Hot Summer's Knight (13 page)

The sound of approaching horses raised her spirits, then dashed them again.  It could be bandits; no honest person would travel this late at night.  Hurriedly slipping her sandals back on, she ducked into the trees.

She wasn’t fast enough.

“Who’s there?” boomed a voice.  “Come out, now!”

Three mounted men looked down at her as she re-emerged from the bushes.  They wore similar garments in red and gold, with a device in black worked onto the left shoulders of their tunics.  Guards from the castle, Jessamine thought.

“A tasty little piece,” muttered one of the men.  She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she didn’t fancy the tone of his voice.

“Enough!” said the man with the booming voice.  The mutterer lapsed into silence.  In the waning light she could tell the leader was a big man, far larger than either of the other two.

“What’re you doing here, girl?  This is no place for a woman, alone at night.”  His tone was not unkind.  He was also the biggest and the strongest, so he was clearly the one most worthy of her attention.

In her best lost-little-girl voice she said, “I’m going to the castle, kind sir, but I seem to have lost my way.”

“To the castle?  To Freycinet?”

“No, not there,” she pointed in the direction she believed the larger castle to be, “To that one.”

“You’re going to Betizac?”  The leader sounded amazed, and the two smaller men chuckled.  “Why?”

Her patience, and her act, were wearing thin.  “What d’you mean, why?  I need food, and a place to sleep, of course.”

“You’ll find a place to sleep aw’right,” she heard the mutterer say, “lookin’ like you do.”

“Is the Count expecting you?” asked the leader.

Jessamine had liked the idea of a Count when her mother had mentioned him.  “Yes,” she lied, “yes, he is.”  Perhaps he was young and handsome.  Judging from the size of the castle and the men’s livery, he was definitely wealthy.  The men-at-arms at Freycinet never wore livery.

She smoothed the folds of her dress with her hands.  “You’d better take me to him.”

The leader dismounted.  “You ride, I’ll lead the horse.”

As he helped her to mount, his gaze searched her face as though trying to make out her features, but the light was nearly gone.  Grunting, he turned his attention to leading the horse.

The small convoy set off for the Count’s castle.  In the near darkness, Jessamine wondered how the three men could make out their way.  Soon enough, the lights of Betizac came into view.

The lights were the first remarkable thing.  At Freycinet they’d been restricted to a few meager rush lights in the evenings.  Even the Lady rarely used more than a single taper.  Here torches blazed in iron sconces, guiding them through the arched entrance, under a spiked portcullis and into a courtyard.

The entrance alone would have awed Jessamine, a far cry from the simple wooden gates of Freycinet.  Many of the castles she’d seen in her family’s travels were made as much of timber as stone, built on convenient hills, or the bends of rivers.  This one was dressed stone, all of it, rising up many stories.

People were everywhere, coming and going, moving purposefully, clearly working even at this hour.  At Freycinet, everyone would have still been sitting around the dinner table.

“It
is
you,” said the man with the booming voice, “I thought, back in the forest, but I couldn’t be sure.  I can’t believe it after all this time!”

Jessamine almost groaned out loud.  As though she’d conjured him up out of her memory, the English knight of Aix-la-Chapelle was holding her horse’s harness.  She remembered him well enough now.  They’d had to leave in the middle of the night to escape him.  He’d wanted to marry her and take them all back to England to live.

England!  As if she would!  Everyone knew England was cold and damp and it rained all the time.  She couldn’t remember his name, but she knew it was something barbaric.

“They call me Gilbert now,” he went on, “I stayed in France after I lost you, and I changed my name.”  He lifted her down from his horse.  “Jessamine, you can’t stay here.  If the Count sees you…”  He searched her face, “do you really know the Count, girl?”

“Of course I do!”

“Don’t lie to me, I need to know.  I can get you away from here before he finds out you’re even in the castle.”

“Why?  Why would I want to do that?  What’s wrong with him, anyway?  Is he leprous or something?”

“No, hardly that.  His disease is of the mind, not the body,” he whispered, “listen to me, Jessamine, let me help you escape from here.  The Count’s not the sort of person you’d enjoy meeting, believe me.”  Gilbert kept his voice low, but they were beginning to attract attention, standing as they were, just the two of them in the centre of the courtyard.  One of the men had taken the horses away, and the other had made himself scarce.

