To Touch The Knight Page 7

  “Surely not of angels or God? I thought you did not believe in anything you could not touch or see.”

  The glow faded a little from her eyes. “In my experience that is the best guide.”

  “And all knights are dreamers to you, yes, I know. But have you not considered that you may be wrong, Princess?” he replied, feeling somewhat in the ascendancy again. “That there may indeed be more than the narrow realm of the senses?”

  Expecting a sharp rejoinder, he was disconcerted when he saw her narrow shoulders sag. In truth he had not meant to hurt her, he realized, only to shake her a little. “But have you seen your other favors?” Keen to change the subject, he held out his arms, where the favors won were threaded and tied like tiny banners amidst the long dagged-cut sleeves of his green and gold tunic.

  “So many,” she said, and a stricken look rose in her eyes, swiftly hidden as she turned away.

  “What?” He moved with her, taking her hand in his. “What is it?”

  “I did not understand that you disliked me so much,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said instantly, matching her serious tone. Feeling suddenly very tender to her, strangely protective, he raised her face gently and kissed her forehead, close to the hairline where her veil was pinned. “Not so, Princess.”

  He unpinned another favor and placed it into her hand. “We may do it this way, if you wish,” he said, very quietly, shielding her from the others, keen to give her privacy. “Your hands, forehead, eyes, brotherly kisses all.”

  “Mmm?” For a non-dreamer, her eyes had a very dreamy expression.

  “Princess?” Tempted as he was to take advantage, a shrewd sense in him suggested if he gave her the choice, she would be generous.

  And so she was. Giving herself a shake that made her bracelets jangle, she brushed his lips with her gloved fingers, tracing the outline of his mouth. “I keep my word,” she said, as he was stunned with the intimacy of her touch. “Let me withdraw and divest and you take on the blindfold.” A new smile creased her eyes. “It is finer than linen, so you need fear no injury.”

  “Only to my wits,” he replied, “and they are mazed already.”

  She laughed again and withdrew behind the long curtain in the tent, calling over her shoulder, “Remember, my lord, I pay my debts.”

  Only when the blindfold was snug across his eyes did he realize he had not thought of Olwen once. And now, very soon, the Lady of Lilies would be kissing him.

  He looked younger with the blindfold, boyish and happier. Not vulnerable, Edith decided; he was too rangy and muscled for that and too poised, listening in the center of the tent, breathing lightly and easily and perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. He had removed his boots, the better to enjoy her rich floor strewings, he claimed, but Edith knew it was more. A warrior can feel things, and this “grounding” of Ranulf’s warned her to beware. He seemed relaxed, amused, but he was still a fighter.

  Yet something was different in him. Peeping round the tent’s inner curtain, feeling absurdly shy now that she was unveiled and ungloved, Edith saw the corners of his mouth turn up each time one of the villagers in their roles as Eastern followers sped—or, in Walter’s case, hobbled—about the great tent, watering the bowls of flowers, lighting small braziers now evening was coming, bringing Sir Tancred his accustomed goblet of wine. The sadness has gone, she thought. Ranulf is no longer hemmed in by it. Is that because of me?

  She dashed aside the idea—he was a man, and men grieved swiftly and then moved to the next goal or woman. She wished again her Eastern costume was less revealing. No other man, even Tancred, had been allowed to come as close as Ranulf would be in a moment.

  She could have agreed to his suggestion, too, but now, stepping softly into the main part of the tent, she looked forward to his kiss.

  He sensed her or possibly scented her. He leaned forward slightly, pursing his lips again and making foolish tweeting noises.

  “Ranulf!” His name and her own laughter flooded out of her quite naturally and he also laughed, long and loudly. She wanted to rush to him and pick him right off his feet and whirl him about for that delicious laughter, so unexpected and compelling. She went to him instead and tweaked his nose—the tip of it that she could spot through the blindfold.

  “Behave, sir,” she said, but he only laughed again and lowered his head to receive her kiss.

