A tentative knock sounded at the door. Melitta crossed the inn's best chamber to open it. "Yes?" she asked.
The chambermaid dropped a curtsy. "Beg pardon, milady. I thought this was the knight's chamber."
"George's across the hall, in what I understand is your second best chamber," Melitta said, pointing. "He said that a lady deserves the best, and a knight will make do with whatever else is available."
"Aw, he's a gallant one, isn't he? All chivalry and courtly love." She sighed blissfully. "So romantic. When will you be married, milady?"
Married? Melitta's eyebrows rose so high she suspected they vanished into her hair. Hopefully never, she thought but didn't say. Instead, she replied, "When a man demonstrates he truly deserves me, and asks for my hand."
At the sound of a male voice clearing his throat, the maid turned bright red. The girl spun on the spot. "Your armour has arrived, good Sir Knight," she mumbled. She bobbed a curtsy, holding out the box. She waited only long enough for George to take it from her hands before she hurried off downstairs.
George's eyes met Melitta's. His expression was unreadable. "So do we open it in your chamber or mine? After all, one set of this armour belongs to you."
Now it was Melitta's turn to blush. If she was going home to court, she truly didn't need armour. But after killing that boar and then the giants… People looked at her differently. Well, they looked at George mostly, for he was the hero who had claimed the bounty on the bandits. But he'd split the money with her immediately, instead of taking the lion's share for himself, as Melitta would have expected. Though she might have killed more of the men, she was still just an apprentice hero.
"Mine is larger," Melitta said opening the door wider to allow George in.
He set the box on the table and pulled out the first piece of armour. Holding it up to his chest, he said, "I believe this is yours."
He was right. The leather curved in ways that no man's armour should, or needed to. Melitta felt the urge to buckle it on immediately, though there was no enemy here. She still occasionally remembered the gory mess George had made hacking off the six giants' heads, for she had been unable to hold down her gorge long enough to help. George had not complained, nor even mentioned it, for which she was grateful. She thought she should feel something, after killing those men, but if anything she was glad. Proud to have been the one who stopped them from hurting anyone else. Was this what George had first seen in her on the day they met? The makings of a true hero?
She watched him buckle his own armour over his tunic, as eager as she was to see how well it fit. He'd chosen leather, like her, despite the reward being enough for them to afford steel. Not to mention all the goods the bandits had stolen, which by right of conquest had belonged to both of them after the men were dead. She knew George still carried some of the jewels in the bottom of his saddlebags – insurance against the day when he might need to sell them. For a gold necklace could buy a fine horse and enough food to keep a hero going until his next quest. He'd offered some to her, but she had refused. When would she ever wear them? She'd left all her jewels back in her mother's apartments in the castle. She had no need for more.
"I took the liberty of ordering you new boots as well," George said, pulling a pair out of the box. "Yours appear to have been damaged by water at some point."
Though it seemed such a long time ago now, Melitta remembered the exact moment when it happened. She'd gotten her feet wet collecting stones to catch birds for their dinner on the lake, and all the trouble of being captured by giants and fighting her way free, she hadn't noticed they were ruined until too late. "Thank you," she said.
He cleared his throat. "If you'll allow me, I have a special potion of my own design, that when rubbed on shoes properly can make them entirely waterproof. I can do it tonight, and then you never need worry about getting your feet wet, ever again." He shuffled his own feet on the floor boards, keeping his head down and not meeting her eyes.
"I would be very grateful," Melitta said truthfully. "Wherever did you find such a magical potion?"
George laughed. "In my father's workshop. He was a shoemaker, and until I chose a different path, so was I. His creations were much sought after at court, as were my mother's. Her embellishments were so beautiful, she made boots for the king and queen themselves. My work… was of a more practical bent. I was never as good as my father, or my mother. So I made shoes for the rest of the town, while my mother and father made shoes for those who could afford the best."
Melitta touched the leather. "So did you make these, or someone else?" They were as fine as any she'd worn at home, but her knowledge was all about cloth, not leather.
George smiled sadly. "Not me. You deserve the best, so a better shoemaker than me made them. Perhaps not as fine as my mother's work, but she had a rare gift, may God rest her soul." He spread his hands wide. "May I help you put them on, to see if they fit?"
Melitta couldn't say no. She perched on the edge of a chair and George knelt before her. She held out one booted foot, which George clasped reverently. He pulled off her ruined shoe, then cupped her heel in his hand before sliding the new boot on in its place.
"Perfect," he breathed, reaching for her other foot.
He took longer with the second one, pausing to smooth her wrinkled hose.
His stroking fingers seemed to set her heart racing as Melitta's breath caught in her throat. True, no man had ever touched her feet before, but her body reacted as if this was more than just a touch. Melitta prayed he didn't notice the strange effect he had on her.
He slid the second boot on as easily as the first, then urged her to stand and walk. She obeyed, marvelling at the softness of the leather around her foot, though the sole was thicker than she was used to. More practical than what she'd worn around the castle, though of no less quality. George might not have made these boots, but he had commissioned them, and he was a good enough shoemaker to know what was best. Yes, the fit was perfect.
"Thank you," she said again, trying to emphasise how much she meant it.
"My pleasure, my lady." George clambered to his feet. "Shall I help you with your armour, too, to make sure that fits as well?"
Melitta wanted to protest that she was perfectly capable of dressing herself, but she'd never donned armour before, and George had been so familiar with his own. So, she nodded.
Together, they lifted the surprisingly heavy garment over her head and settled it around her hips. He smoothed the leather across her back as she cinched the buckle around her waist. A little too tight, she realised, as she tried and failed to reach for the shoulder straps. Melitta hurried to loosen the belt.
George's breath was warm on the back of her neck. "Allow me, my lady."
She suppressed a shiver at the sound. She wasn't cold, she wasn't afraid…so why was she reacting so strangely?
George's hands smoothed the straps over her shoulders, then, one by one, he fastened the buckles on either side of her collarbone to keep the armour in place.
"George…" Her voice sounded so breathless Melitta barely recognised it. Was it just her, or did his hands linger on her for just a moment? It was hard to tell beneath the layers of wool and leather. Perhaps it was the memory of his touch that lingered.
"Yes, my lady?" He stepped around her, then stood before her, his eyes taking in every detail. From the curve of his lips, she believed he either liked what he saw or he was trying not to laugh.
Melitta longed for a mirror, but even the best room in the inn had no such luxury. So, she did as she always had on such occasions – she bit her lip and slipped into someone else's eyes to see what she looked like.
Warmth engulfed her, as passionate as a lover's embrace. "A true goddess, a goddess of war," George's voice rumbled, though his lips never moved. In that moment, Melitta felt like the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, and loved like…like the way King Erik worshipped his queen.
Gasping, Melitta withdrew back into her own head, grasping the table to stop herself from stumbling over her own feet. Some goddess, she thought angrily. "What do you think?" she asked George.
Adoration still warmed his eyes, but his tone was more businesslike than his thoughts. "It fits," he said. "What does it feel like?"
Like she wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, Melitta thought. No, those were his thoughts, not hers, she scolded herself. "It feels fine," she said.
His expression softened, as though he could read her mind and the stray thoughts she struggled to suppress. "You look very fine."
Melitta's mouth was dry as she once again found it hard to breathe. The armour, her fuzzy mind told her. It must still be fastened too tight. If she unbuckled it, then she wouldn't feel so lightheaded. Or hot. Yes, she was too hot in all these clothes. They must come off.
Her mind slipped effortlessly into George's head, and his thoughts echoed hers. Clothes. Off. Certainly…