by Jennie Reid
“The carvings,” she hesitated, and licked her lips again.
Stammering, she rushed on, “That man in them. It’s the same man, over and over, isn’t it? Is he you? Did the sculptor use you as a model?”
“You’re clever to notice that, and bold too.” His smile broadened. “Would you like to find out?” He sat down in his large, cushioned chair, and made himself comfortable.
“Come here,” he ordered. He wasn’t smiling now.
She crossed the room, her breasts swaying, her nipples chaffing against the fabric of her shift, her bare feet sinking into the rich carpet.
“Kneel, there, in front of me.”
She obeyed, and looked up at him. She knew enough of men, particularly men like this one, to know what was going to happen next.
He peeled off his tunic, exposing a broad chest matted with coarse, thick, black hair. Then he unlaced his leggings.
“You know what to do with this.” It was a statement, not a request.
The sculptor had definitely used him as a model, she decided. Her small, pink tongue moistened her lips one more time.
Lowering her head into his lap, she began.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The pale light of early dawn tinted the sky above the mountains. Traders for the fair had been arriving for the past week, and were camped the fields outside the castle gates. A few latecomers would arrive today.
The fair was due to begin tomorrow, and would last for most of the week, or until the customers stopped coming. This wasn’t one of the major fairs, like those held at Bar-sur-Seine and Troyes in Champagne. They lasted for six weeks, and traders traveled to them from all Christendom – the dark men of Spain, the proud men of Italy, the fair-skinned giants of Scotland and Germany, the quick-witted men of England and France and Flanders.
Anything could be bought at those fairs, from the best English woolen broadcloth and finely tanned Moroccan leather to gold, silver, gems and precious spices from far Cathay and India.
This fair was little more than a way to separate the people of the valley from their meager hoards of coin. They’d be able to buy a few things not made here; coarse cloth, or cooking pots, or salt for preserving. For those who were feeling a little more extravagant, there’d be trinkets and scarves and beads for the ladies, or a good, strong knife or arrow heads for the men, and wine, ale, and tasty morsels for everyone. The local people would have a chance to sell the handcrafts they’d painstakingly worked on through the winter, and the best of their summer fruits and vegetables.
Berenice knew there was much yet to do to ensure the fair ran smoothly. People traveled for many miles, sometimes for days, to come to this fair. Their animals would need water, latrines had to be dug, and places should be organized for the visitors to camp.
Gareth walked out of William’s cottage, yawning and stretching as though he’d just woken up. She’d known for some time that William, and Esme too (albeit unofficially) had taken Gareth into their home, and she was pleased. Over the weeks of summer he’d become a valuable member of her household, and he deserved more than a space in the hall each night.
She wondered, watching him walk across the courtyard towards her, what it would be like to be there with him when he first opened his eyes in the morning.
Their early morning meeting beneath the walnut tree was now a daily ritual. They sat on the bench together as the sun rose over the mountains, and discussed the business of the day ahead.
Today they both ignored the events of the previous afternoon. Had she been right? Did he only want a dalliance with a married woman? Looking at him, without appearing obvious, she reconsidered. He was here with her, as he’d been so often in previous weeks. Would someone who only thought of trifling with her feelings do that? Would he bother? Surely he would woo her into his bed with pretty words and extravagant promises, not with sensible advice and words of wisdom.
She told herself she’d misjudged him. She must have misinterpreted the look she’d seen. There had to be another explanation for his reaction. She hoped one day find out what it was.
Neither of them mentioned Jessamine, although Berenice knew the name would have to come into the conversation sooner or later. Whenever there was trouble in Freycinet lately, Jessamine was not far away.
Jessamine’s name was mentioned sooner rather than later, but not in a way Berenice had expected.
The carpenter emerged from his cottage next to William’s, clearly very flustered. He approached the bench under walnut tree, and bowed to Berenice. He was carrying a new straw hat which he proceeded to mistreat, just as he had his old hat on the first day he’d arrived. In the weeks since Berenice had met him, she’d come to know him as a good man, a solid worker, and a kind father. The only thing he ever mistreated were his hats, and only when he was under duress.
“What ails you, Carpenter?” asked Berenice, suppressing a smile.
“Your pardon, my Lady,” he bowed to Berenice, and nodded to Gareth, “I’ve come about my daughter.”
“Jessamine? What’s happened?”
“She didn’t come home last night. I’ve searched everywhere for her. My wife, my Martha, she’s worried.”
“Where’ve you looked?” asked Gareth.
“The great hall, the stables, the cellars under the kitchen. As soon as the gates were opened, I went down to the camp by the river where the fair people are. There’s no sign of her. No-one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon.”
The poor man looked as though he were on the verge of tears.
Berenice sighed. This had to happen today, of all days. She was forced to admit she didn’t much like Jessamine, especially after the events of the previous afternoon. She’d always done her best to help the girl, to find work for her so she could join in the daily life of the community, but to no avail. The girl was determined to be a misfit.
And now, this.
She knew she could trust her own people, but there were strangers in the valley, brought here by the fair. Although most of them were trustworthy, one or two of them might be tempted to take advantage of a young girl, especially one as brazen as Jessamine. Search parties would have to be organized.
