Hot Summer's Knight (11 page)

Esme held a finger to his lips.  “I know it seems impossible, but I’ve heard of this before.  Sometimes, when something so dreadful happens to someone they cannot bear it, God in His mercy takes away their memories.  I believe this is what happened to Berenice.

“She told me today she wouldn’t let her husband touch her on their wedding night, because she couldn’t.  She doesn’t know
why
she couldn’t.”

“But the sheets!  I know what happened as well as you do, but I thought the sheets proved everything had gone as planned.”

“That’s what I’d believed too, until today.  I knew there wouldn’t be any blood on the wedding night – Heaven knows Fulk took more than his fair share from the girl.  I’d given her a little dagger before we all left her in the bridal chamber, and I told her to make sure there was something on the sheets to show everyone the next morning.  I thought she’d understood what I meant.”

Esme took a deep breath.  “Today she told me she cut herself accidentally that night.  It wasn’t to pretend she’d been intact.  I don’t know what went on!” 

She cried a little, nestling into William’s shoulder.

William stroked her back.  “Well, we knew back then all was not right with the marriage, didn’t we?  The last time our friend downstairs was here he spent most of his nights in the bed he’s sleeping in now.”

“My love, when the letter comes from the bishop, Odo’ll send her to St.  Bernadette’s to be examined.  Can you imagine how humiliated she’ll feel, how mortified, when they say she’s not a virgin?”

William swore again.  “You’re right, Esme.  The poor Lady!”

“What can we do, Will?  We can’t give her back her memories.  I wouldn’t even if I could.  You know what she was like when you found them, her clothes were all torn and bloody.  The bruises on her thighs and breasts took weeks to fade - I know, I was the one who bathed her.  And to think, she wasn’t yet sixteen years old!  She barely spoke a word for weeks, the poor child, and when she did, she never talked about what had happened.

“The old Lord, he thought he was doing his best for her, keeping everything a secret and marrying her off to Sir Huon as soon as possible.  It would have broken his and her Lady mother’s heart to have seen Berenice married to the Count.”

“I’ll talk to Odo,” said William, “I’ll go tomorrow.  Perhaps the letter hasn’t been sent yet.  Perhaps it’s not too late.”

“Thanks, my love.”  She kissed him.  His hand moved around to her breast, and his thumb caressed her nipple.  She murmured his name into their kiss.  Their bodies molded together, as they had many times before.  Eventually, they slept.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

William slipped out of the castle early the next day.  When he returned soon after the noon hour, Esme could tell from his face the news was not good.  They retreated to the upper room of his house, where they could be sure of not being overheard.

“Did you see the Abbot?” asked Esme.

“I saw him.  He listened to everything I told him.”

“And?”

“It’s one of the few times I’ve seen Odo without, at the very least, a smile.  I’d swear he was a shade paler by the time I’d told him the story.”

“He hadn’t known about the rape, then.”

“No.  His father hadn’t told him, and he’d never queried why the wedding plans were changed.”

“The letter, Will, has he already sent the letter to the bishop?”

“Yes, it’s gone.”  William sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.  “Berenice convinced him so completely he wrote and sent the letter with all haste.  One of the brothers has already left for the bishop’s palace.”

“Can’t he stop him?  Or write another letter, telling the bishop it was all a mistake?”

“No.  He explained why, but I’ll admit I don’t understand it all.  Church politics,” he sighed.  “It seems Odo’s relationship with the bishop is cordial, but strained.  If Odo retracted the letter, it could do untold damage in other ways.”

“Oh no!” Esme cried.  She sank onto the bed next to William.  Turning to him, she said, “Will, what about Gareth!  If we could convince him to declare himself, to admit he’s the Lady’s husband…”

“What, and tell him he was duped, all those years ago?  That his pure, young wife wasn’t as pure as he’d been led to believe?”

“Oh, of course.  I hadn’t thought.”  Esme’s shoulders sagged in defeat.  “Then there’s no hope.”

