Hot Summer's Knight (28 page)

He scanned his small world.  A horseman was riding out of Pontville.  He was leading another horse, but it didn’t look like a pack animal, it was larger, more like a warhorse.  The horseman must be a knight, coming towards Freycinet.  Who could it be?

He looked down to the courtyard.  William’s man should have left by now, but he’d seen no sign of him so far.

He tried to make out the rider.  He was a big man, well armed and armored.  Something large was strapped to his saddle, a lance, perhaps.  No, it was too short for a lance; it was more like an English longbow.  He was riding hard, pushing his horse to its limits.

He turned back to Berenice.  She’d reached the foot of the knoll.  She would disappear for a time now, while she took the path behind the hill, and then she’d reappear on the shelf, about two thirds of the way up the cliff.  His eyes found the place.  He’d wait until she reappeared, he decided.

A flash of red to one side of the ledge distracted him.  He gripped the parapet, wishing he had one of the new telescopes he’d heard about.  He’d seen one once, in his sailing days.  It could make a man standing a hundred paces away look as though he were no more than an arm’s length distant.

There it was again!

Someone else was climbing the hill on the opposite side, someone dressed in red.  Fulk’s livery had been red and gold, but Fulk was dead.  Who in Freycinet wore a red tunic?  He could think of no-one.

Huon heard the carpenter’s voice, as he called out to his son across the courtyard.

Perhaps it wasn’t a tunic.  Perhaps it was a dress, a red dress.

His guts knotted into a tight ball of tension.  He remembered the day on the ledge with Berenice, and Jessamine’s taunts.  He remembered Fulk’s room, and Jessamine, sitting on the bed, dripping with the Count’s blood,  begging him not to leave.  He remembered the night in the forest, and Jessamine’s telling him about Fulk and Berenice.

He ran for the stairs.  He dashed across the courtyard, shouting for William and his men as he ran, calling for ropes.

Sir William came out of the guard house.

“My Lord?” he said.  He never called him ‘my lad’ any more, realized Huon.  So much had changed.

“Berenice!” snapped Huon, “where’s her guard?”

“Has the Lady left already?”

“Yes.”  He wanted to berate William, or his man, but there was no time.

“She’s gone to the knoll, to the ledge.”

William looked at him blankly.  Of course, it was Berenice’s secret.  He wondered how she’d shaken off the guard when she went there.  No-one else knew where it was.  Only himself, and Jessamine.

“There’s a path up the knoll.  Go north to the monastery, you’ll see it not far past the old beech that was struck by lightening a few years ago.

“Take some men, and go, now.  I saw someone up there.  I fear the Lady’s in danger.”

“Of course, my Lord,” answered William, who began shouting orders.

“I’m going to climb the cliff face,” said Huon.

Someone had brought him a coil of rope.  He assessed it carefully, feeling its weight.  It would slow him down, he knew, but it could save him if he slipped.

He couldn’t risk taking it.  Precious minutes would be lost while he tied and re-tied the knots.  Instead he swept off his cape and gauntlets, and handed them to William.

“Bring the rope with you,” he ordered, running out of the castle gates, across the fields where the fair had been held, to the base of the cliff.

The wind was cold through his tunic and leggings.  Snow capped the higher mountains now, and the wind whistled down through the valley most days.  The cold was nothing compared to the chill he felt in his heart.

Please God, don’t let me lose her, he prayed.

The cliff rose for nearly three hundred feet.  Somewhere up there, about two hundred feet above him, was the ledge.  The cliff’s face wasn’t smooth and even.  Shrubs and even small trees jutted out from clefts and fissures.  Smooth slabs of stone were interspersed with tall columns, like those of an ancient pagan temple.

As he stared at the cliff, he planned.  If he took those rough steps there, then came back a bit to the right, and went up there…

Dedicating all his concentration to the task at hand, he began.  Berenice’s life may depend on his being able to reach her, if not before Jessamine, at least before the girl could do any damage.

His awareness became limited to the next place to put his hand, or his foot.  He soon learned not to trust foliage unless he absolutely had to.  Even the rock sometimes came away in his hand, and clattered away down the cliff face behind him.

