Hot Summer's Knight (7 page)

“You could always stay here, with me.”

“With you?  Alone?”

He looked around.  “Do you see anyone else?”

“But…”

He bowed his most elegant bow.

“My Lady, I’ve no intention of ravishing you.  I merely desire your company, until your garments are dry enough for you to wear again.”

She looked at her makeshift clothing.

“You leave me no choice.”

“Ah, Lady, we always have a choice, even if it’s only whether to live or die.”

“What do you mean?” she answered, intrigued.  He had her attention now, he knew.

“If you’ll stay here with me, I’ll tell you a tale about the choice between living and dying.”

“Will you?  A tale, just for me?”  For a moment she was like an excited child.  An improvement, he decided.

“Yes, but I’ll require payment.”

“Before or after the story?”

“Afterwards, naturally, and only if you think the story’s worth it.”

“I may not be able to afford the price.”

“Oh, you will, my Lady, you will.”

Because, my Lady, I know exactly what I want, he thought, and you will not be able to refuse.

CHAPTER NINE

Gareth rummaged in the leather satchel he’d hidden beneath the bush where her clothes were drying.

“First things first,” he said, holding up an ivory comb.

“Thank you,” said Berenice, “I was wondering how I was going to explain my knots to Esme.”  Her hair hung in matted, drying tendrils to her waist.  She combed a little of the ends, but made small difference to the mess.

“Would you allow me?” he asked.

“You’d comb my hair?”

“I had sisters once.  They insisted I learn, I’m ashamed to say.  Make yourself comfortable.  I can tell a story while I comb.”

Berenice sat on a grassy bank which sloped down to the river, tucking her makeshift skirt around her legs.  Gareth made himself comfortable behind her, a hank of her hair in his hand.  Gently, he began to untangle the damp strands.  While he worked, he wove a tale for her.

“There was once a man,” he said, “who was a slave on a Saracen galley.  All day long he rowed.  At night, he slept hunched over his oar, because he was chained to it.  The other slaves near him, when it was possible to talk, told him he no longer had any choice but to accept his lot in life.  The man refused to believe them.  He knew he still had one choice he could make, even if he was chained to his oar.  He could live, or he could die.  He chose to live.”

“Why?  It’d be terrible, being chained up like an animal.  Why didn’t he just die?”

“I’m coming to that.  The man had a reason to live.  The reason was a woman, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  She was his wife.”

Berenice sighed.  Gareth continued combing, his hands unable to resist the temptation of occasionally brushing her back, or her shoulder.

“The man kept the image of his wife’s perfect face in his mind’s eye all day, every day.  When he awoke in the morning, she was the first thing he thought of.  When he slept at night, she was the last thing he thought of.  He swore he would find a way to return to her.  He prayed every day for God to show him the way back to her.”

“And did He?”

“Stop interrupting or I’ll stop telling.”

“Very well.”  He’d never heard her sound so meek.

“The man was chained to his oar for months, and the months turned into years, but he never gave up hope.  Other slaves joined him on the bench.  They died, and were replaced by still more slaves.  Still he lived.  Still he rowed.

“The galley traded all over the Mediterranean.  One day they even landed at a port not far from the man’s home.  He could hear the sound of his own language being spoken on the docks.  He could smell the smells of home.

“That night, he prayed even harder for a way back to his wife, but none came.  The slave next to him was from his country too.  He died of a broken heart as they rowed out of the harbor, but the man didn’t.  He thought only of his wife.

“One day there was a terrible storm.  All the slaves screamed in terror and begged to be released, because they knew if the ship sank, the weight of their chains would surely drown them.  The overseers refused to release them, fearing revolt.

“The ship ran aground on a reef.  Huge waves washed over it, breaking it up.  The man prayed, thought of his wife, and hung onto his oar.  He believed the oar might just be enough to keep him afloat when the time came, even though he was still in chains.

“He was right.  The next morning, he awoke on a strange beach.  He was still wearing his shackles, and beside him was the huge oar he’d rowed for over two years.  There was no sign of anyone else from the ship.  He went down on his knees and thanked God, certain he was on his way home at last.

