The Maiden and Her Knight (11 page)

She turned away, ashamed of the jealousy that had seized her when she saw him holding Isabelle. There had been nothing lascivious in the way they stood, but hot anger had surged through her nonetheless.

That foolish jolt had to be merely another sign of the strain she had been under the last few days. Her father's reaction to Percival's death had been even worse than she had feared. He had moaned and wept, and only Brother Jonathan's sleeping draft had given him any peace. Unfortunately, it was potent, so she had to use it sparingly, which meant she had spent hours in his chamber, trying to soothe him with her voice and
happy stories of the past, to little avail. She had realized Isabelle was grieving, and Edmond upset, but her father's demands took almost all her time.

The night after Percival's death, she had stolen away to the wall walk, where the breeze blew cool and fresh. She looked at Sir Connor's tent, off by itself, alone and apart, like the man himself. Like her.

She had let herself imagine going to that tent while he slept and wordlessly joining him in his narrow cot. She had almost felt his firm, soft lips upon hers, his kiss demanding a response she would eagerly give. His strong, lean hands would caress her, and his lightest touch would send thrills of exquisite delight through her.

He was too tempting. She must force him away from her, for the sake of what had to be, and her own heart, which already ached because of what could never be. She must be harsh and firm, strong and absolute. “Whatever you were doing, stay away from both of us, Welshman.”

Dismay and confusion flitted over his features for the briefest of moments before anger returned.

“As you command, so I will do, my lady,” he growled, “as long as you understand that while I may be poor, I am not yet desperate enough to use a woman in so mercenary a way. I confess that first your beauty stirred me, but now it is the bold, spirited woman I admire. And I assure you, there is only one woman in Montclair I would like to take to my bed, and it is not your sister.”

He pulled her hard against him. Before she could move or speak, he kissed her, his mouth searing hers with hot desire, his arm in the sling pressing against her body. Her head spun, her knees softened…she
was powerless against the onslaught of sensation and need he aroused. She wanted to melt into his arms and ride upon the waves of passion he created, to become a creature of these exquisite sensations and never think of anything again. Never to be responsible again. Never to have to put duty before pleasure again. To be with him, only him, in a world alone and apart.

As she held onto him as if he were saving her from plunging to her death, his kiss gentled. It became more seeking than demanding, tentative and tender. Putting her arms about him, she gave him an answer.

Slowly, his tongue slid inside her parted lips. Questioning still, but when his touched hers, a jolt of raw excitement shot through her body.

She wanted more of this touch, these thrilling new sensations, this incredible excitement.

His kiss made her feel free—free to make some demands of her own. Giving herself up to that heady sensation, she leaned into him so that her whole body pressed against his virile one. Desire blossomed and grew, threading along every limb, as if she could soften and melt into him, melding her flesh to his forever.

Now she was the seeker, as a tense desperation rose when she felt his arousal through the fabric of her clothes.

His kiss was no longer tender and tentative. He kissed deeply, hungrily, demanding her response. Like a wanton, she ground her hips against him, inciting his passion as he did hers. A low moan sounded in her ears, and only vaguely did she understand that it came from her own throat, brought forth by her primitive need. Her grip on his broad shoulders tightened.

With a gasp, he broke the kiss. “A moment's pain,
no more,” he assured her in a sultry whisper as he took her mouth again.

His wounded shoulder. Of course. Wounded by Rennick.

Reality slammed into her mind and she lurched back. “I am betrothed!”

His gaze searched her face. Then he smiled not with conquest or even blatant desire, but a tender wistfulness that seemed to reach out and grab her soul. “I have been selfish again. Forgive me.” He touched her flushed cheek with the tip of his finger. “I cannot help myself.”

Nor could she, and yet this must end.

He knew it, too, for he turned on his heel and left the chapel.

And her.

She ran her fingertips over her slightly swollen lips. She was betrothed to Rennick DeFrouchette, and for her family's sake she must become his wife.

She would repeat that to herself a thousand times if that was what it took to purge her desire for another man from her heart, and she would pray Sir Connor's shoulder healed quickly. When he was on his way, she would feel no more passion and no more yearning for something she could not have. In one way, she would be free—as the dead are free.

