CHAPTER 6
“I saw her late on an autumn day,
“Bathed in the glory of the sun at its setting.”
Yes, he was sure those were the words Acelet had taught him. Sir Balduin felt fairly sure of the tune. Though he did not consider himself a man of music, tunes usually stuck in his head. Poetry, like Italian, dismayed him, though, making him question his wits when he faltered, upsetting the confidence in his intelligence he realized he’d always taken for granted in plainspoken conversations. But he had let Acelet drill him on these lines over two dozen times.
“She sat beneath the great oak tree,
“Head cocked to catch the robin’s song that had not yet faded . . . ”
He and Acelet had argued over which bird to use. Acelet said nightingales were more romantic, even though it was unlikely for one to be singing in the autumn at dusk. Sir Balduin’s practical mind had insisted on the robin.
“And so to skyward sent I this plea
“To the merry fowl—”
No, that was not right. He paused, then re-sang the scale.
“To the merry cock—” Had it been a cock? Well, it would have to do, he would not embarrass himself by singing the phrase a third time.
“—who held her ear,
“That it might carry these words to her heart.”
He chanced a glance at Lucianna then. Did she think him a fool to stand here, singing to the company thus? The company surely must. His cheeks warmed at the thought, but if it pleased her, he would bear the humiliation. She looked paler than usual, though he was not sure why. Perhaps it was something about the wan gown she wore that failed to flatter a complexion that could put younger women to shame for its smoothness. True, a few lines webbed the corners of her eyes and tickled across her high brow, and shadows stood out beneath her eyes that he vaguely recalled fading when she wore gowns of green or blue. But nothing could rob the brilliant color of her eyes, or dim the glow that nested in them—a glow he had seen steal there whenever Acelet sang, despite her swift dismissal of both poetry and poet when the melodies came to an end.
And so Sir Balduin bolstered himself to sing on boldly.
“‘Fair donna,’ sang the robin—” Would it please her to insert an Italian word? One of the few he could remember. “‘—gentle lady, the knight who worships you
“‘Bids me bear to you this news,
“‘That he neither eats nor sleeps for thought of you
“‘Since that cruel day when you sent him away in your pride.
“‘He lies upon his bed watching the moon inch across its purple canopy—”
Had it been inch or creep? And had the canopy been purple? Perhaps it had been plum. Or maybe indigo? He scrambled for the next note.
“‘The sun rises upon eyes rimmed red with the night’s long wakefulness.
“‘When his squire begs him to break his fast of the night,
“‘He groans. As well ask him to eat ashes as find pleasure in the sweet meats of his cook.”
Did he mistake, or did a twitch of a smile soften the corners of Lucianna’s mouth? He sang hopefully on.
“‘In waking dreams he sees naught but your foxy hair—’”
Lucianna’s nose wrinkled, as though in distaste. Oh, dear. Had the word not been foxy? But he quite well remembered Acelet praising the color of the fox’s fur. What was the correct word then for that pretty reddish-brown shade of her hair? Blazes, Sir Balduin was not a songsmith. He could not pluck women’s compliments from a poetic quiver as Acelet so easily did. He hurried on to her eyes.
“‘And basks in the memory when your eyes embraced him
“‘Like a sun kissed pool of emeralds.’”
Sir Balduin fell into a full pause this time. That phrase had sounded well in his head, but felt terribly wrong when it fell from his tongue. What was it Acelet had told him to sing again? Something about sea green eyes. He had been quite insistent on it, for he said it better matched the rhythm of the song, but Sir Balduin had argued doggedly for emerald until Acelet had sighed and altered the line. Sir Balduin realized he had confused the two versions, morphing them into a simile that startled snickers from the company below the dais. Even he knew that emeralds did not come in “pools.” The laughter heated his face, but what panicked him was the dismay in the green eyes he had sought to praise. Alarm at Lucianna’s apparent consternation tumbled his next words into a complete muddle, and for the first time, he felt his notes veer wildly out of tune.
