Chapter 25

Slowly, slowly, I swam out of a deep pool and felt myself climbing towards a scent I recognized. As my heavy lids began to rise, I was perplexed for a moment of what I was seeing. The room was now dark, with only the light of the fire to cast shapes and shadows into my vision. A strange kind of shape hovered above me, almost a sharp edge with smooth fringe of what looked like hair fanning out from it. As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I realized I was staring at the underside of Guy's jaw, and then realized just as sweetly, that he was holding me in his lap. He had assumed his usual position, his long legs stretched out on the table, his body in the chair, and was holding me in the crook of his arm. Warmth emanated from him as he cradled me in one arm, a book casually held in his other hand, his eyes fluttering across its page. It was such a pleasant image and realization that for moment I considered going back to sleep. This was the first time in a while I had slept well and felt protected. As I considered it though, I saw Guy's eyes dart from the page to me. He must have sensed the change in my breathing; I saw a smile cross his face and he put the book down. "Ah, so you're awake," he said in a kind voice, looking down at me.

"Barely," I said in a sleepy voice. Expecting he would want me to move, I was surprised when he merely cradled me closer, now with his other arm as well. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, kissing my forehead.

"Actually yes," I said, moving a slight bit to look up at him. "I had thought that I fell asleep in that chair over there, though."

"And so you did," Guy answered. "You had slept there a few hours, and I decided that you might need a change in position."

"Hours?" I asked. It must be nightfall now, and he heard the panic in my voice. "I should go—"

"Hush, hush," he said softly, holding me closer. "I've sent word to your father. I still need your help with this new riddle."

"But—"

"Nyssa, don't argue. You needed to rest. And since I can't convince you to sleep with me, at least I can say I managed to have you sleep on me."

I let out a trill of laughter, despite myself. Some men found faith. Guy of Gisborne had apparently found his humor. I glanced up at him as I smiled. "I like it when you jest. It's not a side I've seen often."

"Well, it's not a side I show often." He smiled back at me, his face beautiful in the firelight. His eyes became serious again. "You never did tell me why you were crying when you arrived, or why you obviously haven't been sleeping."

"It's…complicated," I replied, thinking of Will, Hood and these new assignments.

"I've no doubt," Guy said. His eyes gently wandered over my face, and in that moment I felt as if I could tell him anything. His hand lifted and then began to stroke my hair. "You lead a complicated life, Nyssa."

"I know."

"You could make it simpler, you know," Guy said, his expression incomprehensible. I looked back up at him and sighed. I reached out to gently touch his nose, which now felt like a familiar, loving gesture between us.

"No, Sir Guy. Unfortunately one factor precludes that from ever happening."

Guy gave me a sad smile then and seemed about to say something, when I hurriedly cut him off. "What were you reading?"

Guy's mouth snapped shut. "Er…sestinas. Troubadour poems. Our correspondent likes them," he said, shifting so that I could sit up without leaving his lap and look at the book with him. I scanned the page, seeing several long poems of six lines, ended by a final set of the three lines. However, since they were in what I assumed was French, I could not understand them. I glanced at Guy. "Read one to me," I said. His eyes became warm, and he put an arm around me again.

"E non plainh lo cors ni l'arma,

mas la terra on bos pretz perd sa chambra;

Que n'Aemar l'a tant batut ab verga

E degitat de tot luec on el intra

Qu'ab lui non pot metre ni pel ni ongla.

E·l bes fluris e miels gran'en son oncle."

I closed my eyes, listening to him read. He had the most beautiful, resonant voice. It fell and dipped with inflection and meaning so that I felt I understood the poem even though I did not. The liquidity of the language on his tongue was a beautiful aural experience, and when he had finished, I turned to him, curious. "French is such a beautiful language, but the poem sounds troubled," I said. "What does it mean?"

Guy looked at me, apparently pleased with my analysis. "It is troubled," he said. "And actually, troubadours don't speak French. They spoke a kind of dialect, a hybrid language called Occitane. It sounds like a mixture of French and Spanish, partially because of where they live in the south of France. The translation…hmmm. Well, the poet Bertrand de Born is mourning for the loss of merit in the land. It speaks of a man, Sir Ademar, who wishes to destroy merit and honor, and that he beats it with a stick and throws it out of every place he goes."

