foot and on litters and on horseback like himself, than he'd seen in the entire sum of his life. One street in London held more people than his whole village and the castle combined.