Hot Summer's Knight (20 page)

He and his older brother Denis had been born in the first two years of their parents’ marriage.  The row of small graves in the cemetery next to the village church testified to the many children their mother had birthed in the following decade.  Berenice was the only one to survive past her first year.  She was their mother’s last child.

Odo had been almost a man when she was born.  He smiled when he remembered her chasing, and being chased by, chickens in the castle courtyard, and then weeping when she realized her favorite rooster had become dinner that night.  Always tender-hearted, always kind, Odo had begged their father to let her go to St.  Bernadette’s.  She would have made an excellent nun, he knew.  From early childhood, she’d considered those less fortunate than she; the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind.  Even now, as the Lady of  Freycinet, she ruled by kindness and reason.

Denis had drowned, a year after Odo had taken his vows.  Their father had found Berenice a husband, a young man of good family and reputation, who would care for her as her own family had.  The convent was no longer a possibility.

I should have insisted, Odo thought.  She would have been safe there.  William had told him of her dreadful experience with Fulk when she was still little more than a child, and her husband of a few weeks had never returned from the Holy Land.  She would have been spared the pain of these things, had she been in St.  Bernadette’s.

Now danger threatened her once more.  Odo knew he was supposed to have left all worldly connections behind when he entered the monastery; he knew he couldn’t allow her being his sister to influence his judgment.  But she was more than that, he reasoned.  She was the Lady of Freycinet as well as his sister.  According to Fulk’s reputation, known throughout the valley and beyond, marriage to him would bring untold horror to one of the best and kindest people he knew, and to her people as well.

Looking up at the heavens, he was horrified to realize the sun was already well past the noon hour.

Father Gerhard had proved to have the constitution of an ox, and it had taken many the aromatic, freshly baked biscuits for the drug to take effect.  He’d explained how these special biscuits were only prepared for honored guests such as Father Gerhard.  They were made with sun-ripened raisins and rare spices and special herbs, donated to the monastery by one of the local families whose son had recently returned from the Holy Land.  The priest had been most vocal in his appreciation of the efforts the Abbot had taken to make him welcome, and had consumed many of the herb-scented delicacies.  No doubt he thought he deserved them, thought Odo, uncharitably.

Add lying to the list of sins I’ve committed this morning, thought Odo.  Bearing false witness, and now theft.

The priest’s mule stayed in its stall.  One of the monastery’s bad tempered beasts was prepared for his use instead.

Lastly, he visited his own study above the reception room.  He opened the lid of a large, brass-bound box.  Beneath aging scrolls and bound manuscripts was buried a long, slender parcel, wrapped in oiled cloth.  Carefully, almost fearfully, he drew it out, and unwound the bindings.

The sword was little rusted, considering the decade or more it had lain there, untouched.  Odo polished it a little with a corner of the wrappings.  The rust would come off, but did he know how to use it still?

Regaining his feet with difficulty, he practiced a few lunges and parries.  A smile split his amiable face.

You never lose it, he thought.  Once a knight, always a knight!

His plan had as many holes as a mendicant’s habit, and he was old enough and wise enough to acknowledge it.  William’s men numbered but half a dozen; it would take desperate measures to protect Berenice from Fulk.  Perhaps he would still be in time.  Perhaps his sword might be useful still.

And if he were too late to prevent Fulk’s abduction of Berenice, all was not yet lost.

***

“Gareth, we can’t lay siege to Betizac!  The place is huge, we’ve only got a few men, and we’ve got no siege engines.  Do you want me to go on?”  William growled.

“And besides,” said Esme, who was trying to bandage the arm William kept waving about, “what good would it do?  We need a way to get the Lady out, not keep her in there!”

Gareth sank to the wooden bench beneath the old walnut tree, suddenly weary.  He’d been so sure their plan to protect Berenice was succeeding, until the hunting horn had sounded.  The Count had dropped his sword and held his hands wide, in a time-honored gesture of defeat.

“Another time, perhaps?” he’d sneered, and then he’d ridden away.  In minutes, the courtyard had been cleared of the Count’s men, except for two of them, who were dead.