  A hiss of breath off somewhere to her left reminded her that Sir Tancred and the others were still present, then Ranulf came closer still and all she was aware of was him.

  She felt his warm breath on her own cheeks and mouth and smelt his fresh, male scent, no peppermint but sweet, as if he had chewed on something like mallow. Relieved he had not eaten something foul to spite her, she cradled his tanned, fair face between her palms and kissed him, her lips trembling against his.

  “You taste of hay, my lady,” he murmured, his mouth gentle on hers. “Hay and sugar-cones. And your hands are sweet and soft—why do you hide them away?”

  His tongue teased along her teeth and she sighed, reassured by his patience and wanting to snuggle into his strong arms, wary of moving lest she reveal her desire. Her breasts and loins ached—kissing a young man, a man of her age, was very different from the sparse, functional kisses she had shared with Adam, or Peter.

  “I never knew,” she admitted before she realized what she had said and cringed a little, ashamed of being so open, but Ranulf now clasped her into his arms and deepened their embrace.

  She felt filled with sunshine and warmth, and she also knew, from how he pressed against her, tightly and sweetly, their limbs aligning and intertwining like metal alloys in the forge, that he was equally enchanted.

  “Magic Princess,” he whispered, finding her nose although he was blind, and kissing it. “Is this a new device, so I forget how many kisses you owe?”

  “Twelve and one,” she said at once, mortified when he chuckled.

  “I did not realize you were concerned enough to keep so close a count.”

  “No, I—”

  He smothered her protest with another kiss, tucking her closer, as if he would carry her under his arm like a parcel. “You kiss like an angel,” he said, “or how I deem an angel will kiss.”

  She was too content to contradict him and he smiled, his hands floating like blown leaves to rest softly on her forehead. “May I?”

  Taking her silence as consent he traced over her face with his hands, his own features very still and intent. She could hardly breathe, their mood was so close. “Please,” she said, though in truth she was not sure for what she pleaded.

  “Are all Cathay women as lovely?” he asked. As he lowered his head afresh to tease her again with his lovely mouth, Edith was overwhelmed.

  I cannot bear this—if he does not stop, I will bed him here and now!

  She wound her arms about his middle and tickled him—up his back, across his firm buttocks, under his arms—anywhere she could reach.

  “Hey!” He moved faster than melting copper and caught her hands in one of his. “Enough of that, Princess. ’Tis hard for me, too.”

  She nodded, feeling his arousal, then remembered he could not see. “I know.”

  He kissed her, deliberately lingering, and then, as she was still tasting him, lifted her slightly in his arms and nibbled her ear. “If you were a maid, a little brown lass, I would make you pay for that,” he breathed, before setting her down and stepping back.

  “I will collect the rest tomorrow,” he said, and put his hands up to his blindfold, laughing softly as she scrambled back. “Good night,” he called as she scurried behind the curtain, into her lonely safety.

  “You dare things with the black knight that no other in England would dare,” Sir Tancred said later, sitting with Edith on a bench, warming his wine over the brazier.

  Edith tugged at her hair plait, feeling her face to be very hot and sensing altogether at a distance from herself. “It is a game, no more.”

  �
��No,” said Sir Tancred, surprising her. “It is not. You had best take care, my lady, that you do not fall into that man’s power.”

  “Believe me, my lord, I know,” said Edith, shivering despite the summer heat, her mouth still tingling from those kisses. I can only hope I am not already in thrall.

  She glanced at the knight with her. He looked tired this evening. One of his eyelids fluttered and his mouth drooped. “Will you stay here tonight, my lord? Take supper and your ease with us? My steward will bring Christina here, too.” He loved music, and Maria and Teodwin loved to sing. “There will be music.”

  Sir Tancred sighed. “If I may.”

  “You are most welcome.” Edith stretched forward and took his hand in hers. “I am always glad of your company.” She meant it, too. Sir Tancred reminded her of her father and grandfather, and he was a good man, too kind for the ruthless life of a tourney knight.

  Unlike Ranulf. . . .