“Gareth, would you ask Sir William to join us?”
“Of course, my Lady.” He always called her ‘my Lady’ when there were other people present. More and more, as the weeks had passed, he called her by her Christian name when they were alone together. Such as yesterday, she thought.
She watched him walk back to William’s house. She didn’t know how she’d coped before he came. Despite all her determination to follow in her father’s footsteps, the task of ruling the valley had been far more than she could manage alone. Pride alone had kept her going.
She knew she’d come to rely on Gareth, to depend on his wise counsel. Even now, she knew that he, with William’s help, would have the matter of Jessamine’s disappearance organized before the sun was properly over the mountains.
“Did your daughter take her possessions with her?” Berenice asked the carpenter.
“Yes, my Lady, such as they are. A garment or two, some trinkets.”
So she planned to leave, thought Berenice, she wasn’t forced. But why would the girl go now, when she thought she had some hold over Berenice? It didn’t make sense.
The two men were returning.
“My Lady, I’ve heard the news,” said William, bowing to her, and acknowledging the carpenter’s presence. “I’ve sent a boy to the stables to check whether any of the animals are missing.”
“Oh, my Lady, I’m sure she wouldn’t steal…” The carpenter renewed his attack on the brim of his hat.
“It won’t do any harm to find out,” answered William, “At least it’ll give us some idea how far she’ll have traveled since yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, of course,” the carpenter stammered, “I didn’t think.”
“Why don’t you go to your Martha, and tell her we’re doing our best,” said Berenice, “I’m sure we
’ll have some news for you soon.”
“Yes, my Lady. Of course, my Lady.” Bowing deeply, and giving the brim of his hat one more tug, he headed back towards his cottage.
“What do you suggest, William?” asked Berenice.
“If she’s taken a mount, there’s not much we can do. She’ll be well away from here by now, she’s many hours start on us. If she hasn’t, we could send a few runners out to the villages, and down to Pontville. Perhaps up to the monastery too, although I doubt she’d go there. Heading for Bordeaux strikes me as more her style.”
“What about the forest?” asked Gareth, “Would she go there?”
“Who knows?” answered William, “Who knows what was in her fool head when she left the safety of the castle?”
“Someone should check the river. Just in case…” said Gareth.
“We don’t have many people who can handle boats,” said Berenice. “Perhaps, Gareth, you could do that?” Because you can swim, she thought, and you’re not afraid of the water, like so many of the villagers are. She was grateful the sun had not yet risen high enough for the two men to notice her blush. She reprimanded herself silently. She must think about the lost girl; her memories could wait.
“Of course, my Lady,” Gareth agreed.
“And Sir William, if you let me have one or two of your men, I’ll go over to the forest, and see if I can see any sign of her there.”
“Are you sure, my Lady? You could stay here in the castle. I know you must have many duties today.”
“Nonsense, Sir William. The more people involved the better, and hopefully, the sooner it will be over. I’ll be quite safe, with your men to guard me, and I know the paths. I used to go there often when I was a child, remember?”
“Yes, I know my Lady, but in more recent times…”
Berenice placed her hand on William’s arm. “I appreciate your concern for my well-being, Sir William, but I’ll be perfectly safe in the King’s forest. After all, who could possibly want to harm me?”
A look passed between William and Gareth, and was gone in an instant. Berenice had known William all her life, and she knew that look. What secret were they keeping from her? What had he told Gareth? And why didn’t they want her to know? She would ask them both when this search was over, and take them to task for not telling her, especially if it were something important.
“No-one, my Lady, I’m sure. But I’ll be a happier man if you promise to always stay with my men.” William looked concerned.
“Of course, Sir William, of course. Now, what else do we need to sort out? The sooner we find that girl, and get this search over with, the better.”
They talked over the details of the search; who would be sent where, who would be mounted, and who on foot. By the time there was enough daylight to see well, the runners had already left, and the mounts were saddled, and ready to leave.
Berenice and William, and three of William’s men, rode as far as Pontville together. They planned to separate there, William and his sergeant to follow the Bordeaux road for a while, Berenice and two men to head back up the valley towards the castle, but on the opposite river bank.
William and his sergeant stayed in Pontville to talk to the innkeeper and the toll collector. Berenice and the two soldiers clattered over the stone flags of the old Roman bridge, and turned onto the faint trail on the far side of the river.
The morning was clear and sunny, with a hint of approaching autumn in the freshness of the breeze. Despite her annoyance at the necessity for the search, Berenice found herself enjoying the rhythm of the horse beneath her, the muffled clop of his hooves on the grass-covered path, and the murmur of quiet conversation from the men behind her.
She could see the river to her right, through the trees. The vaulted, green depths of the King’s forest to her left would continue, she knew, as far as the mountains which protected the valley. The branches of oaks and beeches, birch and ash, willow, alder and a few pine trees blocked most of the sunshine, and there was little undergrowth. It was more like riding through a park than a wild forest, cooler and darker than the woods on the way to the monastery, but a welcome escape from the hot summer sun, none-the-less.
