A Knight’s Enchantment (12 page)

He held up a warning hand. “Wait.” He stalked off to the left, crouching to enter a cottage, retrieving or being handed something and then returning. “We shall need this.”

He showed her a wicker beehive, shrouded over in dark cloth. Hugh studied this a moment and then repinned the cloth. “They have forgotten to leave an opening,” he muttered. “The little beasts must flee somewhere.”

When he had finished the beehive was closed off apart from a narrow opening on its side. He patted his belt, seemingly checking the pouch that was there, and looked round at her.

“Will you bring me a basin of hot water, please? The elder’s house will doubtless have one ready. That’s the house with the biggest garden.”

“Elder? Not Sir Yves’s man?”

“He died last year. My father and his officers have forgotten this place for now: it never brought in much goods or money to him.”

Would Hugh be any different, if he was their lord? Joanna found herself hoping that he would be fairer as she sped around the rows of beans and peas in a well-tended vegetable plot, aiming for another open door. There she discovered a wooden basin of steaming water already waiting for her on the threshold. She squinted but could see nothing except the central fire in the elder’s house: whatever folk were inside, they were hidden under the low eaves.

She nursed the basin into her hands, whispered, “Thank you!” and returned by a different way, climbing through a patch of sage and rosemary toward a small gate that marked an entrance to the churchyard. Moving steadily so as not to slop the water, she walked to the porch.

Hugh was there already, spreading the sheet directly beneath the swarm, weighting it with pebbles. He gave her a swift smile, his eyes glowing, and the lean chiseled planes of his face seeming to soften a moment as he took the basin from her. Setting it on the beaten earth floor beside the sheet, he dropped several pieces of a dark, thick, heavy-looking substance into the hot water, stirring it vigorously with a twig.

“That is sugar, is it not?” Joanna knelt for a closer look. Rare sugar, more costly than pepper, was a thing she had heard of, but not seen.

“I filched it from my father’s private store. He will not notice.”

Joanna rather thought Sir Yves would but said nothing: she was too interested in what Hugh was about.

“The sugar will tempt them. Out of their hive and safety, they will be hungry.” He added some clear water from a flask, to cool it, then began flicking the swarm with the sugar water, spraying the mass all over.

The humming increased and the swarm seemed to flex itself like a dark fist, but it remained whole. A few solitary bees broke away but Hugh motioned Joanna to stay down and he himself kept still, allowing one bee to crawl along his arm and another to meander across his forehead. For herself, Joanna was full of horrors, imagining him stung in the eyes, but he remained quiet and motionless and the bees whisked off him.

“Now it begins,” he whispered. “If you stay in the shadow by the church door behind the swarm, they will not see or trouble you. The sun is nicely bright and shining where I would have it, on the sheet, so we are ready.”

“But what can I do?” Joanna asked as Hugh stretched up, very slowly, toward the narrow timber bisecting the porch roof that the swarm had settled on.

“Watch that the sheet does not flap—if it does, weigh it down more. And pray for us, Joanna: me and the bees. Whisper out when you see one greater in size; that is the leader, the one we need to lure into the new hive.”

The shroud-covered wicker hive was laid on its side with its opening facing upward, toward the swarm. In a moment of inspiration, Joanna scattered some sugar water about its shady entrance.

“Good, good!” Hugh gripped one of the two upright beams of the porch and swarmed up it as if it were a rope, kicking a hole in the wattle by mistake as he climbed. With his long legs wrapped tight about the upright and his upper body blending with the thatch, he leaned out over the narrow roof space like an avenging god, above the pulsing swarm.

“Let it go well,” Joanna prayed, chanting an ancient alchemical saying in her mind as she spotted a ripple in the sheet and rapidly pinned it down.

Above her she heard the roof creaking and complaining as Hugh vigorously shook the narrow beam from which the swarm hung like some giant, rotting fruit. She looked up to see the whole mass tumble down onto the white dazzle of the cloth, the angry song of the bees now drilling into her ears. Her neck bones crunched as she jerked her head back farther and saw Hugh alive with bees. They rippled over his arms and torso like some terrible necklace, and the sound they made in the closed-in porch seemed deafening.

Yet, astonishingly, they were not stinging him. They clung to him and moved over him as if he were another branch; a place of safety. Then when he gave the lightest of shakes, as if he were a branch tossing in the breeze, they too spiraled off, downward toward the sheet.