  They sat together in quiet, staring at the brazier, deep in their own thoughts.

  Chapter 10

  Ranulf was whistling while he checked his weapons and chain mail. He was by the river, sitting close to the washerwomen, hoping to spot the little maid among them and thinking of the Lady of Lilies. “I shall name her today,” he said aloud. “Give her a good Christian name that will be hers and she will answer to. I will ride for her and fight for her, and wear her favors.” The ones he still had, he thought, and grinned, glancing up at the early morning sun. Many hours and fighting yet, but the evening would come quickly and then he would kiss her again.

  A stone splashed in the water close to him and he half scrambled to his feet, but it was only Giles, slinging pebbles into the river. Giles stalked toward him, his face dark.

  “Women are devils,” he announced, flinging himself down beside Ranulf. “They promise and promise and mean none of it.”

  “Lady Maud?” Ranulf turned the mail armor over and began to check for any severed or missing links there. The sun was warm on his back, reminding him of the haymaking he had done. Should he ask the Lady of Lilies to salve his sunburn? No, that would be too much to ask, even in jest.

  Giles tossed another stone into the water. “All is at an end between us.”

  Ranulf waited. It was Giles’s habit to court a woman, idealize her, and then flee the instant he decided she was not perfect. Poor Lady Maud had done something.

  Sure enough, here it was. Giles scratched his balls, sprawled a little more, and announced, “She would not let me fly her merlin.”

  “Did she fly your falcon?”

  Giles stared at him. “Of course not, I had said no! Then when I asked her to give me the merlin—”

  He grumbled on and Ranulf ignored the rest. Giles thought every woman should give him what he wanted; his mother had taught him that.

  “Stupid bitch.”

  For an instant Ranulf concluded he had uttered his thought aloud, but it was Giles again, berating his ill usage.

  “She is a spoilt, petted creature.”

  “Perhaps she thought the same of you,” Ranulf answered, rising to his feet. “I am for the castle.” Walking, Giles would have less breath to moan.

  A sly look of calculation slithered onto Giles’s sulk. “Not your new lady love? I thought I might seek her out myself. You and she are on everyone’s lips.”

  Ranulf shrugged. “Seek away,” he said, feigning indifference. He did not want Giles smarming round his Lady of Lilies. Giles always assumed no woman could resist him and used his good looks and charm—charm he could put on and off like a cloak—to great advantage. In truth he did not want Giles within a mile of her tent, or her company.

  “So much for Olwen,” Giles remarked nastily.

  “I do not forget her.” He would not forget Olwen, and Giles’s spite did not touch him. He had always known the day would come when he could think of his wife without the heavy, dragging grief. He had not thought it would come so swiftly, or that an Eastern Princess would fill his mind so completely—If princess she is. Yet what else can she be?

  Sir Tancred slept late, and when he stirred he complained of a headache. Edith made him a sage tisane and massaged his neck and shoulders. He felt clammy to her touch. His girl Christina was also anxious, looking to Edith for support.

  “Stay here today,” Edith pleaded. “I am staying. Keep me and my maid company on our bed and let us listen to more music.”

  Sir Tancred agreed and took only a little coaxing to get into the larger of the two beds within the tent. He and Christina dozed beside Maria, and Edith fetched them more drinks when they asked, and rubbed their feet. Maria was so large now she could go into labor at any time, but Sir Tancred’s pallid look worried her. Edith was relieved when he fell at last into a steady, peaceful sleep.

  “Not the pestilence, then,” said Teodwin in a low voice, reflecting her fear.

  Edith shook her head. “Are there many waiting?” she asked, turning to her other tasks for the day. She began to pace in the tent, longing to walk out altogether. She could hear the other women and former village children of Warren Hemlet outside, playing at elves in the sparse woodland beside the tent, and wished briefly she was with them.

  “Fewer than at other times.” Teodwin polished his shoes with his long sleeves. “Now the black knight claims you for his own, the gifts are beginning to lessen, too.” He removed a last dust spot with his thumb and looked at her. “The village men are getting worried, and our women are already gathering stores in our wagons. We might be wise to pack the rest of our things and go.”

