Hot Summer's Knight

by Jennie Reid

  Everything would have to be back in place when she reached the monastery, so she carefully wrapped her headdress and the pins, and placed them on top of the basket. Then she loosened the drawstring of her shift, and let the cooler air of the forest soothe her heated skin.

  White and yellow and pink wild flowers grew amongst the trees. She picked one, and tucked it behind her ear. She found another she liked, so she picked it too, until she had a posy in her hand.

  Pausing for a moment, she studied their colors and breathed their delicate scent. She wove them into a garland for her hair as she walked. The path took her inland for a while, but the constant murmur of the river was always with her.

  The sudden sound of splashing jarred the peace of the day. Berenice feared it could mean someone, or something, was in trouble.

  There was no direct way to the riverbank, so she pushed her way through low bushes and long grass.

  The splashing diminished a little. Berenice stopped. The sound of singing took her completely by surprise. It was a man’s voice, and the song was one she knew, of a beautiful maiden and her lost love. She’d heard it sung two nights ago, in the great hall of the castle.

  Now even more curious, she emerged from the forest at the top of a muddy bank. The sudden sunlight blinded her, and she shielded her eyes with one hand. Leaving her basket, she ventured as close to the edge of the bank as she dared.

  He was standing up to his waist in the water, scrubbing himself with a rag, and singing at the top of his voice. The sunlight glistened on all the fascinating planes and angles of his damp body. His wet hair coiled in serpentine tangles around his face and neck and onto his shoulders, sending rivulets down his arms and chest and back.

  He reminded Berenice of the paintings of naked men on the cup someone had dug up near the bridge. Dark figures, quite obviously male, marched around the cup’s rim. Odo had said it was very, very old, and definitely pagan.

  The figures might have been male, but they’d been undoubtedly beautiful in their artistic perfection. The troubadour was beautiful too, as he bathed himself and sang, and in the same pagan way. He was like a river god, ancient and wise, a part of this valley.

  Forgetting her anguish of the day before, she drank in the sight of him, too intoxicated by it to divert her gaze as a modest woman should have done. She was afraid too, of his pagan beauty, and of his ability to make her forget all modesty and all shame.

  Almost unconsciously, she made the sign of the cross.

  She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. The water was clear, and even from this distance, she could tell he wore nothing beneath the water’s surface. She knew she should look away, as a proper lady would when a gentleman was bathing. But being a proper lady had, quite suddenly, ceased to be important. She feasted her eyes instead, devouring each bronzed curve and plane and angle, and longed to see what the waters hid. Her bare toes curled in the grass at the riverbank’s edge.

  Who knows how long they would have stood there, Gareth in the water, Berenice on her bank. The water beneath it was far deeper than Gareth’s bathing place. Before either of them knew what was happening, the riverbank gave way, and Berenice felt herself falling.

  The deep, dark waters of the river closed over her head.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gareth saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and knew he was no longer alone. For a moment he resented the intrusion; he enjoyed his morning bath, and had purposely come this far from the castle to avoid any interruptions. Then he saw who it was.

  Berenice stood like a primitive queen on the riverbank. Her long, brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. She was crowned with wild flowers, and her feet were bare.

  This was not a frightened child-bride. This was a woman, with a woman’s confidence and pride.

  Eight years before, he’d ridden out of the castle gates as a knight, one day to be Lord of this valley.

  He remembered the day well. His beautiful young wife had come to say goodbye to him; she’d been told to do so, no doubt, by her parents. There’d even been tears in her eyes, he was sure. Or perhaps they’d been in his own.

  After the oaths had been sworn before the priest, after the festivities were over, she’d stood in front of the bed in the bridal chamber, the bed she probably still slept in. Her crown then was a garland of early spring flowers, slightly askew, and her long, dark hair had swirled around her naked body. He’d never seen a more exquisite sight.

  Until now.

  Gareth thought for a moment his heart would cease beating.

  His clean tunic and leggings were waiting for him on the bank. The clothes he’d just washed were hanging over bushes to dry. All were at least a dozen feet away, too far away for him to reach without Berenice finding out he was standing here in nothing but his skin.

  He was proud of the gifts nature had granted him, but Berenice had a virginal quality about her, something unsullied he’d no wish to spoil. So he stood, motionless, while she watched him.

  Who knows how long they would have stood there, Gareth in the water, Berenice on her bank. Beneath her feet, the river had undermined the edge, and the water beneath it was far deeper than Gareth’s bathing place. Before either of them knew what was happening, the riverbank gave way.

  The deep, dark waters closed over Berenice’s head. Her dark hair and skirts spread out around her.

  Gareth launched himself in her direction. With a few powerful strokes he reached the place where he’d last seen her. The crumbling bank had muddied the waters. She’d vanished into the murky depths.

  Holding his breath, he dived beneath the surface, thrusting with his legs, using his hands to search for any sign of Berenice. In moments he found her dress, then, pulling her towards him, the rest of her.

  His arms closed around her. He drew her up to the surface, and helped her to her feet.

  “Berenice, speak to me!”

  “I’m fine,” she coughed a little.