“There!” Joanna hissed, amazed, as she saw the long, slow-moving leader of the bees, its entourage tight about as the great bee, seeking new shelter, flew magisterially down the inviting opening of the new hive. After it, obedient as courtiers, the other bees followed in flowing procession.

Soon, amazingly quickly it seemed to Joanna, the whole swarm was snug in their new home and Hugh was carefully righting the wicker hive. He turned to her then, still kneeling, his face peaceful, as if in sleep.

“Hugh?” She was reluctant to disturb his calm, but he shook his head, seeming to return to himself as he rubbed his fingers through his fine black hair, sending it this way and that.

“Thank you,” he told her.

“I did nothing.”

“You stayed with me, you helped, you did not break away in panic. I have known warriors who would not have done as much; not when faced by bees.”

Without thinking, she reached across and touched his forehead where the bees had wandered. “Pollen,” she said, as an excuse, brushing aimlessly.

He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “Shall we meet the village?”

The villagers were shy of her at first but not wary of Hugh at all. The men stalked up and shook his hand. The women egged on a stout matron in a checked head-rail to thread her way from the back of the small gaggles standing in the churchyard and plant a kiss on his bristly cheek. Everyone nodded at her when Hugh introduced her as “my lady Joanna,” but swiftly returned their attention to him, the hero of the hour.

The new wicker hive and its bees were slowly carried off by two men on an old door, with Hugh strolling beside them, his fingers clasping hers. Joanna knew that to onlookers it would seem a gesture of courtesy and perhaps it was, but it also ensured she did not wander off.

Hand in hand they walked the length of the churchyard, the children straggling along behind in mock procession, seeming to play a game of king, queen, and court. Most of the village remained in the grassy yard and were soon busy erecting trestles and bringing out benches and stools from their homes.

“Is it a holy day here, for your local saint?” Joanna asked Hugh, glancing over her shoulder at the activity behind them. Although churches throughout England were said to be closed, such festivals still went on.

“May-time, when we dance, when there is time to dance,” Hugh said. He gave her a warm, admiring look that brought fresh heat to her face. “I look forward to your dance, my lady.”

“I will dance with every man in the village,” Joanna warned provocatively.

Hugh’s smile broadened. “Even old Henri, with his two walking sticks?”

“Yes, if he—”

Joanna broke off as the men in front of them stumbled slightly on the track leading to the hives standing in a garden enclosed by a low stone wall. The bees in the new wicker hive thrummed like the strings of an out-of-tune harp and a few flew out.

Hugh made the sign of the cross above the hive and murmured something to the bees. The low throbbing died away at once and the men were able to slide the wicker hive carefully off their carrying platform and onto a stand of turf. The two villagers remained a moment, standing alongside the hive, as Hugh slowly circled it, chanting softly under his breath.

“What were you saying?” Joanna asked as the villagers left, bearing away the door.

Hugh pointed to the other hives. “I was telling all the bees that here was their new home and here were their neighbors. Bees are all as curious as cats and want to know what is happening, like women.”

Joanna ignored the jibe. She watched the few scout bees return to the hive.

“Sit with me.” Hugh spread his cloak upon the beaten earth of the stone pen. “It is warm and snug here and the folk will be a while yet, fetching their drink and victuals.”

She wanted to sit with him in this sunlight spot, listening to the distant sport of children and cheerful clatter of preparation, but there was always her deadline. “Should we not be returning to the castle?”

“You will need to try the ale here,” Hugh remarked, as if she had not spoken. “It is potent stuff.”

Drink and a festival. People happy, people carefree; Hugh careless: Joanna saw the chances in a flash. She had the gold from Orri’s hoard with her, sewn into the hems of her long oversleeves with the laundress’s needle and thread. She might escape.

And if you do, what happens to Hugh’s brother?

“Have you any word from the Templars?” she asked, hoping he would say yes.

Hugh shook his head. He sat down on the ground beside the cloak.

After a moment, Joanna joined him, sitting on the cloak. It was something of Hugh’s and she was glad to have use of it. She rubbed her hand along the fur collar and absently brought her fingers up to her lips, inhaling his scent.

“Bees are said to be chaste creatures, but I do not think so.”

Joanna’s eyes flew open. Hugh was watching the hive, not her, and for an instant she was disappointed. “Why not?” she asked. She could not escape now, she thought, and there was no harm in being civil. Indeed, she and Hugh had gone much further in each other’s company than mere civility. She felt she was beginning to know him, the real Hugh beneath the grim knight, and he was a man she liked. He dealt with the villagers here not as slaves, as Bishop Thomas would have done, but as people worthy of respect. He was kind, and that was a virtue worthy of admiration.