They rode for most of the morning, stopping occasionally to rest the horses and let them drink from the river. They saw no-one, nor any trace of a recent passing. Berenice suspected their ride was a waste of time.
They passed Freycinet on the opposite river bank, and were now opposite Gareth’s bathing place, the two men leading. Berenice let the horse have his head, content to enjoy the unplanned excursion, letting herself slip into a dream-like state. She thought about the day she’d discovered Gareth bathing, and the conversations they’d shared throughout the summer, and yesterday’s kiss.
Perhaps, when the fair was over, word would come from the bishop. Then she’d be able to find out what Gareth’s true feelings towards her were.
Later, she would tell herself that if she’d been thinking instead of daydreaming, she would have seen the rabbit before he darted in front of her horse. As it was, the horse shied. She kept her seat, but the horse left the path, darting into the forest, away from the river. She heard the men shout, and try to follow her, but she’d been behind them and they’d no idea which direction she’d taken.
In less than a hundred yards, she had the horse under control again. She called out to the men, as much to reassure them as herself. She knew where she was, and despite William’s excessive caution, she had no fear of being alone.
There was no answer to her call.
She shouted again. Last fall’s leaves seemed to stifle all sound. Still no answer.
She decided to let the horse walk back to the path, and continue as before. The ford near the monastery was closer than the bridge at Pontville; there was no reason to go back.
She pointed his head towards the river. He baulked. She nudged his flanks, but still he refused to move.
She slid to the ground. Checking his legs, she found his near front fetlock was badly scratched, by a bramble possibly. He must have hurt it in the mad dash through the trees, and it needed ointment and binding. She was going to have to walk him back to the castle.
Finding the riverside path wasn’t difficult. The soldiers had continued without her, probably to report her missing as well, she thought. She kept to the path as it followed the river.
William had been worried, she knew, but why? There was nothing here to be afraid of. Wolves only came this far south in winter. The king came here to hunt deer, not boar. Despite her reassurances, she felt a chill race down her spine.
The great old trees began to look menacing, instead of large, and cool, and shady. Patterns of sunlight and shadow made it difficult to see well in the gloom. She’d heard people talk about things living in the forest, tree spirits, and other beings no self-respecting Christian should consider.
Berenice shivered again. How long was it since she’d been here? Not since before her marriage, surely. She remembered going for many long walks as a girl, looking for mushrooms or herbs for the kitchen, or flowers for her mother. She’d come here alone in those days, undaunted by the shadowy trees. Why had she stopped?
She’d had a good reason not to come here, she knew. Something nibbled at the edges of her memory. Something dark, and frightening, and painful. What was it?
She looked around at the forest. Now the shadows seemed ominous, the trees threatening. She called out again, suddenly wanting the company of William’s men very much.
The bushes on the riverbank rustled and swayed. Something large was concealed behind them, and it was coming her way.
Berenice screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fulk awoke with a pale, plump rear nestled conveniently over his morning erection.
The girl’s insatiable, he thought, as he slipped into her. She wriggled a little, but made no objection to his unheralded entry. He slid slowly backwards and forwards, resisting the urge to increase the momentum. This hungry, com
pliant piece of woman-flesh was just what he needed, and he intended to wring every last ounce of pleasure from the experience.
He hadn’t enjoyed a woman as effortlessly as this for a while. Few women came to him voluntarily these days. They had often enough when he was younger, enticed by rumors of his wealth, no doubt. Most had fled, screaming, when confronted by his voracious appetites. A few had stayed; all had died.
This little harlot had taken everything he’d given her last night. She still begged for more, and he liked to see a woman beg.
With a long fingered, claw-like hand, he kneaded one of the pale buttocks pressed against his loins, digging his fingers deep into the flesh. The white skin turned pink, and the girl moaned. How much more appealing it would look once he’d taken his crop to her. The white skin would be marked with pink stripes, bejeweled with ruby droplets. He felt himself stiffen even more, if that were possible, and he thrust harder, burying himself to the hilt. Her muscles tightened around his shaft, milking him of his seed. With a spasm and a cry, he’d finished.
Fulk withdrew from her moist depths, and lay back against the pillows, replete. Today was the day he would go to his new bride.
She would be his fourth. The first two had died in childbed, together with their children. The third, the barren one, had fallen from the parapets. He now approached forty years of age, and needed legitimate heirs; heirs that survived, especially since his sister’s son had gotten himself killed a few years ago. A strong, young wife would bear him the heirs he needed. As an added incentive, she would also bring him title to the rest of the valley, the only part of it he hadn’t yet laid claim to.
Berenice La Bonne, they called her. Almost a saint, they said. She should have been a nun, they said, she was so good, so kind, so pure. Probably still a virgin, they said, ignoring the fact she’d once been married. How the peasants loved to gossip about their betters.
He knew Berenice La Bonne was no better than the whore who lay at his side. He’d taken Berenice at but fifteen years of age, in the dirt and decaying leaves of the forest floor. He’d felt her hot blood flow as he’d battered down the barricade of her virginity. By the rights laid down in the ancient laws, he’d made her his. He’d have brought her back to Betizac, married her in front of a priest, and kept her by him, if William hadn’t intervened.