  They were standing together, waist deep in water. His arms encircled her, holding her tightly. Her breasts were crushed against him, and her long, wet hair hung over his arms. She made no attempt to move away. Instead she leaned her head against the solid wall of his chest, while one of his hands slowly rubbed her back.

  “I thought I’d lost you. When you fell into the water, it was as though everything slowed. The river seemed to pull you under.” His warm lips brushed her cool, damp forehead. “Berenice.”

  Tentatively, she raised a hand to his chest.

  “Gareth,” she whispered, “my brother was lost in the river.” She looked up at him, and smiled shyly. “You saved my life. How can I ever repay you?”

  He smiled too. He was holding her in his arms, at last. It was something he’d never dared hope for.

  Now, he wanted to kiss her.

  The heat of her body penetrated her damp garments. Even the smell of her was intoxicating.

  He shouldn’t be longing to know the feel of her lips on beneath his.

  “No! I can’t, please…” she cried. She began to struggle, pushing with all her might against his chest.

  Gareth’s feet were planted firmly on the river bed, but the same strong river current which had caused the bank to collapse tugged at Berenice’s skirts. She was swept away, out into the centre of the river.

  With powerful strokes, Gareth swam after her. The river wasn’t deep, just swiftly flowing. As soon as he’d caught her, he swooped her out of the water, and threw her over his shoulder. He had no intention of losing her again.

  “Gareth,” she cried again, this time extremely indignantly, “put me down!”

  “Not until you’re safely back on the bank,” he patted her neat, round rear, “and out of these wet clothes.”

  “Put me down!” she insisted. She tried to kick him, but he’d too firm a hold on her legs for her to do much damage.

  Soon they’d be out of the concealing waters of the river. In one swift movement he dumped her unceremoniously on the river bank,
and gathered his clothes from the bush where they were drying.

  “There,” he called, throwing her a square of linen, “Get dry!”

  She patted at her damp garments.

  “Take them off,” he ordered. He tied a cloth around his loins to protect her modesty.

  “What did you say?” She looked horrified.

  “Take them off. You’ll catch a chill, even on a day like this.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, I am. Do you want me to do it for you?” He wondered if anyone had given Berenice an order since her father had died. No, he decided, it was probably long before that.

  “No, thank you,” she answered, with as much pride as she could muster, “I’m capable of disrobing.”

  “Don’t you need your maid?” Women, especially well-bred women, always needed their servants.

  “No, thank you. I’ll manage. Turn around.”

  He did as he was told, granting her privacy while she struggled out of her dripping dress and shift.

  “What am I supposed to wear instead?”

  “You can wear my clean tunic. Wrap the piece of linen around you as a skirt. It’ll do until your clothes dry.” He disentangled his tunic from the branches. “It’s almost dry. Nowhere near as wet as your clothes, anyway.” Forgetting he was supposed to be looking the other way, he held it out to her.

  She’d anticipated his move, and had already wrapped the linen around herself. She still showed a fair amount of arms and shoulders, but at least it was an attempt at modesty.

  “Thank you,” she answered stiffly, and struggled into his unfamiliar garment.

  While she rearranged his tunic, he took her garments back to the river. In a moment he’d rinsed and wrung them out, then hung them on bushes to dry.

  “There you are, my Lady. You’ll be able to wear them in a couple of hours.”

  “A couple of hours! If you were thinking of me at all, you’d walk back to the castle and get me some fresh clothes.”

  Berenice was being the Lady of the castle once again. A pity, he thought. He much preferred the Berenice he’d held so briefly in the river.

  “Do you want me to do that? Leave you here, alone, partially dressed, while I walk into the castle and declare, ‘I need some dry clothes for my Lady, because she’s sitting on the riverbank half naked’?”

  “You wouldn’t do that!”

  “I might.” He grinned.

  “Why would you want to embarrass me like that?”

  An idea occurred to him. To be fair, the idea had been growing in his mind for a while now.

  “You could always stay here, with me.”

  “With you? Alone?”

  He looked around. “Do you see anyone else?”

  “But…”

  He bowed his most elegant bow.

  “My Lady, I’ve no intention of ravishing you. I merely desire your company, until your garments are dry enough for you to wear again.”

  She looked at her makeshift clothing.

  “You leave me no choice.”

  “Ah, Lady, we always have a choice, even if it’s only whether to live or die.”

  “What do you mean?” she answered, intrigued. He had her attention now, he knew.

  “If you’ll stay here with me, I’ll tell you a tale about the choice between living and dying.”

  “Will you? A tale, just for me?” For a moment she was like an excited child. An improvement, he decided.

  “Yes, but I’ll require payment.”

  “Before or after the story?”

  “Afterwards, naturally, and only if you think the story’s worth it.”

  “I may not be able to afford the price.”

  “Oh, you will, my Lady, you will.”

  Because, my Lady, I know exactly what I want, he thought, and you will not be able to refuse.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gareth rummaged in the leather satchel he’d hidden beneath the bush where her clothes were drying.

  “First things first,” he said, holding up an ivory comb.

