by Jennie Reid
“Odo said the bishop may well reject the Lady’s request, and so there won’t be a problem. If he doesn’t, Odo’s promised he’ll talk to the prioress at St. Bernadette’s before Berenice goes there.”
Esme sighed, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“He said we must wait. We have no choice.”
“We don’t, do we.”
William put an arm around Esme’s shoulders, and drew her to him.
“We’ve done everything we can, pet, for now. All we can do is wait.”
And so they waited, through the rest of June and all of July and into August, dreading the arrival of a messenger.
Throughout that long, hot summer, many people in the valley were waiting for one thing or another, just as the land waited for rain.
Jessamine constantly found ways to remind Gareth of her presence, waiting for him to succumb to her charms and come to her. Eventually she was reduced to following him around, from a distance of course, sure she’d discover her rival that way.
To her great frustration, her plan didn’t seem to be working. Gareth talked to many people in the castle, from the Lady downwards, but none seemed to hold his attention in the way a lover would.
For Gareth, the summer was all too short. He’d found out the fair was held in mid August, after the summer fruits and vegetables were harvested, before the grain was brought in.
Without Berenice knowing, he and William had been training men-at-arms. Extra men had been brought in from the villages, given the rudiments of fighting, and sent home to teach the rest. They’d made good progress so far. When the day of the fair arrived they’d be able to rely on twenty or so men at least, instead of William’s usual half a dozen.
William and Gareth had debated long and fiercely about the training. William had wanted Berenice to know; he didn’t like going behind her back. Gareth wanted as few people to know as possible. He didn’t want the Count being warned, and, more importantly, he didn’t want Berenice frightened. There was an outside chance he’d been wrong; perhaps he’d misheard or misunderstood the two men in Bordeaux. He was sure he hadn’t, but he argued there was no sense in frightening her unnecessarily.
The castle’s defenses had been in a sorry state when he’d arrived. Berenice knew the defenses were important, but it was an area where she’d little expertise.
At first Gareth had relayed his requests through William, until Berenice had worked out that some of the more original suggestions were coming from another source. She’d sent a message through William for Gareth to bring his ideas directly to her. Now Berenice and Gareth often sat in the shade of the walnut tree in the courtyard, discussing the affairs of the castle and the valley.
At the very least she was going to end up with a safe haven for her people, and of that she thoroughly approved.
Berenice was waiting too. She wanted to go back to Odo, to ask him if he’d heard from the bishop. No word had come. For weeks she’d been keeping Gareth at arm’s length, making sure she was never alone with him. When music came from the great hall, she stayed in her room. When he set off for his morning bath in the river, she stayed in the castle.
She enjoyed their conversations. His ideas, derived partly from his observations and experiences on his travels, and partly from his own calculations, were interesting and varied. She found herself asking his opinion on a wide range of topics, from the irrigation of the gardens to the dispensing of justice in the small court she conducted once a month. The more she talked to him, the more she was convinced he had to be of noble birth.
The only topics forbidden between them were his origins, and her marriage.
Late one afternoon she left the castle and headed for one of her favorite places in all the valley, a rocky spur protruding from the surrounding ranges. At its summit it was probably three hundred feet high, but about two thirds of the way up there was a ledge, a stone balcony, where she’d go to sit and think.
From there she could look out over the castle, to the dense forest on the other side of the river. To the north was the mill and the brothers’ monastery, and spread out around her were the fields, laid out like strips of fabric waiting to be sewn together. Southwards she could see the spire of the church at Pontville, and far in the distance, rising above the surrounding trees, were the stark towers and battlements of the Count’s castle.
Although they were close neighbors, she hadn’t seen the Count since she was a child. Her father had not been on good terms with him, although luckily their enmity had never developed into war. The Count hadn’t even attended her father’s funeral, or her wedding, many years before.
She’d heard about him, of course. Many of her people had family who lived further down the valley. They told her how harshly he treated his serfs, demanding his days of labor due no matter what the circumstances, imposing harsh fines and punishments on those who didn’t comply. She shuddered, despite the fine day. She couldn’t understand treating people badly, no matter what their status.
William had told her the Count hunted in the forest across the river, even though he was not entitled to. The guardianship of the forest had been entrusted to her family by the King, but Berenice was not about to start a dispute for the sake of a stag or two.
The rocky ledge was carpeted with moss, and shaded from the afternoon sun. It wasn’t more than ten feet deep at the most, and it meandered for a dozen yards along the face of the cliff. To reach it, she’d taken a path which wound around the back of the bluff, and through the trees. She suspected other people might sometimes come here, but she’d never seen anyone, and it was special to her, a secret she’d never shared.
She’d come to this place often as a child, when she wanted to escape the obligations and duties of castle life. She came here now to admire the changes the summer had brought to the valley.
From here she could see the water wheel, powered by a patiently trudging donkey, bringing water from the river to the vegetable gardens and orchards. She smiled when she remembered organizing the digging of the irrigation trenches. She and Gareth had ended up with more mud on themselves than any of the valley children.