He risked a downward look, and saw that a crowd had gathered at the base of the cliff.  Esme was there, waving to him.  He realized she wanted him to move more to the left, so he adjusted his path.

The horseman was there too.  From this distance, he still couldn’t make out his face, but there was something familiar about him.  The others had accepted his presence, so he couldn’t be an enemy.

The climb continued.  Muscles across his back and in his arms and thighs began to protest at his mistreatment, but he kept on.  The crowd was a long way below him now, their faces indistinct.  Someone shouted, but he was too far away to make out the words.  The wind howled around him like a living thing, trying to break his tenuous hold.

Surely, it couldn’t be much further.

Something whirred above his head, and he flattened himself against the rock.  An angry bird?  No, he knew that noise.  Someone had shot an arrow at him.

He looked down again.  Esme, it had to be Esme, was waving frantically.  The knight had his bow in his hand.  It must be he who’d shot the arrow.

Regardless of the knight’s reasons, Huon had to keep on going.  A few more handholds, a few more footholds.

Another arrow, further away this time.  Was the knight aiming for Jessamine?  If so, then the ledge could not be much further.

Another arrow, and a cry of pain from above.  Far below him, there were more shouts, too indistinct to understand.

A little further, a good strong tree trunk, and his head and shoulders were above the ledge.

Jessamine lay on the rocky ground, not ten feet from him, a single arrow protruding from her breast.  She wasn’t dead; Huon could see the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to breathe.

Berenice raced past him, so close her cloak brushed his arm.

“The poor girl,” he heard her say, as she ran to Jessamine’s side.  Berenice dropped to her knees beside her, and tearing off her cloak, made a rough pillow for the dying girl’s head.

“I’ll send for help,” said Berenice, “who can have done this terrible thing!”

Huon hauled himself up over the rim of the ledge.

“My Lady, don’t…” he cried.

Jessamine’s hand crept out, and found a jagged rock the size of an apple.  Her fingers coiled, serpent-like, around it.

“You!” Berenice said, turning to Huon, “why?”

“Don’t…” Huon began.  He was too late.  While Berenice’s attention had been diverted to him, Jessamine used the last of her strength to smash the rock into Berenice’s skull.  The Lady sank to the ground next to the dead girl.

Huon ran to her side.  Kneeling, he lifted Berenice into arms.

“No,” he shouted, “please, Lord God, please, don’t take her from me!”

The tears ran unchecked down his face as he held her.  He kissed her cool cheek, gently, reverently.

“I forgive you, my love, my Lady,” he whispered.  He held her close to his body, hoping his warmth might give her life.  Sir William and his men found him, still holding her in his arms, when they marched onto the ledge a short time later.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

“Son,” said Sir William, “Let me look at her.”

William had brought Huon’s cloak with him.  He laid it on the ground, and persuaded Huon to let the Lady lie upon it.

“It’s her head,” said Huon.  “Jessamine hit her with such force…”

William removed the headdress.  Berenice’s glossy brown waist-length hair was coiled neatly around her head.  There was no sign of any blood.

“I think she’ll have a bad headache tomorrow,” William said.

“She’s not…”

“No, she’s not dead.  We’d best get her to Esme, she’ll look after her.  I’ll have the lads rig up a stretcher.”

“No,” said Huon, “I’ll carry her.  She’s only a little thing.”

“What about the girl?” asked William.

“Do what you must,” answered Huon.

Sir William could see it was no use expecting too much from the lad at this stage.

He might be coming to his senses, at last, as far as the Lady was concerned, and it was about time, too.  Many nights William and Esme had sat in the cottage, discussing the turn of events.  Who would have thought he’d turn against her like he had?  Esme could barely bring herself to speak to him these days, and he had to admit, he had a problem in that direction himself.

He organized his men to cut a few saplings, and lash them together to make a stretcher for the girl.  She was dead, alright.  The English archer had done well.  His first two shots had fallen a little short, one almost harming Huon, but the third had done its job.

A bad lot, the girl had been, although it was a shame for her parents.  They’d become part of Freycinet over the few months they’d been here.  The Lady had wanted them to stay, and Huon had agreed to it, since he’d taken on the Lord’s responsibilities.

