Hot Summer's Knight (8 page)

“I don’t see why not.  You just need a little practice, every day.”

She thought for a moment, weighing the alternatives.  “A little after the noon hour would be best.  Most of the castle is asleep, and no-one would notice if I slipped out for a while.”  She came to a decision.  “Tomorrow then.  Shall we meet here?”

“Why not today?  Now?”

“Now? But I…”

“There’s no time like the present, my Lady.”

“Well, I suppose so.”  She looked up at him shyly.  “I’ve nothing suitable to wear.”

“You can wear my tunic.  It covers most of you.”

“But what about you?  What will you have to wear afterwards?”

“I have a clean one.”  He indicated the clothes drying on the bushes.

She loosened the piece of linen tied around her waist, and let it fall to the bank.  Her legs were bare, all the way to her knees and even a little above that.  Gareth’s tunic was far too large for her, and it threatened to slip from one shoulder.

Gareth smiled encouragingly.  Trustingly, she held out her hand to him.

“Lead on, Sir Troubadour.  I’m willing to keep my end of our bargain.  Now you keep yours!”  The girl was back, the serious matron temporarily banished.

Taking her hand in his, he led her to the river.  Soon they were standing waist deep in the cool water.

“What do I have to do?”

“Just hold my hands, and trust me.”

She held both his hands.  He lowered himself into the water, drawing her down with him.  Before she really knew what she was doing, she was floating on the surface, her hands held securely by his, his face only inches from hers.

“I'm doing it!” she cried, “I'm floating!”  She laughed, reveling in the delicious sense of freedom she was experiencing in the cool water.

“You are,” he answered, “now let’s see what happens when we move.”

Half crouching, half walking along the bed of the river, he pulled her along with him.  Her tunic, or rather his tunic, billowed out around her. 

Whereas on the river bank the garment had provided a degree of modesty, in the water it provided none.  Gareth found he had an unimpeded view of her exquisite body.  Her legs were long for her height, and gracefully tapered.  Her breasts were small and high and round, their nipples taut in the cold water.

He used every ounce of his self restraint to hold her hands, instead of drawing her into his arms as he longed to do.  He’d unwittingly discovered a form of torture far worse than any a Saracen slave master could devise.

He forced himself to concentrate on her face.  Her eyes were shining, her lips were slightly apart, her breath was warm and gentle on his face.

“Now,” he said, “move your legs a little, backwards and forwards.”

She kicked experimentally at first, and found she enjoyed the sensation.  Soon they were moving together, through the water.  She laughed again with the sheer joy of the experience.

“What would happen if you let go my hands?” she asked.

It was his turn to laugh.  “You’ve got to walk before you can run!  Get used to moving your legs first, then I’ll show you what to do with your arms.”

“Very well.”  She pouted a little, a small moue of disappointment, but her grin was impossible to suppress.  “I would never have believed it would feel so good!”

She kicked out again, more strongly, propelling herself forward and into Gareth’s arms.  Chuckling, he pushed her away again.  She came back, he thrust her away, again and again.  Each time her kicks grew stronger, and her confidence in the water increased.  Each time, the tunic billowed around her, revealing the curve of a breast, or a pale shoulder, or her firm, round rear.

In her innocence, she was imitating the act of love.  Gareth was grateful the water was as cold as it was.  He forced his attention back to her face, to the sparkling drops of water clinging to her cheeks and hair.

“Enough!” he cried, when he knew he could take no more, “that’s enough for your first lesson.”  He stood up, bringing her with him.  The wet tunic clung to every delicious curve, and the water had rendered it completely transparent.  “We’d best get you back into your own clothes.  They should be nearly dry by now,” he croaked.

Berenice led the way back to the shore, chattering all the way.  “I would never have believed it! To think, when I fell off the river bank, I could have drowned!

“I never thought of myself as being afraid of the water before, but I’d never tried to master it either.  The river has always just been there, all my life.  We all know it’s dangerous, but it brings us life too, water for the fields, and to turn the brothers’ mill, and there’s fish in it, of course.  But to float in it, to move in it!  That was marvelous!”

