Heart of a Knight by Barbara Samuel

her red tunic made anything Lyssa might select seem a poor second.
    With her hand on a soft yellow wool, dyed with marigold petals, Lyssa scowled. Never had she cared what men thought of her. She was not Isobel, displaying herself for hungry admiration. She had no need of it. Nor any understanding of Isobel's need of it.
    There seemed to be some vital womanly thing missing from Lyssa's heart. As a girl, she had giggled with Tall Mary about kisses, and hung on every word of her tales of bedsport, but never had she spun fantasies of particular males, as the other girls did. She'd had few men to dream of, it was true. Woodell was remote, and had few visitors except when Edward rode out to visit his uncle. As a small girl, Lyssa had been quite thoroughly smitten with her handsome cousin, but had been too young at the time to dream of kisses.
    And then she'd been married. That experience had plainly illustrated how little talent she had for pleasing men. She had been a singular failure as a wife. A man like Philip, well past his prime, should have been able to find pleasure in the fresh body of a young wife. The ballads and the gossip in the village at court had told her as much, for as long as she could remember. A man liked a young wife.
    But Philip had not loved bedding Lyssa, and no matter how she'd tried to perfume herself or tempt him, he only took her out of duty to get himself another child. Memories of the cold, silent grunting stirred only a sense of misery—she had loathed the feeling of his hands on her. He took pains to be gentle, but it never ceased to hurt, and never had her body flushed with the pleasure that had been promised her by Tall Mary and a dozen stories and more ballads.
    Letting a vivid blue silk trail over her hands, she wondered if that part of her, that part that other women used to please their husbands, had gone to her threads and looms. They certainly kindled more passion and pleasure than a man's hands.
    If that were true, she was happy with the exchange. Threads and looms could never be felled by plague. They would not fall prey to a wandering siren's eye. They would not break a heart. With a small chuckle, she decided she'd got the best of the bargain. Perhaps she might never know the passion of a great love, or even be able to understand Isobel and Tall Mary's drive to touch and be touched by a man, but neither would she pine away for love, or weep furious tears of betrayal as she'd seen some do.
    The blue silk, sliding over her skin, felt soft as feathers. It pleased her, and she drew it out to wear. It was a simple garment, and needed no surcoat, and the whispery softness would be a pleasure against her flesh. Carelessly, she shed the gown she wore, and stood naked on the Arabian carpet. A breeze blew through the windows, breathing against her breasts and buttocks, cooling the perspiration on her spine. Her hair slithered over her shoulders, and swung against her hips and thighs, tickling a little. A puddle of sun warmed her toes.
    Luxuriously, she stretched her arms over her head and reveled in the combination of textures and sensations. It was like a weaving, sun and hair and wind, all over her, delicious and reassuring.
    It was too hot for a chemise, and Lyssa ignored it. She donned the gown, thinking of the day she had dyed the raw silk with indigo until it was a color that exactly reflected the sky. As it slid over her nakedness, sweeping over breast and belly and thighs, she took pleasure in that, too.
    Who needed the rough touch of a man, when there were so many other touches to enjoy?
    Thomas sat next to Lady Elizabeth at supper. The meal itself was no quandary. With his usual gusto, he gave himself over to the meal of roasted rabbit, cooked in onions and carrots and mustard. A smoky wine, as deep a red as fresh blood, gave gusto to the meat, and in the corner, two youths played a pipe and drum. He was a simple man, and had known much privation. A supper such as this was a fine