by Lynn Kurland
To his surprise, she laughed, a low gurgle that sounded more like despair than mirth. "Know you not, Beren? Then you must truly be as ignorant as Parzival."
Beren stiffened automatically at the mention of the legendary hero, then went even more still as the meaning of her words struck him. He drew in a sharp breath of both pain and disbelief. "If you think 'twas I, then I can only beg your forgiveness for any broken faith."
"Broken faith?" she asked, as if amused by his choice of words. "Nay, you made no promise to me, ere you left. 'Twas my own fault for foolishly clinging to hope for far too long." Beren's fingers tightened against her arms as his world shook, destroying not only his recent assumptions, but perceptions born of many long years.
"When I heard of your knighting, I rejoiced in your good fortune," Guenivere said. "At last, you had what you most desired! 'Twas your dream, and mine, too, for I had long held in my heart the hope that once knighted, you would ask for my hand." She gave a brittle little laugh that wrenched Beren's heart, and he bowed his head to touch her own.
"But when Father returned, 'twas without you. You went away, he said, to earn a name for yourself." Beren opened his mouth to protest, for it was money that he went to find, having not one coin to his name. But before he could speak, Guenivere continued, as if unable to stop the flow of words once begun.
"For a long time, I waited for a message. I knew that you could not read, but still I hoped for some sign, and I plagued each passing minstrel and packman, begging for news of you. And still there came no word, and I knew not where you were. I wrote letters to you nonetheless, waiting to send them once I learned your whereabouts. But the months passed, and then the seasons passed, and my hope grew dim."
She paused to draw a ragged breath that made her slender back shudder against him. "Then, at last, we began to hear of your deeds, a knight who had won many tournaments, who journeyed far, gaining great renown. Father was thrilled and proud, but my happiness was tempered by selfishness. Had you forgotten me in your quest? Would you ever return?"
Beren felt her pain, as well as his own, dredged up beyond all hope of reburial. He slid his hands down her arms and around her waist, pulling her in to him as if to deny all that had happened. And still she spoke.
"Although I had never divulged my hopes, my father had been patient with my lack of interest in marriage, until, at last, he began to press me. I understood his concerns for the future, and yet, I balked, unwilling to surrender the last shred of my folly. And though outwardly I had given up waiting alone at night, I dreamed that you would ride up to Brandeth to claim your lady."
Beren's arms tightened around her even as she uttered the accusations he could not deny. "And that is why you broke the betrothal," he said. Although he knew he ought to assume guilt for that, instead he was flooded with a primitive surge of possessiveness. Again, he was glad that she had felt no love for another, and now he rejoiced to know that she had waited for him for so long.
"I didn't intend to stay away," Beren said. He drew in a deep breath, knowing that he couldn't ignore the past any longer, or at least the part of it that was Guenivere, and, oh, how much of it she was. "At first, I only wanted to stay alive in the battles. Then, when the fighting ended, I could think of little except becoming a proper knight."
Beren paused to carefully phrase his words. "But, as I soon discovered, 'tis not the occupation of a poor man, a small fact that is made little of in the romances." He hesitated again, unwilling by long habit to admit the truth even though he knew she deserved it. "I needed money not only to live, to feed myself, but for mail and weapons, and most expensive of all, a good destrier," he admitted.
"But Father would have—"
Beren interrupted her with a rough sound. "Clement had done enough. 'Twas up to me to make my fortune." He drew another deep breath. "I could not return to you penniless, a beggar at the door of the castle, raised up to knighthood, but with nothing to offer you."
Beren felt Guenivere stir within the circle of his arms, but he held her fast, finding himself loath both to let her go or to face her. "All I wanted was you!" she protested.
Beren shook his head sadly. "But I would have been no measure of a knight, or even a man, had I come to you with naught."
"What nonsense males take into their heads," Guenivere muttered. Beren smiled at her outrage, even though he knew he could have done nothing else.
"Clement suggested I make a living by tourneying, and I managed to do well for myself," he said. "I defeated many others, winning the value of their horse and mail in ransom, and I began to hoard a tidy sum."
