by Jennie Reid
In the unbearable heat, he’d taken off his tunic. His skin was clearly no stranger to the sun’s touch. The well-defined muscles of his chest and arms looked as though they’d been carved from some exotic timber, and then oiled. His battle scars were like flaws in timber; they only served to enhance his appeal. Loose leggings tied around lean hips with a leather thong failed to conceal the generous bulge of his sex.
Jessamine swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her palms sweating, the moisture hot between her legs.
She’d thought she’d known well-built men, she’d thought she’d seen handsome men, until this moment. Here was a man like no other. The need to have him, to be joined with him, to feel him as he moved inside her, devoured her like a fire through dry wood.
Who was he? Jessamine didn’t care if he was the Lady’s personal slave, she swore she’d have him for herself. She knew what men liked. All she’d need would be a few moments alone with him, and he’d be hers.
She knew the man at the gate was watching her, and she smiled to herself. Her hair hung, the deep gold of birch leaves in autumn she’d been told, unbound to her waist. Taking off her straw hat, she tossed her hair over one shoulder.
The first blow in the inevitable duel had been struck.
Her father quickly singled out the Lady of the castle from the gathering crowd. Leaving the oxen in Albert’s care, he hurried towards her, removing his hat as he went.
“I am Lady Berenice de Freycinet,” the woman stated, and welcomed the family to the valley. Jessamine’s attention shifted. This woman represented authority in this place, insignificant as it was.
She was as insignificant as the place she ruled. Small, skinny, no bosom to speak of, noted Jessamine, and her dress was faded and patched. Why, Jessamine’s own mother wore better quality garments, and Martha’s headdress was better starched than the Lady’s well-washed linen.
“My Lady,” said Georges, bowing low, “my most humble apologies. The oxen…” He launched into a long explanation of his delays. Why, Jessamine couldn’t understand. Why bother ingratiating himself with a woman such as this?
The Lady cut off the carpenter mid-sentence. “Yes, yes, my good man, I’m sure your work is all it’s reputed to be. I saw the stable you built for the duke last spring, and I’m perfectly content to allow you free reign with the design.” She smiled a small, tight smile. “Let’s get you settled in some lodgings, and out of this hot sun.”
“Thank you, my Lady. Would you allow me to introduce my family?” He beckoned to them. His wife and son went quickly enough. Jessamine took her time, using the chance to allow the man at the gate a good look at her slender white calf as she climbed down from the cart.
“This is my wife, Martha, and my son, Albert.” Albert was fifteen, and he bowed awkwardly and blushed.
Jessamine took her time to stroll the short distance from the cart to the head of the ox team where the rest of her family waited.
She was very aware of the way she walked, hips swaying beneath her gown. She knew the slow, mesmerizing rhythm would draw the gaze of practically every man in the courtyard. Including the man at the gate.
Her father was destroying the brim of his straw hat. Jessamine had often told him off about the annoying habit, but it made no difference. “Come on, girl, we mustn’t keep the Lady waiting. This,” he said, as proud as a showman saving his best goods until the last, “is my daughter, Jessamine.”
Jessamine dipped a perfunctory curtsey.
“Do your family work with you?” asked the Lady.
“My wife and son do, my Lady,” answered Georges.
“Work will be found for your daughter, in that case. There’ll be something in the kitchens she can do to help, I’m sure.”
“Thank you, my Lady. Of course, my Lady,” answered her fool of a father. Something in the kitchens, indeed! Jessamine would see about that.
“There’s a cottage free,” added the Lady, “and the ostler will show you where you can graze the oxen.”
The carpenter bowed again. Jessamine cringed to see her father grovel so before this backwoods woman who barely deserved the term ‘noble’.
A cottage, indeed. A two room hovel, no doubt, where she’d be sharing a bed with her brother yet again, and fending off his creeping hands in the middle of the night. Not for long though, she swore. She’d find out where that man slept. Then things would change.
“All of you,” Lady Berenice cried out to the waiting crowd, “There’s work to be done!”
Jessamine licked her lips with her small, pink tongue, hoping the man was watching.
CHAPTER SIX
Chattering like a flock of geese, the women and children went back to the gardens, Robert and the kitchen hands returned to the kitchen, and the ostler and the stable hands came to unhitch the cart and put the oxen out to pasture. The brief moment of excitement was over. Everyone went back to work.
Except for the troubadour. He was still standing by the gate, idly swinging his hammer. Berenice walked towards him, intending to tell him to follow the example set by the others.
She could feel him watching her as she approached him. She held her head high, determined he wouldn’t see how aware of herself he made her feel. Or was it just that, after seeing the carpenter’s daughter swaying seductively with every step, Berenice now felt stiff, and tense, and about as graceful as one of those oxen?
Why should it suddenly matter to her? She’d walked the same way for most of her twenty four years. Nothing had changed, nothing at all.
He was smiling, a small, private smile that barely curved his lips.
“My Lady.” He bowed, not much more than a nod of his head, but far more meaningful than the carpenter’s overdone obsequiousness.
