‘Oh.’
He laughs again. ‘Are you always this talkative?’
‘I do not know your name!’ she protests, as if the lack of a formal introduction were the reason for her dumbness.
‘Ivo,’ he says softly, his eyes on hers. ‘Ivo, son of Benedict Warin of the Old Manor.’
‘I see.’ Oh, how prim she sounds! With an effort she says, ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I’ve been looking for you these past three days,’ he says with disarming honesty. ‘You did not wander far from home yesterday or the day before, but today I was lucky. I watched you ride out and I followed you.’ Leaning down to whisper in her ear — a highly disconcerting sensation — he adds mysteriously, ‘I’ve been calling to you and finally you came.’
His exciting remark stirs her strangely, even though it is not strictly accurate. Many thoughts battle for her attention. This man is an accomplished seducer. He is probably a womaniser, as they say his father is. He’s been waiting for me for three days! He’s been calling to me and I came. And, most powerful of all, oh, he’s so handsome and when he stares at me like this I feel as if I were melting.
Her mouth suddenly dry, she says, ‘I have brought my mother’s palfrey out for some exercise.’ She points to the bay mare under the willow tree, calmly swishing away flies with her long tail. ‘My mother has not enough time in her day to give her horse sufficient attention.’
He nods sagely. ‘And you have taken a tumble in the nettles, I see.’ Her takes her hands in his, very gently, and slowly inspects the backs of them and her strong wrists, then turning them over to look at the palms.
She sees the line of nettle stings that looks like a pink bracelet. ‘I was gathering the young nettle tops for my nurse,’ she says with what she hopes is dignity. ‘Elena — that’s my nurse — makes a tonic for the hair.’
‘Does she, indeed.’ Now he has dropped one of her hands. With his free hand he carefully takes up a strand of her long hair, pulling it so that the curl straightens out and then letting go, allowing it to spring back. Then he takes out a small knife and, without so much as a raised eyebrow to ask her permission, cuts off the curl and stows it away inside his silver-grey tunic.
She is aware that her mouth has dropped open and hurriedly she closes it.
They stand staring at each other. She senses something in the air and wonders vaguely if a storm is approaching. Almost unthinkingly — she is a child of the country — she looks up quickly to see if clouds are gathering, being blown up against the wind. But the sky is clear, perfect blue and there is scarcely a breeze. She looks back at him; to her surprise, he too seems puzzled.
He holds her eyes a moment longer, then says, ‘I can skim stones better than you can.’
His cheerful, everyday remark breaks the tension. ‘Go on, then,’ she invites. He picks up a handful of stones and skims a couple of them expertly over the still waters under the far bank. Five, six. ‘Very good,’ she says, in the tone she uses when her little sister manages to do her needlework without pricking her finger and spotting the cloth with blood.
He is instantly aware of it and he turns to her, dropping the remaining stones. Very quietly he says, ‘Do not play with me, girl. I am not your puppy or your baby brother.’
The tension is back and now it crackles between them, all but visible. He has taken a step and now is very close. ‘How old are you?’
‘I shall be fifteen in three months’ time,’ she declares proudly. ‘My birthday is on the last day of July.’
‘I see.’ He frowns slightly. ‘I am twenty-seven and shall be twenty-eight on the first day of December.’
‘You do not look as old as that,’ she says, eager, she does not quite know why, to lessen this gap between them.
He smiles, and the expression enchants her. ‘And you, girl, are a woman, for all your tender years.’
‘I am,’ she agrees. She thinks she knows what he means and, although she has been brought up to consider such private feminine matters a secret to be concealed from men, somehow this training no longer seems relevant at all.
There is a moment of perfect stillness. They do not touch; their contact is through their eyes and through their senses, each seeking the other. Then he raises a hand and, with his finger, outlines the curve of her lips. He murmurs, ‘My father was quite right.’
She knows she should not ask but cannot prevent herself. ‘What did he say?’
That smile again. ‘He said that Ralf de Swansford has a beautiful daughter, who has her wits about her and looks as if she enjoys life and who is ripe for the plucking. He advised me to get in first before some other lucky man finds you.’
‘Oh!’ She is speechless; are men normally so bold?
As if he reads her reaction, he takes a step back, away from her, and he says, ‘Lady, I mean no disrespect. It is not fitting for us to be alone and for me to speak such words to you; believe me, I honour you.’
He looks so earnest, puts such stress on the word honour, that she does believe him. ‘You do not offend me, sir,’ she replies, eyes modestly cast down. Still looking at the ground, she adds, ‘Normally I am not permitted to ride out unaccompanied, I do assure you, for my father guards me well and likes me to be in the company of either my family or one of the servants.’
It is a prissy little speech and she is not at all surprised when he bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, Helewise!’ he says, still laughing. ‘You are a cherished and unblemished young bud; yes, I know that full well.’
She feels herself blush. Cross with herself — for her carefully nurtured virgin state is surely something she should be proud of? — she lifts her chin and says, ‘I have been raised to be a lady, sir. There is no shame in that.’
Instantly he is once more apologetic. ‘No, no, of course there isn’t and I am delighted to hear it. Please, forgive me for my laughter and for what you seem to perceive as my mockery — the laughter I cannot deny but I intended no jeering criticism and I am truly sorry if I did not make myself plain.’
Make myself plain … Her disordered thoughts prompt the comment, you could never be plain, but this is not, of course, what he meant.
‘Very well,’ she says politely. ‘I accept your apology.’
He bows. ‘Thank you, lady.’
She is tingling from the effect of his nearness — without her having noticed, he seems to have stepped closer again. She meets his eyes. Now he looks solemn, almost anxious. ‘I must go!’ she cries. Suddenly she wants to flee from him; she is afraid — of him, of herself; she does not know — and running back to the safety of home seems like a very good idea.
He bows again, as if in acknowledgement. ‘Yes,’ he says. Neither of them makes a move. Then he says in a rush, ‘Will you come here again? Tomorrow?’
Without one single second’s thought she says, ‘Yes.’
She spends a hectic night, her pounding blood not allowing her to rest. When at dawn she slips into an exhausted sleep, it is only to dream of him, a dream from which she awakes sweating and heavy with some strange sensation that seemed to promise more joy, more pleasure than she had imagined could exist.
She meets him the next day. They talk endlessly about themselves, each coming up with question after question, as if they would know the story of each other’s life from first memories to the present moment. He keeps his distance — he sits down on the pebbles an arm’s length from her — but, when they get up to leave, he takes her hand and kisses it. She is not sure but she thinks she feels his tongue touch against her hot skin. The sensations of the night tickle faintly through her body, an echo of their dark nocturnal power, and she has to turn away before he sees her confusion.
The next day they talk again. This time, when they part, he kisses her mouth. And, just as she had thought she would, she melts into him.
There is to be a celebration in the manor because it is May and, despite England’s Christian religion, the country people still honour the Old Ways and they do not forget. The Swansford family are all eagerly chatting about the arrangements for the day. Ralf de Swansford has, as he always does, offered the large meadow bordered by oak trees and a birch copse as a venue and already the villagers have erected a May Pole. A cooking fire will be built in a sheltered corner and a hog will be roasted. The Swansfords will provide most of the victuals but the peasants and the tenants will each bring what they can. Even in the poorest homes, men, women and children feel the thrill of the feast day and it costs nothing to pick wild flowers and make a garland.