These thoughts were unworthy of her. She was a highborn lady who understood that with wealth and privilege came duty and responsibility. She must not be weak. She could not be selfish. Her father depended on her. He needed her to be strong, lest he give in to the melancholy that weakened him.

Today, when he had once again begged God to end
his sorrow and let him die, she had joined him in that prayer, asking God to call her father home to heaven.

She fell to her knees, clasping her hands so tightly, they hurt. She didn't want her father to die. She wanted him to live and be as he was. Yet if he couldn't be as he was, if death were truly a release…

Who else would be released? Whose freedom was she really praying for?

But oh, to have a strong arm about her offering her comfort, to be able to lean her head against the broad chest of a man who truly loved her…

“Dear Father in Heaven,” she whispered, her eyes upon the stone altar, “is it wrong to pray for that?”

Putting her hands upon the floor, she slowly slipped downward, until she lay prone upon the cold stone floor.

And then she prayed for just one thing: the strength to do her duty.

S
tanding beside his tent in the ward, Connor watched the grim and silent procession of soldiers led by the Baron DeFrouchette, the only noise that of the soldiers' jingling harness and the rumble of the covered cart's wooden wheels as it carried away a shrouded, myrrh-sprinkled body. They were taking Percival L'Ouisseaux home for the last time.

The ward itself was deserted except for Connor and Demetrius. Beginning the day after Percival's death, most of the visiting knights and their retinues had packed up and gone on their way, even the wounded ones. After all, they had homes to go to, and ones that would not be so mournful.

Sir Auberan, unfortunately, had remained behind, as had Lord Oswald. Like the baron, they had accommodation in the castle.

He was glad Lord Oswald had stayed. Lady Allis needed a friend at this time, and he could not take that place, no matter how much he wanted to. He had even made things worse by kissing her again.

God help him, was he never going to learn to subdue his impulses? He thought he had, but when he was alone with her, he could not. He had never felt this way about a woman before, as if when he was with her, all would be right with the world, and he could do anything. Solve any problem. Conquer any enemy. Mend any trouble he had caused, knowingly or unknowingly. As if he could be again what he was in the flower of his youth, only better, because he would have her to guide him.

Perhaps that was why he was so compelled to take her in his arms and taste her sweet lips. To feel her relax into his embrace was to feel worthy of her desire, her affection, her love.

Yet when he was alone, he feared that her passion was roused only because he was young and virile, and not the man she was fated to marry for duty. That she saw him not as Connor of Llanstephan, both good and bad, but simply as the means to assuage her desire and pent-up emotions. That he was a convenience as much as anything, and to think there was anything more between them was self-delusion.

With that in mind, he had avoided the hall except for meals. He had stayed near his horse and tent, and his only company had been a group of boys from the village who had appeared, watching him as he fed and brushed Demetrius. He invited them to come closer, and it was obvious they were very impressed by his war horse, as well they should be, for he was the best one Connor had ever encountered, too.

Then, half shy and half bold, they had asked about the king and the Crusade. He told them a bit about the journey and the battles, and because they were village boys, he made sure to talk about the grooms, the cooks and foot soldiers, and their valor under duress, which often surpassed that of spoiled rich men's sons. Yet he never made war sound like a glorious adventure, because it was not.

Now, out of respect for the dead, he bowed his head and stood motionless until the cart was past. When the last of the soldiers had disappeared through the barbican, Connor sighed and slipped his left arm out of the sling. Slowly, gingerly, he raised it.

“Still hurts like a spear's been thrust through it,” he muttered to Demetrius, who was regarding him with what appeared to be compassionate sympathy.

He tried raising his arm again, and once more the pain shot through his shoulder and along his arm. “
O'r annwyl
,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“I've never heard that word before.”

Connor looked over his good shoulder and saw young Edmond of Montclair a few feet away, watching him.

“It's Welsh,” he replied, carefully putting his arm back into the sling.

Edmond came closer. “What does it mean?”

“Oh, dear me.”

“Really?”

“Near enough,” and that was true enough. He was glad he hadn't said anything more colorful.

“Do you mind if I stay a bit?”

Connor thought of the grave and silent atmosphere in the hall and didn't blame the boy for wanting to be somewhere else. “Not at all. I will be glad for the com
pany. Demetrius is about as talkative as Attila in the armory.”