“Odo said the bishop may well reject the Lady’s request, and so there won’t be a problem.  If he doesn’t, Odo’s promised he’ll talk to the prioress at St.  Bernadette’s before Berenice goes there.”

Esme sighed, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“He said we must wait.  We have no choice.”

“We don’t, do we.”

William put an arm around Esme’s shoulders, and drew her to him.

“We’ve done everything we can, pet, for now.  All we can do is wait.”

And so they waited, through the rest of June and all of July and into August, dreading the arrival of a messenger.

Throughout that long, hot summer, many people in the valley were waiting for one thing or another, just as the land waited for rain.

Jessamine constantly found ways to remind Gareth of her presence, waiting for him to succumb to her charms and come to her.  Eventually she was reduced to following him around, from a distance of course, sure she’d discover her rival that way.

To her great frustration, her plan didn’t seem to be working.  Gareth talked to many people in the castle, from the Lady downwards, but none seemed to hold his attention in the way a lover would.

For Gareth, the summer was all too short.  He’d found out the fair was held in mid August, after the summer fruits and vegetables were harvested, before the grain was brought in.

Without Berenice knowing, he and William had been training men-at-arms.  Extra men had been brought in from the villages, given the rudiments of fighting, and sent home to teach the rest.  They’d made good progress so far.  When the day of the fair arrived they’d be able to rely on twenty or so men at least, instead of William’s usual half a dozen.

William and Gareth had debated long and fiercely about the training.  William had wanted Berenice to know; he didn’t like going behind her back.  Gareth wanted as few people to know as possible.  He didn’t want the Count being warned, and, more importantly, he didn’t want Berenice frightened.  There was an outside chance he’d been wrong; perhaps he’d misheard or misunderstood the two men in Bordeaux.  He was sure he hadn’t, but he argued there was no sense in frightening her unnecessarily.

The castle’s defenses had been in a sorry state when he’d arrived.  Berenice knew the defenses were important, but it was an area where she’d little expertise.

At first Gareth had relayed his requests through William, until Berenice had worked out that some of the more original suggestions were coming from another source.  She’d sent a message through William for Gareth to bring his ideas directly to her.  Now Berenice and Gareth often sat in the shade of the walnut tree in the courtyard, discussing the affairs of the castle and the valley.

At the very least she was going to end up with a safe haven for her people, and of that she thoroughly approved.

Berenice was waiting too.  She wanted to go back to Odo, to ask him if he’d heard from the bishop.  No word had come.  For weeks she’d been keeping Gareth at arm’s length, making sure she was never alone with him.  When music came from the great hall, she stayed in her room.  When he set off for his morning bath in the river, she stayed in the castle.

She enjoyed their conversations.  His ideas, derived partly from his observations and experiences on his travels, and partly from his own calculations, were interesting and varied.  She found herself asking his opinion on a wide range of topics, from the irrigation of the gardens to the dispensing of justice in the small court she conducted once a month.  The more she talked to him, the more she was convinced he had to be of noble birth.

The only topics forbidden between them were his origins, and her marriage.

Late one afternoon she left the castle and headed for one of her favorite places in all the valley, a rocky spur protruding from the surrounding ranges.  At its summit it was probably three hundred feet high, but about two thirds of the way up there was a ledge, a stone balcony, where she’d go to sit and think. 

From there she could look out over the castle, to the dense forest on the other side of the river.  To the north was the mill and the brothers’ monastery, and spread out around her were the fields, laid out like strips of fabric waiting to be sewn together.  Southwards she could see the spire of the church at Pontville, and far in the distance, rising above the surrounding trees, were the stark towers and battlements of the Count’s castle.

Although they were close neighbors, she hadn’t seen the Count since she was a child.  Her father had not been on good terms with him, although luckily their enmity had never developed into war.  The Count hadn’t even attended her father’s funeral, or her wedding, many years before.

She’d heard about him, of course.  Many of her people had family who lived further down the valley.  They told her how harshly he treated his serfs, demanding his days of labor due no matter what the circumstances, imposing harsh fines and punishments on those who didn’t comply.  She shuddered, despite the fine day.  She couldn’t understand treating people badly, no matter what their status.

