Hot Summer's Knight (2 page)

The day will be hot again, she thought.  Some rain would be a nice change; even a cloud would break the endless monotony of the brilliant blue sky.  At least the river still ran full and deep, so they’d plenty of water for the gardens and the orchards.

“Yes, my Lady.”  Once out of the cook’s reach, Gerard’s speech returned to normal.  “There’s a stranger at the gate.  Sir William sent me to fetch you.”  His eyes were huge, his curiosity obvious.

“Thank you, Gerard.  Back to the stables with you now – there’s work to be done!”

“Yes, my Lady.”  He bobbed a brief bow, and was gone, but not without another long look towards the entrance to the castle courtyard.

Berenice sighed.  It would only be the carpenter, of course.  Even the carpenter’s arrival was a major event in their small valley.  Its remoteness kept them all safe, but one price of that safety was a distinct lack of exciting visitors.

She wiped the bread dough off her hands and onto her apron, and nudged her headdress into place with the back of her hand.

She’d been expecting the carpenter all week, although she’d believed he was going to bring his wife and family with him.  Perhaps he’d left them behind somewhere, and decided to do this job alone.  The task was, after all, a fairly small one, just a covered walkway from the kitchen door, past her tower, and to the great hall.  Provided the cost was not excessive, she might have it extended past the door of her father’s tower, and around to the cottages on the other side of the courtyard.  She would see what his workmanship was like before she came to a decision.

As she walked across the courtyard she felt a trickle of perspiration snake between her shoulder blades and continue down to her waist beneath her shift.  She took a few deep breaths.  She mustn’t show any sign of weariness.  Everyone depended on her, all the people of the castle, of the three other villages in the valley, even the monks in the monastery on the hill: over five hundred souls altogether.

Berenice knew many of her people believed it was against God and nature for a woman to act as castellan and Lord.  Her ancestors had first cleared this valley, brought people here to farm the land, and built a castle, albeit a small one, in its defense.  But she was only a woman, and a woman should have a man to wield a sword for her, to protect both her and her people, they said when they thought she couldn’t hear them.

Her father had died last winter.  Odo helped when he could, she knew, but his mind was no longer on secular things.

And then there was the eternal, unasked question of her husband.  She sighed again, and wiped the moisture from her forehead with the corner of her apron.  For his sake, she wore the headdress of a married woman over her hair.  By rights, her husband should have been here.  He should carry this burden she feared was sometimes too much for her slender shoulders.

She took another deep breath.  Striding through searing sunlight, her spine straight, she refused to be bowed down by responsibility and self pity.

Her husband, here!  She made a small sound of disgust to herself.  She wouldn’t even contemplate the possibility.

She’d assumed it would be the carpenter, standing at the gate.  The carpenter was bringing the timber from Bordeaux.  If he didn’t, he’d have nothing to work with, as their little valley lacked the wealth of a lumber mill.

This man brought only himself, and a tired horse.

Berenice wondered if he were perhaps an angel, like the one sent by the Lord to Gideon, to tell him help was at hand. 

The gates were never closed; they hung loosely on their hinges.  As she drew closer, she studied the man standing between them.  He was tall, and something hung down behind him, for all the world like folded wings.

In the heat the earth seemed to shift and move around his feet, as though it were insubstantial.  A trick of the light and heat, perhaps, but for a moment she was afraid.  He looked more like a spirit than a man.  Was he indeed an angel?  Or a demon come to plague her, more like.

She dismissed the thought with an impatient shake of her head.  The Lady of Freycinet could not afford to indulge in superstitious fantasies.  Odo would laugh at her and call her a peasant if he knew.  She held her head a little higher.

He was just a man, wearing loose, coarsely woven clothes, the sort peasants wore.  The garment she’d taken for wings was nothing more than an ancient, fraying cloak, worn, no doubt, in an attempt to keep off the dust of the road.  It hadn’t worked.  Dust clung to his clothes and his hair.

The closer she came, the more he looked like a vagabond or a bandit than an angel.  She began to wonder why Sir William had sent for her instead of just sending this creature on his way.  William should have known she’d trust his judgment.

