by Jennie Reid
Berenice glared at William and Gareth in turn.
“You’ve been training my men without my knowledge?”
“Yes, my Lady,” answered William. He bowed his head.
Berenice made an inarticulate sound of rage in the back of her throat, and stalked to the window.
“Well, if that’s the only plan we’ve got, we’d better get on with it. Esme, find the least attractive and strongest women in the castle for the Count’s bathing. We don’t want any unwanted orphans in nine months’ time. I’ll wait here while you organize the bath and his room to be made ready. William, stay here with me a while, I have some things I wish to discuss with you.
“Gareth, you suggested a marquee. Would you please organize it. I’ll give you some coin. The traders are sure to want too much - make sure you strike a good bargain with them.”
A pouch was thrust into his hand, and William ushered Gareth out of the Lady’s chamber.
“We’ll look after her, lad. Don’t you worry. Just get those men outside the castle walls.”
True to her word, Berenice stayed in her room, but from the constant stream of people to and from the tower door, she was never alone. The Count’s men were ensconced in a large tent amongst the fair people, where they could carouse to their hearts’ content without endangering any of the castle women. The Count was installed in Berenice’s father’s room, after being ritually bathed, Gareth heard, by Marie the Laundress and some of the other women.
The evening meal was the next time Gareth saw Berenice. She and Esme entered, according to custom, after everyone else had arrived. She wore the deep blue dress trimmed with gold which was only brought out for special occasions. Her veil was a snow white frame for her face, which was composed, serene even.
She walked with Esme to the dais.
Fulk chose that moment to make his own entrance from the Lord’s tower. He strode the length of the hall as though he were the Lord already, followed by his giant of a captain. When he reached Berenice, he bowed his flamboyant bow once more. Taking her hand, he led her to her seat. He seated himself in the Lord’s chair.
“My Lord Count,” said Berenice, in a calm, clear voice, “That’s my husband’s place.”
“And where’s you husband now, my Lady?” answered Fulk, making no effort to move.
The hall was silent. All eyes watched the couple at the high table. Gareth seethed, longing for his sword again.
“My husband departed for the Holy Land, my Lord Count. He defends Jerusalem from the heathen.” Her look would have withered a weaker man.
“Well, he’s not here now!” Fulk made no effort to move. “Bring food!” He thumped the table with his fist.
The servers were startled into action. Trays of food were brought in from the kitchen. Pewter plates were laid in front of Berenice, Fulk, William and Fulk’s captain. Esme had discretely joined Gareth at a lower table.
“You do not sit with your mistress?” he said to her quietly.
“I’m not entitled to. When there are guests, I never sit with her.”
Esme’s explanation surprised Gareth, distracting him temporarily from the current problems. She could only mean she was not a free woman. No wonder she’d repeatedly refused Gilbert’s offer of marriage.
He turned his attention back to Berenice. Fulk had refused an offer of a plate and a cup for himself, and was intent on sharing with Berenice. She was protesting, insisting he be treated as the honored guest he was.
Once again, she lost the argument. Fulk made a great show of spearing the choicest pieces of meat for her with his dagger, and raising them to her lips. Even though he knew she could not refuse the Count’s offer, Gareth raged, and made a move to rise from his seat.
Esme’s hand on his arm, and her soft voice, saved him from what could only have been disaster.
“What do you think she’s feeling, Gareth?” Esme asked.
Berenice’s face was pale, and her hand shook a little as she accepted the chalice from the Count.
“She needs your support, Gareth. She doesn’t need you to start a fight with the Count.”
Gareth settled back into his seat.
“You’re right,” he answered, his fists clenched, out of sight, beneath the bench. If he fought Fulk now, in this peaceful setting, the ramifications of his actions would bring more harm than good to Berenice.
So he sat next to Esme, and watched Fulk touch Berenice at every opportunity. His hand would graze hers, or brush against her arm, or touch her headdress.