Jessamine glared at Gilbert, and drew herself up to her full height.  Only this afternoon she’d made the decision to leave her family behind.  She didn’t need this self-appointed guardian.

“What gives you the right to set yourself up as my keeper?  You’re not my brother, or my father, or, thank God, my husband!”

A third voice joined their conversation.

“Well said, young woman, well said.  Now, my captain, who have you brought me?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gilbert and Jessamine both turned to face the newcomer.  Gilbert bowed deeply, and following his lead, Jessamine dropped into the best curtsey she’d ever performed.  She knew even Martha would have been proud of her at that moment.

“Come, child, show yourself to me.”

A heavily ringed hand reached down, and raised her from the ground.

“Hmmm,” his eyes roamed over her, from her uncombed hair to her dusty toes in their sandals, showing beneath the hem of her dress.

“Gilbert,” said the Count, coming to a decision, “have her seen to, and bring her to me.”

“Yes, my Lord Count.”  The words seemed to stick in Gilbert’s throat.

The Count stalked off towards the keep.  Jessamine gorged herself on the sight of his well-muscled thighs and broad shoulders.  In the light of the torches, his hair was blue black, and he wore it oiled and brushed back from his face.  His dark garments were all velvet and brocaded silk.  Even his high leather boots were gleaming and black.

He wasn’t as handsome or as young as she’d hoped, but then, he wasn’t too ugly either.  His lips were thin, and his nose was long and hooked, like the beak of a bird of prey.  Nothing she couldn’t put up with, and mature men had their advantages.

Jessamine smiled.  Things weren’t turning out too badly after all.

“You won’t be smiling like that after he’s had his hands on you,” Gilbert growled.

“And why not?  You’re just jealous.  You just want me for yourself,” she snapped back.

“Yes, I’m jealous.  I was your first lover, Jessamine.  I would’ve married you and taken you home with me, but I didn’t rank highly enough for you, did I?  I wasn’t rich enough, I didn’t have the name of a castle or a county next to mine.

“Well, be warned girl, you’ll wish you’d never set foot in this place.  The Count’s not going to give you what you want.”

“Oh, is that so!  It’s been a long time since that field outside Aix-la-Chapelle, Sir Peter,” she stressed the ‘Sir’, “and I’m not fifteen any more either.  Perhaps I know men a little better now.  Perhaps I know how to handle them.”

“No-one ‘handles’ the Count, girl.  Don’t fool yourself.  But now, for the sake of us all, I’ve been ordered to take you to him.  Do you have a change of clothes?”

“No, I…”

“The women’ll find you a clean dress.  Come.”

Gilbert took her to a room near the kitchens.  There was hot water for washing in, and a red dress which was too tight around the bosom, and very low in the neckline, even for her.  The tightness pushed her breasts up so the tops of them showed, all the way to the crests of her pink nipples.

“It’s how the Count likes it,” she was told.

They left her feet bare.

“It’s how the Count likes it,” they repeated.

Her hair was brushed, and left hanging down her back.  She wanted to braid it, thinking it would make her look older, but was told not to.

“I know,” she said, “it’s how the Count likes it.”  The Count certainly had ways of making sure his commands were obeyed, she thought.

Gilbert came for her, and escorted her up a long, uneven flight of stairs.  Near the top he knocked on a heavy, iron-bound door.

“Enter!”

Gilbert opened the door for her.  He didn’t come into the room, just nodded his head to indicate she was to go in.  She heard the clunk of the door as he closed it behind her.

What if he were right?  What if the Count proved to be different to all the others?  For a moment she was afraid, but the spell of the room wiped out her fear.

There were candles burning everywhere.  After the gloom of the stairs, lit only by Gilbert’s blazing brand, it was nearly as bright as day.

The bed was covered in furs, despite the summer heat.  She knew all about furs; after all, she’d craved them through many a long, cold winter’s night.  A lover had once told her their names and their qualities, and she recognized them here – fox and marten, hare and cony, mink and the softest new lamb.

