Loving Lucianna

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

            “I saw her late on an autumn day,

            “Bathed in the glory of the sun at its setting.”

            Yes, he was sure those were the words Acelet had taught him. Sir Balduin felt fairly sure of the tune. Though he did not consider himself a man of music, tunes usually stuck in his head. Poetry, like Italian, dismayed him, though, making him question his wits when he faltered, upsetting the confidence in his intelligence he realized he’d always taken for granted in plainspoken conversations. But he had let Acelet drill him on these lines over two dozen times.

            “She sat beneath the great oak tree,

            “Head cocked to catch the robin’s song that had not yet faded . . . ”

            He and Acelet had argued over which bird to use. Acelet said nightingales were more romantic, even though it was unlikely for one to be singing in the autumn at dusk. Sir Balduin’s practical mind had insisted on the robin.

            “And so to skyward sent I this plea

            “To the merry fowl—”

            No, that was not right. He paused, then re-sang the scale.

            “To the merry cock—” Had it been a cock? Well, it would have to do, he would not embarrass himself by singing the phrase a third time.

            “—who held her ear,

            “That it might carry these words to her heart.”

            He chanced a glance at Lucianna then. Did she think him a fool to stand here, singing to the company thus? The company surely must. His cheeks warmed at the thought, but if it pleased her, he would bear the humiliation. She looked paler than usual, though he was not sure why. Perhaps it was something about the wan gown she wore that failed to flatter a complexion that could put younger women to shame for its smoothness. True, a few lines webbed the corners of her eyes and tickled across her high brow, and shadows stood out beneath her eyes that he vaguely recalled fading when she wore gowns of green or blue. But nothing could rob the brilliant color of her eyes, or dim the glow that nested in them—a glow he had seen steal there whenever Acelet sang, despite her swift dismissal of both poetry and poet when the melodies came to an end.

            And so Sir Balduin bolstered himself to sing on boldly.

            “‘Fair donna,’ sang the robin—” Would it please her to insert an Italian word? One of the few he could remember. “‘—gentle lady, the knight who worships you

            “‘Bids me bear to you this news,

            “‘That he neither eats nor sleeps for thought of you

            “‘Since that cruel day when you sent him away in your pride.

            “‘He lies upon his bed watching the moon inch across its purple canopy—”

            Had it been inch or creep? And had the canopy been purple? Perhaps it had been plum. Or maybe indigo? He scrambled for the next note.

            “‘The sun rises upon eyes rimmed red with the night’s long wakefulness.

            “‘When his squire begs him to break his fast of the night,