Beloved Pilgrim

by Nan Hawthorne

  Reinhardt rode up to just before where she stood, her hand to her mouth in surprise. "Happy to see me, my dear?" he crooned mockingly. He waved off the groom who dragged the mounting block near, and, throwing one leg up behind him, he deftly dismounted to stand before her. He slowly drew his leather gloves off, took one of her hands and kissed it. He looked about. "Where is everyone?"

  Elisabeth could not speak. Gratefully she heard Albrecht approaching from behind her left shoulder. He spoke solemnly. "Your Grace, I am sorry to inform you that this lady's mother and brother have passed on. Lord Sigismund went to the Holy Land many, many months ago."

  Reinhardt stared at the squire. His eyes shifted back to Elisabeth. "This is true?"

  All she could manage was a nod. She saw Reinhardt take it in, and then was disgusted to notice that a satisfied look had come across his countenance. She could almost hear his thoughts. "Mine! Then it is all mine!"

  His men dismounted behind him. He turned to Albrecht and commanded, "Boy, see to it our horses are taken care of and provision made for my men's quartering."

  Glancing over her shoulder at Albrecht, Elisabeth saw his pressed lips. She looked quickly back to Reinhardt, "My lord, you are of course more than welcome to Winterkirche. How long do you plan to stay?"

  Reinhardt smiled sardonically. "It talks!" He sighed. "But have you forgotten? I am your husband. Until your father returns, I am lord of Winterkirche."

  "Damn," he breathed. He slapped his leg with a riding crop and seemed to consider. "I will stay a fortnight, then, and return to put my estates in order." He gave her an annoyed look. "I suppose you cannot be ready to come with me that soon."

  "But your Grace," Elisabeth began.

  A slow smile crept along his lips. "Cannot wait that long, my love?" he said with a mocking leer. He took her hand again and kissed it. "Christ, why are we standing out here? I need a drink and a fire." He grabbed her hand and pulled her along after him up the steps and into the hall.

  Reinhardt strode right up to the dais at the end of the hall and climbed and took the high seat where Sigismund traditionally had presided over meals and court. He pushed back Adalberta's chair with his foot. "Sit," he said. He called to the servants who hung about in the shadows along the side of the hall. "Here, you! Bring wine. And something to eat. Someone build up that fire."

  His men were filing in through the door, eying the rest of the trestle tables where they were stacked against one wall. "Oh just sit," Reinhardt called to them irritably.

  Reinhardt ordered servants to bring more chairs and called to his officers to join them at the high table. The wine flowed generously; the boisterous conversation belied the fact that the household was in mourning.

  Reinhardt suddenly leaned to her and asked, "Is he buried?"

  She looked at him startled. "Who?" she asked. She knew whom he meant but the word came out anyway.

  "Your brother. That sodomite. Is he buried?"

  Her face paled. She was not sure what the word meant, but she could guess it was not a praiseworthy thing to Reinhardt. "Yes, my lord, in the family vault in the church."

  "Good," he replied shortly. "I hate funerals." He went back to talking with his men.

  It was listening to that raucous group that told Elisabeth what had happened to Reinhardt in the Holy Land. When she was able to break away on the excuse she had to push the kitchen to prepare a feast for her husband and his men, she sought out Albrecht and shared the tale.

  "It seems that once Jerusalem was in Christian hands, the Franks and the Flemings snatched up all the estates and positions. Whatever Reinhardt thought he was going to get it all went to others. As soon as he realized that, he set sail for home," she whispered to him in an alcove.

  "More's the pity he had no reason to stay there," Albrecht growled.

  "Albrecht, what is a sodomite?"

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. At last he asked, "Why do you ask, my lady?"

  "That's what Reinhardt called my brother." She gazed at his face. He had gone pale. "Oh," she answered herself. "That. But how could he know?"

  Albrecht shook his head. "I know not. But it may mean I must take leave of you."

  "Why?" she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

  Albrecht eyed her unhappily. "He may know about me, too, and that sort of man is not gentle with my sort."