One day I’ll kill him, thought Gareth. And he prayed he would have the opportunity soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Gilbert was not a happy man. He didn’t like being uncomfortable, and his troublesome conscience was bothering him yet again.
“We’re going to Freycinet to bring back my bride,” the Count had told him before they left Betizac. Now, in the cool, clear light of dawn on the day she was supposed to be leaving, Gilbert was sure the woman knew nothing about her impending wedding.
The Count had made it sound so simple. She may be a little reluctant, he’d said, but once she was safely back at Betizac, and was properly married to him by a priest, there’d be nothing to worry about. After all, most women would be delighted by the wealth and splendor of the Count’s castle, and by the prospect of bearing a title far above their own.
But everything Gilbert had heard about this particular woman was turning out to be true, and that made him uncomfortable about the Count’s plan.
She was an exquisite little thing; every inch of her small, nicely curved body was pure aristocrat. The Lady definitely had a style all of her own.
Gilbert couldn’t help but compare her to Jessamine, who was turning out to be not quite the innocent girl he’d once thought her to be. Jessamine was only too willing to tell anyone at Betizac how Berenice had mistreated her. Having now met the Lady in question, he couldn’t imagine Lady Berenice treating anyone with less than a fair and even-handed justice.
She’d been gracious in her welcome of the Count the day before, even though it was obvious to anyone who cared to look that the Count was not especially welcome in Freycinet. The servants tiptoed around him, all except for the huge laundress. Gilbert chuckled. The Lady had got herself out of that one quite nicely. Even Fulk wasn’t about to argue with a woman as tall as he was, and nearly as muscular. Gilbert had noticed how the protective stance of the castle blacksmith in the background had helped the Count control his urges, and his bath had been nothing more than that.
The room provided for them had been adequate for their needs, although it was nowhere near as lavish as the Count’s own, of course. The girl’s father had been a scholar, and Gilbert suspected the scrolls and books the shelves still held were probably worth more than all the costly chattels in the Count’s chamber.
Gilbert hadn’t been comfortable either with the idea of his men sleeping in a tent, leaving only himself to guard the Count.
“Don’t fret, old woman,” Fulk had jeered, “even if they suspect anything, they won’t dare harm us.”
Suspect anything? Those words, more than any others, had revealed the Count’s true intentions. In the course of the evening in the old Lord’s room, the Count had made it abundantly clear, over a wineskin or two, that the girl was coming back to Betizac the next day whether she wanted to or not.
Gilbert knew there was nothing unusual about abducting a bride, but this time the idea stuck in his craw. The Count’s women didn’t last long, one way or another. It was a pity for this one to go the same way.
As he gazed out the open window of the old Lord’s chamber, he yawned, stretched, and scratched his beard. Did he have the right to decide what Fulk de Betizac could or couldn’t do? Even if he did, how could he stop him? Objection to the Count’s plans would only bring swift and certain retribution, and, most probably, an unmarked grave in the forest. One of his own men would be raised to the captain’s position, and he would have achieved nothing, nothi
ng at all.
All he could do, for now, was follow the Count’s instructions, explained to him, in detail, the night before.
He’d have to send someone to have a look at the kitchen and the cellars. The Count had said there was a way out through them. It seemed an improbable means of escape, but was worth investigating. The Count had given the source of this information enough credibility to be having a boat rowed up from Betizac today, while everyone was at the fair in the fields on the other side of the castle. It would be moored near the orchard, Gilbert had been told. Later it would be used to ferry the Lady back to Betizac.
They would strike a little after the noon hour. The men would begin infiltrating the castle as soon as the gates opened, while the Count escorted the Lady to the fair. Upon their return, her men would be distracted by a fight, which the Count himself would lead.
Gilbert had offered to lead the fight in the courtyard – somehow it seemed a more honorable way of using his skills - but Fulk had demurred. He had an old score to settle with Sir William, he said. Gilbert was glad he wasn’t in Sir William’s shoes.
