by Jennie Reid
HOT SUMMER’S KNIGHT
BY
JENNIE REID
Copyright © 2014 by J.E Reid
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fouteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
PROLOGUE
January, 1195
Sir Gilbert hunched low behind his horse’s neck, desperate for the little shelter from the elements the beast could provide. Melting snow saturated his thick, woollen cloak. The rivulet of sleet inside his leather jerkin caressed his skin like the icy hand of death himself.
He shuddered, not entirely from the cold.
The tavern’s ale sat sourly in his stomach. Perhaps it had been tainted, Gilbert thought, although he’d always believed Hugh Taverner produced as good a drop as could be had anywhere between here and Bordeaux.
Fear, he knew, turned the best amber ale to acid.
The Count, known for neither his generosity nor his concern for the care and wellbeing of his retainers, had despatched the captain of his guard to the tavern at Pontville for one reason, and one reason only: to gather information. Now the sought-after news buzzed in Gilbert’s head like a nest of angry wasps, stinging his conscience, stirring up his misgivings.
Gilbert had completed his task with his customary efficiency, but the thought held no pleasure.
The news he carried would not please the Count. Fulk de Betizac liked events to proceed according to plan. Those closest to him tended to suffer most when plans went awry.
Gilbert dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. Dawdling achieved nothing. Better to get the task over and done with than prolong the agony.
Before long he caught a glimpse of Castle Betizac above the tops of the trees. The castle appealed to the soldier in him, representing, as it did, undoubtedly the best the century had to offer in efficient military technology. The serrated ridge of battlements topped a sheer, grey curtain wall, behind which loomed the dark tower of the keep. Twin towers flanked massive, iron bound gates. Above them the portcullis hung, ready to be dropped at the first sighting of an enemy.
Gilbert rode up to those gates bellowing his demand for admission to the guards on duty. Inside the castle the warmth of the guard house fire would be abandoned as well-trained men scurried to do his bidding.
Minutes later he rode under the portcullis and into the courtyard, where a groom stood ready to hold his horse while he dismounted. Gilbert barely noticed him. As captain of the Count’s guard he was used to instant obedience.
He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and with a few long strides he was at the heavy oak door of the keep. Battling a bitter wind, he wrenched the door open. Once inside, he brushed the sleet from his cape, and climbed the stairs to the Count’s chamber.
Despite the uneven stairs, especially designed to slow intruders, Gilbert soon reached the Count’s door. Too soon. He and his men may well be ordered to ride, winter or no winter, once the Count digested the news he was bringing.
He knocked, his metal-spiked gauntlet sounding loud in his ears.
“Come!” roared a voice. Sir Gilbert pushed the heavy door, and it swung silently inwards.
He paused on the threshold. This room never ceased to amaze him. Outside, the grim grey castle was all stark functionality; in here, all was luxury, luxury taken to decadent extremes.
A vast bed, laden with furs of every shade from deep brown to silver grey, dominated the room. Richly hued tapestries covered the stone walls; thick Turkish rugs, the floors. The single window, paned in genuine glass and rumoured to have cost a small fortune, admitted weak winter light. A wood fire crackled and hissed in the fireplace. The intricate carvings of its mantel and supports depicted men and women entwined in unnatural acts of passion.
The Count sat on the far side of a long table. His usual black garments, made of the finest silks and velvets, would have looked even more impressive, thought Gilbert, if the Count had allowed his manservant to brush away the days-old food stains.
The cleaning of his fingernails absorbed the Count’s immediate attention. He used the lethal tip of a small Spanish dagger. No lady’s knife this, its finely honed, gleaming steel blade bore the sheen only well-used weapons acquire.
He glanced up as his visitor entered.
“Ah, Gilbert,” he drawled, sheathing the blade in a concealed scabbard in his boot, and leaning forward, “What news, man, what news?”
Gilbert eyed the comfortable chair to the left of the table. He’d ridden long and hard through rain and sleet in the Count’s service, but he knew he’d be expected remain at attention. He shifted on his feet, being careful not to let melting sleet drip onto the precious Turkish carpets.
He cleared his throat. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
“The old Lord’s dead, my Lord Count.”
“Dead? You’re sure?”
“Positive, sir. I spoke with several people at Pontville. He’d had the wasting disease badly for nearly a year, and he hadn’t been well for a long time before that, as you know. He died peacefully, in his sleep, two nights ago. The funeral’s on the Sabbath.”
Gilbert held his breath, and waited. The Count straightened in his chair and rubbed his hands together with relish he made no attempt to conceal.
“And the girl? What’re they saying about the girl? Will she marry?”
