She shrugged. “I do not need your pity. I live from day to day and thus far I have survived.”
The defiant gleam in her eyes reminded William strongly of Queen Eleanor. He inclined his head, acknowledging her ability and her pride. “But at what cost?” he said. “Your face does not tell a fortunate story just now.”
She touched her bruised cheek. “Some men are worthless,” she said, “and some are without price.” Her voice dropped a notch, becoming husky. “I was hoping when I saw you arrive with the Young King that you were of the second sort. You said when I gave you bandages for your leg that you would not forget the debt owing.”
“Nor have I, my lady.” He opened his hand towards her. “What I have is yours.”
“Then would you give me your protection for as long as I have need?”
Several thoughts flew through William’s mind, some noble, some considerably less so. “What kind of protection?” he asked when he was certain of his voice. “Shall I ask the Young Queen to give you a position in her household? Do you need money?”
Rising to her feet, she unclasped the pin holding her cloak together and cast the garment across the stool. Beneath it, she was wearing the tightly laced gown of yellow silk he remembered from years ago with sleeves almost to the floor and a belt stitched with pearls and jet. “They say you are the best knight on the tourney circuit.”
William shrugged. “There is always talk on the tourney field,” he said. “It’s entertaining, but you shouldn’t set store by it.”
“I don’t. I listen and make my own judgements.” She swept him a look through her lashes. “Money is always useful. I doubt that the Young Queen would take me into her household—a Poitevan whore with a reputation longer than her sleeves.”
“I could send you to my brother in England,” William said. “He is unwed, but he dwells with a mistress and they have an infant son…”
Clara shook her head. “Even if his woman is a saint, she would see me as a rival, and besides, I have no desire to set foot on a ship—ever.” She tilted her head to one side. “I could stay with you. There are advantages to not having your servant throw me out.”
William had often been propositioned and usually deflected the women with courtesy. Until now he had not been tempted beyond his ability to resist. “I would not delegate such a task to Rhys in this situation, but I do not see what gain there is to you.” He stood up, not sure if he was going to see her from the tent or prevent her from leaving.
“Then either you are modest, ignorant, or fishing for compliments.” She moved up to him, into the space where he seldom allowed anyone to stand. “What woman would not want the protection of a knight of your prowess? What woman would not desire such a man?” She took his hands and set them at her waist, holding them there, her palms to his knuckles. “If the man desires her, of course,” she added in a voice smoky with lust.
“A man in my position cannot afford a mistress,” he said, but his hands stayed at her waist, feeling flesh and bone sharpened by an edge of hunger, the delicate ridges of her rib cage, the flat, taut belly.
“I spoke of desiring, not affording,” she said. “Think of all the things a mistress can do for you that a servant cannot.” She set one arm around his neck and kissed him. It was the kiss of a woman experienced in the seductive arts, her body warm with the southern blood of the troubadours. Her other hand left his at her waist and moved down between them to stroke with spine-tingling skill.
The sensations almost undid him, because no woman had ever done that to him before, or not with such boldness and knowing. He hissed through his teeth and his hand tightened involuntarily at her waist. She licked his throat and nipped his earlobe. “I can show you ways of pleasuring that will drive you out of your senses,” she murmured. Her right hand slipped into his hose, found the leg of his braies and worked upwards. “Jesu!” Her breathing caught on laughter and greed. “The tourney field isn’t the only place that you carry a fine straight lance, is it?”
That should have been the moment to stop. Had William been completely sober and his lust not already honed by the performance of the eastern dancing girls, he might have found the strength to give her his pallet for the night and step outside to slumber by the camp fire. But she was dark-eyed, warm, and pliant in his arms, as a young Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine might have been, and her touch was intoxicating. His resistance fell before her onslaught. He set reason aside and let his body take command, although in truth it was she who had the mastery.
Lightly, Clara touched William’s naked thigh. “You still bear the scar,” she murmured, her lips following the gentle feather of her fingertips.
“I will have it until my dying day,” he said, squinting down his body to the dark spread of her hair. “Without your succour that day would have come and gone. I will never forget that kindness.”
She gave a breathy chuckle and her lips nipped higher up his thigh. “It was more than kindness,” she said. “It was selfishness too, and defiance. Amalric had warned me to leave well alone, so what was I to do except meddle? Even then, sore wounded and mired as you were, I could see your potential.” She raised her head and her eyes were those of a night-hunting cat. “Are you going to let me stay?”
William hesitated. A short while ago he had been ensnared by the pure, white heat of lust. That tension was gone now, although what Clara was doing was rapidly rekindling it. Wisdom said he should treat this encounter as no more than a casual meeting. That he should give her funds to help her on her way, and when he left the tourney ground, not look back. Usually he would listen to that inner voice, but something else had stirred in him tonight. Perhaps it was her feline manner, which reminded him of Eleanor; perhaps it was the knowledge that she owned an indelible part of his past and that what she had done for him then deserved more than an embarrassed handful of silver as he rode away.
“I won’t demand more of you than you can give,” she said, as if reading his doubts.
He dropped his hand to her hair. It was silky under his calloused touch and as cool as cat’s fur. “And what if all I can give you is a pittance?” he asked. “What if I say that you will be little less impoverished on your own?”
“Then a pittance will suffice, and I know that you are wrong about the impoverishment.” She sat up, straddling him. “You will not regret this, I swear you will not.”
It was a long time since he had lain with a woman and his body responded to the position of hers and what she was doing. “Then stay,” he heard himself say.
She arched as she sheathed him, and leaned over to kiss his mouth. “How much do you know about courtly love?” she asked against his lips. “Shall I show you how to gain your lady’s favour?”
Later, fine-dewed with sweat, William collapsed upon his pallet, gulping for breath. Every fibre of his being felt as if it had been compacted on to the point of an arrow and fired with violence from his loins. A wanton, beatific smile on her face, Clara watched him through eyes hazy with satisfaction. “You see,” she purred.
William nodded, too spent to talk. He did see, and knew that he was a novice in the hands of an expert. He had heard hints concerning the rites ofamour courtoisof which the songs and poetry of the Southern troubadours were the outer circle. He knew the conventions by which a man should strive to be worthy of his lady love and seek no reward but a momentary glance and perhaps a smile. Queen Eleanor had played such games with him and in his turn he had played them gently with Marguerite and her women. But there were inner rings to the circle, where the tokens and the flirting led to the bedchamber, and within that secret red heart, it was still the role of the knight to please his lady and withhold his own pleasure if it be her whim. It was not enough to have control of one’s body on the tourney ground. The field of love called for endurance, restraint, and stamina; but there had to be passion too. Clara had taken her pleasure again and again and again, holding him on a fine edge. He could have yielded to temptation, held her down, and surged to his release, but pride and will and a determination to succeed had reined him back.
He gave a weak chuckle and looked at her in the light of the guttering night candle. “I am supposed to lead the Young King’s mesnie to victory on the tourney field on the morrow,” he said. “How am I to do that when I feel as if all the marrow has been sucked from my bones?”
Clara licked her lips and widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I haven’t been anywhere near your bones,” she said.
