Hot Summer's Knight

by Jennie Reid

  “I checked the riverbanks near the castle first. I’ve been up to the mill, and I was on my way down to the bridge,” Gareth replied.

  “Did you see any sign of Jessamine?”

  “None. I don’t expect to find any, either,”

  “I suspect you’re right. We saw nothing, no sign of anyone on the forest paths.”

  “Well, I’ll walk you back to the castle. I won’t leave you alone here. I can fetch the boat later.”

  “We were headed to the a ford near the monastery when my horse bolted.”

  They walked, Gareth leading the horse.

  “You should never have come here, not even with William’s men.”

  “I know this forest, Gareth. I used to come here a lot, once.”

  “But something frightened you here today, and frightened you badly.”

  “The forest itself, I think. It’s as though the forest is alive, as though it’s more than just trees and bushes and brambles. I felt something here, something old, something – evil.” She shuddered and crossed herself.

  He longed to draw her into the protective circle of his arms and hold her and keep her safe.

  And never let her go.

  She stumbled on the rocky path, and in the next instant, at least part of his wish came true.

  This time, she didn’t move away from him.

  “Gareth,” she murmured between kisses, “Hold me.”

  It was more a question than a request. He answered by kissing her yet again, and felt the power of his need surge through his body.

  He leaned her against the broad trunk of an ancient beech. Her headdress came loose, and he straightened it a little.

  “I know you’ll have to leave one day,” she whispered, her eyes deeper and darker and bluer than ever before.

  “Perhaps I won’t,” Gareth said. No, it was Huon who answered.

  I am her Lord, her husband, he thought. For eight long years I’ve waited for this. It’s my due, my right.

  No, you’re not her Lord, you’re not her husband, Gareth answered, to her you’re Gareth the Troubadour. You’ll break her heart with what you’re doing, taking her like this, in the forest. She deserves the finest linen sheets and a deep, soft bed. She doesn’t know…

  His hand slid from her hip, up her side, and came around to cup her breast. Through all the layers of her clothing he could feel the hard, tight little nub of a nipple. Her breath caught in her throat, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

  “My love,” he murmured and eased her onto a soft bed of last year’s leaves.

  They lay there for a moment, Berenice on her back, Gareth on his side, looking down at her. He wanted to know every detail of her. He wanted to see her naked, the sunlight dappling her body with the patterns of the fresh summer leaves above their bower, the shifting light on her skin.

  His mouth found hers once more, while his hand traced the outline of her thigh, and he drew the fabric of her dress up and over her legs.

  He gazed into her eyes, waiting for a sign of rejection. Smiling a small smile of concurrence, her hand caressed his neck, and she kissed him. Her kiss was as soft and tentative as the touch of bird’s wing until he deepened it, needing her response as confirmation of their mutual desire. She answered him, learning from him as his tongue danced with hers.

  He traced the delicate bones of her ankle with the tips of his fingers, and explored her slender calf. Her skirts rode higher, revealing a rounded knee and the pale skin of her thigh.

  One of his legs parted hers. Her small, strong hands roamed everywhere, stroking his arms, touching his face, caressing his neck, burrowing into his hair. Small sounds of pleasure and longing came from her lips, full and slightly swollen now from his kisses. Her headdress had come adrift, and her hair spilled out onto the leaves.

  “My love,” he murmured into her hair, trapping her with the weight of his body. His love, his life, his wife. He ached with love for her, with longing, with the need to know her completely.

  “Am I?” she asked. The innocent trust in her voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Yes,” he replied, “you are.”

  As he kissed her once more, he knew the time had come to tell her his identity. He couldn’t lie to her any longer. Perhaps she’d understand, perhaps she wouldn’t reject him this time, perhaps they’d find a way.

  “Berenice,” he stroked her hair from her forehead, “my name…”

  “Names don’t matter,” she answered, kissing him again.

  Names meant everything in their world, he knew. Names were the reason marriages were made, alliances forged, and wars fought. For her to say his name didn’t matter was tantamount to saying it didn’t matter if the sun forgot to shine.

  There were more important things to think about, such as the slim leg now entwined in his.

  Her dress had risen even higher. Sliding his hand beneath it, he found he could caress the underside of her breast.

  He couldn’t have stopped now, not if Fulk and all his men had ridden into the clearing. Taking his weight on one arm, both his legs separated hers. She moaned into their kiss, moving against him.

  Huon, you must stop, Gareth whispered, think what you’re doing!

  I love her, I want her, thought Huon, she’s mine.

  Breaking free of their kiss, he pushed her skirts higher with one hand. The pent-up need of eight years made him careless, and he fumbled with the fastenings of his own garments.

  His gaze returned to her face, her perfect, oval face, her deep, deep blue eyes, the sweet bow of her lips.

  Something had changed.

  Instead of the heavy-lidded look of love, her eyes were wide and staring.

  Instead of lips curved into a small, secret smile, waiting to be kissed, her mouth opened wide, on the verge of screaming again.

  Instead of a face softened with desire, her face twisted in terror.

  “No!” she screamed, “leave me alone! Stop it, stop it!”