“Evidently not, sir. They’re saying…” Gilbert hesitated. He’d fought on battlefields across Europe, he’d taken part in more sieges than he cared to remember, on both sides of the castle wall, but he’d never met a man who frightened him as much as this Count. This man was evil, through and through. He’d buried three wives already, so rumour said. What hope would a young woman have against him?
“Well?”
“They’re saying she intends to rule on her own, my Lord Count. She’s been taking her father’s place for nearly a year and…” he took a deep breath, and rushed on, “She intends to rule in the name of her absent husband.”
“Husband? Husband! Hah!” The Count thr
ew back his head and laughed.
At first Gilbert was relieved; the Count’s reaction was not what he’d expected. His relief was short-lived. Not only was the sound unpleasant, great gales of the Count’s foul breath, caused no doubt by the blackened stumps of his rotting teeth, blasted into Gilbert’s face.
“But she’s a widow as well as an orphan, Gilbert!” The Count pushed his chair back, and strode to a brass-bound trunk beneath the window. From it he drew a smaller, plain, wooden box, which he tossed to his captain.
“Open that, Gilbert, open that! There’s no-one in my way now her father’s gone! You can’t count the monkish brother, his precious books are worth more to him than his heritage!”
Gilbert snapped open the box. Inside it a man’s ring, finely crafted in silver, lay in a nest of deep blue velvet.
“Note well the coat of arms, my good captain.” The Count leaned back in his chair, his smug smile reminiscent of that of a well-fed predator.
“It’s not familiar to me, sir.”
The Count laughed again.
“Her husband’s ring, Gilbert! He was slain at Hattin over seven years ago. Seven long years I’ve waited for the old man to die. Now the girl’s alone, just waiting for me to come to her rescue.”
Gilbert closed the box, and returned it to the Count.
“Do we ride then? Do you want my men to bring the girl to you?”
“No, fool, my plans are a little more subtle than that.” The Count swung his booted feet onto the table. “No, Gilbert, we will not take her now. We’ll wait until their midsummer fair, and go to her with fair words and pretty speeches. The girl will’ve had enough of managing on her own by then. She’ll welcome the attentions of her wealthy and generous neighbor.”
Gilbert wondered precisely what sort of attentions the Count had in mind. And what would happen if the girl did not agree to the Count’s propositions?
“But my Lord Count, the fair…” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Gilbert knew he shouldn’t have spoken.
“Yes, Gilbert?”
“The peasants will not appreciate it if the peace of the fair is broken.”
“Peasants – bah!” spat the Count, “what do I care what her peasants might think? They’ll soon be my peasants, and they’ll know who’s master then!” He turned away.
Gilbert knew when he was dismissed. Backing out of the door, he quietly pulled it shut. He never turned his back to the Count, not out of respect, but from a very real fear of finding a knife between his shoulder blades one day. He made his way carefully down the uneven stairs towards his own quarters near the gates.
Someone had lit the fire for him. He’d find out who, and thank them later. He hung his dripping cloak on a peg behind the door, and unlaced his leather jerkin.
Using his foot he hooked a three-legged stool over to the hearth. Soon the warmth penetrated his damp garments, and his spirits rose, a little. The meeting with the Count hadn’t gone anywhere nearly as badly as it could have.
He was good at his job, he knew. He was a fighting man with over twenty years experience, rarely bested with the long sword, and unequalled with his favorite weapon, the English bow. He wondered whether it might not be time to move on once more. To resume his search.
“La Bonne” her people called the young woman who now ruled half this valley in the name of her absent husband; “The Good” in his own language. Her people loved her and had loved her father, as much as the Count’s peasants hated and feared their Lord.
Gilbert sighed, and scratched his bushy blond beard. A job was a job when all was said and done. He’d stay here for a while longer, and see what happened.
CHAPTER ONE
The following summer…
“Get out of my kitchen!”
The cook’s roar was followed by the sound of breaking pottery.
Berenice finished wringing out a linen cloth to place over the dough. The intruder was standing, trembling on the kitchen doorstep, the shards of the cook’s missile at his feet. Gerard the stable boy was ten years old and small with it. He quivered with fear all the way from his shaggy brown hair to his dirty toes.
“I’ll take care of it, Robert,” she called across the room. “What is it, child?” she said to the boy.
“S-s-s-sir William s-s-sent me,” he stuttered, nervously glancing in the cook’s direction.
“Sir William sent you,” she repeated, steering him out of the doorway, into the bright sunshine of the courtyard.
The day will be hot again, she thought. Some rain would be a nice change; even a cloud would break the endless monotony of the brilliant blue sky. At least the river still ran full and deep, so they’d plenty of water for the gardens and the orchards.