  At supper Reinhardt informed Elisabeth, "I have a guest coming with his small retinue tomorrow. I had hoped to introduce him to your father, but ah, well." He yawned. He reached to take her hand, leaning to look into her face. "Pity I am as tired as I am. I should like to have explored whether under all those unattractive clothes you had a real woman hidden." He laughed at her offended face. Kissing the hand he clutched in his fist, he said, "Better get used to the idea, my dear. You won't be a maid much longer."

  The guest was an old comrade of Baron Reinhardt's from the Holy Land. He was a Frank, a knight, Gautier du Visage Cassé, and no better a piece of work than Reinhardt himself. He was tall with the muscular upper body of a swordsman, but his long legs seemed wrong, as if his own had been cut off by a Saracen and a skinnier man's legs sewn on to his trunk. He had greasy black hair that hung in his face. It was a saving Grace, since the long scar that gave him his soubriquet nearly split that face in two. One eye was gone and his eyelid literally sewn shut, the stitches black and ragged. His breath reeked. Even the Baron winced when the man leaned into his face to make some bawdy remark.

  "Mon Dieu, Reinhardt! I did not know you were a buggerer. This is a boy, is it not?" He examined Elisabeth who stood silently next to the baron.

  Reinhardt scowled but did not reply. He gestured his comrade to a seat at the table set on the dais at the end of the hall.

  Gautier went to the dais, stepped up and took the seat indicated. Reinhardt ushered Elisabeth before him up onto the rise and seated her between him and the Frankish knight. Gautier glanced around the hall. "Who died? Everyone is going about with their chins scraping the rushes."

  Reinhardt looked at Elisabeth as if waiting for her to answer the man's question. She cleared her throat. "My lord, my brother died quite recently."

  "Her twin brother," Reinhardt added.

  Gautier leveled his one-eyed gaze at her. "Identical twins, or so it seems. Are you sure they didn't mistakenly bury the girl?" He laughed at his own joke. "Well, can't you get some dancers or jongleurs in to lighten the mood? It's like mass in a poor monastery in here."

  Reinhardt fingered his beard. "I regret to tell you, mon ami, that I brought no such with me. Any entertainers installed here at Winterkirche fled as soon as the young master died."

  She had realized what he said was true by the morning after her brother's death. Not only had the minnesinger and other musicians decamped as soon as they knew a returning Baron Reinhardt would replace the young lord. Several of the servants had gone as well. She understood their fear and only envied them their ability to escape.

  "Can it sing or dance?" Gautier smirked. He was looking at her.

  "No, my lord," she hastily responded.

  "I told you, Reinhardt, it's a boy. And not a very pretty one."

  Reinhardt glowered. He gestured to a servant for wine and changed the topic. "What do you hear of the new call for crusade, my good fellow?"

  New crusade? It was the first Elisabeth had heard of it.

  Gautier took the cup of wine the servant placed before him. "His Holiness, the new pope, Paschal II I think he styles himself, has called for it. There was a letter sent to the Frankish churchmen. It seems that Baldwin thinks the Paynim will try to take back Jerusalem. My brother, who is an abbot, says he calls for 'all the soldiers of your region to strive for remission and forgiveness of their sins by hastening to our Mother Church of the East; to move their arses thither,' or words to that effect." He considered his comrade-in-arms. "Will you go, mon frère?"

  Sitting back in his chair Reinhardt caught the hopeful look Elisabeth flashed at him. "I am sorry to disappoint you, m
y dear. I have been to the Holy Land and fought for the Faith. Therefore all my sins, past and future, are wiped away as the sun clears the dew. I have no intention of going back to that scorpion-infested sun-roasted hellhole. Not for God, not for the Pope, and certainly not for you."

  Gautier laughed aloud. "Nor I, cher Reinhardt. I have lands to control, sons to beget, Frankish whores to bed and wine to consume. But you shall enjoy this. I hear His Holiness singled out those who fled the Siege of Antioch, promising they shall linger excommunicate and lightened of their lands and goods, unless they go back and make men of themselves again."

  Reinhardt slammed his cup of wine onto the table before him, and slapping his thighs crowed, "My God! Stephen of Blois will never live that down. So I suppose he is going?"