  She lashed out at him, her small fists striking his chest, his face, his arms. He tried to stop her, gathering both her hands into one of his, but that only made things worse. Her whole body twisted and writhed, not with desire, but with the need to be free of his weight on hers.

  “Let me go! Please, let me go.”

  “Berenice, stop this!” She was a woman possessed. Her eyes stared, but he doubted she saw him.

  “No-o-o-o…” she howled. The sound cut through him, the cry of an animal in pain.

  “Berenice!”

  He tried to reason with her, without success. She couldn’t even hear her own name. Her hands escaped from his, and she lashed out at him again.

  A blow landed across his nose, blinding him with pain. He released her hands.

  On her feet in an instant, she raced off through the forest like a wild thing.

  “Berenice!” he called, but she’d gone.

  His vision cleared. It was a miracle she hadn’t broken his nose in her almost superhuman strength. He shook his head and sat up, his head still spinning.

  He couldn’t let her go like that. In her present state of mind she could hurt herself. Fleet of foot, like a deer, and she’d said she knew the forest.

  Looking around, he thought he glimpsed a flash of a sky blue dress in the shadows. Staggering to his feet, he set off through the forest.

  For the second time that day, the light tricked him. The patch of sky blue was just that – sky showing through the interwoven canopy of the trees.

  What could he do? He knew which way the river lay - he wasn’t lost. Should he return to the castle, round up the men again, start another the search?

  He stood in the patch of sunlight, turning this way and that, desperate for some clue to Berenice’s whereabouts.

  A yelp of pain gave her away. Loping through the trees, he found her, not more than a hundred yards from where they’d lain. She’d tripped over a fallen tree trunk, and sat on it, rubbing her ankle.

  Berenice looked up at him. Her fac
e appeared quite normal again, and for that he silently thanked God.

  “Gareth,” she said, her voice calm, her tone thoughtful, “What happened to me?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I…” she nibbled her lower lip, something he’d noticed she always did when she was worried. “One moment you were kissing me, and touching my leg,” she blushed, most prettily, he thought, “and the next, it wasn’t you above me, it wasn’t you kissing me.”

  He sat on the log next to her, and took her hand in his. She made no move to draw it away. Whatever had possessed her so completely had now vanished.

  “Who was it, then?” he asked.

  “What was it, I think the question should be.” She shuddered. “Something black and foul smelling, huge and strong, pinned me to the ground.” She leaned against him. He could feel her trembling. “And Gareth, it hurt me, so badly.”

  Tears ran, unchecked, down her cheeks. “Gareth, it hurt so much!” she repeated. She was weeping openly now.

  He held her while her tears saturated the front of his tunic, stroking her hair, feeling her heart beat against his.

  “Hush, my love,” he whispered, “I’ll keep you safe.” Eventually she gave one last, great, shuddering sob and looked up into his face.

  “Gareth,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Berenice.”

  “I wanted to…” she hesitated, “back there, before it happened, I wanted you to…”

  “Hush, my love, other times will come.” But he knew there wouldn’t be, there couldn’t be, not now. He’d allowed his self-control to slip one time too many.

  Berenice’s strange outburst had saved her from him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  They found Berenice’s headdress not far from the patient horse. She dampened a corner of it in the river, and washed the tears from her face. Combing the tangles out of her hair with her fingers, she wound it into a knot before pinning her headdress securely over the top of it.

  “How do I look?” she asked Gareth. She was making her best attempt to smile, but Gareth could see she was still shaken by her strange experience. What had it been? A demon of the forest? He’d heard of such things in peasants’ tales, or stories told around campfires on the Russian steppes, but never had he experienced anything like it.

  He took her hand in his, and together they walked the long, winding path to the ford, downstream from the monastery, where he carried her over the river. Then they followed the path she’d taken weeks before, through the small, friendly wood, and back to Freycinet.

  They discussed the coming fair, and what would need to be done before tomorrow came. Despite the warmth of her hand in his, there was a distance between them. Gareth no longer pressed for any contact other than the touch of their hands. Logic had prevailed, and despite his hopefulness in the forest, he was forced to admit the impossibility of their situation.

  When they came within sight of the castle and the preparations for the fair, he released her hand, and let her take the lead. As they walked through the gates, she was once more the Lady of Freycinet, and he, her humble servant, leading her horse.

  They were greeted by the sight of two dozen fully armed and mounted men. Somewhere near the centre of the mêlée Berenice could make out William and another man, a man who was dressed entirely in black.

  William saw her and called out, “My Lady, we have a guest!”

  Leaving Gareth to take care of the horse, she strode forward, calm and self-possessed. In that moment, he was proud of her. She was every inch an aristocrat.

  He passed on the horse to one of the stable boys, and unobtrusively stayed behind her.

  The black-garbed stranger was watching her approach. He was older than Gareth by perhaps a decade, and solidly built, but fit. His arms and shoulders were those of a fighting man, and by his garments, he was a member of the nobility. He was watching Berenice as though he would devour her.

  Count Fulk de Betizac had arrived.

