by Jennie Reid
“I can work, my Lady.” His voice was deep and soft, like the distant rumble of thunder in the hills. “I can earn my keep…”
She’d expected a different response. A troubadour should have been ready with polished phrases, not this simple plea, not this humility. The angel came back into her thoughts again. She observed him more closely.
He was indeed tall, a full head taller than she was, and his wide shoulders strained the coarse cloth of his tunic. He gave the impression, even standing still, of great strength and power, perfectly controlled.
His hair was a darkish color, caught back from his face somehow. His face was framed by a dark beard, neatly trimmed to a point, Saracen fashion. Great, dark brows shaded his eyes. His nose was large, and too crooked for beauty. A puckered scar ran from his left eyebrow, down his cheek and into his beard, giving him a slight, but permanent, smile.
This was not the face of an angel, she decided. There was something about him that made the air more difficult to breathe, and her heart beat faster in her chest. His affect on her was undeniably emotional, perhaps even physical, but definitely not spiritual.
The troubadour took her hesitation for refusal.
In a swift movement that startled both Berenice and William, the stranger dropped to one knee before her. Taking her small hand in his large, calloused one, he bowed over it.
“My Lady,” he said, and she could feel the touch of his breath on the back of her hand. She was suddenly very conscious of the bread dough beneath her fingernails.
His hair was streaked with gold, she noticed, like veins of ore running through rock. It was braided and tied with a leather thong, in the manner of the Vikings.
He raised his eyes to hers. They were the soft grey of the mist that clings to hills on autumn mornings. For a moment she lost herself in the softness of those eyes.
“My Lady?” A deep, rich voice brought her back to reality. The troubadour was still holding her hand. She snatched it away, annoyed at herself, and annoyed at him for taking advantage of her lapse in concentration.
“What?” she snapped, and then, because it was not in her nature to lack courtesy towards any man, she said, “I’m sorry, my thoughts were elsewhere.”
She smiled politely, and he stood. She was so close to him she could smell his unique scent – a combination of horse, fresh male sweat, and something indefinable.
“What do they call you?”
“Gareth, my Lady.”
“Gareth.” She tasted the flavor of the unfamiliar name, stumbling over the last two consonants. “It’s not a Frankish name.”
“No, my Lady. My mother was Welsh.”
She nodded, and looked him up and down. He tolerated her scrutiny, but she suspected that beneath the roughly woven garments there was a man of pride, of passion even.
She turned away.
“You can stay. For a while. Sir William will show you where you can sleep.”
She needed to get back to the kitchen. The dough would have risen by now.
CHAPTER TWO
“So your mother was Welsh, eh?” said Sir William, leaving his comfortable spot in the shade of the gate house doorway, and coming to stand next to Gareth. “I never knew that. I’d thought she was English.”
Gareth grinned. “Yes, she was Welsh, and she gave me her father’s name to follow the one you knew me by. My father rescued her from bandits. She was on pilgrimage to Rome, and her party was attacked. He took her to his home instead, and married her. I’ve been told it upset quite a few people at the time.”
They both watched Berenice walk across the courtyard. Despite her small stature, no-one could fail to appreciate who was in charge here.
“She’s a fine woman,” said Sir William.
“She is that,” Gareth agreed. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.
“To think, not all that long ago, she was chasing chickens around the courtyard, and trying to keep up with her brothers,” added Sir William.
Gareth’s thoughts had nothing to do with chickens. He was admiring the way her hips and her neatly rounded rear moved beneath her slim fitting, pale blue gown. She might not be tall, but there was no way she could be mistaken for anything but a fully grown woman.
Berenice disappeared under the arch that led to the kitchen door.
“Fancy,” murmured Gareth.
“Well,” said William, slapping him on the back, “We’d best get this beast of yours unloaded. He looks as though he could do with a feed and a drink, and so do you.
“You can bring your bits and pieces to my place, I’ve plenty of room downstairs. I spend most of my evenings in the hall anyway, and there’s a bench you can use, and rugs if you need them. What I haven’t got, Esme’ll find for you.”
“Esme’s still here! How is she?”
“Same as ever, lad, same as ever.”
“Still won’t marry you?”
“Can’t, she says. Can’t! I tell her it doesn’t matter, these are modern times, but you know how women are.”
“I do, Will, I do.”
They took the horse to the stable first, found him an empty stall, fed and watered him in the hay-scented coolness, and left him there.
“We’ll turn him out to pasture later,” said William, “but right now he looks like he’d enjoy being out of the sun for a while. How far did you come today?”
“Far enough. I left Bordeaux four days ago.”
Sir William stopped walking and turned to the younger man. “Now tell me, my L…”
“No, Will. I’m just Gareth the Troubadour, remember? We agreed on that when I arrived, before I would even let you send for the Lady.”
“Very well, Gareth,” William looked at his feet, then back up at the younger man, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to, sir, it doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“No ‘sir’ either. I have my reasons, and you’ll hear them soon enough.” Now it was the younger man’s turn to slap William on the back. “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you, old man!”
“Old man? I’ll give you ‘old man’! I haven’t reached fifty yet! How about I find you a sword later, eh? Or have you got one hidden away in these bundles of yours? It’ll be just like old times!”