Edmond grinned, then pointed at Connor's shoulder. “Does it still hurt a lot?”

“More than I would like.”

“Did you hear it pop out?”

“No, thank God,” he said, amused by the lad's grisly curiosity. In that, Edmond was no different from the village boys. “I didn't even know what had happened until your sister told me.”

Demetrius lifted his head and whinnied.

“Ah, he recognizes you and expects another apple. I've got another one in my tent you may give him.”

Edmond nodded and eagerly got the fruit. As Edmond fed Demetrius his treat, Connor stroked the horse's neck.

“Would you like to try sitting on him?” he offered when the apple was gone.

Edmond turned to him with wide, excited eyes. “May I? I've never been on a war horse before.”

“Then it is about time. Under other circumstances, I would gladly hoist you up there myself. As it is, you can use my camp stool to stand on.”

Once more Edmond hurried into the tent, and he brought out the stool.

“I'll hold his bridle while you climb on.” He saw Edmond's hesitation. “Remember what I said? Steady as a rock, he is, so he won't fidget.”

With a determined nod, Edmond stood on the stool, put his arms over Demetrius's broad back and climbed on, struggling a bit to get his leg over. He grinned with delight when he was successful. “Steady as a rock,” he confirmed.

“Your legs need to grow a bit.”

“I'm tall for my age.”

“Perhaps, but you are still short to sit comfortably on a destrier. But you've plenty of time to grow. And you must learn to control a smaller animal in the beginning anyway, or you might hurt yourself.”

“I won't! I'm a good rider. Everybody says so.”

Most people would tell a lad who stood to be an earl someday that he was good at anything he attempted. “Riding a destrier is different from other kinds of riding.”

“How different?”

“You do not direct a war horse so much. A slight touch of ankle or knee—and no reins at all. You need to be free to move your arms. You have to learn to trust his instinct in battle, to turn when he turns and go where he will, once you are engaged. I have seen men crushed beneath another horse's hooves because they fought their own mounts.”

“Why, that sounds simple, letting the horse do all the work.”

“Wait until you are in a battle—in the thick of it, with the sweat running down your face and back, half blind in your helmet, deafened by the noise. Fear will strike you like you wouldn't ever have believed possible, no matter how ready you think you are, or well trained.”

“I won't be afraid!”

“Aye, you will. Every man is, and that is not wrong. Fear will save you from foolhardiness, but it must not dominate you. In your fear, your instinct will tell you to try to control the horse, as you wish to control the battle, yet you must not. You must trust your horse while you fight and protect yourself. A good horse is worth his weight in gold, and more. He will be your
trusted friend, the ally you have absolute faith in, and he may save your life.”

A subdued Edmond stroked Demetrius's neck. “What about the king's horse? Has he saved Richard's life?”

“Richard has had many horses. He does not value them any more than he does his men.”

“What do you mean?”

Connor wished he had not spoken that thought. Edmond was a little young to know how a king could use and discard his own men as if they were chess pieces on a board. “Let's walk a little.”

He untied Demetrius and led him at a slow pace toward the inner curtain wall. He glanced back at the boy, who was swaying as if aboard a ship—and looking a little green about the gills, too. He immediately turned and led Demetrius back to the stool.

“When you are broader in the beam, it will be more comfortable,” he said as the boy got down.

Edmond nodded, and for a moment, Connor feared he was going to throw up. He didn't, but he was obviously very grateful to get back onto the solid earth. Watching out of the corner of his eye as he tied Demetrius again, he saw the boy sit on the stool. “You have a horse, I assume?”

“Yes, a mare. Her name's Firebrand.”

“She sounds tempestuous.”

The boy shook his head. “Not very. She's a roan. I wanted a stallion, but Allis said no.”

He was not about to get drawn into a discussion of Lady Allis and her restrictions. “If you like, I could teach you some things. You can learn many things on a roan's back that will stand you in good stead when you acquire a destrier. How to ride without using the
reins, for one. How to balance with a shield on one arm and holding a lance in the other.”

Edmond frowned. “I don't have a shield or lance.”

“I saw some old shields in the armory. We can have one of them trimmed to better fit you, and so that the weight is right for your body. A spear will do for a lance. I promise you, young lordling, that will be plenty enough to get you started.”

