She raised her chin and gazed across the hall. Next to her Uncle Henri sat Reynaud, tall and dark-haired in his white surcoat. She focused on the eight-pointed crimson cross emblazoned on his chest and willed her shaking limbs to carry her forwards, towards him.
Reynaud’s body suddenly went cold. That was no young minstrel. That was Leonor gliding towards him! And, God save her, she was wearing trousers! What was she thinking, entering the hall in a man’s garb? And carrying a harp?
Women did not perform in public. Certainly not a high-born woman like Leonor, educated in languages and versed in court etiquette. Surely she knew better. Henri’s guests would not listen to the music a woman would make. They would shout until she ceased singing.
Unable to breathe, Reynaud followed her progress through the horde of servants and guests in the crowded hall. She looked so small. And defenceless. Her simple embroidered tunic reached almost to the floor, and on her head she wore a matching green cap with a jaunty feather. But under the boy’s apparel she was unmistakably female! The delicate bones in her face, her graceful, sinuous motions screamed Woman.
His breath choked off. Did no one see what was so apparent to him? She was safe only if none realised she was female! He ground his teeth in an agony of frustration. It was too late to stop her.
The room buzzed in anticipation. Leonor advanced to the centre and bowed courteously to the count and Lady Alais.
Alais leaned towards her husband. ‘My dear, this is the harper I told you of earlier.’ At her significant look, Henri turned his full attention towards the youth.
Leonor sank on to a round wooden stool and bent her head to check her tuning. The hall quieted.
Under his surcoat Reynaud began to sweat. The crowd would not receive her well. How could he protect her in this foolhardy venture? He had stashed his sword belt, along with those of the other knights, with the burly guard at the hall entrance. Now, he had no weapon.
Silence dropped over the hall like soft mist. When the hush thickened, Leonor straightened, pulled the harp back on to her right shoulder and plucked a single chord.
Then she began to sing.
In spite of his pounding heart, he could not shut out her voice. What beautiful music! Her voice was low and melodious, rich in timbre. A woman’s voice, not the voice of the girl he remembered.
And such poetry! The words, in Arabic, described the soaring of a lark, the flight of a heart in ecstasy. The verses were so beautifully wrought that his chest tightened.
The backs of his eyelids began to burn. Not since his youth had a song touched him so deeply. His throat ached. He wanted to weep. The throb of her harp through his soul was almost painful, the longing aroused in him gnawing at his vitals.
Ah, he could stand no more. He clenched his hands until his knuckles cracked, and then, mercifully, the mesmerising voice and the murmur of the harp faded into silence.
He waited, scarcely able to draw breath.
Leonor dipped her head in a subtle obeisance to the count and Lady Alais but remained motionless on her stool. Reynaud could not take his eyes off her.
No one made a sound. At his elbow, Count Henri gaped open-mouthed at the slim figure in the centre of the hall. ‘By the saints,’ he breathed into the lingering hush.
She raised her head at last, and Reynaud saw that her grey eyes glittered with unshed tears.
Pandemonium broke out. Nobles and commoners alike banged their wine cups on the table and cheered until they were hoarse.
Reynaud drew in an unsteady breath. She had enchanted them. Thank God. Thank God!
She rose, stepped to the high table, and knelt on one knee before Count Henri and Lady Alais. Then she reached a small, fine-boned hand up to her feathered cap and with a quick motion drew it off and placed it across her heart.
Hair the colour of black silk tumbled down her slender back.
The crowd gasped. ‘A woman!’ someone shouted. ‘The minstrel is a woman!’
Reynaud was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, intending to head towards the wooden rack of swords at the front of the hall. Never before had he felt such an overpowering need to protect someone.
He halted as an underlying truth burned into his brain. Never before had he felt such a gut-deep yearning to touch another human spirit.
But a woman? His vows forbade it. He had to escape whatever it was pulling his soul to hers.
The shouting of the dinner guests echoed in the stone hall and then, abruptly, all noise ceased. His body began to tremble.
She would play again.
He didn’t think he could stand it.
Reynaud rose to escape from the table, but the count turned to him. ‘Stay, man,’ he commanded in an undertone. With a hand heavy as a mace, he pressed Reynaud back into his seat at the linen-covered table.
The clatter of eating knives and drinking cups ceased. Quiet descended over the crowded hall and Reynaud clamped his teeth together. Without discourtesy to his host, he could not escape.
Leonor adjusted the tuning on one peg, idly strummed her slim fingers once, twice across the strings in a seemingly spontaneous melodic pattern. A tune gradually emerged, and then a countermelody bloomed underneath it.
Her long fingers floated over the harp strings, her slender hands like winged birds in motion. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell forwards to obscure her features, and when she brushed it back in the quick, unconscious gesture he remembered, something tore at his gut.
She was seven and twenty now, and she took his breath away!
The last notes of the song resonated off the thick stone walls, and Leonor lifted her head and met his gaze. Beneath the dark, arched brows her smoke-grey eyes sent him a challenging look.
His throat closed.
‘So, my friend.’ Count Henri chuckled. ‘I wager you did not recognise her at first. She is a feast for the eyes, is she not?’
Reynaud sat without moving, unable to speak.
‘My lord?’ Leonor’s low, clear voice at his side jerked him to attention.
‘Since you have lately returned from the land across the sea, is there some music you would hear? The count asks it in your honour.’
Reynaud flicked a glance at Count Henri, who was grinning at him over his wine cup. Damn the man. The count bobbed his head as if to say, Well? Does she not make an exquisite troubadour?
Reynaud swallowed over a lump the size of the juggler’s apple. ‘I do have a request.’ He watched Henri settle his bent form back in his chair, his lips twitching in anticipation.
Leonor’s grey eyes lifted to his. ‘And that is?’
He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘I wish to talk with you. In private.’
Count Henri choked out, ‘Talk?’ He eyed Reynaud in exasperation.
Reynaud nodded. ‘Talk,’ he repeated. He shot the count a swift look. ‘I mean no discourtesy, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘For the moment, might I have your indulgence?’
A frown creased Count Henri’s ruddy forehead. ‘Indulgence?’ In the next instant his eyes brightened. ‘Oh! Yes, I see now. You young cousins would be private, of course! Forgive my slowness.’ He tapped his skull with one beringed finger. ‘My