She reached for the linen that served as a towel.

“Now don’t look,” she called, as she gathered her slightly damp clothes from the bushes where they’d been drying, and disappeared.

“Would you bring me my basket, please, Gareth? I left it near the trees at the top of the bank,” she called.

Ever your faithful servant, madam, he thought, as he clambered up the bank where he’d first seen her.  Sure enough, her basket was there, not far from where the bank had collapsed.  He brought it to her, and she retrieved her headdress, neatly pinning it over her coiled braid.

Now she was dressed appropriately to continue her walk to her brother’s monastery.

“Thank you, Gareth, thank you for everything.”  She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his scarred cheek.  He was taken so completely by surprise, he did nothing.

“I’ll meet you here again tomorrow.  Just after the noon hour, remember!” she called as she disappeared into the forest.

As the last echoes of her voice faded away, Gareth stood on the river bank, a smiling statue.

Eventually, the statue spoke.  “She kissed me!”

If he’d had a hat, he would have thrown it in the air.  If a friend had been there, he would have hugged him, but his head was bare, and he was alone.

“She kissed ME!” he roared instead, startling the river birds, and a deer who’d come to the water to drink.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Further up the valley, Berenice thought she heard someone shout.  She stopped, listened for a moment, heard nothing more, and kept on walking.  She didn’t hear the strange cry again, and after a while she convinced herself she must have imagined it.

Her feet barely touched the ground.  She felt light, like a dandelion in the summer breeze.  She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.  She guessed it must be something to do with learning how to swim.

The path wound through the forest, climbing all the time, until it reached the hamlet that clung to the skirts of the mill.

It was the quietest time of the day.  Her only company on the path through the centre of the village was a mother duck and her ducklings, on their way home from the mill pond.  In one of the cottages, a baby cried, before gurgling contentedly into silence.  Even the mill was silent.  The grain had yet to be harvested, and the miller and his sons would be repairing his gears and cogs.

She passed the mill, following the river, until she reached the narrow timber foot bridge spanning the fast flowing stream.  Checking her headdress and garments, she crossed the bridge to the monastery.

She was feeling uncharacteristically nervous.  Until now, Odo had always been her brother first, and the Abbot second.  But the questions she planned to ask him today were far more serious than usual, and his answers could affect her happiness for the rest of her life.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled the bell rope next to the solid timber door.  Far above her, the bell tolled.  She waited, and eventually the small hatch in the centre of the door opened.

“Good morning, my Lady.”  The novice knew who she was; they all did.  Regardless of her relationship to Odo, she was the Lady of the valley.

The heavy door swung inwards, and she stepped into the stone flagged corridor.  The novice led the way up stairs cut into the rock of the hillside, and ushered her into a small but comfortably furnished room.

Several cushioned chairs and stools were placed at intervals around the walls.  Thick tapestries showing scenes from the Old Testament covered the stone walls, and a bowl of fresh summer fruit had been placed on the table.  This was the monastery’s reception room.

As a woman, this one room and the stairway were all she would ever be allowed to see.

The room had a single, unglazed window.  Crossing to it and looking out she could see the fields and the forest, and her castle in the distance.  How small and insignificant they all looked from up here.  She could understand why the monks had chosen this site for their retreat, well away from the temptations of mortal existence.

She turned away from the window when she heard the inner door open.

“Sister, dear, what a wonderful surprise!  To what do I owe this very great pleasure?”  Odo was a man of generous proportions, a dozen years older than Berenice.  His curling brown hair surrounded a tonsure permanently tinted pink from the sun.  It matched his face, which always seemed a little flushed, as though the stairs were a little too steep, or the road a little too long.  In truth, for Odo they often were.

He’d been a fighter in his youth, and had amazed not only his parents but the entire valley when he’d announced he wanted to follow the teachings of Bernard of Clairvaux, and become a monk.  To their even greater surprise, monastery life had suited him from the beginning.  Worldly enough to appreciate a fine wine and a good meal, which he did whenever possible, his great love was the books of scripture the brothers laboriously copied and embellished.  He ruled the monastery and its estate with a firm but benevolent hand, and shamelessly solicited the noble houses in the area for contributions to his Order.