On the stone flagged floor Persian carpets lay in dazzling hues of red and blue and gold.  Tapestries showing hunting scenes covered the walls.

Even without the Count’s invitation, she could not have turned away from this room.  He was sitting in a carved, high backed chair, next to a table.  He was watching her, as a hawk watches a rabbit, and he was smiling, a thin, tight-lipped smile, amused by her wonder.

“You enjoy my treasures,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes, my Lord.”

“It’s always good to find someone who appreciates beautiful things.  Come and look at the fireplace carvings.  I had them done by a Sicilian craftsman, a true genius in his line of work.”

Jessamine ventured further into the room.  The Count was holding out his hand, and she took it.  He drew her towards the fireplace, holding her hand firmly, as though expecting her to pull away.

It was just as well no fire burned in the grate, she thought.  Heat consumed her when she realized the subject of the carvings.

The frieze surrounding the grate depicted dozens of writhing, twisting human figures.  Some of their tiny stone faces were frozen in expressions of dazed satisfaction, others in lustful anticipation, as they performed erotic acts upon one another in more ways than she’d known were possible.  There were couples, and one woman pleasuring two men, and pairs of women together, and pairs of men, all contorted into bizarre positions.  In comparison to the bodies of the figures, the men’s phalluses were huge, the women’s breasts and buttocks were like big, round, firm cabbages.

Jessamine was fascinated.  More than anything else in this room, she was drawn to these carvings.  She wanted to know them in all their lascivious detail.  She moved closer, drawing the Count with her.

“You like my carvings.”

Her mouth had gone dry.  She licked her lips and swallowed.

“Yes,” she whispered.  She knew the place between her thighs would be hot and wet.  Her legs were trembling, and her face was warm.

She could feel the Count’s breath on the back of her neck.

“Take off the dress.”

Reluctantly leaving the images, she turned around and loosened the ties of her dress, allowing it fall around her feet.  Letting it go was a relief.  The tightness across her breasts had become unbearable, the heat of her body unendurable.  She stood before him wearing only her thin shift.

His hand cupped a breast and moved it to and fro, weighing it in his palm.  As he released it, he twisted the nipple between his thumb and index finger once, quite hard.  It made her catch her breath, but she said nothing.  The feeling he’d provoked was not quite pain, not quite pleasure.

“Good,” he said, as he walked away.

She wasn’t sure what she’d done, but she seemed to have earned his approval.  She had a question, and she was burning to know the answer.  His approval gave her the courage to ask.

“The carvings,” she hesitated, and licked her lips again.

Stammering, she rushed on, “That man in them.  It’s the same man, over and over, isn’t it?  Is he you?  Did the sculptor use you as a model?”

“You’re clever to notice that, and bold too.”  His smile broadened.  “Would you like to find out?”  He sat down in his large, cushioned chair, and made himself comfortable.

“Come here,” he ordered.  He wasn’t smiling now.

She crossed the room, her breasts swaying, her nipples chaffing against the fabric of her shift, her bare feet sinking into the rich carpet.

“Kneel, there, in front of me.”

She obeyed, and looked up at him.  She knew enough of men, particularly men like this one, to know what was going to happen next.

He peeled off his tunic, exposing a broad chest matted with coarse, thick, black hair.  Then he unlaced his leggings.

“You know what to do with this.”  It was a statement, not a request.

The sculptor had definitely used him as a model, she decided.  Her small, pink tongue moistened her lips one more time.

Lowering her head into his lap, she began.   

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The pale light of early dawn tinted the sky above the mountains.  Traders for the fair had been arriving for the past week, and were camped the fields outside the castle gates.  A few latecomers would arrive today.

The fair was due to begin tomorrow, and would last for most of the week, or until the customers stopped coming.  This wasn’t one of the major fairs, like those held at Bar-sur-Seine and Troyes in Champagne.  They lasted for six weeks, and traders traveled to them from all Christendom – the dark men of Spain, the proud men of Italy, the fair-skinned giants of Scotland and Germany, the quick-witted men of England and France and Flanders.

Anything could be bought at those fairs, from the best English woolen broadcloth and finely tanned Moroccan leather to gold, silver, gems and precious spices from far Cathay and India.