Heart of a Knight (39 page)

It bewildered her that she felt so strongly. She had not thought she gave a thought to the life of Thomas any longer. She'd burned for him, true enough, but she'd burned for many a man, and in truth, it was his very size that had excited her imagination.

But as he'd been led away from the feast, her sorrow had been quick and sharp, and her fear had been all for her stepmother.

For Lyssa, who'd gone such a pale dead color at the pronouncement of their king. Whose eyes had been more bleak than any sight Isobel had ever seen, more bleak than her own father's when his beloved wife had been laid in the crypt. Isobel had known grief in those moments herself. She'd loved her mother, and bitterly mourned her.

But the anguish in Lyssa's eyes gave new shape to grief. Isobel feared that if Thomas were killed, Lyssa would go mad with the sorrow.

An autumn wind, cool and sharp, blew through the embrasure, and Isobel shivered, pulling the shawl closer around her. She thought of the night she'd seen Thomas and Lyssa in the orchard, and the look on his face, that reverent passion that ran so deep it had wounded Isobel to the quick. Isobel had not seen Lyssa's face that night, but she knew now there had been the same look there.

Love so deep was rare. And beautiful. Isobel found she ached to think of them being parted, ached so deep she nearly could not think of it. She wondered what she might do to give Thomas advantage, how she might help him win.

When she thought of the answer, it was so simple and clear that she laughed softly. Alice looked up, though her lips moved yet in prayer. "Dear Alice," she said, standing, "I think my wantonness may at last have it's purpose. Do not worry." And in good humor, she pressed a kiss to her cheek before she slipped into the passageway.

She knew where her betrothed slept, but first went to find her brother, and roused him, and told him what she wished. He was thunderously resistant, at first, but she brought him around.

Then she went to the quarters where Stephen was housed. A watchman paced nearby, and she uncovered her curls as she approached, glad she'd worn the good blue silk that showed her eyes and breast to best advantage. Putting a hand on the guard's arm, she whispered a plea for him to go rouse her beloved. A gleam in his eye, he did as she asked, as she'd known he would.

She waited in the shadows, her heart racing in both excitement and fear. This would seal her own fate completely, and there was some sadness in her over that. En route to London, Lyssa had shown some understanding of Isobel's wish to choose her own husband. A pity to throw that away.

Still, this was a form of choosing. Stephen came into the hall, blinking sleepily, and Isobel measured him for a moment in the low light. He wore only a shirt that came to his knees, open at the throat, the laces hanging loose to show a chest gilded with golden hair. She felt a queer stirring in her middle, looking at the tumble of his curls and the sleepy, beautiful face.

She stepped from the shadows. "I could not sleep," she whispered.

Immediately, he reached for her, concern in his bright eyes. "What might I do?"

Isobel let herself be enfolded. She had not even allowed him to kiss her before this, and she saw his surprise and pleasure. "Will you walk with me awhile?"

"Of course." He fetched a cloak and rejoined her, and they walked into the gardens, where trees cast deep shadows. There, he put an arm around her, and seemed about to speak, then hesitated.

At last he turned to her. "Are you grieved over that peasant? I have long suspected you harbored some feeling for the beast."

Isobel swallowed a smile and made her move. She lifted a hand to his face, and was surprised to find there was pleasure in the feeling of smooth young flesh prickled with the lightest of beard. "Nay, my lord," she said, and lowered her gaze, and dropped her hand, as if in maidenly shyness. "I dreamt of you." She raised her eyes and whispered, "kissing me."

For a long, long moment, Isobel feared she had misjudged him. That he scented a trick. Then his breath left him on a longing groan. "A kiss I can give," he said.

As if her quiet request had shattered some wall he kept about him, Stephen de Kivelsworthy, that boy, swept Isobel into a fierce embrace, hauling her body close to his as if to absorb her flesh into his, and he caught her head in his hand and lowered his head and—

Kissed her. Not gently. Not sweetly.

Isobel gasped, going utterly still for a moment, seeing the face of her dream love suddenly become clear. Ever had she searched the faces of men, looking always for that man who haunted her, whose lips fit her own exactly, who anticipated what she wished before she'd bare formed the thought. She clasped his face in her hands and pulled back, breathing hard. "It was you, all along," she said in wonder, and then kissed him again with a burst of joy-

And when he laid her on the ground there in the autumn-chilled garden and warmed her with his ardor and his strong, youthful body, Isobel gave freely, sealing her fate gladly.