Gareth had helped William to the bench in the centre of the courtyard, and then surveyed their forces.  There’d been a few injuries, but nothing serious.  Amazingly, none of their own men had been killed.

A general air of excitement had pervaded the castle, as though they’d vanquished their enemy.  It seemed only Gareth realized Fulk had chosen to leave the fight.  He hated to think what the casualties would have been if Fulk had decided to stay.

Fulk had had no need to stay; he had Berenice.  Esme had staggered out of the door of the Lady’s tower, not long after Fulk’s departure, rubbing her head.  She’d told William and Gareth the dreadful news.

“Yes, Esme, you’re right,” agreed Gareth, “we need to get Berenice out, not keep her in there.  He will take her to Betizac?  He has no other stronghold?”

“He’ll take her there alright,” said William, “he’ll want everything to look legitimate, so that when the duke and the king hear of it, everything can be brushed over with the least amount of fuss.”

“Could we send an envoy to the duke or the king?”

“How much time do you think we have, lad?  Three months, perhaps?  Because that’s what we’d need if we wanted an answer, with the fall rains approaching.  He’ll have her with child by then!”

Gareth’s fists clenched, and he made a low noise in his throat.  The need to finish his duel with Fulk was eating away at him, like acid on metal.  He wouldn’t rest until the man was dead.

“I’ll go alone,” he declared, “one man, after dark might be all that’s needed.  Perhaps I’ll be able to get into Betizac unnoticed.”

“It’s not like this place, lad.  The Count’s been building Betizac for years.  It’s got a tower on each corner, a central keep, a portcullis, and a few dozen armed guards on watch day and night.  Even if you got inside, you’d never be able to get to the keep.  That’s where Fulk’s quarters are, and where Berenice will be kept.”

“There’s got to be a way!” said Gareth.

“Pray for a miracle, lad,” said William, “because we’re going to need one.”

“The Lady’s going to need one too,” added Esme.

Gareth let his head drop into his hands.  There had to be away to rescue Berenice.

“Sir William!”  The bellow from the gate startled them all.

William stood up, looking for the source of the cry.

“Abbot Odo?” he said.

Gareth noticed the mule before he absorbed the details of the rider.  The beast looked as though it were about to drop, whether from exhaustion or sheer stubbornness it was difficult to tell.

Knowing mules, it was more likely to be stubbornness, he thought.

Not that the mule was to blame, in this case.  Packages and bundles had been lashed to the saddle, and in the middle of them all sat a well-rounded monk.  In spite of the seriousness of their situation, Gareth had to try hard to suppress a smile.

The monk was Gareth’s age, or a few years older.  He had the unlined, worry-free face of the dedicated religious, and wore a patched, brown habit.  His hair, what was left of it in the fringe around his tonsure, was an earthy brown.

With difficulty he dismounted from the mule, and made his way towards them.

“Am I too late?  Berenice, is she safe?” he called across the courtyard.

William waited until the monk drew closer.  He didn’t answer Odo’s question immediately.

“Odo, my friend, there’s someone here I want you to meet.”  Gareth stood at Gilbert’s side.  “Abbot Odo, this is Gareth the Troubadour.  You’ve heard me speak of him.”

“Indeed I have,” answered Odo, “God bless you, my son, for the joy you’ve brought to the valley this summer.  I’ve heard about your clever devices to bring water to the fields and the gardens.  Well done!”

“Gareth,” continued William, “Abbot Odo presides over the monastery at the head of the valley.  He’s also Berenice’s brother.”

Gareth could see the family likeness between the rotund man and the small, fine-boned woman.  It wasn’t so much in physical appearance, as in their demeanor.  In Odo, it was expressed as a guileless geniality; in Berenice, it was kindness and a quiet joy.

“And to answer your question, Odo,” Gilbert continued, “Yes, you are too late, Fulk’s taken her.  But how did you know?”

“We’re not completely isolated in the monastery,” answered Odo, “news travels fast, especially, in this case, bad news.  What’re you going to do about getting her back?  You can’t leave her with that monster!”

“We don’t intend to,” interrupted Gareth.  He’d wanted action, but all he’d been given was a genial monk with all the time in the world to waste.