The poor, tired horse was laden with luggage of strange shapes and sizes.  A peddler then.  Even worse.  Everyone knew peddlers where often thieves too.

“Sir William,” she called to the figure lounging in the shade of the gatehouse door, “who is this man?”

The vagabond made no move to speak for himself.  He just stood there, and watched her.

He made her feel a little uncomfortable, as though he’d read her thoughts.  “Be careful,” his eyes were saying silently, “Are you brave enough to turn me away?”

William emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse.  “This man’s a troubadour, my Lady.  He asks leave to sing his songs, and tell his tales, in exchange for a bite to eat and a place to sleep.”

William really should have known better.  “We haven’t room for an idler.  There’s been little rain for weeks.  The food we have may not last until autumn as it is.  Everyone who sleeps here, works here.”

She was speaking to William, but the troubadour took it upon himself to answer.

“I can work, my Lady.”  His voice was deep and soft, like the distant rumble of thunder in the hills.  “I can earn my keep…”

She’d expected a different response.  A troubadour should have been ready with polished phrases, not this simple plea, not this humility.  The angel came back into her thoughts again.  She observed him more closely.

He was indeed tall, a full head taller than she was, and his wide shoulders strained the coarse cloth of his tunic.  He gave the impression, even standing still, of great strength and power, perfectly controlled.

His hair was a darkish color, caught back from his face somehow.  His face was framed by a dark beard, neatly trimmed to a point, Saracen fashion.  Great, dark brows shaded his eyes.  His nose was large, and too crooked for beauty.  A puckered scar ran from his left eyebrow, down his cheek and into his beard, giving him a slight, but permanent, smile.

This was not the face of an angel, she decided.  There was something about him that made the air more difficult to breathe, and her heart beat faster in her chest.  His affect on her was undeniably emotional, perhaps even physical, but definitely not spiritual.

The troubadour took her hesitation for refusal.

In a swift movement that startled both Berenice and William, the stranger dropped to one knee before her.  Taking her small hand in his large, calloused one, he bowed over it.

“My Lady,” he said, and she could feel the touch of his breath on the back of her hand.  She was suddenly very conscious of the bread dough beneath her fingernails.

His hair was streaked with gold, she noticed, like veins of ore running through rock.  It was braided and tied with a leather thong, in the manner of the Vikings.

He raised his eyes to hers.  They were the soft grey of the mist that clings to hills on autumn mornings.  For a moment she lost herself in the softness of those eyes.

“My Lady?”  A deep, rich voice brought her back to reality.  The troubadour was still holding her hand.  She snatched it away, annoyed at herself, and annoyed at him for taking advantage of her lapse in concentration.

“What?” she snapped, and then, because it was not in her nature to lack courtesy towards any man, she said, “I’m sorry, my thoughts were elsewhere.”

She smiled politely, and he stood.  She was so close to him she could smell his unique scent – a combination of horse, fresh male sweat, and something indefinable.

“What do they call you?”

“Gareth, my Lady.”

“Gareth.”  She tasted the flavor of the unfamiliar name, stumbling over the last two consonants.  “It’s not a Frankish name.”

“No, my Lady.  My mother was Welsh.”

She nodded, and looked him up and down.  He tolerated her scrutiny, but she suspected that beneath the roughly woven garments there was a man of pride, of passion even.

She turned away.

“You can stay.  For a while.  Sir William will show you where you can sleep.”

She needed to get back to the kitchen.  The dough would have risen by now.

CHAPTER TWO

“So your mother was Welsh, eh?” said Sir William, leaving his comfortable spot in the shade of the gate house doorway, and coming to stand next to Gareth.  “I never knew that.  I’d thought she was English.”

Gareth grinned.  “Yes, she was Welsh, and she gave me her father’s name to follow the one you knew me by.  My father rescued her from bandits.  She was on pilgrimage to Rome, and her party was attacked.  He took her to his home instead, and married her.  I’ve been told it upset quite a few people at the time.”

They both watched Berenice walk across the courtyard.  Despite her small stature, no-one could fail to appreciate who was in charge here.