“‘Your swan white cheeks—’” or was that her neck? “‘—with their cherry blush—’” Oh, blazes. Cherry should have described her lips! “‘—the flutter of your auburn lashes—’” Auburn! Not foxy, for her hair! “‘—and your milky smile—’” Milky? Nay, it should have been milk white and referred to her teeth. Why had he not heeded Acelet’s first suggestion to compare them to ivory?
The company was chortling loudly now. A quick glance down the great table revealed even Siri biting down on a quivering lip, while Triston stared at Sir Balduin as though a stranger had taken his place on the dais.
“Oh!” Lucianna’s cry brought Sir Balduin’s gaze back to her face. “You are drunk!”
All melody evaporated from his soul. “I am not—” he began with some indignation, but she sprang up from her chair and slapped her hands against his chest, so startling him that he stepped back and collided with the armrest of Triston’s chair, throwing him into a slight stumble.
“As I said. Drunk!”
He followed her own glance down the table to where she met her brother’s eyes. Serafino sat with a hand over his mouth, no doubt to hide his laughter. Sir Balduin cursed himself roundly for his stupidity. She would never forgive him for humiliating her in front of her kin. Any hope that he might successfully disclaim that his poem had anything to do with Lucianna was dashed when her eyes snapped back to him with a glittering glare.
“Foxy hair? Milky smile? You are not only drunk, you are an atrociously bad poet. And emeralds do not come in pools!” She swept away from him to pause between Siri and Serafino. “You ask a great deal of me, carissima, to expect me to endure another three months of such lamentable attention. I do not know that I can bear it, truly I do not!”
Siri jumped up to catch her arm as Lucianna started to leave the dais. “Lucianna, wait! I am certain Sir Balduin did not mean to insult you. It is—It is a misunderstanding, merely. You have only to look at him to see his chagrin.”
Aye, look at me, the silent plea pounded in his breast. Look and see how I love you and how you will take springtime from my heart if you go away.
Lucianna glanced at him with obvious reluctance. Something flickered in the emerald depths he had sought so clumsily to praise. For a moment he thought the glitter softened and felt a stir of hope, but she quenched it with the scornful tones of her reply.
“He cannot beguile his way back into my favor merely because he has shown himself a brave and loyal soldier, offers me silver needles that glide through cloth as smoothly as a lover’s kiss, and has a singing voice fine enough to charm away a woman’s senses. No, I will endure no more of his discourtesies and affronts. Unless he agrees to absent himself from the table, I will take my meals in my room after this.”
He cannot beguile his way back into my favor thudded between Sir Balduin’s ears as she stepped off the dais, her formerly pale cheeks ablaze at the laughter that followed her out of the hall. He stood, hope replaced with a plunging sense of despair, until Siri’s gaze captured his, urgent and compelling. Go after her. He prayed he read the message aright. Siri knew Lucianna better than anyone. He dodged around Triston’s chair but before he could round the table, Serafino surged up from his place and blocked his path.
“Ah, signore, I think it is time that you and I speak. You insult my sister on the one hand and continue to pursue her on the other. I cannot see her wed to a buffoon.”
Sir Balduin’s own face flamed again as a shard of fresh hurt lodged in his breast. She had called him selfish, inconsiderate, disrespectful and vain. But a buffoon? No woman would happily marry a man she viewed as a fool, a man the entire castle laughed at, though the roar of hilarity had begun to subside, doused by Triston’s glare at the men who depended on his good will. Instead of winning Lucianna back with a song meant to bespeak his adoration, Sir Balduin had made himself so contemptible to her that he had likely annihilated his last chance with her.
Serafino startled him by laying a familiar hand on his shoulder and continuing with an unexpected smile, “But perhaps, as Donna Siri says, this is merely a misunderstanding. Let us speak in someplace private, you and I, so that we may come to know one another. Convince me that you are worthy of my sister’s hand, and I may be persuaded to intercede with her on your behalf.”
