you still have anything left between your legs at all.”
He didn’t have to speak another word. Gilcrest fled the room, leaving behind him the sour stench of sweat.
Quintin reached into his surcoat and withdrew a fine handkerchief, pressing it against his nose and lips. He did it as much to savor a memory as to mask the odor in the room.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. The scent had faded since first it occupied his pocket, but enough lingered to send his senses reeling.
Her face flashed across his mind. Alianor . He would forever link the delicate scent of violets with the name. He trembled a little, remembering the first time he laid eyes on her.
Alianor accompanied Queen Isabella at tourney one day, garbed and beribboned like the other ladies. The Queen dressed her ladies in matching yellow, but there was something different about Alianor.
Quintin competed in the tourney and fared well. Many women tossed him their favors and proffered sensual delights with their eyes, but his own gaze lingered on the one who did not even glance his way. When the silver-haired beauty left the stands and did not return, it felt as if something was torn from his breast.
Later the same eve, he was about to inquire after her identity when she entered the feasting hall on the arm of an elderly, limping man. Surely it was a sign from God, for the mere thought of the beauty produced her for him.
“Alack! The Coventrys join us this eve, a rare boon indeed,” King John said sourly from his place at the high board. As he spoke, he tossed the chicken leg he gnawed into the rushes for the dogs to fight over.
“The old man must be her grandfather.” Quintin did not realize he spoke aloud until the nobleman sitting beside him laughed and drew his attention.
“Nay, Sir Walter is Lady Alianor’s husband. A pity, aye? He’s envied by more than a few here for his luscious young wife.”
Quintin was annoyed at the thought any other man looked at Alianor. It surprised him more that he envied a crusty, half-dead cur like Coventry. But from the moment he knew her name, he found himself whispering it to himself over and over like a novena.
He lingered on at Lackland’s court as long as he could — fortunately the Irish Sea was too stormy for safe crossing. While at court he heard the tale of Coventry’s jousting accident, and likewise stories of Alianor’s tireless devotion. Devotion he soon witnessed firsthand when he happened upon the couple in the castle one day.
Quintin had not planned it, but he turned a corner and the old man was shuffling down the hall towards him, his wife helping him along. Alianor wore a plain gown of deep blue linen and a simple silver circlet crossed her brow. Her hair fell loose like a maid’s, with neither pearls nor gems arranged in the pale curls, but she needed none. Struck dumb by her beauty, he hesitated. Should he speak, introduce himself? He soon realized she was unaware of anyone save the man she accompanied.
Her firm but gentle grip upon her husband’s arm made it appear she leaned upon Coventry for support, when it was clearly the other way around. She was considerate of the old man’s pride.
The couple passed Quintin where he stood and continued on to the great hall. He slipped from the shadows and strolled several paces behind them. He heard the angel speak for the first time, and found her voice as beautiful as the rest of her.
“You know you should stay in bed, Walter,” she scolded Coventry affectionately.
A lump formed in Quintin’s throat. No woman had ever spoken his name so tenderly, nor demonstrated a shred of the concern Alianor did for Coventry. Not his mother nor his late wife, Juliana.
During sup he watched Alianor with hawk-like fascination. He was seated opposite her at the same table, but two seats down. Once or twice his breath caught in his throat when she glanced his way, but her eyes never really focused on him.
When she noticed her husband tiring during the meal,
He didn’t have to speak another word. Gilcrest fled the room, leaving behind him the sour stench of sweat.
Quintin reached into his surcoat and withdrew a fine handkerchief, pressing it against his nose and lips. He did it as much to savor a memory as to mask the odor in the room.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. The scent had faded since first it occupied his pocket, but enough lingered to send his senses reeling.
Her face flashed across his mind. Alianor . He would forever link the delicate scent of violets with the name. He trembled a little, remembering the first time he laid eyes on her.
Alianor accompanied Queen Isabella at tourney one day, garbed and beribboned like the other ladies. The Queen dressed her ladies in matching yellow, but there was something different about Alianor.
Quintin competed in the tourney and fared well. Many women tossed him their favors and proffered sensual delights with their eyes, but his own gaze lingered on the one who did not even glance his way. When the silver-haired beauty left the stands and did not return, it felt as if something was torn from his breast.
Later the same eve, he was about to inquire after her identity when she entered the feasting hall on the arm of an elderly, limping man. Surely it was a sign from God, for the mere thought of the beauty produced her for him.
“Alack! The Coventrys join us this eve, a rare boon indeed,” King John said sourly from his place at the high board. As he spoke, he tossed the chicken leg he gnawed into the rushes for the dogs to fight over.
“The old man must be her grandfather.” Quintin did not realize he spoke aloud until the nobleman sitting beside him laughed and drew his attention.
“Nay, Sir Walter is Lady Alianor’s husband. A pity, aye? He’s envied by more than a few here for his luscious young wife.”
Quintin was annoyed at the thought any other man looked at Alianor. It surprised him more that he envied a crusty, half-dead cur like Coventry. But from the moment he knew her name, he found himself whispering it to himself over and over like a novena.
He lingered on at Lackland’s court as long as he could — fortunately the Irish Sea was too stormy for safe crossing. While at court he heard the tale of Coventry’s jousting accident, and likewise stories of Alianor’s tireless devotion. Devotion he soon witnessed firsthand when he happened upon the couple in the castle one day.
Quintin had not planned it, but he turned a corner and the old man was shuffling down the hall towards him, his wife helping him along. Alianor wore a plain gown of deep blue linen and a simple silver circlet crossed her brow. Her hair fell loose like a maid’s, with neither pearls nor gems arranged in the pale curls, but she needed none. Struck dumb by her beauty, he hesitated. Should he speak, introduce himself? He soon realized she was unaware of anyone save the man she accompanied.
Her firm but gentle grip upon her husband’s arm made it appear she leaned upon Coventry for support, when it was clearly the other way around. She was considerate of the old man’s pride.
The couple passed Quintin where he stood and continued on to the great hall. He slipped from the shadows and strolled several paces behind them. He heard the angel speak for the first time, and found her voice as beautiful as the rest of her.
“You know you should stay in bed, Walter,” she scolded Coventry affectionately.
A lump formed in Quintin’s throat. No woman had ever spoken his name so tenderly, nor demonstrated a shred of the concern Alianor did for Coventry. Not his mother nor his late wife, Juliana.
During sup he watched Alianor with hawk-like fascination. He was seated opposite her at the same table, but two seats down. Once or twice his breath caught in his throat when she glanced his way, but her eyes never really focused on him.
When she noticed her husband tiring during the meal,
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