"And what amount would have been enough?" Guenivere asked him, a trace of bitterness in her voice. "When would you have amassed enough to return?"
Beren didn't reply, for he was not sure of the answer himself. Never for a moment had he forgotten her. Guenivere had been there with him always, his anchor and his talisman, the reason for all he did. And yet, even when Edward chose him, Beren had been no more than a bachelor knight, without lands to call his own. Would he come back and claim Brandeth? By what right? And so, he had always put off his return, thinking that he must do more, have more, be more.
He swallowed against the tightening of his throat. "Lords began to notice me and take me into service, until finally Edward himself, who loves the tournaments, bid me join him in his war against Wales. 'Twas then that I heard of your betrothal," Beren said. And his anger had sent him pounding into battle, forging through the ranks of the enemy like a lance, earning him a renown that he no longer sought. And when finally the fighting was over and Edward had gifted him with lands, Beren had imagined her already wed to another. He had buried his hopes, along with a good part of himself.
"And why didn't you come for me then, when you heard of my betrothal?" Guenivere asked.
"We were headed into battle," Beren answered. But there was more to it, as they both knew, and he could not tender that excuse. He blew out a low breath in admission. "What right had I to interfere with your happiness?" he asked.
"And so you left me to a stranger, absolving yourself of any concern, without even wondering if I were well and content?" Guenivere asked, her voice rising.
"And neither did you send any of these letters you claim to have written, to commend me or command me or inform me that you still even remembered my name!" Beren countered.
"I had my pride!" Guenivere said.
"As did I!" Beren answered.
The room fell into silence then, until at last Guenivere spoke again. "So we both suffered for it," she said. "And now it is too late."
"Is it?" Beren asked. How could he believe that when he could rest his chin upon her bright hair, smell the fragrance of her essence, and feel her supple body pressed against his own? As he turned her in his arms, reveling in the miracle of her closeness, all the years fell away. And if any doubts lingered from his long exile, Beren ignored them in the rush of joy that swept through him.
When she was facing him, he lifted her chin and saw that her lashes were sparkling with the moisture of her previous tears. Kissing them away, Beren let his mouth wander over her beloved features, brushing kisses against her finely arched brows, her pale cheeks, her lips…
When Guenivere met his mouth with her own, tentative but eager, Beren felt his body jerk to life. He groaned, drawing her closer even as her arms slipped around his neck. And then somehow he was carrying her to the bed, laying her among the linens. This time, when he stood over her, she pulled him down to join her.
He was trembling, Beren realized, as he moved over her, so long had he waited for this moment, dreaming helplessly, hardly daring to hope. He looked down into her face, no longer cool or accusing, but tender and yearning, and the last of the walls he had erected between them came crumbling down.
"Guenivere," he whispered, consumed by awe and desire and the love that he had kept so carefully guarded all these years. And every sight, every sound, every touch was a feast for his starving senses, a wondrous treasure. He hov
ered over her, drinking in the vision, then he lifted his hand. It hovered for a long moment and then fell to the shining length of her hair. The bright strands were like silk under his fingers, rivaled only by the softness of her skin when he touched her slender throat.
"Beren," she answered low, with an underlying urgency that set his blood thundering. Then she pulled his head down to hers and he kissed her with a mixture of the passion and love that flowed through him, drawing her bream into himself.
It was so much more than he had ever dared hope that Beren might have been content to kiss her all the night long, dwelling on the lips that had haunted his dreams since childhood. But she moved against him, beneath him, setting a fire in his loins that must be quenched by his man's body.
So he touched her, running his hands along the fall of her golden hair, along her side and the hip that pressed to him. He sucked in a harsh breath, lifting her to him, feeling the press of her soft belly against his hardness. He fought against the desire to lift her gown and bury himself inside her, seeking to catch some errant thought that might bring him back under control.