“You cannot say why not,” she added. He would stand being teased, too.

“Is that a challenge, my lady?”

“If you would make it so,” she quipped, feeling her heartbeat quicken.

“Then I would answer you that bees are lovers of sun and sweet flowers and live in great noisy colonies. I think they are seekers after pleasure.”

“Scholars would not agree.” Joanna smiled as Beowulf flopped beside her and dropped his large head into her lap. She was used to him now, too.

“The hound likes you.”

“I like him.” She ran her hand over the wolfhound’s coat, treacherously imagining it was Hugh’s hard, long body. “Will you tell me more of bees?”

She was interested, she told herself. All lore was useful. It had nothing to do with talking with Hugh and definitely nothing to do with sitting here, in this quiet, private spot, their backs resting comfortably against sun-baked stones.

He told her of bees, of collecting bees by “moving” their homes—if they had swarmed into a log, say—out of the forest and into a garden. How they looked like gold, dusted with pollen, flying back to their hives in the midday sun. How they were as loyal as warriors. How, if you allowed them to walk over you, they tickled.

“Only one such as you would allow that, I think,” Joanna observed, leaning back and stretching.

Hugh fought not to stare at her breasts. She was a bee herself: a hard worker, seeking the heart of things, and when she smiled that way she made all his senses fly.

“I think it is time for the dance,” he said. “I can hear the piper and drummer starting up.”

In truth he could hear neither yet, but if need be he would get the folk clapping their hands and whistling, so that he could dance with her.

He rose and held out his hands, gladdened when she took them without hesitation. “Their honey is a kind of gold,” he went on, deliberately intriguing.

He loved it when she tilted her head up to peep at him through those long, dark lashes. He loved the interest and keenness in her eyes.

“How so, my knight?”

Ah, my knight.
He felt a bee himself, drenched in honeydew. She was as potent as mead, and far sweeter. How had he ever thought her otherwise?

He squeezed her finger slightly, yearning to touch more of her.

“Let us dance first,” he said, praying she would agree.

She nodded and the blood hummed merrily in his ears, louder than the bee swarm. This intensity was new to him—was it also for her? Did she feel the same?

She was swishing along beside him, her long skirts rustling like fallen leaves. She was in red again, with blue sleeves, gaudy as a kingfisher. She was studying the village: the tidy garden plots, the small, neat thatched houses, the sturdy church. Seeking a way to escape, he guessed. Why did she have to be his hostage? Why had his idiot brother fallen into the clutches of his unholiness, the bishop of West Sarum?
Her lover.

Hugh fought down the black anger that swirled in his chest, piercing him through, as hard a crossbow bolt. Suddenly he wanted to be away, fighting, smashing his lance into helmed knights who fought for Thomas.

“Would you ever wish to live in a place like this?”

Her question doused the black rage. He heard the slight catch in her voice—regret? desire?—and answered truthfully, “When I was a lad I would hang around the farriers, helping them with the horses. I often thought then that had I not been a knight, I would have been a smith, perhaps in a village like this one.”

“I can see you as one,” Joanna replied. “For sure you are hearty enough. How would I fare in this place, you think?”

He heard a faint clicking noise and realized she was clenching her teeth: perhaps she felt she had given away too much, or asked too much? Did she fear his mockery?

“Well, you are not yet a crone, so you could not be a wise-woman,” he began, grinning as she glowered. “But as a cook, why not?”

“A cook?”

“A baker. You are used to furnaces.”

She smiled, unconsciously swinging her hand in his. “Would we do well?”

Relishing the “we” Hugh said, “In certain seasons, yes. The winters would be hard, but then the dark and cold of the year is hard for everyone.”

“My mother loved the snows. Did you and David play snowballs when you were boys?”

Be wary here.
Hugh sensed a past that was less than happy. Two months ago, before he had met Joanna, he might have asked her directly about her mother, but now he appreciated subtlety and tact. Joanna would tell him when she was ready.

“Every moment we could. And throwing stones, like the young ones here.”

“Older ones, too.” Joanna raised their clasped hands, pointing her fingers at the churchyard. A row of men were throwing rocks the size of a man’s fist into the road beyond, while the women arranged trenchers of cheese, salad, and dried fish on the tables.