  The Frank shrugged.

  Elisabeth ventured, "Did he flee the siege? Why?"

  Reinhardt raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. "Interested, are we? Well, yes, he did and he did it because he is a lily-livered weak-assed shameful excuse for a man. He did worse than desert, he convinced Emperor Alexios to turn back with the army he was bringing to assist our armies."

  Gautier joined in in a squeaky voice, "'They are dead, all dead, I tell you! Flee, flee for your lives!'"

  "Were they all dead?" she asked, incredulous.

  "Not 'they,' dear girl. 'We.' We were very much alive."

  "I should not claim exactly that, my dear Gautier. We were starving to death. We were the ones under siege by then. That fool monk insisted the lance was buried in the church, and sure enough there it was. Everybody was hallucinating something. For the bishop it was a holy lance. I for one was hallucinating a feast served by houris."

  Gautier made an obscene gesture, then seeing the woman's puzzled look, explained, "Virgins the heathens believe will serve them when they go to paradise."

  "Sometimes I prefer the Paynim vision of paradise to our Heaven. I would rather lie in an oasis sipping nectar from the valley between a woman's breasts than on my knees before Our Lord singing psalms. Can you imagine Bohemond with his terrible voice singing psalms in the wrong key?"

  Gautier toasted his host. "Mayhap in heaven all can sing like angels."

  "So who is going?"

  Gautier looked blank. "To heaven?"

  "No, imbecile. On crusade." Reinhardt picked up the flask of wine from the table and refilled his friend's cup. When he started to pour some for Elisabeth he saw the cup was untouched. "Drink, you ugly bitch. Don't be inhospitable to my guests," he rasped in her ear.

  She took the cup in her hands, brought it to her lips, glaring at him, but set the cup down as full as it had been before. He growled under his breath.

  Gautier was speaking. "That Archbishop of Milan, Anselm or something, is gathering Lombards for a crusade. I have no idea if he is getting any recruits."

  "Nothing from the Germans? The Franks?"

  Gautier spread his hands. "How should I know? I would not put it past some of the young men who could not go the first time. And I suppose your Emperor will want to send someone."

  "Humph! Well, God help them and the Devil take them!" was the Baron's ironic response.

  Elisabeth allowed herself to relax as the two men drank and reminisced. All day she had been on edge, wondering when Reinhardt would demand his matrimonial rights. She swung between crippling fear and violent anger. She looked for Albrecht whom she knew was trying to stay out of the baron's sight.

  "I can't stand it. I'll kill him. I'll run away." She spat as she paced the aisles between the stalls in the stable.

  Albrecht could think of no comfort. His own nerves were raw, his internal debate as to whether to run himself and desert her taking its toll.

  At the high table she began to wonder if she would be alone for one more night. It was little comfort but it was something. If he got drunk enough, perhaps he would not . . .

  "Well, my dear, it is time for bed. I think under the circumstances the pomp and ritual of a bedding is unnecessary." It appeared that Reinhardt had shared the delay after their marriage with his friend, as the man just leered. Reinhardt gave him a brisk nod. "No father or mother here to stop me this time." He grasped Elisabeth's hand and stood, dragging her to her feet. She was too stunned at first to resist.

  As they passed down the hall she started to hold back. Reinhardt spun to face her. "Do not even think of humiliating me before my men. You will get much worse than a bedding."

  Her mouth agape, she let him lead her out of the hall and up the stairs. He took her to her parents' old chamber. Entering, he surveyed the servants' preparations and ordered them out. He kicked the door shut and bolted it.

  "Take off your clothes," he commanded. He went to a table and poured himself wine.

  Elisabeth did not move. She wrapped her arms around her breasts and glared at him.

  After a moment he turned and stared mockingly at her. "What? Do you think I will just say, oh well, if you don't want to?"

  "You are going to have to fight for whatever you take," she growled through bared teeth.

  He took a long draught of the wine, put the cup down, and replied, "Actually, I rather like that idea." He strode the few feet to her and reached to grab her.

  In a flash she had a knife in her hand. He jumped back when she would have stabbed him in the belly. "My God, woman, are you mad?"