It was his love for her that slowed his pace as, breathing heavily, Beren lifted his head and looked into her face. There he saw wonder and desire, the sweet reflection of his own emotions, whether real or imagined, and his heart pounded with his own exhilaration. Loosing a sigh, Beren took her hand and kissed her fingers, drawing in a deep breath to still the thundering of his blood.
"My lady, will you have me?" he asked. "As your husband in truth?" He watched her, his lips upon her knuckles as he waited a heartbeat for her answer.
"Aye, Sir Knight, I will take you," she said, and she smiled, though her eyes seemed curiously moist, her voice atremble.
And so Beren carefully stripped the gown from her body, each inch of flesh a new wonder, a new precious find that he must worship with his eyes and his fingers and his mouth, until at last she lay before him naked, slender and white, but he had only a moment to feast his gaze upon her, for she tugged at his tunic until he tossed it over his head, then she sat up to press kisses along his chest. Beren groaned, catching her against him, and they both went down upon the linens as he dragged away his braies.
The feel of her skin against his own was almost more than he could bear and he shuddered, seized by both a driving need for completion and a desire to remain thus forever, body to body and heart to heart. But Guenivere was sliding against him, a siren call he could not forbear, and he moved over her, laying claim to the prize he had spent his life trying to win.
When at last he entered her body, Beren felt as if he were home at last, and it had nothing to do with the lands granted him by the king or even with the windswept crags of Brandeth. Here, with this woman, he found both peace and challenge, both beauty and wit, both the past and the future.
Beren wanted to speak, to put some of what he felt into words, but they were beyond him as Guenivere enclosed him, and his only thought was to give them both pleasure even as he strove past her maidenhead. She cried out then, and he did his best to soothe her, plying her with pleasure until, at last, she called out once more, this time in celebration, rather than loss. And Beren joined her.
He was slow to recover his wits, so overwhelmed had he been by the force of his release, but gradually he came to his senses, rolling to his side, so as not to crush her slender form, and pulling her close. Now was the time to unburden himself, to tell her all that was in his heart, yet even as his arm tightened around her, Beren heard her breathing, deep and even, that told him she slept.
As well she should, he thought, tenderly drawing a covering over her. Beren was weary as well, but loath to sleep, lest he wake up and find it all a dream, both his marriage and its consummation. So he held her to him, but even within the confines of his current bliss, he felt the nudge of old doubts, the bane of his existence, and his heart beat feverishly within his chest until his body roused to full awareness.
Beren realized that once was not enough, that he needed Guenivere again, to drive away all uncertainty, to assure himself that she was his, now and forever. His hands began moving over her, exploring every part of her until she awoke, already dazed with desire. And Beren marveled at each gasp of surprise and delight as he learned her pleasure spots even as he fed his own excitement.
And so he continued, unable after his long wait to deprive himself of one moment in her arms, with the force of his passion pushing the darkness far away into the night until at last, exhausted, he slept and dreamed no more.
five
Beren's first hint that all might not be well was waking up alone. To his dismay and disappointment, Guenivere was gone from their bed. For a long moment, he thought his memories of the night before might be only phantoms of some long-ago dream. But the scent of their lovemaking lingered in the air, as did the imprint of her body beside him. Why had she left? To groom herself privately or attend her duties? Beren tried to convince himself such was the case, but it was barely dawn. And strive as he might, he knew he could not account himself a good judge of Guenivere's feelings, else he would have been here long ago.
By what right? Beren wondered, and the doubt he had thought banished assailed him anew. For all the passion that had raged between them, Guenivere had never spoken of her love aloud. Perhaps now she regretted what had happened between them, her absence speaking more eloquently than the words that were so difficult between them. Beren exhaled harshly, all of his pent-up emotions rising up to seek an outlet. He rubbed a rough hand across his face, as if to change his features, himself.
Suddenly, all that he had been denying, all the bitter realities of his youth came back to him in painful waves. Things he had thought banished from his memory returned to beset him: the smell of animals and hopelessness, the gnaw of hunger and cold, a weariness of body and mind behind anything he had ever known in battle.