Sweat glazed his tanned skin. Standing this close to him, she found the leanness she’d first assumed was illusory. Without his tunic, he was all muscle and sinew and hard-edged bone, without a trace of fat to soften the angles of his body. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his smooth skin, to find out if he were really as hard as he looked. Her hand had begun to move of its own accord before she realized they were in full view of anyone who chanced to cross the courtyard.
She cleared her throat, confused and unable to remember why she’d come here.
“You’re mending the gate, I see.” Even to herself, the statement sounded inane, if not downright stupid.
“The hinges needed straightening. The gates should close now.”
Even the sound of his voice intrigued her. His simple statement started warmth rising in mysterious places deep inside her; places she’d never given a great deal of thought to before he’d arrived.
A scar began under his rib cage, and disappeared around his side. Another slashed one bicep. His nipples were small and dark.
A diamond of curling hair, the same hue as his beard, grew on his chest. She wanted to run her fingers through it, to find out if it were really as soft and springy as it looked. His body was a fascinating combination of textures and angles and planes.
She licked her dry lips, and thought she heard him gasp, as though in pain.
“Are you hurt, troubadour? Are your wounds healed?”
“Some wounds never heal, my Lady.” His voice was so deep, so rich, so soft; like a fur cape on a cold winter’s night; like the warm milk and honey, flavored with a few precious grains of nutmeg, Esme brought her when the nightmares came and she was afraid to sleep. She wanted to wrap herself in the sound of his voice, immerse herself in it completely.
“Is there,” she hesitated, looking up into his misty grey eyes, knowing there were many things about this man she couldn’t understand, “can I, I mean, do you want me to help, in any way?”
“Oh,” the sound this time was definitely one of pain, “you do help, my Lady, believe me.”
He touched her then. The tip of his finger tucked a stray curl beneath her headdress. This gesture was far more intimate than the meeting of their finger tips in the dance the pr
evious night. The dance had had its ritualized movements, and they’d been surrounded by people. Now there was only the two of them in the deserted courtyard.
She wanted to lean her face into his palm, and feel the heat of his calloused hand on her skin. Instead, she took a step away. The realities of her life were simple: she was the Lord of this valley until her husband’s return, and upon his return she would be his wife, and the mother of his children.
His wife. The phrase filled her with horror.
Without a word, she turned and walked sedately across the courtyard, and up the stairs, to her chamber.
Berenice slammed the door, and leaned against the solid oak. Sweat trickled down her body beneath her shift, and her headdress itched and chafed.
Esme had left a pitcher of cool water so she could bathe her face and hands before the evening meal. She couldn’t wait that long. Hurriedly, she stripped to her shift. Dampening a cloth, she sponged the sweat and dust from her body.
However she tried, she couldn’t wash away the memory of the troubadour’s brief caress. His simple touch had awakened something deep inside her; something she hadn’t even known was sleeping.
With a wordless cry, she sank to her knees on the cold, stone floor. She knew she longed for him, even after she’d sworn to ignore him. If she was going to be honest with herself, she longed for far more than just a brief caress.
She thought of him standing near the gate, his skin gleaming in the sunlight. She wanted to know him, to know the feel of his body next to hers, to know the touch of his lips as well as his hand. She yearned for him. No-one had made her feel like this, not even her husband.
Especially not her husband.
At the thought of her Lord, joined to her by God, by law and by the contracts their fathers had signed, she groaned aloud. To think she could so easily contemplate breaking her marriage vows! She was weak-willed, allowing herself to be led astray by the desires of the flesh.
She prayed to every saint she remembered for the strength to resist the unfamiliar urges shaking her body. She was still on her knees when Esme found her, hours later, and gently helped her to climb into her bed.
Esme bathed Berenice’s tear streaked face.
“Esme,” Berenice whispered, worn out by weeping and prayer, “where would I be without you? What would I do?”
“You’d probably cope perfectly well without me, my dear, as you know quite well. Now, whatever’s happened to get you into this state? I haven’t seen you this upset since your father died. You’ll make yourself ill if you’re not careful!”
“I…” Berenice began, “I was thinking about my husband.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell her faithful friend all the truth.
“You were?”
Berenice was too preoccupied to notice Esme’s slightly hopeful tone.
“I wasn’t a good wife, Esme.”
“It was a long time ago, love. You were very young.”
“I know I was young, but I didn’t behave towards him as a wife should.”
“Well, dear, there’s no sense in fretting over it now.”
“Esme,” said Berenice, sitting up and holding onto to Esme’s arm, “tell me truly, do you believe he’ll ever come back? Really?”
“Well, my dear, miracles can happen! As I always say, you never know what’s around the next corner.”
“Then I must pray for a miracle, Esme.” Berenice sighed, and leaning back against the pillows, closed her eyes.
“You do that, dear, I’m sure. The good Lord will be listening.” Esme bustled around the room, picking up discarded clothes, brushing dust from already pristine surfaces.
“Esme, I don’t think I’ll come to dinner this evening. Could you bring me something?”
“Of course, dear.” Esme, always good natured, was unusually cheerful this afternoon. Her good humor was beginning to make Berenice feel even worse.
