“Please, sir, you grow bold.” Would a medieval Flemish woman really talk like a Victorian novel? Well, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Bold in the cause of truth, my lady.”
As a matter of fact, Tamberly had taken some trouble with her riding habit, lacing the bodice tighter than was quite comfortable, arranging the drape of sleeves and skirts just so; and blue was her best color. She didn’t look as dashing as Lorenzo—elbow-length red cape over richly embroidered gold-and-green tunic halfway to the knees, sword at bronze-buckled belt of chased leather, russet hose (matching his eyes) cut to bring out the shapeliness of thigh and calf, curly-toed red shoes—but she was no drab little hen to his rooster, either.
A stab of pity: Poor Ilaria. Quiet, shy, sort of homely, meant for a pledge of alliance, a mother, a chatelaine; and here I come along and take up most of her betrothed’s attention. … But it’s nothing remarkable in this day and age; and maybe I’m kidding myself, but I’ve gotten a body-language impression that Bartolommeo does care about her as a person, at least a little bit; and—and whatever happens, I am not conniving at an assassination.
Horses were ready in the street outside. Lorenzo had spoken imprecisely when he implied lunch would be tête-á-tête. Even here, that would occasion some scandal. Two attendants, man and wife, were in charge of supplies and of service in general. Sometime during the day, Tamberly needed to be alone with the knight. If he didn’t take the initiative about that, she must, and wasn’t sure how. Preferring her relationships straightforward, she had never gone in for seductiveness. But she didn’t believe it would be required.
Still, when she mounted and settled herself—no prissiness about sidesaddles—it didn’t hurt to show a little snugly stockinged leg, did it?
Hoofs clattered on cobbles. As they left the city gates and city smells behind, Tamberly caught her breath. Sunlight torrented from the east. Downhill the land tumbled away in heights and hollows, brightness and shadow, valley where streams threaded with silver a patchwork quilt of fields, orchards, vineyards. Villages nestled white. She glimpsed two distant castles. Above and beyond the farms, wild brown pasture mingled with remnants of forest, among whose greens lay the first faint tints of autumn. Birds winged and cried multitudinous overhead. The air was cool but rapidly warming, overwhelmingly pure.
“How beautiful,” Tamberly said. “We have nothing like this in our flat Flanders.” We do in my California.
“I will show you a glen where a waterfall sings and little fishes play beneath like shooting stars,” Lorenzo replied. “The trees are pillars and arches whereunder you will think you spy wood nymphs aflit. Who knows? Perhaps they linger in that place.”
Tamberly recalled Everard remarking that people in the Dark Ages had little appreciation of nature. By the high Middle Ages, it was tamed enough for them to enjoy. Maybe Lorenzo was a bit ahead of his time…. Everard—She thrust guilt from her. Tension, too. Be Zen. Take this pleasure you’ve got around you while it lasts. Let the duty lying ahead do no more than sharpen it After all, what a challenge!
Lorenzo whooped. He touched heels to his mount and started off at a reckless canter. Tamberly kept up. She was a pretty good rider herself. Soon they must have mercy on the servants bouncing behind and slow down. They looked at each other and laughed.
Time went, along winding trails, in rhythms of muscle and deep-drawn breath, creak and jingle, tang from leather and sweat and woodland, vistas intimate or enormous, brief words and, from him, longer snatches of song. “In green and in joy did we lie. ‘Tilirra!’ the nightingale—”
She judged that about two hours had passed when he reined in. The forest path they were following passed a meadow where a brook tinkled. “Here shall we take our repast,” he said.
Tamberly’s pulse briefly wavered. “But it’s early yet.”
“I meant not to ride us saddlesore. Rather, I would fain give you close memories of our land to take home.”
With a conscious effort, Tamberly fluttered her lashes. “As my guide wishes. You have never chosen ill, sir.”
“If I do well, it is because the company inspires me.” He swung from his seat and reached a hand to help her dismount. The clasp lingered. “Marco, Bianca,” he directed, “prepare things, but you may take your ease about it. I mean first to show my lady the Apollo bower. She may well desire to stay a while.”
“Master commands,” the man sáid impassively. The woman bobbed and couldn’t quite suppress a giggle. Yes, they knew what Sir Lorenzo intended, and that they’d better keep mouths shut afterward.
He offered Tamberly his arm. They strolled away. She put hesitancy into her tone. “The bower of Apollo, sir? Isn’t that … heathen?”
“Oh, no doubt it was sacred to some god in olden times, and if that wasn’t Apollo it should have been,” her companion replied. “Thus young folk name it these days, for the sun and life, beauty and happiness there. We, though, should have it to ourselves. Surely the next who come will find a new magic.”
He continued stringing out his line as they walked. She’d heard much worse. He also had the wit to fall silent now and then, letting her savor the unquestionable charm of the path. Narrow, so that they must go close together, it followed the streambed uphill. Trunks soared to a ceiling of yellow and gold. Sunbeams flecked shade. This late in the year, birdsong was ended, but she heard calls, while squirrels darted fiery and once a deer bolted. The morning grew steadily warmer; the trail steepened. He helped her doff her mantle and folded it over his left arm.
A clear, rushing sound grew louder. They came into another opening. Tamberly clapped palms together and cried out in genuine delight. Beyond, the water tumbled and sparkled down a bluff. Woods ringed and partly roofed the glade through which it ran onward. Turf on either side remained green and soft, richly edged with moss. “Well,” Lorenzo asked, “have I redeemed my promise?”
“A thousand times over.”
“To hear you say that pleases me more than a battlefield victory. Come, drink if you are thirsty, sit down”—Lorenzo spread her cloak on the ground—“and we will thank God for His bounty by taking our pleasure in it.”
I think he means that, flitted through her. He does have his very serious side; yes, real depths in him, which it would be … interesting to explore. She chuckled inwardly, dryly. However, the observance he has in mind today is not religious, and that cloth isn’t laid for purposes of sitting on.
Tension seized her. This is the time!
Lorenzo gave her a close regard. “My lady, are you faint? You’ve turned pale.” He took her hand. “Rest yourself. We need not go back for hours.”
Tamberly shook her head. “No, I thank you, I am quite well.” She realized she was muttering and raised her voice. “Bear with me a moment. I’ve vowed a daily devotion to my patron saint while on this journey.” Sending a slow look his way: “If I perform it not at once, I fear I might forget later.”
“Why, of course.” He stood aside and took his plumed cap off.
For this occasion she had been wearing her communicator out in the open. She raised the disc to her lips and thumbed the switch. “Wanda here,” she said in American English; Temporal sounded too alien. She heard her heartbeat louder than the words. “I think the situation is set up, just about how we hoped. He and I are alone in the hills and, well, if he isn’t pawing the ground it’s because his tactics are smoother than that. Get a fix on my location and give me, m-m, let’s say fifteen minutes for things to get lively. Okay?” Not that Everard could respond without derailing the plan. “Out.” She switched off, lowered the medallion, bowed her head, crossed herself. “Amen.”