Sir Balduin did not see how he could redeem himself after this disaster, yet he could not prevent the return of a fresh flutter of hope at Serafino’s words. If anyone could change Lucianna’s mind, surely it would be her own brother? He glanced at Triston and won his nod of permission to leave the hall. Siri had returned to her chair with her pretty lips frowning. No doubt she thought Sir Balduin should follow Lucianna instead, but surely it would be better to win her brother’s favor first?
“The garden,” Sir Balduin said. “It will be empty this time of day.” Unless Lucianna had sought refuge there with her ever-present embroidery. But that, he was certain, was one hope too many.
#
It was. However, the garden was not empty, as Sir Balduin had predicted. Triston’s seven(?) year old son, Perrin, was there, doing battle with a rose bush with his wooden sword. Despite it’s blunted edge, the boy severed several crisp red flowers from their stems, sending them flying like tiny heads through the air. The boy turned to stare at the two men as they joined him.
“Perrin,” Sir Balduin said, “it is not the hour for your sword practice. Should you not be studying your lessons for Father Michel?” Both the sword master and the chaplain, Sir Balduin knew, were still eating in the hall. Perrin should have finished his own midday meal a good hour ago.
“I wrote out all the Latin lines he gave me,” Perrin replied, “and added all my sums twice to be sure they were right. Then I went to Siri’s workshop to finish my painting there, but she is out of green paint. I would have used the red, but I know she is using it for Lady Lucianna’s wedding gift, and I thought Siri might not want me to use it up, and the other colors looked boring today. So I brought my sword out to the garden until everyone is finished dining.” His vivid blue gaze weighed Serafino with curiosity. “Are you Lady Lucianna’s brother?” he asked. “Your hair is almost the same color as hers.”
So, the boy had not been introduced to Serafino?
“Aye,” Sir Balduin said, “this is Serafino Fabio. He is from Venice, like Lady Siri and Lady Lucianna, and has come to visit his sister.” And possibly carry her back to their Italian home. Sir Balduin must send the boy away so that he could convince Serafino to stand his ally instead.
Perrin tilted his dark, curly head to one side, still studying the man at Sir Balduin’s side. “Siri said she did not want me to meet you, but she did not tell me why.” He shifted his gaze to Sir Balduin, as though expecting him to explain.
The pronouncement took Sir Balduin aback. He cast a startled look at Serafino and saw the reddish brows twitch briefly down before smoothing out with an accompanying easy smile.
“Women are mystifying creatures, who sometimes take odd fantasies in their heads,” he said. “A boy as handsome as you will learn that for yourself one day.” When Perrin looked unsatisfied, he added a playful laugh to his smile. “Oh, it is likely my addiction to dice that she fears I might afflict you with. I have a bit of a fire for it in my blood, I regret to confess, but I would never corrupt a child with the vice. Women, though, can be a bit overprotective. So you had best run along and keep to yourself that you met me here in the garden.”
Sir Balduin nodded his agreement at the boy, adding a bit of sternness to the gesture, for the sooner he could get Serafino alone, the sooner he might find a way to win back Lucianna.
Perrin sighed, but he gave Sir Balduin and Serafino each a neat little bow, and obediently traipsed back to the castle
“A bit of an impertinent whelp,” Serafino muttered when he was gone. Then he whirled abruptly to clap Sir Balduin on the shoulder and asked with a return of his jaunty grin, “And so, signore, you must tell me, how long have you been in love with my sister?”
Sir Balduin inwardly recoiled from the bald question. His nature among strangers was generally reserved, and despite Serafino’s kinship to Lucianna, he was still more stranger than not to Sir Balduin. He did not find it easy to lay his emotions open until he achieved some level of familiarity with a person, which was why it had taken him so long to nervously declare his affection to Lucianna. Only desperation had driven him to risk the inner privacy he held so dear with that debacle of a song before Sir Triston’s entire household.
He answered now, rather stiffly, “She charmed me from the moment she crossed the castle’s threshold.”