“I need your help, Odo.”  Berenice stood next to the window, her hands clasped in front of her like a penitent child.

“Why, what trouble have you got yourself into this time, little sister?”

Odo laughed loudly at his own joke.  Berenice, as they both knew, was the last woman in the valley to get herself into any sort of trouble.

Berenice flushed a little and looked away.  “Odo, I need to know whether I’m a free woman or not.”

“Free? Of course you’re free!  You’re not a peasant, bound to the land.  You’re a noblewoman, of good birth and standing.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.  It’s to do with the oath I swore to father before he died.  Now I fear it’s come back to haunt me in a way I never expected.”  She wrung her hands.  “I need to know if am I free to…”  She hesitated, and swallowed nervously, “…to marry again.”

“You are married, Berenice, you’ve said so often yourself.”

“I know.  I remember well the words of my oath to our father.  I swore, before God, I would not marry again until someone showed me evidence of my husband’s death.”

“And have you received this evidence?”

Her voice was low, her tone soft, almost as though she didn’t want Odo to hear her answer.  “No, no, I haven’t.”

“Then why?”  Odo fell silent for a moment.  “Little sister, has a lover scaled the walls you’ve built around your heart?”  His booming, joyous laughter echoed around the room.  “At last?”

“Really, Odo, what flowery nonsense you speak.  I would expect such words from a troubadour, not a man of God.”

Too late, Berenice realized she’d let out her secret.  A blush rose to her cheeks, a rosy glow she could do nothing to hide.

“A troubadour, no less!  Little sister, what have you done?”

“Odo, be serious, I beg you.  I need your help, not your laughter.”

Seeing her obvious distress, Odo calmed at little.

“Surely you don’t intend to marry the man!  A troubadour, no less!”

“Many troubadours come from good families.  They can be younger sons.”

“And many are nothing but scoundrels, too.”

“But he’s not…”

“Tell me, Berenice, what manner of man is this troubadour of yours?”  Odo seated himself on a throne-like chair, clearly settling in for a long conversation.  Berenice perched nervously on the edge of a stool.

“He’s not what you’re thinking, Odo.  He’s not full of flowery phrases and charm.”

“Don’t tell me what he isn’t, little sister, tell me what he is!”

She thought for a moment.  “Well, he tells stories, wonderful stories about far off places.”

“So he’s traveled.”

“He sings, and plays the lute.”

“At one time or another, he’s lived at someone’s court.  Or frequented a few taverns.”

“They’re not tavern songs, Odo.  They’re songs you would once have sung.  And he dances.”

“A peasant will dance at the harvest festival.”

“No, he dances as though he’s been taught by a dancing master.”

“Hmm, interesting.  Tell me of his appearance, little sister.”

“His hair and beard are dark.”

“He wears a beard?  Why, do you think?”

“He has a scar down one side of his face.  I think he wears a beard to cover it.”

“Does he, now.”

“He’s tall, and strong.”

“How tall?”

“A full head taller than me.  And he mended the castle gates.”

“Not afraid of hard work, then.”

“He has some terrible scars on his body.  He must have been a swordsman once.”

Odo was not about to ask how she knew about the scars.  “Have you seen him wield a sword?”

“No, no, I haven’t.  But there’s something about him, the way he walks, like Denis used to, like William does still.”  Her face was shining, “And his eyes,” a slight smile curved her lips, “his eyes are the softest shade of grey.”

Odo smiled.  “Does he treat you well, this troubadour?  Or has he forced his attentions upon you?”

“Odo!  Of course not.  I would not allow it!”

“Well, little sister, it seems love has found you, at last.”

“Love?  Is that was this is?”

“You didn’t know?”  He smiled indulgently.

“I…” she swallowed, “I’ve never felt like this before.”  She stood, and paced the floor restlessly.  “I look for him each minute of the day, but when I see him…”

“You mean that wasn’t what you came to tell me?  You know you can’t marry him.  Your words of last year…”