A Knight's Vow Part 17

To his chagrin, Duncan discovered he was not a very competent minstrel. For one who had always.e.xcelled at whatever task he'd undertaken, it was bitter medicine to swallow.

He didn't know what had gone wrong. He had planned so carefully. He had borrowed worn clothes from Rhys and others. He had prepared a repertoire. He had even practiced. He had set forth with high expectations of success if not acclaim.

But how did one entertain when no one would listen? When they drank and laughed and exchanged lies?

Oh, for sure, his playing was competent enough, said his temporary employers. But he had a tendency to glower at the audience and his repertoire consisted mostly of mayhem and battles.

He was depressing, he was told. Did he have no love songs? No amusing riddles? No one could dance to his somber music. No one wanted to look longingly into another's eyes when minstrels sang of death and destruction.

Well, merde, that was what he knew.

He'd not lasted long enough anywhere to measure the worth of the ladies of the household. He'd already been dismissed from three households. And with unseemly haste, especially from the last one.

He should have listened to Rhys. He could always go back and admit defeat, but such admissions did not come easily to him. How could he learn a more pleasing countenance with a scar running over part of his face? He'd tried to explain that it came from a displeased lord.

The lord of the manor-a minor baron, by G.o.d-said he completely understood why Duncan received the scar. " 'Twas obviously a dissatisfied employer," he'd a.s.serted. It had taken all of Duncan's will not to seize his sword and give a scar himself. But then word would travel about the warrior minstrel, and no one would hire him.

Yet he wasn't ready to surrender.

He gathered his meager belongings and the nag he'd found along the way. Someone had been beating the beast, and he'd bought it with the coin he'd brought along. By the saints, it had been the sorriest piece of horseflesh he'd ever seen but, with a few days of good food, was already looking better.

He decided to walk. He was in far better shape than the nag. He had heard from other musicians that there might be a temporary position some fifty miles north. An earl was holding a house party that would last a fortnight or more.

Mayhap in that fifty miles, he could practice smiling.

The thought brought a glowering frown to his face.

A plague on b.l.o.o.d.y vows.

Lynet sneaked out of her room in the early morning hours. She'd appropriated hose from the clothes her father meant for the poor box and shortened them to fit her legs. She also found an old, worn tunic months ago. A cap covered her long hair which she had twisted on top of her head.

She'd promised her father to see to the guests, but none would be up until midday. They had supped and drank late into the night.

Stealing a few hours before her father and the guests awakened would do no harm. She would be back before her father knew.

The suitors had already been here three days, and she was ready to go daft. One-Viscount Wickham-was handsome and attentive; but he had pinched her last night and had kicked one of the dogs. Shecould never marry anyone who kicked a dog.

The second, Lord Manfield, was far more pleasant; but he obviously had eyes only for her younger sister. Lynet had seen them whispering and giggling together. To accept him would be deeply hurtful to Evelyn.

The third-Robert, Earl of Kellum-had expressed an opinion that educated women were the devil's work, and that producing heirs was a woman's only function.

Lute in hand, she made her way down the steps. A certain peace had fallen on this part of England after so many years of civil war, and there were few guards. Even these, she suspected, would be asleep after the night of revelry.

Several servants, however, were lighting fires in the hall and kitchen. She easily slipped past them and hurried over to the stable. The stable lad, whose business it was to stay awake to unsaddle and saddle horses, was nowhere to be seen. She couldn't handle a large saddle, and she didn't want one in any event, much preferring the close ride of bareback. She put a bridle on her mare and led the horse to a mounting block and mounted, wrapping her legs around Bridie's sides.

She leaned down. "I've missed you," she whispered. Bridie tossed her head and then pranced out the door toward the postern. William, the guard posted at the gate, was accustomed to her morning rides. She knew he would say nothing unless asked directly, and she planned to return before anyone did. In any event, her father was a lax master. He had few retainers, and paid them poorly, especially since the uneasy peace had come to England. As a result they tended to make their own rules.

She smiled at William as she rode through the postern gate and ducked to avoid a falling stone. The walls, along with the castle, needed substantial repairs, but, as her father often moaned, all his money had to go for the marriage portions. He could only hope to find a generous son-in-law.

At that dismaying thought, she urged her mare into a trot, then a canter. She had a favorite spot, a pool formed by a stream meandering down from the hills. Although near a road, it was protected by a stand of oak trees, and the water rippled with gold during the first hours after dawn.

Lynet knew she couldn't stay long. She had to get back before the castle awakened or her prospective grooms would be outraged by her riding like a lad and alone at that. That indiscretion would break her pledge to her father. She had promised to try her best, and she meant to keep her word.

She slipped down from Bridie and tied the reins to a tree. She'd looped a rope around her neck for the lute and now she slipped it off and found a dry spot to sit. She wanted to watch the sun touch the water and turn it to liquid gold. Most of all, she wanted peace.

Mayhap, she thought, a nunnery would be preferable to marriage. But then she probably couldn't have a horse. She most certainly wouldn't be able to ride one like a lad and race across the countryside. G.o.d, she thought, had surely blinked his eyes when he'd made her a female.

