#4 - Black

Shadowed Knight,
by Jan Alyce Avery
Samhain Publishing
 http://www.janalyceavery.com/

Fuming at his own carelessness, Fitzwilliam went in search of Lady Ann, to be told by the first house servant he asked that she was in the kitchen. He checked with the cook.

“Outside, sir.” The cook, chopping joints of meat with a huge cleaver, cocked an eyebrow at him, no doubt contemptuous of people who cut themselves with a mere dagger. “In the garden. Around the east side of the wall.” He brought the cleaver down with a whack that dug the edge deep into the wood block beneath. “Just go right out that door, sir.”

Fitzwilliam went out the door indicated. There seemed to be a  half-dozen gardens behind the curve of the tower. The first was the kitchen garden, surely, with peas twining around staves, the tops of onions thrusting green through well-tilled soil, new lettuce and cabbage growing in long rows. Beyond these were precise square beds of plants he couldn’t name, though the scents argued herbs, and beyond those, along the surrounding stone wall, were twining roses, lilacs and a fringe of lilies, the flowers running to the edge of a clear bed of turf that surrounded a flowering apple tree. A faint hum revealed bees at their work, the sound counterpointed by birdsong. Fitzwilliam took a deep breath, intoxicated by the rich scents.

He heard another soft humming, from just beyond the tree, a wordless melody sung in a girl’s pure voice, and an instant later Lady Ann came from behind the trunk, her head bent over a basket she carried. She wore her green wool gown and her head was bare. Her loosely braided hair glowed a rich chestnut in the sun, tendrils escaping to curl against her cheeks. Still absorbed by the contents of the basket, she came toward him, her body moving with a grace that made him catch his breath.

“Spring,” he said softly, and she looked up, startled, then realizing who it was, she smiled. “Sir?”

“I was thinking of the goddess Spring and—here you are.” It seemed perfectly natural to extend his hand, perfectly natural that she should take it. “The very image of that ethereal being. If I were an artist, I could ask for no better model.”

Her cheeks flushed a delicious rose, but her eyes danced. “A very pretty speech, Sir John. Far too fine to waste on a respectable widow.”

“I can think of no one who looks less like a widow, lady. As for respectable,” he grinned, “well, that remains to be seen.”

“Rogue! Did you come to help me gather herbs or are you fleeing honest work?”

“Herbs?”

She indicated the basket. “Fennel and thyme, rosemary and lemon grass. To spice your food, sir knight. I, you see, am hard at work helping the cook.”

“Well, I was hard at work as well, mistress, in the weapons room. I came to you because Sir Richard said that you have healing skills. See,” he lifted his bandaged hand, his voice comically tragic, “I’ve been wounded in the line of duty.”

“Oh, Sir John!” She was instantly serious, setting the basket down, then taking his hand in both of hers. “Let me see.”

He laughed, suddenly a little embarrassed. “A nick, lady, no more, hardly worth bothering about—”

“The smallest scratch can fester, sir, if not cared for properly.” She unwound the rag. “Not deep enough to need stitching, but it must be cleaned. And bandaged with clean linen, not something you’ve used to polish rust off armor. Come with me.”

She led him to the far side of the tree to a small plank table set against the wall, where she ordered him to stay before hurrying away. It was only a minute or two before she was back with a bowl of water, clean rags, a flask of ale and a small pot with a lid. She cleaned the cut with the water and one of the rags, rinsed it with the ale—ignoring both his protests at the waste of good spirits and his exaggerated groans of pain—then opened the pot to reveal a pale green paste, which she spread with some care over and around the wound. “You’re to keep this dry,” she ordered as she secured a linen strip around his palm. “And not use the hand for a day or two to let it heal. Does it feel better now?”

“Yes. There’s magic in your ointment.” And in your touch, he thought. “Do you make many such medicines?”

“Yes.” She smoothed the wrinkles from the bandage, her fingers brushing his skin, and even that slight contact sent a shiver through him. “I’ve a hut on the other side of the garden, and there I store herbs. My nurse taught me how to use them to make medicines, for the easing of pain, to aid sleep, to lower fevers—”

“And what ingredients do you use, lady, to make love potions?” he asked softly.

She was bent over his arm, but she looked up at him, startled. “Sir?”

“Surely you brew such cordials.” Her face was only a few inches from his, so close he could smell the warm fragrance of her skin. Her lips were parted, her eyes so pure and rich a green it was like looking into the heart of a newly leafed forest. “And surely you’ve given me some, for I’m drunk with it—”

Ann found herself unable to move. His hand lifted, his fingers gently touching the curve of her cheek, then moving slowly down the line of her throat to brush the soft swell of her breasts. Trembling, she caught her breath in a sob. “Ann!” he whispered—and then his arms were around her and his mouth came down on hers.

Heat surged through her. Her body seemed to melt into the hard strength of his embrace. She moaned, her lips parting, and the kiss deepened, his mouth devouring hers, his hand lifting to cup her swelling breast. Her body burned, trembled, her senses drowning in a shuddering wave of pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

And then he wrenched himself away. “Sweet God, Ann—I didn’t mean… I could never…”

Dazed, fevered, she stared at him, bewildered—then the look on his face struck her like a blow. Without a word, he turned and strode away.

Ann shivered. The warm spring day suddenly seemed to darken, grow chill. I didn’t mean… I could never… The look of misery on his face, misery mixed with shame…

Suddenly she realized why he’d said what he’d said, what he meant, why he’d fled from her, and the realization was like a spear of ice into her heart. It was so obvious… She’d been so blind…

She buried her face in her hands, trying desperately to choke back sobs, while the blossoms of the apple tree spread their fragrant petals and the bees droned, uncaring and indifferent, from flower to flower.