Hot Summer's Knight (19 page)

She might be able to find a use for the embroidery silks, she thought, with a sigh of resignation.  But she refused point blank to accept a wire frame for one of the extravagant headdresses the court ladies wore.

Her lack of the slightest encouragement, and at times, quite definite protestations against his extravagance, made little impression on him.

And then there was the food.  Every cook stall they came too, it was “Try a little of this, my dear,” until she began to feel quite queasy.  When she expressed a need to rest her aching feet in a little shade, he insisted in conducting her to one of the larger tents where a tavern had been set up.  There he pressed sweet wine upon her until her head span.

It was all too much.  Every time his hand brushed hers, she wanted to cower away from him.  Every time his arm came around her, she wanted to retch.

The man frightened and disgusted her.

The sun rose higher in the sky, and she knew if she didn’t stop soon, she’d disgrace herself by fainting in the middle of the crowds.  It was Esme, in the end, who impressed upon the Count the importance of the Lady returning to the castle as soon as possible.  To their surprise, he acquiesced.

At the foot of her tower steps, he bestowed upon her another of his flourishing bows.

“Farewell, my Lady,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips.  She snatched it away, most rudely, before he could kiss it.  His face registered mild surprise, but all he said was, “Until later,” and smiled his thin-lipped smile.

“I’ll see you at the evening meal, Count Fulk,” stated Berenice.  She was paying him no more than a token civility, but she was beyond politeness.

Esme helped her up the stone steps, to her room.

“Would you like me to fetch some cool water?” she asked.

“That would be wonderful, Esme, thank you.”  Berenice removed her dress and shoes, and lay on the bed wearing only her shift.  Esme returned a short time later with a pitcher of water from the well.  Wringing out a cloth, she placed it on Berenice’s forehead.

“Thank you, Esme.  Do you know what happened to Gareth and Sir William?”

“Do you want me to find them?”

“No, stay with me here, please.  They’ll come soon, I’m sure.”

Berenice was right.  A quiet knock on the door heralded their arrival.  Esme helped Berenice back into her gown, and the visitors were admitted.

“We lost you in the fair ground,” said William, “some of Fulk’s men made sure we couldn’t stay too close.”

“I’m glad you persuaded the Count to let you come back here,” added Gareth, “you’ll be safer here, where we can keep an eye on things.”

“Everyone’s in position.  We can’t close the gates, there are too many people coming and going, but we’ve men everywhere,” added William.

“Thank you both,” said Berenice, “I know you’ll do your best to keep me from harm.  What do we do now?”

“We wait,” said William, “and we watch his every move until he’s on the other side of Pontville.”

“I’ll be glad when he’s gone,” said Esme.

“So will we all,” agreed Berenice.

The softness in Gareth’s eyes told her of the depth of his feelings, as surely as if he’d crossed the room and held her close.  He’d protect her, he’d keep her safe, she knew.

“For now,” said William, “I’d be grateful if you’d stay in this room.  It has only the one entrance, and my men will guard that.  You’ll be as secure here as anywhere in the castle.”

“My thanks to you both, William, Gareth.  Let us pray it will soon be over.”

“We’ll leave you then, my Lady.  We’ll come to collect you for the evening meal, and escort you to the hall.”

“Thank you, Sir William.  No-one could wish for a better captain.”

Both the men bowed and left, closing the door firmly behind them.  Berenice listened to the sound of their footsteps fading away down the stairs.

Her room might be a prison for now, but there was always work to be done.  She and Esme brought out their mending, and sat in the light from the window.  The afternoon passed peacefully, the sounds and the smells of the fair coming to them through the open casement.

The two women worked in silence, each lost in her own thoughts.  Something was troubling Berenice.  It was like a shadow, half seen through the corner of her eye.  When she turned her thoughts to it, it vanished.

From the mending basket, she selected a shift with a hem, torn when she tripped on the stairs one night not long ago.

Torn clothing, she thought, that’s part of it.  But why is it important?

She continued her sewing.  Deep in thought, she pricked her index finger with the needle.  The sight of the drop of blood made her catch her breath.

That’s part of it, too, she thought, the blood, her own blood.  She now had two pieces of the puzzle.

The sound of a man’s raucous laugh drifted in through the window, part of the medley of noises which made up the fair.

Berenice started, and clutched her unfinished work to her breast.

