She did not confide any of this to Bess.
The Breton jongleur haunted Owen's dreams. The wild-eyed man crept towards him from the shadows. His leman crept up behind. Again and again Owen caught her arm as she reached for his eye and yanked the arm behind her. At dawn his comrades congratulated him on the corpse. And he was whole. He was Captain of Archers. Across the Channel his wife waited in his bed, dreaming of him, longing for his return. He could see her there, her white skin, her silky hair spilling down her naked breasts. .
Owen woke in a sweat, as he had many nights through the spring. He slipped out of the York and walked. Walked fast. Walked until the tenderness of the dream, the joy, was sweated out of him, cleared from his head. It would not do to dream of Lucie Wilton as his wife. She had shown no such inclination. But this night he could not shake the feeling of tenderness. He returned to Davygate still disturbed. He opened the gate beside the shop and went back to the garden. There was a pit for compost to dig. He stripped to the waist and worked in the moonlight.
Lucie woke at the sound of the gate, terrified. It was too late to be Owen or Bess. The intruder passed under the window, and then silence. She held her breath. Then she heard someone shovelling, far back in the garden. She threw on a shawl and picked up the walking stick Owen had cut and shaped for Nicholas.
The full moon lit up the garden. Lucie kept to the shadows, tracking the intruder. But it was no intruder. Worse, perhaps. It was Owen, stripped to the waist, sweat shining on his back and arms. The muscles in his back flexed and rippled as he worked. Geof had once told her that archers had to be very strong to make an arrow fly all the way to the enemy. She remembered the feeling of Owen's arms around her. He was as unlike Nicholas as a man could be. She wondered if those muscles were hot to the touch when he worked like that. God forgive me for such thoughts. She should go back inside. But she could not take her eyes off Owen. Moon-mad, both of them. He for digging a hole in the middle of the night, she for staring at him. She shivered, although her body was uncomfortably warm.
Owen sensed he was being watched. He looked around, saw her. Dear Lord, all his work to put her out of his mind, and there she stood in her shift, her hair tumbling down around her slender shoulders. 'You should not come out here like that.'
'I thought you were an intruder.'
'All the more reason.'
'What are you doing?' She stepped closer. He smelled of sweat and rich earth.
Owen stabbed the shovel into the pile and used it to climb out, staying on the side of the hole farthest from her. 'I could not sleep.'
'Something troubles you?'
He thought of some innocent lies, but it was no use dissembling with her. She obviously had no idea how he felt about her, to let him see her like this. 'Lucie, our arrangement is not working. I was a fool to think I could work so close to you and not want you.' He wiped himself down with his shirt.
'You dreamt of me?'
'Aye. A scoundrel, eh?' If he made light of it, perhaps she would not notice how he was trembling on this warm night.
Lucie stepped around the pit to him, coming so close he could see the moon in her eyes, feel the heat of her body. 'You're shivering’ she whispered, and opening her shawl, she pulled him to her, wrapping them together, and pressed herself to him. It felt good to touch flesh. And when he put his arms around her, she felt the life in him, the warmth. She kissed him.
'Do you know what you're doing, Lucie?'
'I dreamt of you once. It frightened me.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. I never dreamt such dreams about Nicholas.'
Their bodies moved against each other.
He pressed her to him, delighting in the scent of her. 'I cannot trust myself, Lucie.'
Nor could she trust herself. Perhaps she was wrong. She thought of running, but the empty room and cold bed were uninviting, and he was warm and alive and he wanted her. 'Kiss me.'
They slipped to the ground entangled in each other and made love, Lucie with a passion unlike anything she had experienced with Nicholas, Owen with a tenderness he had never before known.
They woke chilled by the dew.
1 love you, Lucie,' Owen whispered, kissing her.
She propped herself up on one arm and looked at him. 'Did you really think I might have poisoned Geof for my family's honour?'
'Why bring that up now?'
'I want to know.'
'You were strong and proud. I thought it possible.' She looked beautiful with her damp hair clinging to her face.
'You are certain now that I was innocent?'
He smiled. 'Innocent in that instance, yes. But you are still strong and proud. I cannot say what you might be capable of.'
'Soldiers prefer their women meek and obedient.'
Then 'tis a good thing I'm no soldier, eh?'
She brushed his hair off his forehead and touched his cheek gently. 'I think I could love you, Owen.'
Could. Merciful Mother. 'You could not lie, just for this moment, and say you love me?'
Lucie gave him that damnable level gaze. 'That would not be a good way to begin.'
Instead of arguing, he gathered her to him and held her close. She clung to him. And he thought perhaps he had not been a fool to save the jongleur. Perhaps the blinding was God's way of leading him to Lucie.
'We will marry’ Lucie said at breakfast. 'And you will remain my apprentice.'
'Have you decided you love me, then?'
She smiled. 'I think I will.'
'I will have to work at convincing you that life is sweeter when I'm about, I see.'
Her eyes softened. 'You have made a good beginning.' She bent to pet Melisende.
When Lucie straightened up, Owen reached across the table and took her hand. 'I mean to make you love me.'
Lucie looked at Owen, and already his scarred face was dear to her. 'I think you just might, Owen Archer.'
Bess found them in the shop, working side by side. Something about the way they moved together told her what had happened. She hurried back to the York Tavern for a pitcher of the Archbishop's brandywine.
'What's that for, then?' Tom asked. It was but midday,
'Lucie and Owen. Just as I told you it would be.' 'Well, then, Bess, so you were right. Patch and all.' 'That eye was never his problem, Tom. I don't even know why you would think it.'