Free Heart of a Knight by Barbara Samuel

all was as it should be.
    Toward midday, Lyssa sent Nurse to find Isobel, and Alice stayed, helping Lyssa put the baskets the way she liked them.
    "You are an intelligent companion," Lyssa said. "And not meek, and I think you will not try to treat me as a child, so I have decided I would like you to be my servant, to tend my hair and clothes, but only if you might manage without depriving the village of your talents."
    Alice bowed, the most subservient gesture Lyssa had seen of her. "Twould be my honor, milady." She straightened, a hint of a smile on her mouth. "You seem to need little tending, so your villeins will not suffer."
    Lyssa nodded. In Alice, at least, she sensed she had an ally. It would seem she needed one.
    Tall Mary stormed through the hallways till she reached the bailey, then she ran, full out, her chest tight with fury and loss. Last night, she had gone to Thomas, as she had done many times before, clean and oiled, and hungry for the pleasure he gave with such gusto and good humor.
    All through the wet spring and into the summer, she had gone. As had two others in the village—for who could stop them? Mary had tended him first, and in her mind had first claim. She suspected he liked her best for her sharp tongue. But mayhap the others thought the same—Gwen for her big pretty breasts, Mary Gillian for her sweet voice and gold and pink face. Who knew?
    Darkly, Mary stormed down the road. For them, it was different. The very things they boasted of made them marks for men seeking wives, while Mary had nothing. Too skinny, too tall, too sharp-tongued. Her father was the wealthiest freeman in the village, but she had three older sisters, so there was no rich dowry to tempt any to lie against her skinny breast.
    And now Lyssa. Always, she had been beautiful, with her hair so long and dark, and her small, rounded form and her big green eyes. Always had Mary wished to be Lyssa.
    But Lyssa did not even know. When they swam as girls in the river, guiltily shedding all but their shifts to frolic in a shallow, moving pool, Lyssa had been completely unaware of the beauty of her curved form, of the colors that she was made of. She thought not at all of her body or her face or her form. She thought of duty, to her country and her king and Woodell, and she thought of her cursed threads and looms, and never a thought for the richness of beauty her form contained.
    Beneath a spreading oak nearby the river, Mary sat in the shade and wept.
    Last night, Thomas had turned her away from his door. Gently, for he had no wish to wound her—she saw that much—but turn her away he did. And told her to let the others know he wished no more for the village girls to come to him. He would not shame the lady so.
    Shame the lady. As if village girls did not lie with lords as common practice. Not all, surely, but there were girls in every place who found it a pleasure, who knew how to keep the babes from them, so they were not disgraced.
    Mary had never thought herself that sort till Thomas came to Woodell. And there would like as not be no other man in her world, her life, ever. He was the only one who'd taken her as she was, and even found enjoyment.
    But now Lyssa had snared his eye. Mary had heard it in his voice when he said her name, a hushed kind of awe and wonder as his tongue rolled the precious syllables in his mouth, "the lady Elizabeth."
    And now Mary could not even have back her own friendship with that lady, for she had been very foolish indeed this morning. She had revealed too much, and let her jealous heart carry her away. Lyssa had been wounded, and still Mary could not thaw, and that had been cruel.
    Lyssa would forgive her. Mary had only to ask. But in truth, she did not think she could bear it. Could not bear to watch as the knight and the lady fell to love.
    For she loved Thomas most dearly herself.
    Troubled, Lyssa ate a bite of cheese and bread at midday, then scrounged through the buttery for a basket. Isobel was