The Englishman had explained how the girl was mad, and wanted to kill the Lady.  The carpenter had acquiesced surprisingly quickly.  Perhaps he knew more about the girl’s true nature than they’d all suspected.

The stretcher was finished, and the girl laid upon it.  In death, she was a beauty: her skin pale and flawless; her bronze-gold hair a halo around her.  Death had taken the disappointed downturn from her lips, and the petulant tone from her voice.

Her beauty was marred by a scar, a recent one, at that, William noted, at the base of her throat.

They set off, Huon leading.  William followed, in case Huon needed help with the Lady, and his men came last, four of them holding the stretcher poles.

He stayed with Huon, walking at his side when the path widened, all the way back to Freycinet.  Once inside the castle gates, he gave the men instructions to lay the girl on the bench beneath the leafless walnut, and followed Huon up the stairs to the Lady’s chamber.

Esme awaited them.

“Put her on the bed, please, my Lord.”  Her tone was firm, the voice she used when no argument was going to sway her.

Huon stood next to the bed, gazing down at the woman on it.

Esme, taller than Berenice, but still barely to Huon’s shoulder, touched his arm.  He started, like a man awakened from sleep.

“You must leave now, my Lord.  I’ll look after her.”

“Leave?  No, I can’t.  I must be here when she wakes!”

Esme looked at William, her eyes asking for help.

“Come, my Lord,” William said, “there’s the problem of the dead girl to consider.”

The sounds of weeping and wailing were coming from below.  The girl’s mother and brother would be there by now.

There were two knots of people when William and Huon returned to the courtyard, one around the girl, the other around the knight.

“Sir Gilbert?” said Huon, approaching the man first.

The big Englishman bowed.  “Sir Peter Small,” he replied, “Knight of England.  Freelance at the moment, my Lord.”

“You killed this girl?”

“I did my Lord.  I returned to St.  Bernadette’s two days ago, and the nuns told me she’d left.  I got here as quickly as I could, but I fear I may have been too late.  How fares Lady Berenice?”

“The Lady lives, Sir Peter, but other than that, I cannot say.”

The carpenter had been listening to the conversation.

“If it please you, my Lord,” he began, “our daughter is dead, sir, and this man killed her.”

“I had good reason, man!  She was intent on murdering the Lady.”

“Even so,” stammered the carpenter, “she was our daughter.  Perhaps not the best of daughters, but still…”  His wife’s weeping punctuated his speech.

“I knew your daughter too,” answered Sir Peter, “and because of this, I’m willing to arrange to have prayers said for her soul.”

“It seems a fair arrangement,” said Huon.

“Prayers!” The carpenter’s wife intervened, “Prayers won’t bring her back to me.  Prayers won’t see her wed, and children on her knee.”  She broke into a renewed bout of weeping.

Sir Peter went and stood by the dead girl.  He lifted a lock of her hair, and let it slide through his fingers.

“I loved her too,” he said, “I remember her as she was at Aix-la-Chapelle.  I went there for the jousting a few years ago.  I broke my vow to my Lord because of her.  I searched for her across Christendom, after she’d crept away in the night rather than marry me and come back to England.”

Martha’s weeping ceased.  “You loved her?”

“I did, and if I’d had my way, things would have turned out differently.  I’ve killed the woman I cared for more than any other.”

“She wouldn’t have you?”

“No.  Even when she came to the Count’s castle, I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t have it.  She killed Fulk because she was jealous of Berenice.  She always wanted more than I could ever give her.”

“She killed the Count!” said Martha.  A murmur ran through the crowd.

“She hacked him to pieces,” said Sir Peter.

“God works in strange ways,” said Martha.

“I propose, if Jessamine’s parents and Lord Huon agree, another way to expiate my crime,” said Sir Peter.

Huon nodded for him to continue.

“I swear before all of you, I will make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.  Maybe then God will forgive me the sin of the murder of this girl.  Maybe you will,” he said to Martha.

“It seems fitting,” she replied.  Her husband indicated his assent.

“Sir Peter,” added Huon, “it is a noble gesture you make.  Stay, and refresh yourself before your journey.  And William, make sure a man is sent to the monastery.  This girl shall be buried as befits a Christian.”

“May I speak with you a moment in private, my Lord?” asked Sir Peter.