At the castle, the parapets had been repaired. The gates were now closed every evening at sunset, and opened every morning at dawn. The new covered way stretched from the kitchen to the hall. It would be extended soon, but meanwhile, there were so many other things for the carpenter and his family to do they’d been taken away from that task. Berenice was thinking of asking them to stay on.
She could smell wood smoke from the smithy and the kitchen fires. A gentle breeze brought the scent of hay almost ready to be cut, and the fresh tang of the forest.
Sounds filtered up to her – the clank of the water wheel, the tap of a hammer, the bell-like tones of the smith at work, a laugh, a call, a cry. The castle hummed with activity, like a bee hive. The place had an air of prosperity, and peace, and safety.
Everything ran as it should. The credit, she knew, was not entirely her own. Gareth’s wise counsel, his judgment, and his knowledge had turned this long, hot, dry summer into a time of abundance rather than the disaster it could so easily have become. She was sure when the bishop’s letter finally came and her marriage was officially ended, Gareth would make a fine Lord, standing by her side.
There was only one problem, and she was hoping it was a small one. She’d never seen him bear arms. Had he once been a knight? In order to be her Lord, the Lord of the valley, he would have to be. Her older brother had been dubbed when he was fourteen; she didn’t know if it were even possible to dub someone who was older.
Indulging in a rare moment of fantasy, she plucked a long blade of grass from its tussock amongst the rocks. Next she positioned her feet and extended her arm as though the blade of grass were a sword. This game she’d played often as a child, when she would imitate her brothers. Right now she was the Lord of this valley; she would defend it against all invaders.
“Looking for a jousting partner, my Lady?”
The voice was rich, and smooth, and deep.
Gareth plucked his own grass sword.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You startled me, Gareth,” she answered, lowering her make-believe sword.
“My apologies, my Lady,” he bowed, “now, you wish to fight?”
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Did he know how to wield a sword? It had been many years since her brothers had taught her to handle a wooden practice sword, but, once learned, it was a skill not easily forgotten.
“We have no mounts for jousting,” she stalled, still uncertain, embarrassed at being caught out in her childhood game.
“Then we’ll have to use our swords,” he answered, saluting her with his weapon. “Hand-to-hand combat, instead.”
“So be it.” She challenged, “fight me then!” edging her way forward, reaching out with her grass blade.
He answered her challenge with a slash of his own blade. She retaliated, almost reaching his arm. He was taller and had a longer reach, but she was faster on her feet and more agile.
She darted in closer, slashing at the unscarred side of his face. He responded, but she stepped back lightly, avoiding his lunge.
Then she closed in again, aiming for his heart. Her grass blade was blocked, then freed.
“You nearly had me there,” said Gareth, leaning back, out of her reach. His blade came in and up, under her guard. Before she quite knew what had happened, the tip, heavy headed with summer seed, brushed her throat.
“I believe I’ve won,” he smiled, “do you yield?”
“I yield,” she whispered, feeling the gentle brush of the grass seed against her skin. He lowered his weapon, letting the tip drop, tracing the edge of her dress from one side of the neckline to the other. With every delicate thrust her heart pounded.
“Berenice.” Her name on his lips sounded like the wind whispering in the trees. He came closer, disarming her completely.
“Who do you seek to defend yourself against, my Lady, with a grass sword?”
“Against those who would rob me, Sir Troubadour.” She looked up at him. His grey eyes were soft, his gaze tender.
“And what would they steal?”
“The very breath from my mouth, I fear.” In truth, she could barely breathe.
“Perhaps you misjudge the thief, my Lady.” He came even closer.
“In what way, Sir Troubadour?”
“Perhaps he wishes to give, not to take from you.”
“And what would he give?” He was no more than a hand’s span from her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“A kiss perhaps, a fair exchange for one freely bestowed some time ago.”
“An exchange, you say? Then that would not be robbery.”
“And, as you have lost our duel…”
His mouth descended to capture hers.
She’d wondered in the long weeks of waiting what it would be like to be kissed by Gareth. No amount of anticipation had prepared her for the reality. The heat of his body, flowing into hers, and the strength of his arms around her she knew from the moments they’d shared in the river. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the movement of his mouth she’d not expected.
He kissed her top lip first, then her bottom lip. She felt an urge to open to him, to experience more of him, so she parted her lips a little. His mouth slanted across hers, and, like his grass blade slipping under her guard, the tip of his tongue traced the line of her mouth. Growing bolder, she let her own tongue explore their kiss.
She could feel the soft brush of his beard against her cheek, smell the peculiarly male scent of him, hear the sound of her own heart beating. She felt strange, alive, bubbling inside, as though she were the river as it was at the monastery, leaping and rushing and tumbling on its way.
Her legs grew weak, and she let him gently lower her to the mossy shelf. His hands caressed her, stroking her back from her shoulders to her buttocks. Tentatively at first, she explored the broad expanse of his chest with her hands. Even through the rough fabric of his tunic, she could feel the slabs of hard muscle, the ridges of bone.