“Picking up his shackles, he walked along the beach until he found a stream.  He drank his fill of sweet, fresh water, and then set out to find out where he was.

“There was no sign of any houses nearby, so he climbed the range of hills behind the beach.  He was so weak, it took him many hours.  When he reached the top he looked around him.  His heart sank.  He was on an island, and there was no sign of a larger land mass in any direction.

“For a moment he thought of giving up, but he remembered the promise he’d made to himself, to return to his wife.  At that moment, he spotted a thin spiral of smoke coming from the other side of the island.  He was not alone.

“It took the best part of the rest of the day to reach the place where he guessed the smoke came from.  It was a cottage, built into the side of the hill.  There lived and old woman and even older man.  When he convinced them he meant no harm, the old man took out his blacksmithing tools, and struck off his chains.

“He knew little of the language the old couple spoke, but over the months he spent on the island, they taught him their tongue, which was Greek.  Eventually they were able to tell him ships passed rarely.  He was trapped there, as surely as he’d been trapped on the galley. 

“Once again, he had to choose whether to live, or to give up and die.  Once again, he decided to live.

“The man came to love the old people dearly, and they him.  He made himself useful doing the many tasks the old man could no longer manage.  They fed him from their meager store, and he grew strong and well again, although he would never again be the man he was before his time as a galley slave.

“To add to their meager food, he trapped wild goats in the hills.  One day, when he looked back to the cottage, he saw the old woman frantically waving her white apron in his direction.

“He hurried back down the slope, but he was too late.  The old man had fallen.  His back was broken, and he died during the night.  The next morning, they buried him not far from the cottage, and life continued more or less as it had before.

“The man began to wonder what would happen if a ship ever did come to the island.  He couldn’t leave the old woman here on her own, and she wouldn’t think of leaving.  The problem was solved for him, but not in a way he would have wished for.

“Some months later, he was away from home again.  He’d spent the night on the other side of the island, and as he crested the ridge, not far from the spot where he’d climbed that first day, he could see a ship moored in the bay near the cottage.  Excited, but cautious, he made his way down the hill.  As he drew closer to the cottage, he could hear voices.  Men were sitting on the bench before the door, drinking the wine the old lady kept for festivals.  The old people’s possessions were strewn around them.  The woman, who’d been like a grandmother to him, lay on the ground.  He could see, even from the bushes where he hid, she was dead.

“Did he kill the men?  Did he avenge the death of the grandmother he loved?” demanded Berenice.

“No,” Gareth answered.

“Why not?  The coward!”

Gareth was quiet for a long moment, working his way diligently through the tangles in Berenice's hair.  It had almost dried while he was talking.  In truth there were no more knots, but he was enjoying the experience too much to stop.

“Against two of them he would have had a chance.  Even weaponless as he was, he knew the island well.  The effects of the wine would soon show, and the men would probably fall asleep, believing themselves to be safe.

“But they weren’t alone.  From where the man hid, he could hear sounds and other voices from the cove.  Quietly, he crept away, swearing to one day avenge the death of the woman he regarded as a grandmother.

“In the cove below the cottage, men were filling water barrels at a stream, loading them into the dinghy, and taking them back out to the ship.  It was a Genoese merchantman, and so was powered by sail, not slaves.  For this he gave thanks.  As for the Genoese, he knew they'd take a profit where they found it.

“One of the men on the shore looked as though he were in charge.  Our hero walked out of the trees, his hands open, his arms held out from his side to show he wasn't armed.  Although he didn't speak Italian, he and the captain both spoke Arabic, the common language of traders in the Mediterranean.

“He asked for passage on the ship to the nearest port.  The captain was a hard man.  He said he'd no need of extra crew, but would be prepared to take him for payment.

“The man had nothing to trade.  He'd arrived on the island wearing little more than his chains.  The old people had only a few hand-made tools.

“So he traded the only thing of any value to him.”

“And what was that?” she asked, turning to face him, “You just said he had nothing.”