It was only when she crept back to the women's bower that she realized she had also accomplished her other plan—to wear down the energy of the knight most likely to kill Thomas. And when Stephen learned Thomas was not to be executed, but would fight in a tournament today, he would be very angry.

She slumped on the wall, thinking how ironic it would be to lose her dream lover when she had only just found him, and over one of the only unselfish things she had ever done.

Weary, she entered the chamber. What was done was done.

 22

The day was overcast and
humid. As Lyssa allowed Mary to brush her hair, she watched tents behind erected in the wide field behind the castle. Already a crowd of Londonites gathered at one end for the long anticipated tourney, herded there by guards who would carefully separate the lower classes from the nobles who would watch from a sheltered dais furnished with benches.

Lyssa felt numb as she stared at the grassy field. By sunset, her fate would be decided there. Her love might lie dead in that very grass, or he might stand triumphant. Pressing a hand to her ribs, Lyssa breathed, "How can we bear the waiting?"

"We have no choice, my lady," Alice said. She had covered her head with a clean white wimple, and her large, beautiful eyes were sober. "'Tis in the Lady's hands now."

They had to rouse Isobel from a deep sleep, but managed to get her dressed and moving, and went down as a group to the fields and took places on the dais. Bread, fruit, and various wines and ales were offered, but Lyssa felt she could choke nothing down past the terror in her throat. She ached to see Thomas, and peered anxiously toward the knots of flags and standards waving over the heads of knights in bright clothes.

Already the excitement was palpable. Minstrels played lively tunes, and loud chatter spilled into the air from the gathering crowds. Horns pierced the air at intervals, and there was the usual clanging and clanking and swearing as horses were armored and weapons were tested.

The tournament had been slated long before the discovery of Thomas's background, and knights had come from far and wide to test their skills. Most of it would be for show, knights jousting singly or in pairs with blunted weapons, but there would be true contests as well, and a melee at the end, to mock battle between the knights.

Again her fear and anticipation jumped. If Thomas were successful through the jousts, he might well end the day a far richer man, and not only for winning her hand. He'd have claim to the ransom of any knight he captured, and the claim on their horses as well.

But most of the knights had entourages made up of squires and pages to do their bidding, to bring them new weapons if a lance was broken, or carry their flags. Thomas had no one.

"My lady, look!" Mary cried, pointing. "There he is."

Lyssa forced herself to remain seated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had woven ribbons through her hair to give him, but as he came into view, she saw that he already carried a token: the weaving of a hunt scene that she had given him was tied to his chest, where there might have been the heraldic marks if he had earned them.

He was well outfitted, and it somehow comforted her to see him stride into the milling knights, his chin high, his helm under his arm. He stood head and shoulders above most of the number, and Lyssa saw more than one man look uneasily after him, plainly measuring the breadth of those shoulders, the uncommon size of his powerful arms. Here was a man, they all knew, who would not be easily worn down or wearied.

Behind him, leading the great black destrier that had belonged to the elder Thomas of Roxburgh, was Robert. And behind him walked John Tyler, as straight and sober as any squire on the field. Lyssa found herself oddly moved to see him, and behind her, Mary made a soft sound.

"Robert was so angry last night," Lyssa commented. "What changed his heart, I wonder?"

"Look to your girl, there," Alice said. "She had a mysterious errand last even."

In surprise, Lyssa looked to Isobel. "You?"

Isobel shrugged. "Who else would he listen to?"

Lyssa took her hand and squeezed it. "Thank you."

Isobel shrugged, then went stiff as Stephen strode out, mailed and adorned, his head full of golden curls shining like sunlight even in the dark day. He moved with purpose toward the dais, intent in his eye. "Oh, God," Isobel breathed. It was an utterance of plain terror, and her hand tightened convulsively on Lyssa's.

Lyssa looked at her curiously, but before she could question the girl, Stephen was upon them. "I come, my lady," he said, "to ask a token from you to carry with me."

"From me?" she asked meekly.

He smiled, a rich and knowing expression. "Who else, my sweet?"

Isobel hastily took the scarf from her head, and pressed it against her mouth. "Take this, then."

Holding her gaze, he accepted the offering and carried it to his own mouth before giving a courtly bow and moving off toward his men.

"It seems you have discovered some fondness for your betrothed after all," Lyssa said, curiously.

"Aye. He has more passion in him than I suspected." But she raised anguished eyes to Lyssa. "Who will I shout for if he and Thomas come up against each other? How can I choose?"