Hugh decided he would join in the rock throwers but, as he and Joanna strolled into the churchyard, he heard the distinctive wail of pipes. The drummers and pipers had finally brought out their instruments, and the dance would soon be beginning.

She had never danced but she would. If Hugh faced down warriors without flinching, she would master this slippery maze of steps. Joanna held her head high and stepped out as his lady, their hands scarcely touching as they weaved and circled.

It was a carol dance, round and round with the women and men of the village, all laughing and gasping and in their brightest holiday clothes, sometimes linking hands with those beside them, sometimes breaking from the circle and weaving through the other dancers like a shuttle. Hugh clasped her hand throughout, going with her on her swaying progress, not releasing her fingers even when the other men slapped their thighs in time to the beat of the drum. He was the tallest and best made of the company, with the blackest hair, the bluest eyes.

“You like?” he called as the dance became a spiral, winding down to a single point where all became huddled in a tight embrace.

She laughed at him in answer, flicking her skirts and kicking up her heels. At the rim of her eye-line she noticed the village priest standing in the church porch, arms folded and frowning, but then he too was drawn into the festival by an old man giving him a tall beaker of beer. The other villagers were like herself: wide-eyed and smiling, sneaking little glances at Hugh.

Then the dance flung her against him, to a thumping of drumbeats and her pounding heart. He was a tower, a donjon, but living, with his own racing heart that she could feel as her hand came to rest against his chest.

“Up we go!” He lifted her out of the tight mass into his arms and high into the air, above the heads of the smirking villagers. Avoiding the children who had slammed into the group to join the fun, he carried her away from the dance.

“I wish to go on!” she protested, but not too loudly and she did not struggle. Not with others watching; that would be unseemly.

“I saw you licking your lips, my lady. I thought a mug of ale.” His eyes challenged her to contradict him, so naturally she did not.

“That will be welcome. Thank you.” She inclined her head and, because it was more comfortable and she did not wish to see the knowing looks of the village matrons, she rested her flushed cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes as she breathed in his scent.

The day slipped away in music and dance. Sometimes she and Hugh rested and he would serve her with ale or small pieces of fish and cheese, whatever she fancied. He introduced her to the elders of the village and the richest widow of the village, who patted Joanna’s cheek and called her a lucky girl. As the afternoon drew on, the ale became beer, then mead. The priest was scowling again and she had no doubt that if his church had been open, he would have preached a fearsome sermon the following Sunday. She said as much to Hugh, who grinned.

“No matter, even if our king and pope make peace, for we shall be away from here by then. Ah—they are bringing the sweet things. Will you have something?”

It amused her to discover that he had so sweet a tooth. “Surprise me,” she said, sitting for a moment on one of the stools ranged round the churchyard for just that purpose and listening to the drone of chatter and bees as the musicians also took a rest. It was only when Hugh was returning from the newly laden trestle table with a tray of tiny sweet flans, stewed cherries, and other delicacies that she realized she had lost a chance to slip away.

She had forgotten to escape.

Hugh drank from another cup of mead, seeing the sunset reflected in its golden depths. He passed the cup to Joanna, who took a sip. “I thought the villagers would be abed by now,” she remarked.

“Not at May-time. They will dance past moonrise and beyond.”

“Not all.”

Hugh too had noted the steady exodus of couples from the dancing floor and could hear the whisperings in the nearby houses and hedges. “Do you wish to leave? If we do not go now, we will be best to wait for sunrise: the road is unfit to travel at night.”

She did not contradict his lie about the road but shook her head. “May I see the bees again? I wish to see how they bed down.” Her eyes sparkled with more than the mead. “You did promise to tell me more of bee lore, and I think we have time.”

The dance had stopped again, while one of the drummers had gone off to be sick in a garden—all the musicians were by now very drunk.

He nodded—he did not want to speak lest he say something that made her change her mind. As couples had done earlier, they left the churchyard by the small wicker gate, stepping out in the direction of the setting sun.

They strolled hand in hand, then arm in arm, Hugh feeling the whole of his right side tingling because that side was closest to Joanna. She remarked on a primrose growing out of the side of a stone wall and he encouraged her to touch the moss and lichen garlanding the wall top, imagining her fingers gliding through his body hair as teasingly as they did over the mosses. From far off, he heard the piper start up again, a straggling series of notes, more wail than tune, and knew from her small smile that Joanna had heard it, too.