Free For Love And Honor by Flora Speer

lower tables
casting sympathetic glances in her direction.
    “My lady,” Piers said, “this sauce is
delicious. Did you devise the recipe yourself?”
    “I learned it from my mother,” Rohaise
replied, understanding what he was trying to do. She risked looking
at him, fearing to find pity in his eyes, but he only gave her a
friendly smile.
    “Then, Lady Rohaise, your mother is to be
complimented, and her daughter as well.”
    “I leave most of the cooking to the kitchen
staff and only supervise them,” she told him, greatly relieved to
be discussing a neutral subject, “but this sauce I always prepare
myself. When you marry, Sir Piers, you have only to send to me, and
I will see to it that your wife has the instructions so she can
make it for you.”
    “You are charitable as well as gracious,” he
replied, letting his hand rest on her elbow for just a moment, in a
way that Radulf could not see. The kind gesture almost made Rohaise
cry.
    “Piers, do you remember?” Crispin called
along the table, and launched into a story about their boyhood days
as pages, to which Piers supplied the humorous details.
    Rohaise sat back in her chair so Piers could
lean forward and see Crispin while they talked. On Crispin’s other
side, Joanna smiled and laughed at the amusing tale. Being careful
not to let Radulf see her observing Piers, Rohaise took the
opportunity to look more closely at him. She liked what she saw.
His face was long and narrow, and though it was obvious that he had
shaved that very day, still, he looked as if he ought to do so
again. His beard would be thick and black, like his hair, and his
eyes were so deep a brown they were almost black.
    She knew his behavior toward her meant
nothing. Piers was only being polite to her because he was a
gentleman, but she savored the pleasure of being treated like the
lady she had been raised to be, when Radulf was always so coarse
and crude with her, even before guests. Sir Piers of Stokesbrough
would never be rude to a woman; he would always be kind, even if he
cared nothing at all for her. Still, his gentlemanly treatment of
her lit a tender glow in her heart that lasted until the feasting
was done and it was time for the daily hunt to begin.
     
    * * * * *
     
    That
afternoon Crispin was thrown from his horse while hunting. Laughing
at his own clumsiness, he got up and remounted, assuring his
companions that he was unhurt. But by the time he returned to the
castle that evening he was feeling the effects of the tumble. Piers
and Alain went with him to his chamber, where they quickly divested
him of his clothing to see h ow much damage had been done.
    “It’s a nasty bruise,” Piers said, touching
the blue spot that had formed across Crispin’s chest. He pressed a
little harder, testing the bones. “I don’t think you’ve broken any
ribs, but you ought to have hot compresses on it, and perhaps an
herbal poultice. And on your knee and elbow, too, if you intend to
hunt tomorrow. Where’s your squire? I’ll send him to the kitchen
for a basin of hot water.”
    “He’s helping to bring in the game,” Crispin
said. He tried to stretch the muscles in his shoulders. “Ow, that
hurts. I can feel the results of my lack of real exercise in the
past few days. I need to get back to the practice yard.”
    “ You’ve
had other matters on your mind,” said Piers, picking up a shawl and
draping it over Cr ispin’s bare shoulders.
    It was Joanna’s shawl, a deep blue that
matched her eyes. Alain had seen her wearing it one cool evening.
He turned away from the sight of it wrapped about Crispin’s
skin.
    “I’ll get the water,” Alain offered, wanting
to remove himself from the chamber Crispin shared with Joanna. The
very air was fragrant with the rosewater scent she wore, and a pair
of her shoes sat beside a clothing chest that must be hers.
    Alain had almost reached the kitchen when he
met Joanna, who was carrying a basin and a pitcher from which steam
was rising in