I know that sound, she thought.  It sent shivers down her spine, despite the warmth of the day.

“My Lady,” asked Esme, “is anything wrong?”

“I don’t know,” answered Berenice, “I have the strangest feeling.  As though I have a memory of something, but I don’t know what it is.  It’s like a reflection in the water, after someone’s thrown a rock into the pond.  It’s distorted, twisted.  I can only catch glimpses of it.  It’s like trying to catch a sunbeam.”

“Tell me, Berenice, it might be important.”

“It’s only fragments.  A torn shift, my own blood, a man’s laugh.  A nasty laugh, no, worse than that, evil, he was evil.”  Berenice shuddered.

“Go on, if you can.”  Esme held her sewing motionless on her lap.

“Yes, yes, I must.  Hold my hand, please, Esme.  I’m afraid!”

The maid took both her mistress’ hands in hers.

“There’s a blackness, darkness, spreading over me.  Oh, no!  Esme, it’s the demon I saw in the forest, when I was with Gareth yesterday.  Esme, Esme, what’s happening to me?”

Tears spilled over and rolled, unchecked, down Berenice’s face.

“There, there,” soothed Esme, “it’s a bit like lancing a boil, pet.  Once you let the poison out, it can’t hurt you any more.”

“There’s someone, something, all black, and he – it is ‘he’, not ‘it’ as I’d thought – he’s tearing my dress and my shift with huge hands, like claws.  It’s like in the dreams I used to have – do you remember, Esme?  You’d bring me milk and honey with nutmeg sprinkled on it, when the fear and the pain woke me in the night.

“Esme, I can’t do this, I don’t want to know, help me, help me…”

Berenice’s body was shaken by great, heaving sobs.  Esme hurried to sit next to her on the bench, and put an arm around her shoulders.  Berenice let herself relax into the safety of the older woman’s embrace.

“Try, my Lady, please try.  Sometimes we have to face the things we’re most afraid of.”

Berenice grew calmer in Esme’s care.  All the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place – the torn cloth, the blood, the dreadful laughter, the dream.  It even explained her feelings at this morning’s fair.  It was so obvious, now she knew, and so clear, she wondered how she could possibly have forgotten about it for so many years.

Her sight was blurred by tears, but now they were tears of relief, and of joy.  “I know Esme!  I know who it is, the shadow, the monster who’s haunted my nightmares!”

Further conversation was disrupted by the sounds of shouting, and metal striking metal.  The women leaned out of the open window.

The courtyard below had exploded into chaos.

The big old walnut tree blocked part of their view, but despite it, they could see a battle had begun.  Fulk’s men, clad in their distinctive livery, were fighting dozens of Berenice’s own people.  Outside his smithy, Reginald the blacksmith swung his hammer like an ancient Norse god.  The miller and his two sons slashed their enemies with the huge knives they used to slit open sacks of grain.  Robert the cook hacked away with the gigantic cleaver he used to butcher beasts, and his apprentices had brought their knives.  Some of the peasants had pitchforks, and William’s small company of men-at-arms wielded swords and daggers.

The women could see Count Fulk was outnumbered, but the outcome of the battle was by no means certain.  Berenice’s men had little experience of fighting in their peaceful valley; some of the younger ones had never shed blood, except perhaps in a feast day brawl.  Here they were confronted by experienced soldiers.

Near the middle of the courtyard, like the eye in the centre of the raging storm, two men were calmly and efficiently attempting to kill each other – Count Fulk and Sir William.

“No!” Esme breathed.

“Hush,” whispered Berenice, “if he hears you, it’ll distract him.”

The women could see Sir William was tiring already.  Fulk was younger by almost a decade, stronger, and the more experienced fighter.

Esme couldn’t stifle her anguished cry as the Count’s sword found its target, and slashed William across his upper arm.  As Sir William fell, Fulk raised his sword for the final thrust.

“I must go to him, my Lady!”

“Stay here,” commanded Berenice, “you can’t help him in the middle of a battle.”

A lone figure strode through the throng, towards Fulk, distracting him from Sir William.

Gareth’s hair had come loose from its leather thong, and flowed around his shoulders like the mane of a raging lion.  A metal-studded, leather jerkin protected his chest and back.  He swung a massive, two-handed Viking broadsword, disposing of the enemy as if they were of no more consequence than the wheat in the fields.