  “Thank you,” said Berenice, “I was wondering how I was going to explain my knots to Esme.” Her hair hung in matted, drying tendrils to her waist. She combed a little of the ends, but made small difference to the mess.

  “Would you allow me?” he asked.

  “You’d comb my hair?”

  “I had sisters once. They insisted I learn, I’m ashamed to say. Make yourself comfortable. I can tell a story while I comb.”

  Berenice sat on a grassy bank which sloped down to the river, tucking her makeshift skirt around her legs. Gareth made himself comfortable behind her, a hank of her hair in his hand. Gently, he began to untangle the damp strands. While he worked, he wove a tale for her.

  “There was once a man,” he said, “who was a slave on a Saracen galley. All day long he rowed. At night, he slept hunched over his oar, because he was chained to it. The other slaves near him, when it was possible to talk, told him he no longer had any choice but to accept his lot in life. The man refused to believe them. He knew he still had one choice he could make, even if he was chained to his oar. He could live, or he could die. He chose to live.”

  “Why? It’d be terrible, being chained up like an animal. Why didn’t he just die?”

  “I’m coming to that. The man had a reason to live. The reason was a woman, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was his wife.”

  Berenice sighed. Gareth continued combing, his hands unable to resist the temptation of occasionally brushing her back, or her shoulder.

  “The man kept the image of his wife’s perfect face in his mind’s eye all day, every day. When he awoke in the morning, she was the first thing he thought of. When he slept at night, she was the last thing he thought of. He swore he would find a way to return to her. He prayed every day for God to show him the way back to her.”

  “And did He?”

  “Stop interrupting or I’ll stop telling.”

  “Very well.” He’d never heard her sound so meek.

  “The man was chained to his oar for months, and the months turned into years, but he never gave up hope. Other slaves joined him on the bench. They died, and were replaced by still more slaves. Still he lived. Still he rowed.

  “The galley traded all over the Mediterranean. One day they even landed at a port not far from the man’s home. He could hear the sound of his own language being spoken on the docks. He could smell the smells of home.

  “That night, he prayed even harder for a way back to his wife, but none came. The slave next to him was from his country too. He died of a broken heart as they rowed out of the harbor, but the man didn’t. He thought only of his wife.

  “One day there was a terrible storm. All the slaves screamed in terror and begged to be released, because they knew if the ship sank, the weight of their chains would surely drown them. The overseers refused to release them, fearing revolt.

  “The ship ran aground on a reef. Huge waves washed over it, breaking it up. The man prayed, thought of his wife, and hung onto his oar. He believed the oar might just be enough to keep him afloat when the time came, even though he was still in chains.

  “He was right. The next morning, he awoke on a strange beach. He was still wearing his shackles, and beside him was the huge oar he’d rowed for over two years. There was no sign of anyone else from the ship. He went down on his knees and thanked God, certain he was on his way home at last.

  “Picking up his shackles, he walked along the beach until he found a stream. He drank his fill of sweet, fresh water, and then set out to find out where he was.

  “There was no sign of any houses nearby, so he climbed the range of hills behind the beach. He was so weak, it took him many hours. When he reached the top he looked around him. His heart sank. He was on an island, and there was no sign of a larger land mass in any direction.

  “For a moment he thought of giving up, but he remembered the promise he’d made to himself, to return to his
wife. At that moment, he spotted a thin spiral of smoke coming from the other side of the island. He was not alone.

  “It took the best part of the rest of the day to reach the place where he guessed the smoke came from. It was a cottage, built into the side of the hill. There lived and old woman and even older man. When he convinced them he meant no harm, the old man took out his blacksmithing tools, and struck off his chains.

  “He knew little of the language the old couple spoke, but over the months he spent on the island, they taught him their tongue, which was Greek. Eventually they were able to tell him ships passed rarely. He was trapped there, as surely as he’d been trapped on the galley.

  “Once again, he had to choose whether to live, or to give up and die. Once again, he decided to live.

  “The man came to love the old people dearly, and they him. He made himself useful doing the many tasks the old man could no longer manage. They fed him from their meager store, and he grew strong and well again, although he would never again be the man he was before his time as a galley slave.

  “To add to their meager food, he trapped wild goats in the hills. One day, when he looked back to the cottage, he saw the old woman frantically waving her white apron in his direction.

  “He hurried back down the slope, but he was too late. The old man had fallen. His back was broken, and he died during the night. The next morning, they buried him not far from the cottage, and life continued more or less as it had before.

  “The man began to wonder what would happen if a ship ever did come to the island. He couldn’t leave the old woman here on her own, and she wouldn’t think of leaving. The problem was solved for him, but not in a way he would have wished for.

  “Some months later, he was away from home again. He’d spent the night on the other side of the island, and as he crested the ridge, not far from the spot where he’d climbed that first day, he could see a ship moored in the bay near the cottage. Excited, but cautious, he made his way down the hill. As he drew closer to the cottage, he could hear voices. Men were sitting on the bench before the door, drinking the wine the old lady kept for festivals. The old people’s possessions were strewn around them. The woman, who’d been like a grandmother to him, lay on the ground. He could see, even from the bushes where he hid, she was dead.