She fingered a tune on her lute. She would have much preferred the harp, but that was far too large to bring. She'd played it last night for the guests, at least for the few who listened, but her suitors had paid scant attention. They'd been far more interested in the food and drink.

She hummed along with the lute, then sang a French song of a woman who loses her soldier love. For some odd reason, most of the songs she knew were French, as if the English had lost their talent for song during the long civil war. She could barely remember when England hadn't been at war, since friends became enemies, then allies, then enemies again. There had been no demand then for marriage because no one knew when an alliance might mean losing a head. The Hampton family had survived relatively untouched because there had been no sons, and her father had been too old to fight. They'd declared their loyalty to which ever party was in power in northern England.

Peace. What a rare state.

She finished her song and played something of her own devising, closing her eyes and enjoying the warm morning breeze as her fingers plucked the strings.

How in the Holy Mother's name could she choose between the three suitors? None stirred her heart, but mayhap no man ever would. Was love just a myth?

Her fingers stilled as she was suddenly aware of a silence. It had not been there several moments earlier. No trill of birds. No chattering of squirrels nor the rustling of branches as they scampered across the trees.

Fear filtered through her consciousness. She had heard no one approach, but she knew she was no longer alone. Summoning her courage, she opened her eyes.

They found a pair of legs.

Her eyes moved up. And up. And up.

"I did not... hear you approach, sir," she said as her gaze reached his face. By the saints, he was tall. Her gaze lingered on his face. It was strong, even arrogant. A scar ran across his forehead, and his face was all planes and angles. His eyes were unusual: a silvery blue. Cold and piercing. She s.h.i.+vered in spite of the warmth of the morning sun.

Her gaze hesitated at his mouth. His lips had an odd crook to them that gave him a quizzical look that broke some of the severity of the face. Still, it was a forbidding visage.

She lowered her eyes. His clothes were rough. He wore a patched dark doublet over a plain cambric s.h.i.+rt. Well-formed legs were covered with worn hose. A workman's clothes, but carried like a lord.

"Lad, I did not mean to startle you, but by the saints you have a fine voice." His voice was gruff. Deep. Rumbling.

She knew she probably should go. She should be cautious. England was still a dangerous place. Men forced from their homes had become outlaws. Poachers hunted the woods despite the threat of hanging and would do anything not to be caught.

And yet...

He thought her a lad. A young one whose voice had not yet changed. Dressed in obviously ill-cut clothes.

No threat to a very large stranger.

She lowered her eyes to the ground. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"Would you play something else for me?"

"I cannot," she said. "My master will be looking for me."

She did not look up, but she knew his gaze was boring into her. It sent heat rus.h.i.+ng through her.

She wanted to get up but feared that if he received too good a look he would realize she was a woman.

And her mare, which was grazing behind some trees, would certainly not be ridden by a servant.

Lynet could not help but look up, though, and she saw his own mount, a swayback pitiable excuse for a horse that showed a lack of attention and care. The stranger would most certainly prefer her Bridie.

How could she make him leave?

She tried not to look at the scar across his forehead, nor his russet-colored hair that was shorter than

fas.h.i.+on. A soldier's scar. A soldier's hair. A soldier's stance.

"The lord patrols these lands fer poachers," she said, trying to make her English far less fine than she usually spoke. "He will hang you fer sure."

"And what about you?" he asked, amus.e.m.e.nt lighting those hard eyes. "Does he also hang horse

thieves?"

He had already seen Bridie. She decided to bl.u.s.ter her way through. "I am exercising her," she said with dignity.

"So I see," he said. "The lord allows lads barely out of swaddling to exercise fine animals."

"I am a good rider."

"And a good musician, and I have need of some lessons." He fumbled at a pouch at his waist and tossed

her a gold coin. "I will pay for a lesson."

She automatically caught the coin. A s.h.i.+lling. Any servant would be impressed. But how was it that he

tossed it out so easily, as if it meant nothing to him "I cannot," she said again. "I will be missed, and beaten," she added for good measure, trying to make her voice sound far lower than it was.

His frown deepened. He started to say something, then halted as if he thought better of it.

"I must go," she said again, but her legs did not seem to want to move.

"Will you meet me here tomorrow then?" he asked.

"But why?" she asked, unable to hold the question in her throat.

He stood silent for a moment as if weighing whether to reply. Then he sighed. "I wish to better myself and

become a minstrel. I know a few songs but not enough."

"You have money to throw away," she countered. "Why then would you need a position?"

" 'Tis the last of my pay. The army has been disbanded," he admitted with a wry twist of those intriguing

lips. "I am looking for a steady occupation. Some of my comrades said I have a pa.s.sable voice, but it

seems they may be the only ones to think so. I have already been dismissed thrice."

"Why?" Lynet asked, curious why a man with a starving horse and a patched doublet would have such a coin to throw at a servant.

"I know only songs of war, not of pleasure," he said. "And they say my countenance is... too severe."

She could believe that. He had not smiled once, although amus.e.m.e.nt had touched his eyes for a brief

second.

Her head said no. Her heart said otherwise. He was no brigand, only a man seeking to better himself.

Mayhap he had a family...

She looked back at the stream. Time had run away. She had to leave before her absence was noted.