“Well,” repeated the imperturbable Odo, “What’re you going to do?  What are your plans?”

“Young Gareth wants to go into Betizac alone, but we haven’t figured out a way to disguise him as a will-o-the-wisp yet.”  William’s frustration showed in his voice.

“Ah, is that all!” answered Odo, “Then perhaps I can help.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

They’d taken her dress, and her headdress, and her shoes.  Every time she moved, soft, silken fur caressed the bare skin of her arms and legs and neck.

Berenice thought it felt wonderful, and without opening her eyes, snuggled deeper into the pelts.  Perhaps she should remove her shift too, and feel the fur touch every part of her body.  She drifted back into drugged sleep.

When next she woke, the furs still brushed her skin, setting up an almost unbearable yearning within her.  She knew she wanted something, needed something, ached for it in fact, but she’d no idea what ‘it’ was.

She stretched out her legs, letting her shift ride up around her hips.  The furs felt wonderful, but she knew the feeling was only a small fraction of what would be required to satisfy this aching need.

The wanting was like being with Gareth in the forest before the apparition had frightened her, or on the ledge, when he’d kissed her, but it was stronger, much stronger.  She longed for Gareth.  She needed to rub her body against his, to feel…

To feel what?

The ache, she realized, was stronger in some parts of her body than others.  Her nipples stood proud, small and hard against her shift.  The place between her thighs, the secret place she’d given little thought to until now, felt hot and wet and empty.

Empty?

She pondered that thought.  Perhaps it needed something to fill it, to make it whole.  Experimentally, she slid her hands up her thighs, until she reached the flimsy barrier of her shift.  She’d never explored herself there before.  Now she let her fingers burrow through the dark damp curls.  The discovery of smooth, slick folds encouraged her to venture further.

She stretched her thighs as far apart as they would go, allowing the cool air to soothe her heated flesh.  Memories of Gareth flooded her mind.  What would it be like to have his hands doing this to her?  To have his body close to hers?

One finger slid deeper, finding the wellspring of her moisture.  She dipped it in and out, and in, and out again.  Her muscles clenched, and she groaned.  Her own small finger was not enough.  She needed something larger, harder, firmer, stronger.

The fingers of her other hand discovered an exquisitely sensitive spot further forward.  The tip of one finger traveled around it, trying to define its shape, gently stroking backwards and forwards.

The more her hand moved, the more sensitive the little hard nub seemed to became.  She stroked harder.  It seemed to grow larger.  She rubbed it now, moving faster, and faster still.

Every muscle in her body spasmed, and then relaxed.  She heard herself cry out.  For a moment, she wondered if the things she’d been doing to herself had brought on some sort of fit, but surely a fit would not have felt so lovely.  And whatever it was, it had eased the longing a little, although she could feel it rising within her again.

What was it, this need, this warmth?  Would she be able to recreate the sensation if she rubbed that place again?

A cool draught of air flowed over her body.  Berenice heard a muffled click that could have been the latch of a door.

Regretfully, she moved her hands away from her body.  She needed to find out where she was, and where her clothes were.  Her last proper memory was of the giant in her room at Freycinet, forcing her to drink the sleeping draught.

This had to be Fulk’s room, she reasoned, opening her eyes.  The rich hangings and huge bed bore his mark, his love of ostentatious display.

She swung her legs onto the floor, reluctantly leaving the warm embrace of the furs.  Her toes burrowed into thick, rich carpet.  She touched one of the tapestries, marveling at its texture.

A dozen candles in two large candelabras burned on the mantelpiece.  Drawn like a moth to the flames, she drifted across the room towards them.

The fireplace surround was covered in carvings.  Lifting down one of the candelabras, she placed it on the hearth, and sank to her knees in front of the frieze.  The flickering flames gave the sculpted figures life and movement.

She gave a gasp of recognition when she realized the theme of the carvings.  For a moment she averted her gaze, shocked by the depravity of the scenes.

The images drew her back.

This was what she craved!  The women in the frieze, so unlike her physically, could be her in reality.  And the men were all, of course, Gareth.

She studied each pose in detail.

So, she thought, if I were to lean over something, he could approach me from behind…