“He had his life, his freedom.  For his passage to the nearest port, he traded his freedom.”

“No!” she cried, “how could he?  To have escaped a galley, only to fall into the hands of slavers!”

He saw her eyes, her dark liquid eyes, were brimming with tears.  As he watched, a solitary tear escaped, and trickled down her cheek.  Cupping her face in the palm of his hand, he wiped the tear away with his thumb.

“Do not weep, my Lady, it’s only a story, a tale to while away the time until the sun completes his work, and your hair and garments have dried.”

“Is that all it is?  But what happened to him?  You must tell me!”

“Lady, Lady, don’t distress yourself.  The rest of the tale, for there are many more stories of the adventures of this man, will keep until another day.”

“You will tell me them all?”

Her eyes, wide with wonder, gazed into his.  Her lips, the most enticing shade of pink, waited to be kissed.

It would be so simple, he thought, to kiss away her tears, to draw her into his arms and hold her close.  What would be the harm in taking what was his, by right of law and of God?

But it wasn’t as simple as that; nothing ever was.  He knew he dared not hold her again, for once she was in his arms, he would never want to let her go. 

And let her go he must.

CHAPTER TEN

“And now my Lady,” Gareth continued, “you owe me a debt.”

“Oh,” she said, retrieving her hair from his grasp and deftly braiding it.  When she looked at him again, she was the Lady of the valley once more.  The wide eyed girl had gone again, for now.

“We had a bargain, I agree.”  She straightened her shoulders, and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her makeshift skirt.  “Well, Sir Troubadour, what is your request?  A softer palliasse?  Woolen blankets, to keep you warm on cold winters’ nights?”

“No, my Lady, my price is none of these.”  He watched her, gauging her mood.

“Coins, then, to cover your expenses when you travel?”  She tossed her braid over one shoulder, and seemed fascinated by the patterns of the eddying river a few feet away.

“I have no need of coins, Lady.  My songs and my stories pay for my bed and board, wherever I roam.”

“Fabric to be made into new garments, perhaps?”  She looked pointedly at his rough, worn clothes, and plucked at the sleeve of the fraying tunic she was wearing.

“My tunic suits you well, my Lady, but no, I do not wish for cloth or garments.”

“What then?  You promised I’d be able to afford the price.”

He smiled, enjoying their little game.  “My price, my Lady, is something we all have in abundance, even you.  Something we’re all free to bestow where we will.  Something we never value until one day there’s no longer enough.”

“You speak in riddles, troubadour.  If you must torment me, perhaps I ought to leave.”  She made to rise.

“My Lady, please stay.”  He placed a hand on her arm.  “I merely ask for some of your time, my Lady.  A few hours, no more.”

“My time?  My time is precious to me, troubadour.  I have many tasks which demand my attention, many people who rely on me.”  She rose to her feet, her manner imperious as she looked down at Gareth, still seated on the grassy bank.

“Think of something else.  I would not have my time wasted.”

“You would renege on our bargain, Lady? You are so sure I’d waste your precious time?”  He stood too, looming over her, a full head taller.  His fingers toyed with the end of her braid where it curled onto her breast.

“Well I…”  She swallowed, looking up at him.  “Perhaps.  If you put it like that.  But on the other hand, I wouldn’t want it said that I didn’t fulfill a bargain.  What would you want my time for, anyway?”

“I want to teach you how to swim.”

“You what!”  She could not have been more surprised if he’d said he wanted to teach her how to fly to the moon and back.

“You nearly drowned today, in water barely to your waist.  I want to show you the river is not something to be afraid of.”

“But why?”

“So you don't meet the same fate as your brother.  How many villagers drown each year?”

She thought for a moment.  “The laundress’s youngest was lost last spring, in the floods when the snows melted.  And the smith’s first wife, a few years ago.”

“Well, they didn't have to die.  Swimming isn’t difficult; it’s largely a matter of overcoming your fear of the water.  If the villagers see you swim, they’ll pluck up the courage to try for themselves.”

“Could I really?  Learn to swim?”  Her tone was doubtful.