  Gareth’s hand moved automatically to the dagger at his waist. His sword was safely stored in William’s trunk, but he wished he were wearing it now. He looked around at more than twenty well-armed, trained fighting men, and felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. How could their farm boys possibly best this lot? Now the time had come, and Berenice’s safety depended on the success of his plan, he felt an uncharacteristic nervousness.

  He watched the Count’s extravagant bow, and Berenice’s gracious curtsey in response. He heard her words of welcome. Her face was pale, her mouth a tightly compressed line. Gareth wanted to tell her he was here, right behind her, protecting her.

  Strict laws governed behavior towards guests, and he knew she would follow them to the letter. He wasn’t surprised when he heard her call to Esme, and asked her to arrange for the Count to be bathed by the women of the household.

  “Please accept my apologies, my Lord Count. My women will bathe you after your journey. My husband is absent, and I feel it would not be appropriate for me to fulfill that particular duty, even to so honored a guest as yourself.”

  “Of course, my dear,” said the Count, appropriating Berenice’s hand and tucking her arm possessively beneath his. “Perhaps another time.”

  Berenice asked Esme to prepare the old Lord’s chamber for the Count’s use while he stayed for the duration of the fair. Gareth was surprised at the anger, rising like bile inside him. The Lord’s chamber was, by rights, his, just as Berenice herself was.

  Gareth knew the Count’s men would sleep on the rushes in the hall with the lowest of the servants, but the thought had no pleasure in it. He wanted them out of the castle, so the Count’s support would be more difficult to muster when the time came for him to strike.

  “My Lady,” he said, bowing respectfully, “may I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course, Gareth.” She was surprised to see him there still, but not displeased.

  “Perhaps the Count’s men would find more comfort in a marquee in the field outside the castle walls. Temporary accommodation has been set up for visitors.”

  “Who is this man?” interrupted the Count.

  “This is Gareth, my troubadour. He has traveled far, and has a great deal of knowledge on many useful subjects.”

  Gareth liked the ‘my’.

  “So a troubadour runs your affairs, my Lady?” The Count’s lips were smiling, but his eyes were locked onto Gareth’s over the top of Berenice’s head. Gareth had fought the heathen Magyar, who were said to sacrifice captured children to their dreadful gods, but he’d never seen such malevolence in anyone’s eyes.

  “Not at all, my Lord Count,” replied Berenice, “He’s a useful advisor, nothing more. Do you not have people whose opinion you value?” She smiled sweetly, and the Count had no choice but to agree.

  “My Lady, you must meet my captain. I, too, have my advisors.” He beckoned one of the men forward. He was tall, far taller even than Gareth, larger than some Vikings he’d known. “Allow me to introduce Sir Gilbert.”

  The Count smiled, exposing rows of rotten teeth, while the giant bowed awkwardly to Berenice.

  “My Lady,” he mumbled, and retreated to stand among his men.

  There’s a story there, thought Gareth, and no love lost between master and captain.

  Berenice deftly extricated herself from the Count’s grasp.

  “My Lord Count, if you will excuse me. There’s much still to be done before the fair opens in the morning. My women will take care of your needs. I’ll arrange for a marquee to be erected to house your men.

  “Come Sir William, Gareth, Esme.” She clapped her hands sharply. Her friends fell into formation around her, William to her right, Esme to her left, Gareth bringing up the rear. Together they walked purposefully to the Lady’s tower, leaving a glowering Count standing in the middle of the courtyard.

  Gareth took perverse delight in slamming the tower door behind them, before following the others up t
he stairs.

  When he reached Berenice’s room, Esme was holding her. Gareth closed the door of the chamber.

  “The Lady’s had a nasty shock,” said Esme.

  “I think we all have,” said William.

  “I didn’t expect the Count to come here, bringing half his household, and practically move in,” said Gareth.

  “You knew about this?” asked Berenice.

  “A little,” replied Gareth, “I’d heard rumors.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? William?”

  “We didn’t want to worry you,” answered Gareth.

  “Worry me? Worry me?” she shouted. The color was rising in her pale face. “Don’t you think I was the one with the most right to know? Count Fulk hasn’t set foot in this castle since I was a child, and he comes here now, less than a year since my father’s passing. Do either of you have the slightest idea what his being here means? To me? To the valley and everyone in it?”

  “Yes, we do.” No-one in this room understands that better than I do, thought Gareth. Esme and William were looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Tell her, they were saying, tell her who you are, it’s not too late.

  “Well then?” She was shaking, she was so angry.

  They were all looking to him for a plan. “We keep his men out of the castle as much as possible. You treat him, as I know you must, as a guest, and we persuade him to leave as soon as is polite. Esme stays at your side always. William and I won’t be far away.”

  “I’ll sleep up here tonight,” offered Esme.

  “I’ll set two of my lads to guard your door,” put in William.

  “That’s it?” asked Berenice, her voice a little calmer.

  “Some of the men from the villages will be here tomorrow. We weren’t expecting the Count to arrive this soon, or for his intentions to be quite so obvious. All we have to do is to get through tonight,” answered Gareth.

  “What use will the extra men be? They’re not soldiers, they’re farmers,” said Berenice.

  “We’ve been teaching them a few things over the summer,” answered William.