“Perhaps,” Gareth laughed, “But we must be careful. The walls have ears, and eyes too. Is this cottage of yours still in the same place? I want to shed the dust of the road, and I’ll need to tune my lute if I’m going to play my part tonight. And you’d better find me something to do, or the Lady will believe me lazy and throw me out of her castle!”
“Well, the cesspits need emptying,” said Sir William, his old blue eyes sparkling with humor, “after that’s done, the stable roof needs fixing. And…”
“And the gates haven’t been shut properly in years. I noticed,” said Gareth, in a more serious tone.
“The old place needs a man’s firm hand, that’s for sure. I do what I can, but…”
“But she wears her hair covered. Where’s her husband?” Gareth avoided looking at William. The question had to be asked, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“He took the cross, and left for the Holy Land. To save Jerusalem from the heathen Saracen, he said, like many a good man I’ve known. I don’t need to tell you about that.”
“Yes,” said Gareth, “I remember. And just how long ago did this husband leave, Will?” he continued, holding his breath.
“It would be about eight years ago, my Lord, sorry, Gareth.” William was standing, facing him. “He left eight years ago, as I’m sure you know.”
Eight years, five months and six days ago, thought Gareth, looking William in the eye once more. He relaxed, letting go the breath he was still holding.
“And she’s waited for her husband? All this time?”
“Aye, lad, she’s waited.”
“Why hasn’t she given him up for dead? Why hasn’t she remarried?” Most women would have, he thought.
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“She refuses to give up hope. Her mother begged her to, before she passed away. Esme begged her. Even her father this last year, when he knew for sure he was dying, begged her to admit she was a widow, not a wife any longer.”
“What did she do?”
“She stormed out of his room. There was a lot of shouting and banging of doors. She swore she was a wife, married in the sight of God, and until someone was to bring her evidence her husband no longer lived, she was no widow.”
Gareth let out a low whistle. “Quite a lady!”
“Quite a lady indeed.”
“So she’s never strayed? She’s never been tempted?” Many women in her situation would have taken a lover, he knew.
“Never! You know how things are in a little place like this. There’s never been anyone else in her bed.” William was adamant.
Gareth nodded. “I see,” he said, but he wasn’t sure he did.
William’s small house was where Gareth remembered it, one of half a dozen inside the castle walls. It had two rooms, on two floors. The upper one William used for sleeping. The lower floor was intended to be a living room, but he rarely entertained, or even ate there, preferring the company of the kitchen or the hall.
Looking around the living room, Gareth knew he’d be happy to sleep there again, with a straw palliasse and a rug or two. A broad timber bench was fixed to the wall between the hearth and the single, small window. As well as the bench, there was a table, another free-standing bench, and a large, iron-bound chest beneath the window.
William opened it, and took out some rusted pieces of armor and chain mail.
“I’ll take these to the armory, son, they’ve seen too many years already. Then you can use the chest for your own gear. I’ll send Esme over with some bread and some wine while I’m at it.”
Before Gareth could tell him not to bother, William had gone. He looked out the unshuttered window, across the yard to the Lady’s tower. He wondered if she still slept in the second floor room. Its one window opened onto the courtyard too.
An agile man could climb onto the kitchen roof, he thought, and, grasping the sill, pull himself into her room. That same, hypothetical man would then be able to take the Lady in his arms, and kiss and caress her until she murmured with pleasure, and begged him to stay.
Sighing, Gareth turned from the window, sagged onto the bench, and leaned against the cool, stone wall. His parcels and bundles were piled on the table before him.
Why had he come here, he wondered. Was it idle curiosity, a last look at all he was leaving behind for good? Or was it the memory of a perfectly oval face, and black wings of brows, and eyes as deep and dark and blue as the Mediterranean Sea?
It was dangerous to be here, far more dangerous than he’d anticipated. If he’d any sense at all, he’d wait an hour or two while the horse rested, and then leave. Ride away from here, forever. No-one would notice the troubadour who arrived and then left again after half a day.
Except William. There were streaks of pure white in his iron dark locks. One day, not too far in the future, he would be too old to protect the castle, and too old to protect Berenice.
So she ran things, did she, in the name of the husband she hadn’t seen for eight years? Gareth had ridden through fields, orchards and gardens on his way to the castle. The peasants sang as they worked. They were well clad and well fed. The Lady, he had to admit, ran things well, which was all very well in times of peace, but what would happen when this prosperous, fertile valley caught the eye of a predator? Like Fulk, for example? How could she stand against the likes of him?
She could marry him, a small, nasty voice at the back of his mind whispered. She could acknowledge her widowhood, as her parents had begged, and ally her lands with her nearest neighbor’s.
Gareth had met Fulk only once, long ago. He hadn’t liked the man then, and the condition of his lands and his peasants, compared to Berenice’s, spoke volumes. To complete the argument, the thought of Berenice beneath Fulk’s sweating, lecherous bulk set Gareth’s hands curling into fists.