"He sounds like Robin Hood," I said querulously, under my breath. "I wonder if the poet knows him."

Guy laughed then, and held me closer. "I would agree. At any rate, I was studying these poems because they have a certain form that our correspondent has miniaturized. Shall we look then?" he said, sitting me up and forward as he rose.

"Of course," I replied, though I could have stood to hear hours of Guy reading troubadour poetry. "What have you found in the verse?"

"Some parts which are helpful and others which are mysterious." Guy stretched, then sat back down at he table, gesturing for me to do the same next to him. "You see, sestinas have six verses, and a final three line verse. It also has six words that are used per verse, and they always occur at the end of the lines. They are then rotated into the next verse into different lines, and always at the end. Bloody hard to write." I understood, albeit vaguely.

"But a tritina is a bit simpler. There are only three repeated words, three verses and a final verse that uses all three words. That is the case with what was sent to us. The three words in this case are—"

"Stone, blessed and fortress," I remembered, starting to understand. Guy grinned. "Yes," he said. "But I'm afraid the message itself is still a bit of a mystery."

"The first part of the poem deals with battle," I remembered. "The dying blessed—"

"And the next about a gemstone that two women are arguing over," Guy followed. He glanced at me. "Is that common?"

"You're asking the wrong person," I said wryly. Guy winced. "But I do think that something is meant to be conveyed, though I'm not sure exactly what."

"Stone, fortress, blessed," Guy repeated. "No—god-blessed. Dieudonné..." His eyes lit up. "Philip."

"And stone," I said quickly. "Rock. Or Rocks - Des Roches." I grinned at him. "King Philip and William Des Roches, and a fortress."

"The fortress can only be Ballon, the one they conquered together, but why reference it now? Everyone knows." Guy said, puzzled.

"Because they are fighting over possession of it," I said slowly, suddenly understanding. "The gemstone, the two women…are two men. Philip and des Roches. It makes sense. Thus a simple stone, being so blessed, shall bring down friendship as the weight of a fortress."

"Of course!" Guy said. "Philip wants Ballon for himself and Des Roches believes it should go to the heiress…the heir…to Arthur. They are at odds. This is crucial information that must go to John immediately. This could be the right moment for him to win over Des Roches to our side." His eyes lit on me, flaming with excitement, then passion. "You did it, Nyssa. Again," he said deeply. I blushed and smiled a little.

Unable to control himself, Guy crossed the room and took me in his arms, enwrapping me in his long limbs, and kissed me with a greater passion than he ever had. I responded, my eyes tearing a bit, feeling that these letters and translations were our children. How could I not love him as we gave life to something together? Gently, I broke away, before I felt my heart would burst.

"You must go," I said softly. "You will have to take this news at once to London."

"Yes."

"And I must go as well. It is after dark, and not proper for me to be here."

"Agreed."

"And someone might see me leaving."

"Of course."

We stared at each other for a ridiculous moment. Then, contrary to everything I had just said, we were lost in yet another passionate kiss. Guy's fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, his lips swollen and mad with ardor on mine. I felt as if he were trying to devour me, holding me as tightly as possible, and I him. His breathing became rough as he said between kisses,

"My beloved Nyssa…I was wrong. You heart…and your mind…are equally beautiful…and arousing."

I was so stunned by his compliment that I pulled away to look at him, only to be sure he was not jesting again. His eyes betrayed no such cruelty, only warm softness and desire. "Go," he said in a dangerous voice, "or I will forget that I have a duty to John, and instead keep you here…all night."

I did not need to be told twice after seeing the look in his eyes. I fled for the door, throwing it open and running to a surprised Lily. I flung myself on her back and clicked her into a fast walk that soon became a trot. As we moved away from Gisborne Manor, I could not help a small smile.

In at least one Englishman's heart, I outranked the King of England.