“Look, my Lady!” said Esme.

“I know,” answered Berenice, her heart soaring.  Here was a true knight, her knight.  She watched him fight, every muscle in harmony, every motion perfection.  He was wonderful, he was magnificent!  Any doubts about him melted like the snow in spring.  He was worthy, in every way, to be the husband of her heart, and the Lord of the valley.

Gareth was a superb swordsman, but Fulk was a worthy opponent.  The two men fought on, neither gaining the upper hand, for what seemed like an eternity.  Berenice watched, spellbound.

“Berenice,” Esme tugged at her sleeve, “there’s someone on the stairs!”

They heard a cry, and a thud, and the door of the room swung open.

“Ladies,” Fulk’s huge captain bowed awkwardly, “forgive the intrusion.”

“What’re you doing here?  Leave this instant!” Berenice was at her most imperious, but it didn’t faze the giant.

“I must ask you to come with us, my Lady, if you please.”  Another man in Fulk’s livery stood outside the door.

“And if we refuse?”

The giant sighed.  “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.  Jacques, hold the maid.”

Jacques crossed the room in a few paces, and wrenched Esme away from the window.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” Esme struggled, but it was useless.

“Let her go!” said Berenice.

“Drink this, my Lady.  I’ve been told it will make our task a little easier.”  The giant produced a small glass vial.

“And what if I refuse?”

“Jacques, the maid.”

Jacques drew a long, sharp dagger from its scabbard, and held the point to Esme’s throat.

“No!” screamed Berenice.

“Don’t do it, my Lady.  I’d rather die than have you poisoned!”

“It’s not poison,” said the giant, “just a sleeping potion.”

“And you’ll let her go if I drink it?” asked Berenice.

“You have my word.”

Berenice took the flask from him, and drained it to the dregs.

“No-o-o-o!” she heard Esme scream.

At first, her stomach rebelled and threatened to disgorge the acrid elixir.  Then the room shifted, and spun on its axis. 

Darkness came down upon her, like a thick, black cloak.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Father Gerhard lay on the bed in the guest cell.

“I see the Lord,” he cried, “riding in a golden chariot, accompanied by choirs of angels.  Can’t you see them, brother Abbot?  Aren’t they wonderful?”

He fell quiet, and Odo looked at him guiltily.  The priest was slipping in and out of a restless doze.  Sweat beaded his forehead.  His face was paler than the bleached linen sheets of the bed.

A tentative knock sounded on the wooden door, and a wizened monk entered.  Brother Simon preferred not speak, which suited Odo’s purposes perfectly.

Odo spoke to the barely conscious figure on the bed.  “Brother Simon will stay with you, Father Gerhard, and record your visions.  I’ll have your vestments cleaned, so you’ll have fresh garments for when you are feeling more yourself again.”  Odo gathered up the garments.  “Brother Simon, make sure Father Gerhard stays here, as long as his visions continue.  He’s to be given every care and assistance.”

Brother Simon nodded.

Once out of the chamber, Odo breathed a sigh of relief.

“Forgive me Lord,” he murmured to himself for the hundredth time that day, “surely the greater good will compensate for the smaller evils we must sometimes perpetrate.”

He took the priest’s robes to the laundry on the far side of the monastery courtyard, where he organized to have the robes cleaned and dried within the hour.  He’d emphasized they didn’t have to be washed, just in good enough condition to pass a cursory inspection. 

He’d noticed Father Gerhard wasn’t fussy about personal hygiene.  No doubt he’d never heard of the cleanliness being next to godliness.  Odo had always had difficulty understanding why God would wish to admit to heaven anyone who hadn’t bathed for years.

In a chest at the far end of the brothers’ dormitory, further around the courtyard, he found a few old, patched cassocks.  These he placed in a large cloth bag.

The stables, the next place on his itinerary, were outside the monastery walls.  The monastery owned several mules, used mainly as pack animals, of uncertain age and even more uncertain disposition.  In the hay-scented shade, he eyed Father Gerhard’s even tempered beast.  Sighing deeply, he firmly dismissed the idea burgeoning within his mind.

He was committing enough sins already, without adding ‘borrowing’ the priest’s mule to the ever-lengthening list.  A lifetime of penance would not be enough to dispense with his burden of sin, but it would be worth it, if Berenice’s marriage to Fulk could be prevented.