  “I agree,” said Edith, with a sinking heaviness, thinking at once of Ranulf and wondering, if they did leave, if she would see him again.

  “You said yourself, Edith, that once people ask too many questions it is time to depart. They are not asking yet, but they are considering. The black knight has asked things of you and about you that have made them wonder. This tourney will soon be over, in any case.”

  She tasted bitterness in her mouth and thought it was resentment against Ranulf, but then a moment later she knew it was disappointment.

  “What of Maria and Sir Tancred? Is it safe for them to travel?”

  Teodwin coughed, a sign of stress. “It may have to be.”

  Edith stopped pacing and made her decision—in truth, there was little choice. Teodwin would not have troubled her with anything less than a real, if so far distant, threat. “We shall leave tomorrow, quietly, when the rest of Lady Blanche’s court and guests are at a feast, or procession, or whatever they do. If all agree, we can make for Kenilworth. Sir Henry spoke of a great joust there, due to be held in a week’s time.”

  Teodwin nodded eagerly, his hazel eyes knowing and sympathetic. “A new place means new knights and fewer questions, for not all the knights here will follow on,” he observed shrewdly. “Do not tell the black knight when he comes this evening,” he added, guessing her thoughts with absurd ease. “Do not tell him that we are leaving, or where we are going.”

  “I will not,” she promised, feeling a limb-aching sadness settle into her like hunger. “But I must tell Lady Blanche something, in courtesy. And I can be sorry, can I not?”

  “Better sorry than dead.” Teodwin limped with his carved walking stick to the entrance, saying over his shoulder, “Will you see the knights and squires inside or outside?”

  “Outside.” She wanted Tancred to sleep unmolested. “I will not keep them waiting too long. May I have some wine, please?” She needed something to stifle the panic in her belly.

  Teodwin ducked through the entrance flaps and then, to her surprise, returned at once. “I will bring you a large cup,” he said, stepping out again before she could ask him why.

  Chapter 11

  Ranulf was not at the head of the straggle of knights, squires, and heralds fidgeting under the canopy opposite the Lady of Lilies’s great tent, but he was certainly in the first rank. He had decided to come, mainly to sport again with the princess, but also because he did n
ot trust Giles. Giles might be a fellow warrior, a good companion in arms, but Giles was also a womanizer, with open, handsome looks, blue eyes, a glib tongue, and a winning way. Ranulf never understood why so many women found Giles appealing, that arrogance of his masked as confidence, but then he was no girl.

  The princess is my lady for this joust. I do not want Giles casting his shadow in my light.

  And there was the delectable matter of those missing kisses. . . .

  There was a general stir and straightening from the heralds and squires beside him, and Ranulf waved at the emerging princess. She was in blue today, with blue gloves, and she carried a goblet of wine in her right hand. He waited while she saw others, intrigued as to how she managed to sip the wine without wetting her blue veil. She had a kind word and encouragement for every knight and squire, mixed with pithy good sense.

  “What advice for me?” he asked, when she came to him, walking on an instant path of flowers cast by two dark-haired children. “Does my horse need a little more training to become used to the clash of battle? Do I hold my shield too high?”

  “Do not join in combat with a scythe,” she replied, not at all disconcerted by his questions, or his blatant listening in, and laughing as he laughed. “How now, my lord?”

  “Are you joining the other ladies today?” It was a way to ask if she would watch him at the joust.

  Her dark brows drew together. “Alas, sir, I cannot. My maid is close to her time.”

  He said nothing on that matter of women, nor on the rumor that Tancred was ill. Again, looking over her pretty camp with the strolling musicians and flower-clad children, he thought it too lightly guarded.

  He beckoned to her, and, when she leaned in a little closer, said in a low voice, “Lady, where are your guards? Where are Sir Tancred’s? I could send you some men—”

  “No need.”

  As if she guessed she had been ungracious, she added, “Do you wish a favor, my lord?”