“I wish I could be your squire.”

Connor wished he could, too, for he liked the young lad with his proud bravado and bright eyes so like his elder sister's. “You will be a lord's squire in good time.”

“I would it could be soon. Allis treats me like a babe.”

Connor smiled. “Ah, now there is a feeling I know too well. I thought the same thing of my elder brother, Caradoc.”

“That's a funny name.”

“It's a Welsh name, and the name of kings. It was a Caradoc who, although a captive, so impressed the emperor of Rome that he set him free, in a manner of speaking.”

“What manner?”

“He wasn't enslaved, but he wasn't allowed to leave Rome. For a Welshman so far from home, that must have been a torture.”

Edmond slipped off the stool onto the ground and gestured for Connor to sit. “Why a torture? Rome was the greatest city in the world.”

“It was not his home. And I imagine he didn't much like the heat.”

“I love the summer.”

“As do I, but heat gets tiresome.”

“You found it so in the East?”

“Aye, I did. I thought of ancient Caradoc often during those days. I imagined him pining for the cold winds of the mountains, or the gentle mists of the valleys, as I did.”

“You were homesick?” Edmond asked incredulously.

“Yes. At first, it was an adventure, but then…”

“Then?”

“It is dry work, all this talking.”

“So let's get something to drink.”

“I have nothing in my tent,” Connor noted with regret.

“I can ask Merva to get us something if we go to the hall.”

Lady Allis would probably be in or around the hall. Surely she would be less likely to be in the kitchen at this time of the day. “Do you think we could go to the kitchen and see if the cook will spare us a little buttermilk?”

“Wouldn't you rather have wine?”

“It was buttermilk I dreamed of in the East, young lordling,” he answered honestly. “Not wine or ale, but buttermilk.”

Edmond got to his feet. “Then buttermilk it will be, for both of us.”

“I see you have already learned one of the most important lessons for a knight.”

“What's that?”

Connor ruffled the lad's blond hair. “Courtesy.”

 

“I would do anything to make Lady Isabelle smile,” Auberan whispered to Allis as the three of them sat near the hearth.

You could go away
. She and Isabelle had embroidery
to busy their hands, if not their thoughts, while Auberan apparently had nothing better to do than hover about them like an annoying insect.

She didn't want to have to think about playing the hostess. She wanted to give Isabelle some attention. Her father was having a nap, thanks to Brother Jonathan's sleep-inducing draft, and Edmond had asked to go to the dispensary to see about a potion for a hound with a sore foot. Lord Oswald was with the men of the garrison, probably playing draughts and speaking of weapons and battles. As for Sir Connor, she didn't know where he was at present. If he was avoiding her, she could not fault him. Indeed, he might be showing more evidence of wisdom than she.

“Would you like something to drink, Isabelle?” she asked. “Some wine, perhaps?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Sir Auberan, will you be good enough to go to the bottler and ask him to bring some?”

“It would be my pleasure to bring it myself,” Auberan said with an elegant bow and a meaningful glance at the pale Isabelle.

She gave him a smile as weary as Allis felt. Auberan, however, apparently lacked the perception to see that he was being dismissed, for he smiled and hurried away as if on a vital mission for the king himself.

Allis sighed with relief, then regarded Isabelle with sympathy. “You look tired, Isabelle. Would you like to rest in our chamber?”

“I'm tired of Auberan, that's all. And I'm tired of everybody staring at me.” She flushed and looked away. “Especially you,” she finished in a murmur.

“I am concerned about you.”

“Isn't it natural that I be upset? It's terrible that Per
cival is dead.” Isabelle's lip trembled as she jabbed her needle through the fabric in the frame before her. “It doesn't help that I am being studied as if I were…as if I were Father.”

She flinched, because Isabelle was right. “I'm sorry.”

“Or a stupid girl. Sir Connor was only being nice, and you had to spoil everything.”

Yes, he was a nice man, kind and generous. She had seen him with the village boys in the ward. They were crowded around his war horse, probably the most important and expensive thing he owned, yet he was allowing them to touch it. The boys were laughing and several talked at once, pestering him with questions, but on his face there had been a patient smile as he answered them. She couldn't think of many warriors who would react that way. Certainly Rennick wouldn't.