A Midsummer Knight's Kiss. Elisabeth Hobbes
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loosened his cloak a little at the neck to allow the breeze to play about his throat. The weather in early June was warm and he could attribute some of the heat that flushed his body to that.
Robbie had learned over the years to speak through gestures to save his voice catching—a nod or wink, a shrug or a smile could make his meaning understood without having to endure the expression on the face of a listener who was no doubt branding him as feeble-minded. He had also discovered that enduring Cecil’s taunting with good humour was the quickest way of putting an end to it and that replying in kind was even better.
‘It’s true,’ he said with mock regret. ‘I am considering having a s-special s-saddle made that is much longer at the front in order to accommodate my inhumanly large member. How fortunate you are, that you have never had to fret over such matters!’
Cecil laughed coldly and punched Robbie on the arm. ‘A sting and a good one! So, tell me—what were you thinking about the fair Mary?’ He leaned closer in his saddle and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘How she’d be to kiss? What it would be like to bury your head between those tender breasts—or those supple thighs?’
‘None of those!’ Robbie said.
Cecil smirked. ‘Something more dissolute than that, even! Between her rounded—’
‘Guard your tongue if you w-wish to keep my friendship!’ Robbie growled. He sat upright in the saddle and let his hand drop to the sword at his belt.
Cecil eyed the sword and the hand tightening on the grip.
‘My apologies.’
Robbie took hold of the reins again, his temper, which was always slow to flare, subsiding.
‘If you really m-must know, I was w-wondering how M-Mary would greet my cousin Rowenna.’
‘A cousin! Is she fair?’
Robbie had last met Rowenna on a brief visit to York two years after he had left Wharram Danby to join Sir John’s household. His memory was of a thirteen-year-old, still far too ungainly and unladylike in her mannerisms and interests, but who was showing signs of becoming a comely woman. Dark, unruly curls came to mind, along with a plump form and a determined expression.
He enjoyed a private moment of humour as he considered the likely outcome if he introduced Cecil to Rowenna, remembering the many times she had trounced him at games and scorched him with her tongue, but this ended abruptly as he thought of the games Cecil might introduce her to. He felt a curious prickle at the base of his neck, as though someone had blown on his neck with ice-cold breath. The idea of Cecil showing interest in Rowenna was not something he wanted to encourage. He shrugged in an offhand manner.
‘She may be fair. I have not seen her for five years. She writes to me from time to time and tells me of home.’
Cecil wrinkled his nose. ‘A writer. I suppose she reads also and is grey-complexioned and furrowed of brow from the effect of concentrating.’
‘Possibly. I don’t think she is too serious. She used to get us both into trouble. There was one time she made me drive the sow into the beck and…’
He tailed off. Cecil was losing interest already, Robbie noted with some relief. Women were made for dancing and wit and seduction in Cecil’s world. A woman of a scholarly nature would bore him, though Rowenna’s descriptions of life in Yorkshire had always been a source of pleasure to Robbie and a link with home.
Now he thought of it, a studious woman of letters did not seem like the Rowenna he recalled from their youth, and little like the author of the letters, which were witty and exciting, painting a vivid picture of home and of a vibrant girl who seemed to delight in living, for all she grumbled about how quiet the village was. She had always seemed more alive than anyone Robbie knew and he loved her for it. Loved her for the way she could draw him out of his inclination to solitude—though more often than not into mischief and trouble—in a way no one else managed.
He’d sought her out eagerly on that last meeting, hoping to share his tales with his closest friend, but she’d been too busy drubbing some sense into her youngest brother to properly listen to Robbie’s tales of life in the nobleman’s house and his duties as a squire. Once he had done with his business in York he would make a point of visiting Ravenscrag and seeing Rowenna in person.
‘Come on, Rob, let’s not idle here in the middle of the party,’ Cecil urged. ‘It’s hard enough we are journeying north when there is fighting to be done in the south without having to travel at the pace of a grandmother walking to market. Let’s work up some sweat on these beasts.’
Robbie glanced back over his shoulder, as if he would see evidence of the unrest that had recently arisen in response to the newly introduced Poll Tax. Thanks to Sir John’s age and preference for dwelling at home, they had missed most of the riots that had supposedly taken place in the south of England.
‘The last to the bridge pays for the wine tonight!’ Cecil said.
He cracked the reins with a cry and cantered away. Robbie could afford to give Cecil a head start. He was the better rider and had more affinity with horses than Cecil did. He always had loved them since the time when his stepfather had put him astride his great destrier despite his mother’s protests. Robbie took his time to scratch Beyard in the soft spot behind the bridle before he gathered the reins. The bay rouncy tossed his head and snorted, eager to let loose and put the ground beneath his hooves.
Robbie’s spirits rose once again as he recalled that a tournament was planned for the assembled nobility once they arrived in York. He would take part in the bohort—the games for squires. He knew, without feeling the sin of pride, that he was a far better archer and swordsman than Cecil and that performing well was sure to win Mary’s notice.
He clicked his tongue, urged Beyard into a canter and chased after Cecil. He reached the bridge first, overtaking Cecil and Lightning with ease.
Cecil bought the wine as promised and not too grudgingly. They sat in the noisy inn that evening, sharing it companionably and joining in the arguments regarding the rebellions, some knights sympathetic to their cause and others outraged that common men might rise up against the King. Robbie drank slowly and listened with interest as both sides made strong cases, but before long he found the heat and noise too great and his thoughts drifted once again to the matter he had been thinking of before Cecil’s interruption on the journey.
Mary and Rowenna. That was it. They would love each other, of course. How could they not, when he loved them both so deeply?
York was much as Robbie remembered it from his last visit. After the small market town near Sir John’s manor house, the narrow streets felt oppressive and the buildings imposing. As they rode through the streets, Cecil once more came alongside. He gestured to the building site where a new Guild Hall was being constructed. It would eventually replace the current Common Hall, but would not be ready in time for the feasts and banquets that were to take place over the next month.
‘I’ve never been to York before. Are the women worth spending money on? You’ll have to try find me an alehouse where we won’t catch more fleas or the pox.’
Robbie grimaced at Cecil’s condescending attitude. He knew the streets well enough and his mother had been professionally scathing enough about other brewers she had encountered for him to deduce where he would find decent ale.
‘I can take you to the best alehouses, but I don’t know many women of the sort you’d be interested in,’ he said. ‘I was a boy when I was last here! The only woman I know is my Aunt Joanna and she’d have your eye out with her adze if you tried your sweet tongue on her!’
Cecil laughed and slung an arm about Robbie’s shoulder. ‘Then we’ll have to discover the delights together, won’t