“Yes, my Lady.” Once out of the cook’s reach, Gerard’s speech returned to normal. “There’s a stranger at the gate. Sir William sent me to fetch you.” His eyes were huge, his curiosity obvious.
“Thank you, Gerard. Back to the stables with you now – there’s work to be done!”
“Yes, my Lady.” He bobbed a brief bow, and was gone, but not without another long look towards the entrance to the castle courtyard.
Berenice sighed. It would only be the carpenter, of course. Even the carpenter’s arrival was a major event in their small valley. Its remoteness kept them all safe, but one price of that safety was a distinct lack of exciting visitors.
She wiped the bread dough off her hands and onto her apron, and nudged her headdress into place with the back of her hand.
She’d been expecting the carpenter all week, although she’d believed he was going to bring his wife and family with him. Perhaps he’d left them behind somewhere, and decided to do this job alone. The task was, after all, a fairly small one, just a covered walkway from the kitchen door, past her tower, and to the great hall. Provided the cost was not excessive, she might have it extended past the door of her father’s tower, and around to the cottages on the other side of the courtyard. She would see what his workmanship was like before she came to a decision.
As she walked across the courtyard she felt a trickle of perspiration snake between her shoulder blades and continue down to her waist beneath her shift. She took a few deep breaths. She mustn’t show any sign of weariness. Everyone depended on her, all the people of the castle, of the three other villages in the valley, even the monks in the monastery on the hill: over five hundred souls altogether.
Berenice knew many of her people believed it was against God and nature for a woman to act as castellan and Lord. Her ancestors had first cleared this valley, brought people here to farm the land, and built a castle, albeit a small one, in its defense. But she was only a woman, and a woman should have a man to wield a sword for her, to protect both her and her people, they said when they thought she couldn’t hear them.
Her father had died last winter. Odo helped when he could, she knew, but his mind was no longer on secular things.
And then there was the eternal, unasked question of her husband. She sighed again, and wiped the moisture from her forehead with the corner of her apron. For his sake, she wore the headdress of a married woman over her hair. By rights, her husband should have been here. He should carry this burden she feared was sometimes too much for her slender shoulders.
She took another deep breath. Striding through searing sunlight, her spine straight, she refused to be bowed down by responsibility and self pity.
Her husband, here! She made a small sound of disgust to herself. She wouldn’t even contemplate the possibility.
She’d assumed it would be the carpenter, standing at the gate. The carpenter was bringing the timber from Bordeaux. If he didn’t, he’d have nothing to work with, as their little valley lacked the wealth of a lumber mill.
This man brought only himself, and a tired horse.
Berenice wondered if he were perhaps an angel, like the one sent by the Lord to Gideon, to tell him help was at hand.
The gates were never closed; they hung loosely on th
eir hinges. As she drew closer, she studied the man standing between them. He was tall, and something hung down behind him, for all the world like folded wings.
In the heat the earth seemed to shift and move around his feet, as though it were insubstantial. A trick of the light and heat, perhaps, but for a moment she was afraid. He looked more like a spirit than a man. Was he indeed an angel? Or a demon come to plague her, more like.
She dismissed the thought with an impatient shake of her head. The Lady of Freycinet could not afford to indulge in superstitious fantasies. Odo would laugh at her and call her a peasant if he knew. She held her head a little higher.
He was just a man, wearing loose, coarsely woven clothes, the sort peasants wore. The garment she’d taken for wings was nothing more than an ancient, fraying cloak, worn, no doubt, in an attempt to keep off the dust of the road. It hadn’t worked. Dust clung to his clothes and his hair.
The closer she came, the more he looked like a vagabond or a bandit than an angel. She began to wonder why Sir William had sent for her instead of just sending this creature on his way. William should have known she’d trust his judgment.
The poor, tired horse was laden with luggage of strange shapes and sizes. A peddler then. Even worse. Everyone knew peddlers where often thieves too.
“Sir William,” she called to the figure lounging in the shade of the gatehouse door, “who is this man?”
The vagabond made no move to speak for himself. He just stood there, and watched her.
He made her feel a little uncomfortable, as though he’d read her thoughts. “Be careful,” his eyes were saying silently, “Are you brave enough to turn me away?”
William emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse. “This man’s a troubadour, my Lady. He asks leave to sing his songs, and tell his tales, in exchange for a bite to eat and a place to sleep.”
William really should have known better. “We haven’t room for an idler. There’s been little rain for weeks. The food we have may not last until autumn as it is. Everyone who sleeps here, works here.”
She was speaking to William, but the troubadour took it upon himself to answer.