Beren broke out in a sweat, reeling with the knowledge of his own existence, but there was nowhere to go, no place to hide. And he was done taking the coward's way, retreating from his own history, burying it as he had all these years. Instead, he pushed aside the blankets and rose. It was time to face everything.
Dressing swiftly, Beren slipped through the keep whose residents were slowly stirring and stepped out into the brisk cool morning. He took a deep breath and felt the ocean air enter his lungs, tangy and delightful. And instead of pushing aside his pleasure, he reveled in it, for he had missed the scent of sea, just as he had missed Guenivere. How had he come to give up so much of himself? And for what?
He walked through the bailey and out the gate toward the village. He did not shut out the past, but let it swallow him up. His birth was clouded in shadow, as were his first years, a darkness of hunger and want and toil, relieved only by sporadic forays to the cliffs, his only solace.
The thought led Beren there, and his breath caught as he let himself look upon the steep crags of this land, more beautiful to him than the greenest of rolling hills that he might claim as his own. Perilous many called them, and those who did shrank from the jumble of boulders that led to the sharp inclines moving straight up. To be sure, Beren had a healthy respect for the cliffs, especially when they were made all the more deadly by cold and rain, and yet, he had been born with a fascination for the rock, with the look and feel of it and with the conquering of it by force of his own will and skill.
And so Beren had found something of worth in his bleak world, that of a poor orphan boy of unknown parentage taken in by the brewer and his brood. He wrinkled his nose, for he still hated the reek of ale and would drink wine or water when he could. He ought to have been grateful, at least that's what everyone said, for he could have been taken for a villein and a life of mind-numbing, backbreaking toil.
The brewer was not particularly kind, but such was the fate of those not born to the castle. Beren had been beaten often enough for "dallying" on the cliffs instead of working, and yet he could not forsake them. Somehow he had found new energy on the ston
e, an expansion of mind and spirit that renewed his tired body. And it was this passion that had raised him up from a short and weary life.
One day he had climbed higher than ever before, something inside driving him onward and upward until at last he had reached the top and stood staring out from the dizzying height. From there it seemed that he could see the entire world, the sea stretching out into infinity, the line of the cliffs and the coast, and far off, in the distance, a swarm of men, an army, heading toward Brandeth.
That day, Beren had sounded the alarm and the lord of the castle, Clement himself, had plucked him from the sodden despair of his home with the brewers and made him a squire, altering his destiny forever. Many, openly or not, disapproved of this sudden elevation of a ragged boy, little more than a villein, to the coveted position at the lord's side. But not Clement's daughter.
Guenivere had immediately befriended him, and announcing that a squire must be learned, she saw it as her duty to teach him. Although younger than Beren, she was well versed in an existence far removed from his experience, and he eagerly accepted her advice, her friendship, and her tutoring.
She read to him. And Beren listened, rapt, to things beyond his ken, to tales of kings and knights and brave deeds and beautiful ladies, and he had taken them all as gospel. Beren blew out a breath at his own innocence. But Guenivere, with her artless enthusiasm, had made it hard not to believe, to take to heart each word she spoke.
She had loved the stories of Arthur and his round table. With a name like Guenivere, who could blame her? But now Beren wondered if Clement had indulged his own and his daughter's love of such fanciful tales too freely. For the daughter of the castle had filled Beren's head with dreams he would never otherwise have had: to become a knight. And not only that must he rise to such an honor, but also that he was to accomplish great deeds and win his lady fair. Just like Parzival.
The name brought an ache to his chest, for he well remembered the stories that were Guenivere's favorites: those of Parzival. Despite various spellings and interpretations, they all concerned a boy raised in the woods, ignorant of worldly things, who, finally meeting some knights, decides to take up that life himself. There were different adventures and versions of the classic, but most dear to Guenivere were the ones where the hero was discovered to be the lost heir to a kingdom, won his quest for the Grail, and married his true love, Condwiramurs. A love so deep, so ethereal, that he did not think of making love to her for three nights after their wedding.