She knew now why she’d so carefully kept him at arm’s length since the day at the river. She lost all sense of propriety when she was with him. She wanted to lie in his arms, to feel his lips on hers, his hands on her, his body next to hers. She felt this was just a beginning; there was more, much more, Gareth could give her, and she ached to know what it was.
She never wanted this kiss to end.
Lost in her world of feelings, it was some time before the sound of raucous laughter made itself heard. With a sensation akin to rising to the surface of the river on the day she’d almost drowned, she emerged from their kiss.
Jessamine was perched on a rocky outcrop a few feet above them.
“I knew he had another woman, I just knew it,” she mocked, “and who would it turn out to be but the cow who rules us all! No wonder you didn’t want me,” she directed at Gareth, “When you were keeping her bed warm.”
“Jessamine, stop, you don’t know what you’re saying!” Gareth cried, leaping up. He tried to reach Jessamine, but she was too far away for him to reach her. Turning, he helped Berenice struggle to her feet.
“What, scared I’m going to tell everybody?” Jessamine taunted, “well, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I wonder who’d want to know? They all talk about her as though she’s practically a saint. What’ll they say when I tell them about you two, rolling around in the hay just like the rest of us?” She laughed again.
While she’d been talking, Gareth had been inching his way up the cliff towards her. He’d almost reached her when the sapling his foot had been resting on broke, and he slipped back down to the ledge. Jessamine skipped away, through a hidden path in the bushes, still chortling and reeling off a list of all the people she was going to tell about their misdemeanor.
Gareth wrapped Berenice in his arms once again.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “no-one will believe her.”
“I don’t care if they do,” answered Berenice, “I’m not ashamed. I refuse to be!”
“You’d have her spread lies and rumors?”
“No, but my people know me. They don’t know her. They know who to trust.”
“You have a great deal of faith in your people.”
“Yes, I do. Gareth, I’ve something I want to tell you. It may explain why Jessamine’s mischief does not concern me overmuch.” She leaned back in his arms so she could see his face. “I’ve asked Odo to write to the bishop on my behalf. I’m having my marriage annulled.”
She’d dared to hope for a joyous response when she finally told him. If he cares for me, she’d told herself, he’ll understand I’m saying I’ll be free soon, I won’t have to think about betraying an absent husband. And if he’s an honorable man, he’ll know I’ll not be his completely without the blessing of marriage.
In her worst nightmares, she’d not foreseen the look of horror passing across his features. In an instant the look had gone, and he gathered her into his arms once again.
“An annulment, you say? That’s a big step.”
“I’ll be free, Gareth. Free to marry again.”
“Yes. Of course you will,” he replied in a monotone. He released her, and turned away in the same movement.
“We’d best go back to the castle separately, under the circumstances,” he said, his gaze fixed on a distant point on the horizon. She could no longer read his face, but the rigid angle of his jaw told her enough. “I’ll go first.”
As quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone.
Berenice subsided onto the ledge. After all the weeks of wanting to tell him her news, she felt flat, as flat as bread dough made with stale yeast.
She’d been so sure he cared for her, perhaps even loved her. It seemed she was wrong. He was as Odo had warned, a rogue and a scoundrel. At the most he was only interested in a liaison with a married woman whose husband was away.<
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At least she’d realized before things had progressed too far.
***
The bell at the monastery door pealed time after time. A drowsy novice stumbled down the stone stairs to answer it’s call.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your hat on, I’m coming as fast as I can.” He opened the small hatch in the door. A fine-boned ascetic face, fringed by thinning grey hair, glared back at him.
“I am Father Gerhard. I’m an emissary from the bishop, to see Abbot Odo.”
“Yes, Father, of course.” The heavy door swing inwards. The priest breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the cool stairwell.
“Have you come far, Father?” asked the novice, as he led the way up the stairs.
“You do not adhere to a vow of silence?”
“No, the Abbot doesn’t believe in it. He says we couldn’t do our work properly if we couldn’t speak to each other.”
“There are others who believe that in silence we can better contemplate God.” The novice showed the visitor into the reception room.
“But they’re not our Abbot, are they, Father?”
The priest took a seat. Unperturbed by the novice’s attempt at conversation, he helped himself to fruit from the table and poured a cup of wine. “And where might your Abbot be?”
“He’ll be in the copy room at this time of day. I’ll fetch him.”
“Many thanks, my son.” Gerhard’s sarcasm was lost on the boy, who vanished through an inner door. After a time, heavy footsteps heralded Odo’s arrival.
“Father Gerhard, I believe. God’s greeting to you.”
The usual pleasantries were exchanged. The good Father’s journey had been safer than usual, owing to the unprecedented amount of traffic on the road to Freycinet. However, the dryness and the dust and the heat had been intolerable. They discussed the fair, and the many opportunities fairs provided to draw innocent souls into the sins of gluttony and avarice, to say nothing of envy and lust.
Eternally patient Odo felt his patience being stretched to its outer limits. The priest discussed everything but the reason for his visit. Odo was sure it had to be connected to Berenice’s request. The summer was almost over, and to date he’d heard nothing.