“She’s a fine woman,” said Sir William.

“She is that,” Gareth agreed.  They stood in companionable silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.

“To think, not all that long ago, she was chasing chickens around the courtyard, and trying to keep up with her brothers,” added Sir William.

Gareth’s thoughts had nothing to do with chickens.  He was admiring the way her hips and her neatly rounded rear moved beneath her slim fitting, pale blue gown.  She might not be tall, but there was no way she could be mistaken for anything but a fully grown woman.

Berenice disappeared under the arch that led to the kitchen door.

“Fancy,” murmured Gareth.

“Well,” said William, slapping him on the back, “We’d best get this beast of yours unloaded.  He looks as though he could do with a feed and a drink, and so do you.

“You can bring your bits and pieces to my place, I’ve plenty of room downstairs.  I spend most of my evenings in the hall anyway, and there’s a bench you can use, and rugs if you need them.  What I haven’t got, Esme’ll find for you.”

“Esme’s still here!  How is she?”

“Same as ever, lad, same as ever.”

“Still won’t marry you?”

“Can’t, she says.  Can’t!  I tell her it doesn’t matter, these are modern times, but you know how women are.”

“I do, Will, I do.”

They took the horse to the stable first, found him an empty stall, fed and watered him in the hay-scented coolness, and left him there.

“We’ll turn him out to pasture later,” said William, “but right now he looks like he’d enjoy being out of the sun for a while.  How far did you come today?”

“Far enough.  I left Bordeaux four days ago.”

Sir William stopped walking and turned to the younger man.  “Now tell me, my L…”

“No, Will.  I’m just Gareth the Troubadour, remember?  We agreed on that when I arrived, before I would even let you send for the Lady.”

“Very well, Gareth,” William looked at his feet, then back up at the younger man, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to, sir, it doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“No ‘sir’ either.  I have my reasons, and you’ll hear them soon enough.”  Now it was the younger man’s turn to slap William on the back.  “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you, old man!”

“Old man?  I’ll give you ‘old man’!  I haven’t reached fifty yet!  How about I find you a sword later, eh?  Or have you got one hidden away in these bundles of yours?  It’ll be just like old times!”

“Perhaps,” Gareth laughed, “But we must be careful.  The walls have ears, and eyes too.  Is this cottage of yours still in the same place?  I want to shed the dust of the road, and I’ll need to tune my lute if I’m going to play my part tonight.  And you’d better find me something to do, or the Lady will believe me lazy and throw me out of her castle!”

“Well, the cesspits need emptying,” said Sir William, his old blue eyes sparkling with humor, “after that’s done, the stable roof needs fixing.  And…”

“And the gates haven’t been shut properly in years.  I noticed,” said Gareth, in a more serious tone.

“The old place needs a man’s firm hand, that’s for sure.  I do what I can, but…”

“But she wears her hair covered.  Where’s her husband?” Gareth avoided looking at William.  The question had to be asked, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“He took the cross, and left for the Holy Land.  To save Jerusalem from the heathen Saracen, he said, like many a good man I’ve known.  I don’t need to tell you about that.”

“Yes,” said Gareth, “I remember.  And just how long ago did this husband leave, Will?” he continued, holding his breath.

“It would be about eight years ago, my Lord, sorry, Gareth.”  William was standing, facing him.  “He left eight years ago, as I’m sure you know.”

Eight years, five months and six days ago, thought Gareth, looking William in the eye once more.  He relaxed, letting go the breath he was still holding.

“And she’s waited for her husband?  All this time?”

“Aye, lad, she’s waited.”

“Why hasn’t she given him up for dead?  Why hasn’t she remarried?” Most women would have, he thought.

“She refuses to give up hope.  Her mother begged her to, before she passed away.  Esme begged her.  Even her father this last year, when he knew for sure he was dying, begged her to admit she was a widow, not a wife any longer.”

“What did she do?”

“She stormed out of his room.  There was a lot of shouting and banging of doors.  She swore she was a wife, married in the sight of God, and until someone was to bring her evidence her husband no longer lived, she was no widow.”

Gareth let out a low whistle.  “Quite a lady!”