A Lady Under Siege

29

A small brook meandered across a field of golden wheat shimmering in the autumn breeze. Daphne rode in front, on her horse, her very own horse, a sweet old chestnut mare named Mathilde. Despite her protestation that she was a young lady, and should ride as ladies do, Thomas had insisted she wear a boy’s breeches and ride like a boy, straddling the saddle, that being the safer technique for a novice. Behind her he rode next to Sylvanne, who sat side-saddle on her big black horse, as a lady is expected to. Daphne reached the brook, and Thomas called out for her to wait there. When they caught up he allowed his horse to dip its head to the water and drink. He dismounted to take a drink himself in cupped hands.

“My mount is forever thirsty,” he said. “Look how he sucks it up by the gallon, like an elephant’s trunk.”

“Mine wants only to run and run,” Sylvanne replied.

“Let her run toward home then. It’s time we turned back.”

“One more jaunt!” Daphne pleaded excitedly.

“This is far enough,” he told her. “Beyond here the path narrows, the woods grow dense and wild.”

“Oh please, Daddy?” she begged.

“All right,” Thomas relented. “But this may be your last time riding in that fashion. Next time we’ll have you adopt the proper posture of a lady on horseback. Now take your mount no further than that first copse of alders. Then you turn around smartly and come straight back.”

He and Sylvanne watched her horse step cautiously across the rocky, knee-deep stream. On the far side she kicked her heels into its belly, and it began a disciplined canter away over the open field toward the trees. “This outing has brought colour to her cheeks,” Thomas observed. “My physician tells me that’s a bad thing. I wonder what our friend Meghan would say?”

“Perhaps you’ll dream the answer,” Sylvanne smiled, mirroring the look of ease and contentment she saw upon his face.

“I do fall asleep these nights hoping for answers,” he replied. “Last night I was eager to see Meghan, that she might help me to solve the puzzle of your change of heart.”

“And what was her verdict?”

“None. I passed the whole night with Master Derek, for she paid him no visit. To give him credit, he diligently and devotedly perused the medical books Meghan gave him, offering commentary of his own as an adjunct to the texts, addressing me as if I were an old friend. He read deeply on the subject of something called tuberculosis, but neither Daphne nor my wife could be said to perspire much in the night, which is a primary symptom of that malady. Crohn’s disease, and Multiple Sclerosis, if I pronounce it correctly—he seemed to think auto-immune conditions of that sort might be responsible for my poor daughter’s state, but I can only wonder at the meaning of auto-immune. Much of it was lost on me, I’m afraid. Quite frustrating. And on top of it, as I said, I wanted to see Meghan, so she might tell me what you’re up to.”

“Poor thing,” said Sylvanne teasingly. “Left to your own devices to determine my sincerity.”

“I do know what I wish the answer to be,” he said, and for the first time she caught a hint of flirtatiousness in his voice. But just at that moment the mood was shattered—they heard the startled scream of a horse, and in the distance saw Daphne’s mount rearing on its hind legs, terrified by the sight of a wild boar darting out of a nearby thicket. The horse bolted, galloping in full flight toward the woods. They saw Daphne’s feet slip from the stirrups, her body slide dangerously from the saddle, her hands desperately clinging to its mane.

In a blur of movement Thomas pulled his horse from the water and climbed aboard, urgently sending it to a full gallop. But Sylvanne, already aboard her mount, had a head start, and as she turned her horse to the chase she expertly hauled up her dress and swung a leg over the beast to ride full saddle. It was she who reached Daphne’s horse first and, grabbing hold of the reins in one hand, expertly turned the horse’s head, forcing it to take on the pace of her own mount. The horses slowed from gallop to trot, and soon enough to a tranquil standstill. “There, there,” she cooed softly. “Are you all right, dear girl?”

“She wouldn’t listen,” Daphne whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t like this horse at all.”

“Do forgive her,” Sylvanne said soothingly. “That boar was as large as I’ve seen, and mean looking, and gave poor Mathilde a nasty shock. It frightened her as much as she frightened you.”

Thomas arrived, his old warhorse panting heavily.

“Are you all right, my darling?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve been treated to a nasty shock, thanks to Mathilde.” She slapped her horse’s neck childishly. “Sylvanne says I should forgive her, but I don’t feel like it.”

“I’ll wager she’s sorry to have scared you, and a little embarrassed,” Thomas suggested. “I didn’t expect a stolid old mare like that to spook so readily. Next time try to keep your head, and rein her in when she wants to run wild.”

“I’ll try, Daddy.”

Thomas glanced at Sylvanne astride her saddle. “So much for a lady’s proper posture,” he said to her. “My finest horseman couldn’t have ridden better.”

“Some positions are more expedient,” Sylvanne replied coyly. She stood in the stirrups and lifted one leg over the horse’s back to return to side-saddle, affording Thomas a brief glimpse at her bare calves under her dress. He looked into her face, and saw that she had caught him looking, and despite himself he blushed. In her eyes he saw an unspoken challenge, a mix of confidence, flirtatiousness and bemusement. In his eyes she saw that he was smitten.

BY THE TIME THEY arrived back at the castle Daphne was barely able to stay upright in the saddle, so great was her exhaustion. She showed no interest in food nor drink, so they put her straight to bed, where she fell instantly asleep. Thomas and Sylvanne stood at her bedside awhile, watching her frail chest rise and fall in the soft candlelight.

“Do you think it was too much for her?” Thomas asked with concern. “Her breathing is so hurried.”

“She’s reliving her adventure, that’s all,” Sylvanne reassured him. “Stimulation of that sort can only be good for her. Her blood will be renewed by it.”

“I hope so,” he said. “Certainly her arm is looking much better. It’s healing well, and that’s thanks to advice from the future—clean dressing and vinegar have very nearly banished the infection there. Earlier today I had even considered her fully recovered.” He watched as his daughter’s breathing calmed, and felt some relief at the sight. Then he turned and studied Sylvanne’s face. “I don’t know how to thank you for your quick action on horseback,” he said earnestly. “Once, when I wanted to thank Meghan with a kiss, I was rebuffed by you. Will you accept a kiss for her now, and one for yourself?”

“Perhaps. On the cheek only. Not the mouth.”

“Of course,” he replied. He took her face in his hands, and planted three soft kisses, one on each cheek, and one on her forehead. “One for Meghan, one for Sylvanne, and one for the future,” he pronounced softly.

Sylvanne smiled up at him like a lady in love.

“Sleep well,” he said. “The guard will take you to your chambers.”

She looked into his eyes imploringly. “Is a lady to be thanked, and kissed, and yet still treated as a prisoner here?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, his voice tinged with regret. “Everything is strange, I know. But life is change, and if things continue along their course, I’ll soon have you dine at table with me in the Great Hall, as a proper guest should. A guest of honour.”

“I’d like that very much,” she told him. She reached for his hand, and held it in her two hands, playfully examining his sturdy fingers one by one. He let her do it, marvelling at the intimacy of this simple act, until stronger feelings of attraction and desire took hold of him, and fighting them, he pulled his hand away. Without another word, she turned to leave, fixing him with a dazzling, triumphant smile, a smile that kept him awake half the night, for the more he dwelled upon his memory of it, the more he recalled a hint of malice in her shining eyes.