Charmed? Perhaps intrigued would have been a more accurate word, for Lucianna’s high dignity, proud manners, and open disdain for her new home had at first been more intimidating than charming. Yet she had appropriated every previously idle thought in Sir Balduin’s head almost from the first.
“Si,” Serafino said, “well, that is no surprise. She has always been very bella. Men swarmed to her thirty years ago.” He dug a sly elbow into Sir Balduin’s ribs. “There may be a few—let us say, crinkles—to her face now that were not there then, but her figure is still buxom enough to tempt a saint, eh?”
Bella. Sir Balduin knew that meant pretty, while her figure, though trim, was undeniably curvy. Sir Balduin could not deny that he found her physically attractive. But it was her tigress nature he had come to love, once he had realized it stemmed not from dignity or pride or disdain as had first appeared, but from a fiery protectiveness for those she cherished with a dauntless passion. She loved Siri with such vehemence. Sir Balduin had dared to hope she might learn to love him thus, too, but after today—
Despair overcame his constraint and sank him down with a groan on one of the low wattle walls that enclosed the garden. He dropped his head into his hands. “What have I done? I have humiliated her beyond forgiveness with that blunder of a song.”
“Now, now,” Serafino said, his cheerful tones colliding against Sir Balduin’s wretchedness. “Women are whimsical creatures, one day a termagant, the next day a kitten. Lucianna is undoubtedly temperamental, but she has always given fair ear to my counsel. The question is, are you worth me making her purr for you again? What have you to offer her, signore, besides a fine singing voice?”
Sir Balduin straightened, stung by what could only be words of mockery. “I may be an abysmal poet, but I offer her an honest and devoted heart.”
“Oh, si, I do not doubt that, but a woman like my sister requires more. Forgive me, signore, for being frank, but you are some years her senior and women who reach her age often outlive their husbands by a considerable number of years. It would be irresponsible of me not to worry for her welfare after you are gone.”
“Gone?” Sir Balduin surged to his feet. “You mean dead? I am perfectly healthy, sir, save for this limp. My father lived a good long life, more than a score of years older than I am now. I trust I shall care well for your sister for many years to come.”
“Well, but the future can be capricious/unpredictable, signore. You might live to the outlandish age of eighty, or you might drop dead on your wedding night. What support would you leave her beyond that handsome emerald ring she threw back in your face and a set of silver embroidery needles?”
Discussing the possibility of his death struck Sir Balduin as disturbing and distasteful, but he could not entirely argue with Serafino’s logic. Because Sir Balduin’s father survived just short of seventy-five years did not guarantee his son would do the same. As he reflected back on the fifty-two years he had lived thus far, he realized they appeared from today’s vantage to have gone by very fast. How swiftly might fly a mere twenty more?
The thought left him somewhat shaken.
“You have no lands of your own,” Serafino’s voice broke in jarringly, “or you would not be in another man’s service. And yet poor men cannot afford emerald rings and silver needles. You will forgive me, signore, for being somewhat puzzled at your status.”
“The ring was my grandmother’s,” Sir Balduin said. “She left it to me at her death.” No matter what his straits through the years, he could never bring himself to part with it. “Sir Triston gave me an advance on the wages I will earn when he makes me castellan of NAME CASTLE to buy the needles.”
“I see.” Serafino rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. “Castellan, eh? How big is this castle Sir Triston means to entrust to you? What is the wage he has promised? My sister has been generously cared for by Donna Siri. I do not think I could consent to see her dress or eat less finely than she did in Venice or does here at Vere. Perhaps you have more of your grandmother’s jewels than that emerald ring, eh? It would ease my mind, you understand, if you had some independent wealth to leave her, for Sir Triston will surely displace her with another castellan’s wife when you die, and what shall become of her then?” He flashed a smile. “Fair concerns for a loving brother, si? Come, signore, let us sit together.” Serafino dropped down in a negligent posture on the wattle wall. “Tell me all you can offer her and I will have her back in your arms in no time.”