Gandy quipped, slanting his eyes at her, “she will not want our talents here when next we pass this way.”
Isolde laughed. “’Tis highly unlikely I could become that proficient. Even were that to happen, however, I would still desire that you return to Rosecliffe. My family would enjoy your entertainments so much.”
“Would they?” Reevius asked. “Where are they now?”
“Gone to London, to attend the coronation of the new king, Henry.”
His lips curved in a smile that showed in spite of his beard. “The coronation of England’s new boy king. Now there’s an entertainment, eh, Tillo?”
“Oh, aye,” the purple-robed old man said. “But ’tis too far a distance for these old legs to travel.”
“I will carry you,” Linus offered.
“I am content where we are,” Reevius stated, his gaze resting upon Isolde. “So, you wish me to give you instruction on the gittern.”
She nodded. “If you are so inclined. I will pay you,” she added.
“Will you?”
She nodded very slowly. “Of course.”
He nodded also. “Very well, then. We can begin now.”
“Now?” Isolde felt a flutter in her stomach. “Yes, I would like that, if it is not too late.”
“Just a few minutes to teach you how to hold the instrument. Besides, musical instruction requires concentration. No distractions. In such a busy hall, night is often the quietest time.” He glanced at his comrades behind him. “Seek you your beds. I shall join you later.”
Like a lord dismissing his underlings, Isolde thought. He was neither rude, nor unkind, but the man had an air of authority sore at odds with his lowly station in life.
“Good night, then,” Tillo said, shuffling away.
“Good night,” the dwarf and the giant chorused as they departed.
Only the little dog Cidu remained, and he eyed Isolde as if to say “What are you up to with my master?”
In truth, she did not know.
Reevius picked up the gittern and strummed across the strings. “Where shall we begin?” He sang the words. “First we need a chair,” he continued, one chord higher. “Then we need another, for the lady fair.”
She smiled at his easy manner. “Two chairs. Or perhaps a bench.” She led him to a bench beside the hearth and seated
herself. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat next to her. Right next to her.
“How did you learn to play the gittern?” she asked, to cover the abrupt case of nerves that beset her.
He shrugged. “I was many years in service in a household. I learned from someone there.”
“Have you been a minstrel ever since?”
“No.”
At that short response she looked up at him. He met her gaze with no hint of apology. Indeed, his deep-set eyes seemed to probe hers. “I am a minstrel now. That is enough to know. And it seems you would mimic my craft. Is it so hard being mistress of a grand castle that you covet a life in the wildwood with only your lute and gittern and pipes to sustain you?”
“No. Not at all. Cannot a woman desire to make music for her own pleasure and that of her family?”
“She can.” Their eyes met and held. He was so near that she felt the heat of his body and heard the rhythmic rush of his breathing. She could see the glint of torchlight in his ebony eyes. His was an overwhelming presence. She had to look away.
“Here,” he said, and offered the gittern to her. “Tuck it under your right arm and grip the neck with your left hand.”
She did as he said and strummed across the five strings, pleased with the harmonious blending of the tones.
“You press down with your fingers on the neck in order to shorten the strings and change the tones. Like this,” he added. He leaned nearer, circling her shoulders with one arm and covering her left hand with his own. Heat rushed through her, burning wherever he touched her, then searing out to every other portion of her body. It was startling and unnerving, and more than a little thrilling.
“’Tis the combination of strings that makes
Isolde laughed. “’Tis highly unlikely I could become that proficient. Even were that to happen, however, I would still desire that you return to Rosecliffe. My family would enjoy your entertainments so much.”
“Would they?” Reevius asked. “Where are they now?”
“Gone to London, to attend the coronation of the new king, Henry.”
His lips curved in a smile that showed in spite of his beard. “The coronation of England’s new boy king. Now there’s an entertainment, eh, Tillo?”
“Oh, aye,” the purple-robed old man said. “But ’tis too far a distance for these old legs to travel.”
“I will carry you,” Linus offered.
“I am content where we are,” Reevius stated, his gaze resting upon Isolde. “So, you wish me to give you instruction on the gittern.”
She nodded. “If you are so inclined. I will pay you,” she added.
“Will you?”
She nodded very slowly. “Of course.”
He nodded also. “Very well, then. We can begin now.”
“Now?” Isolde felt a flutter in her stomach. “Yes, I would like that, if it is not too late.”
“Just a few minutes to teach you how to hold the instrument. Besides, musical instruction requires concentration. No distractions. In such a busy hall, night is often the quietest time.” He glanced at his comrades behind him. “Seek you your beds. I shall join you later.”
Like a lord dismissing his underlings, Isolde thought. He was neither rude, nor unkind, but the man had an air of authority sore at odds with his lowly station in life.
“Good night, then,” Tillo said, shuffling away.
“Good night,” the dwarf and the giant chorused as they departed.
Only the little dog Cidu remained, and he eyed Isolde as if to say “What are you up to with my master?”
In truth, she did not know.
Reevius picked up the gittern and strummed across the strings. “Where shall we begin?” He sang the words. “First we need a chair,” he continued, one chord higher. “Then we need another, for the lady fair.”
She smiled at his easy manner. “Two chairs. Or perhaps a bench.” She led him to a bench beside the hearth and seated
herself. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat next to her. Right next to her.
“How did you learn to play the gittern?” she asked, to cover the abrupt case of nerves that beset her.
He shrugged. “I was many years in service in a household. I learned from someone there.”
“Have you been a minstrel ever since?”
“No.”
At that short response she looked up at him. He met her gaze with no hint of apology. Indeed, his deep-set eyes seemed to probe hers. “I am a minstrel now. That is enough to know. And it seems you would mimic my craft. Is it so hard being mistress of a grand castle that you covet a life in the wildwood with only your lute and gittern and pipes to sustain you?”
“No. Not at all. Cannot a woman desire to make music for her own pleasure and that of her family?”
“She can.” Their eyes met and held. He was so near that she felt the heat of his body and heard the rhythmic rush of his breathing. She could see the glint of torchlight in his ebony eyes. His was an overwhelming presence. She had to look away.
“Here,” he said, and offered the gittern to her. “Tuck it under your right arm and grip the neck with your left hand.”
She did as he said and strummed across the five strings, pleased with the harmonious blending of the tones.
“You press down with your fingers on the neck in order to shorten the strings and change the tones. Like this,” he added. He leaned nearer, circling her shoulders with one arm and covering her left hand with his own. Heat rushed through her, burning wherever he touched her, then searing out to every other portion of her body. It was startling and unnerving, and more than a little thrilling.
“’Tis the combination of strings that makes
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