So who did she have? An aging knight and a useless monk of a brother. If marriage to Fulk had occurred to Gareth, it was a fairly good bet it had occurred to Fulk as well. Gareth didn’t need his instincts to tell him that.
He’d done what he’d promised himself he’d do. Seeing her again, soaking up the sight of her like a garden soaks up rain, he knew it hadn’t been enough. He wondered if it would ever be enough.
And now, seeing the gates half hanging off their hinges, seeing William so aged, seeing just a small part of the defenselessness of the castle and the valley, he knew he had to stay. At least, for a while. Long enough to know she was safe.
There was a knock at the door, and a woman, older and taller than Berenice, pushed through it backwards balancing a tray of food. She slid it onto the table.
“My Lord,” she began, then her hand covered her mouth as she swallowed, “oh, dear, forgive me, Will told me not to call you that. Gareth the Troubadour, he said. Oh, how strange, calling you by a foreign name! Gareth it is then, I’ve brought you some wine, and some bread, and a bit of cheese and fruit.”
It was enough to feed a small army.
“Esme, my dear lady,” said Gareth, rising and bowing over her hand, “you grow even more beautiful. Sir William must be a happy man.”
“Oh, sir, oh…” She blushed, and gnawed at her lower lip, “it’s good to have you back, after all this time! And so changed to! Will didn’t tell me. You’re so much thinner, and with that strange beard, too. Oh! I shouldn’t be saying these things! Forgive me my lord, please.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Esme, really. I’m not the same man who left – in many ways, not just the way I look. Sit down, and share this lovely meal with me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!” she protested, perching herself on the end of the bench.
“Well, talk to me then, while I eat. I want to know everything that’s happened in the last eight years.”
“Oh, my lord, I couldn’t!” she repeated, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He smiled, and patted the bench beside him, and she told him.
CHAPTER THREE
Berenice noticed subtle changes in the rhythm of the castle life within hours of the troubadour’s arrival.
She watched William trudge across the courtyard carrying an armload of rusted chain mail. He was singing an old love song from his youth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him sing.
Then Esme went missing for hours in the middle of the day. When she reappeared, she was flustered and giggly, and totally unlike her usual calm, organized self.
By the time of the evening meal, Berenice was convinced something was going on.
She’d finished her baking, and checked the inventories in the huge cellars beneath the kitchen with Robert, the cook. When she’d gone to her room to bathe and change out of her working dress, she’d found Esme had laid out one of her best gowns for her to wear to the evening meal. It was a deep, rich blue, with gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem, and it fitted her like a second skin. Esme had once said the color brought out the blue of her eyes.
Before she dressed, she took a moment to stand at the window of her chamber, and look down into the courtyard. The ancient walnut tree her grandfather had planted was in full leaf, shading the seat built around its trunk.
There was little activity in the castle at this time of day. The smithy was quiet, the animals in the stables seen to for the night. Most people had been at work since dawn. In ones and twos, they headed for the hall, ready for one of Robert’s hearty meals, a chat, a song perhaps, and then bed.
Berenice loved this time of the day. Her small world was at peace.
She hoped the arrival of the troubadour would not upset the fragile harmony of her valley. She smiled to herself, thinking of her strange reaction when he’d held her hand at the gate. He’d unsettled her, there was no doubt about it, like a breeze ruffling the l
eaves of the walnut on a still day. Despite that, she suspected the grey-eyed stranger would fit quite well into this little corner of the world.
She remembered the arrival of another stranger, many years before. How different that had been!
***
Berenice stood at the top of the steps, her mother and Esme a pace behind her. Her mother had asked her to wear her thick cloak of English wool over her gown, and now she was glad she had.
She shivered in the early morning chill. The sun had barely shown itself above the hills, but her quiet, gentle mother, who never insisted on anything, had insisted they wait out here, and so they did.
The three of them had been up since well before dawn. Hot water had been brought to her mother’s room, and Berenice had been scrubbed and scented. Scrubbed, so the grass stains of her latest escapades no longer showed on her palms and knees; scented, so her future husband would appreciate the woman she was about to become.
Esme had brushed Berenice’s brown hair until it shone. It hung almost to her waist, shifting and stirring in the early morning air.
Berenice was sixteen years old, and her betrothed was about to arrive. She wondered what he would look like, what manner of man he would be.
Perhaps, if God were smiling upon her today, her betrothed would be kind and gentle and studious, like Godfrey de Freycinet, her father. Or he might be as wild and free as the eagles in the mountains, as her brother Denis had been. Or he might be serious, and a fighting man, like Sir William, captain of her father’s men-at-arms. Or like her brother Odo, as studious as their father, but still capable of enjoying a good meal and a flask of wine.
These men she’d known since her cradle. These men she loved. Surely her father and the duke and the king would not want her to marry someone who was very much different to these.
She shivered again, not entirely from the cold.
Marriage. She’d known, for as long as she could remember, she would be expected to marry wherever and whomever her father decided. It didn’t make the prospect any less frightening.
It wasn’t as though she was ignorant of the realities of the marriage bed; she’d seen cows and bulls, the dogs in the courtyard, and even the ducks and the drakes. She couldn’t imagine actually wanting to do anything like it. The very thought filled her with horror.