“Esme,” Berenice whispered from the shadows of the bed, “How long should I wait for him to return?”
“I don’t know dear, I’m sure.”
“Was my father right? Should I give him up for dead, and marry again?”
“You swore to your father…”
“I know.” Berenice’s face was pale as she turned to Esme. “But what if it never happens? What if I never know for sure? Does that mean I have to live the rest of my life, alone?”
“I can’t answer that for you, my Lady. You must look into your own heart and soul, if you want to break your oath,” Esme was thoughtful, “but I can tell you one thing. In my opinion, marriage has got nothing to do with this new idea of standing up in a church in front of a priest. I’m old enough to remember when a man and a woman could declare their love in front of their families and friends, and it was considered enough of a marriage.
“God knows what’s in our hearts,” Esme continued, “what do you think is worse, vows made in church with hearts that are false, or two people together, who love each other but have never been near a priest? I say, leave God to people like your brother, who know how to talk to Him.”
Berenice had no answer for Esme. As her friend left the room, she lay back against the pillows. Sometimes not telling the whole truth was as bad as lying, and she knew she hadn’t admitted everything to Esme. God was punishing her for her foolish oath to her father, whose only wish had been to see her and the valley safe. She’d taken care of things for many years, and she’d foolishly imagined things wouldn’t change very much once he’d gone.
Her marriage had seemed the ideal solution. While she declared herself to be still wed, she couldn’t be given to any other man. The idea had seemed so perfect – the romantic ideal of the young wife, eternally waiting for the return of her beloved husband.
Except it was all a lie. She’d detested her husband from the moment he’d collapsed in a drunken stupor at her feet, and a week of courtship and five weeks of marriage hadn’t improved her opinion of him.
She hadn’t wanted to marry at all. After Odo had entered the monastery, and Denis had drowned in the river, all she’d wanted was to quietly rule the valley, as her father had done, and his father before him. Since her father’s death, she’d managed well enough, despite being a woman.
Until yesterday. Esme was right; we never know what lies in wait around the next corner.
Tomorrow, she decided, she’d go to see Odo. He would have the solution to all her problems, just as he used to when she was a child.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Berenice woke at dawn, as she usually did. Slipping into her shift, she ran to the open window. The morning was bright and fair and cloudless, as always, just right for her plans.
The castle wouldn’t miss her presence for the morning, perhaps even the entire day. She felt a delicious sense of freedom, as though today were a holy day, and she’d now been given permission to celebrate. Except this was even better than a holy day, with all the work entailed in preparing the festivities. This was a day for herself and herself alone.
She dressed in an old, comfortable dress and leather sandals, and quickly pinned up her hair and fixed her headdress.
She stopped at the kitchen first. Despite dedication to his faith, her brother always appreciated Robert’s cooking, especially his almond meal biscuits. For good measure, she added some of last season’s pears, their wrinkled brown skins concealing the sweet flesh beneath. Wrapped in a cloth were some of the white rolls she’d baked two days before. A small flask of wine and a piece of old cheese filled the basket.
Berenice felt so much better today. Her rest had revitalized her, and there was a spring in her step as she crossed the courtyard and headed out, through the gates.
There was no sign of the troubadour about the castle. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The effect he had on her was disturbing, the feelings he aroused in her were unlike anything she’d experienced before. They were too strange, too strong, and part of her yearned for her old, peaceful existence once more.
On the other hand, she knew a world without him would be a greyer place. She found herself looking for him as she left the castle, but it was a fruitless exercise. Doubtless William had found him something useful to do again.
She took the path to the left outside the castle gates, away from the main road which wound down the valley to Pontville, the old Roman bridge and, eventually, to Bordeaux. She followed the castle wall until she came to the river.
Near the castle the river was broad, and deep, and slow. Further up the valley, where the foothills began to turn into mountains, the river ran faster and was shallower. There was another village there, a few cottages clustered around the skirts of the mill the monks had built to take advantage of the rushing waters. On the other side of the village, where two swiftly flowing streams came together to form the river, on an outcrop of rock high above the pines and conifers, stood the monastery where Odo was Abbot.
Berenice was proud of her brother. He was Abbot not because he was the younger son of the family which had endowed the monastery, but because he’d been elected to the post. The brothers both respected and liked him.
Her path followed the bank of the river, sometimes only a couple of feet from the bank, sometimes veering further inland. She knew it well. She’d traveled this way many times before, both alone and with her brothers.
It was cool beneath the trees, and a welcome respite from the eternally blazing sun. Even the light was subdued, filtered through green foliage. It was quiet too, the quietness of a vast cavern, or one of the cathedrals just built in Rouen and Chartres. Even the birds had stopped singing in the heat of the day.
Berenice was completely alone. Everyone was at work in the fields or the gardens, or at the castle. She had a sudden urge to take off her sandals and feel the grass beneath her bare toes. The grass was still green here, protected from the sun by the trees, and it felt delicious.
Next she removed her headdress, and the pins which kept her hair in place. The deep brown mass tumbled down her back, and she ran her fingers through it, lifting it up off her neck, and letting it fall again.