  She glared into his eyes. She watched him shake his joints loose and lean forward as if looking for an opening. He held no knife but nevertheless appeared to spar with her. He feinted, nearly grabbed her wrist with his other hand, then jumped back again as she avoided him. "You are quite the hellcat. I am going to enjoy this immensely."

  She anticipated his next move, a double feint, but was unable to move fast enough when he grabbed for her and clasped both her hands in one of his. He twisted her wrists, grinning at her sharp cry of pain as she dropped her weapon.

  He had his lower lip caught between his teeth and his eyes sparkled. He did not say a word. Instead he forced her backwards until the back of her legs hit the bed. Then he turned her around and forced her to bend so her upper torso was pressed on the counterpane and her knees pressed into the side of the bed. He put one hand on the small of her back and held her down. She tried to twist free, but it was no use.

  She could tell he was fumbling with his other hand, pulling up her layers of skirts, finally ripping what he couldn't push away. His grunt was not of pleasure but of condemnation. "No arse to speak of, but they'd better be all right for childbirth."

  Her arse exposed, she waited, forcing away tears. She swore at him continuously, calling him names he had not guessed a woman of her station might know. When it finally struck her that her behavior stimulated his lust, she stopped. The next sound out of her mouth was a scream as he forced his way into her, tearing her maidenhead violently, and all she could do was cry out over and over again.

  Afterwards she stayed in her awkward position as he reached for the torn clothes on the floor. He tossed them on the bed next to her. "Get dressed and go. I don't like to share a bed."

  She grabbed the clothes and without covering herself dashed as quickly to the door as the pain between her sticky thighs allowed. She fumbled with the bolt, and then shot it open, running out into the corridor half naked.

  As she reached her own chamber door Albrecht stepped out from an embrasure. "My lady!" he cried with alarm.

  "Don't touch me!" she shrieked. "Don't touch me, you bastard!"

  He saw the bruises Reinhardt's open palm left on her face, the torn clothing, and the fury in her eyes. "I'll kill him," he growled through clenched teeth. Putting his hand to the hilt of his sword he started to stride down the hall.

  "No!" Elisabeth called after him after a moment's hesitation. "Come back. Please!" she wailed.

  He slowed and stopped, turning to look at her. The appeal in her eyes drew him back to her. He hesitatingly put out his arms so she could, if she wished, enter them and receive comfort. She stared at the floor, and th
en quietly walked into his embrace. She could not prevent herself from shuddering at his touch.

  Reinhardt used her again every night he remained at Winterkirche, seemingly oblivious to everything she did to make herself undesirable. She tried to hide, tried to lock herself in her chamber, and even attempted to escape him, but he had men watching her at all times. Her loyal serving-woman, Marta, tried to soothe her, to calm her, but her constant assurances that Elisabeth would grow used to the rough handling only made the girl withdraw further into herself.

  The morning Reinhardt left she was forced to attend him. She stood hollow-eyed and distracted, causing the man's soldiers to elbow each other and laugh about how busy their lord had kept the wench. Reinhardt himself was grim but with a subtle air of self-satisfaction. He had made it clear to her that he expected her to quicken with child and to make him wait no longer for a son and heir. She nodded dumbly and watched him mount his horse and ride out of the gates.

  Elisabeth never wanted to return to the hall, but she forced herself to do so the next day.

  Over the ensuing days Elisabeth tried to go through the motions of keeping house. She quickly discovered that she had little to do. Reinhardt had informed her steward that if he wanted to keep his position, he would now only answer to himself and his representatives left behind to keep an eye on the girl and her possessions.

  Elisabeth went looking for her only remaining ally, fearing that he, Albrecht, had decamped along with everyone else in spite of his protestations, a decision for which she could not fault him. She turned to go into the hall only to find herself face to face with Hans, one of Reinhardt's squires who was posted to keep an eye on her for his master. The young man's obscene smile startled her so she stepped backward. "Hans, remember yourself!" she demanded hotly.

  The man stepped back and made a deep bow. "My lady," he acknowledged in an ironic voice.

  "Just exactly why did he leave you here?"