William had told her the Count hunted in the forest across the river, even though he was not entitled to.  The guardianship of the forest had been entrusted to her family by the King, but Berenice was not about to start a dispute for the sake of a stag or two.

The rocky ledge was carpeted with moss, and shaded from the afternoon sun.  It wasn’t more than ten feet deep at the most, and it meandered for a dozen yards along the face of the cliff.  To reach it, she’d taken a path which wound around the back of the bluff, and through the trees.  She suspected other people might sometimes come here, but she’d never seen anyone, and it was special to her, a secret she’d never shared.

She’d come to this place often as a child, when she wanted to escape the obligations and duties of castle life.  She came here now to admire the changes the summer had brought to the valley.

From here she could see the water wheel, powered by a patiently trudging donkey, bringing water from the river to the vegetable gardens and orchards.  She smiled when she remembered organizing the digging of the irrigation trenches.  She and Gareth had ended up with more mud on themselves than any of the valley children.

At the castle, the parapets had been repaired.  The gates were now closed every evening at sunset, and opened every morning at dawn.  The new covered way stretched from the kitchen to the hall.  It would be extended soon, but meanwhile, there were so many other things for the carpenter and his family to do they’d been taken away from that task.  Berenice was thinking of asking them to stay on.

She could smell wood smoke from the smithy and the kitchen fires.  A gentle breeze brought the scent of hay almost ready to be cut, and the fresh tang of the forest.

Sounds filtered up to her – the clank of the water wheel, the tap of a hammer, the bell-like tones of the smith at work, a laugh, a call, a cry.  The castle hummed with activity, like a bee hive.  The place had an air of prosperity, and peace, and safety.

Everything ran as it should.  The credit, she knew, was not entirely her own.  Gareth’s wise counsel, his judgment, and his knowledge had turned this long, hot, dry summer into a time of abundance rather than the disaster it could so easily have become.  She was sure when the bishop’s letter finally came and her marriage was officially ended, Gareth would make a fine Lord, standing by her side.

There was only one problem, and she was hoping it was a small one.  She’d never seen him bear arms.  Had he once been a knight?  In order to be her Lord, the Lord of the valley, he would have to be.  Her older brother had been dubbed when he was fourteen; she didn’t know if it were even possible to dub someone who was older.

Indulging in a rare moment of fantasy, she plucked a long blade of grass from its tussock amongst the rocks.  Next she positioned her feet and extended her arm as though the blade of grass were a sword.  This game she’d played often as a child, when she would imitate her brothers.  Right now
she
was the Lord of this valley; she would defend it against all invaders.

“Looking for a jousting partner, my Lady?”

The voice was rich, and smooth, and deep.

Gareth plucked his own grass sword.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You startled me, Gareth,” she answered, lowering her make-believe sword.

“My apologies, my Lady,” he bowed, “now, you wish to fight?”

This was the moment she’d been waiting for.  Did he know how to wield a sword?  It had been many years since her brothers had taught her to handle a wooden practice sword, but, once learned, it was a skill not easily forgotten.

“We have no mounts for jousting,” she stalled, still uncertain, embarrassed at being caught out in her childhood game.

“Then we’ll have to use our swords,” he answered, saluting her with his weapon.  “Hand-to-hand combat, instead.”

“So be it.”  She challenged, “fight me then!” edging her way forward, reaching out with her grass blade.

He answered her challenge with a slash of his own blade.  She retaliated, almost reaching his arm.  He was taller and had a longer reach, but she was faster on her feet and more agile.

She darted in closer, slashing at the unscarred side of his face.  He responded, but she stepped back lightly, avoiding his lunge.

Then she closed in again, aiming for his heart.  Her grass blade was blocked, then freed.

“You nearly had me there,” said Gareth, leaning back, out of her reach.  His blade came in and up, under her guard.  Before she quite knew what had happened, the tip, heavy headed with summer seed, brushed her throat.

“I believe I’ve won,” he smiled, “do you yield?”