It was to be Gilbert’s responsibility to get the Lady to the boat and away. The Count had given him a sleeping draught in a small, glass vial. It would keep the girl from struggling, he’d explained, and preserve her from harm. Gilbert could see the logic in that. Once she was unconscious, all he had to do was to cover her with a burlap sack, already provided for the purpose. She would weigh no more than a bag of grain. He was to carry her to the waiting boat, via the cellar door. Once he was safely on the river, he would sound the signal horn, and the Count and the rest of the men would follow by land.
The first part of the plan was already being put into place. Fulk, with the Lady’s arm tucked securely beneath his, was walking across the courtyard. Her people were with her, Gilbert noted; her maid and her captain at her side, and her troubadour, as always, behind her.
Gilbert pondered the mystery of the troubadour. The man was not what he seemed. Gilbert had known troubadours in other places. They were generally slightly built, white-handed fellows, always ready with a soft word for the ladies; the sort who was too small or too weak to wield a sword like a proper man.
This troubadour did not fit the mould. He balanced on the balls of his feet like one of those big African cats. Yesterday, the movement of his eyes had betrayed his assessment of the number of men they’d brought with them, and how they were armed. And he was strong, the muscles of his arms and back moving beneath his clothing.
Gilbert would be prepared to lay money on the table that this man had fought more battles than he’d sung songs; he’d be more at home with a sword in his hand than a lute. No doubt he could do both – many men could – but he was a soldier before he was a singer. The Count would be a fool to underestimate him.
Gareth, the Lady had called him. Gilbert smiled. He liked the man. He hoped they’d get a chance to share an ale or two, under better circumstances.
***
Father Gerhard had said the grace this morning, before the brothers of the monastery had broken their bread. The grace had lasted, Odo was sure, for more than an hour. Since they’d not long returned from matins, he wondered how constructive an exercise the grace had been. The novices had become restless, and everyone’s stomachs were growling by the time it was finished.
Odo believed in a healthy balance between prayer and contemplation, and work. This morning the scales had been tipped - if not over-turned - in the direction of prayer. He was beginning to wonder what it would take to invoke a temporary vow of silence - only while the good Father was a guest, of course.
He asked Father Gerhard to accompany him to his study with the idea that, while the priest was there, he would make slower progress in upsetting the equilibrium of the monastery. Father Gerhard was only too happy to have an audience for his many opinions.
“What are your plans for the future, good priest?” began Odo, as they made themselves comfortable. He feared he was lacking a little subtlety, but luckily Father Gerhard appreciated any opportunity to talk about himself.
“Without wanting to denigrate your hospitality in any way, brother Abbott, I regret I must leave you this afternoon.”
Odo tried valiantly to suppress a sigh of relief. Perhaps the monastery would be able to return to normality.
“Yes,” continued the priest, “I must take up my calling, my true purpose in coming to the valley. This evening, I will bless Count Fulk’s marriage. After that joyful event, I’ve been asked to stay on at Betizac to be his wife’s chaplain.”
“I’d not heard the Count was to marry again,” said Odo, “his affianced has requested the company of a priest?”
“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about the wedding. The Count has been in regular communication with the bishop on this matter, and he’s been most generous in his support of one or two projects very close to the bishop’s heart. You must be even more isolated here, in the far reaches of your little valley, than any of us had realized.” He smiled.
His constant air of superiority was grating on Odo’s nerves.
“For a man of the Count’s standing, it’s quite normal, as I’m sure you’d appreciate, for his wife to have the company of a priest in her daily life. The power of prayer will hold her steadfast to her marriage, and enable her to bear the trials and tribulations of wedlock.”
From what Odo had heard, the poor woman would need more than the company of a priest to withstand Count Fulk’s version of marriage. It was strange that the Count was supporting the bishop’s projects, when he had long refused to support the monastery. In fact, it was so long since he’d donated, Odo had stopped asking many years ago. Betizac was the only household of any standing in the entire region which never contributed.
“So the Count marries again,” murmured Odo. The poor woman, he thought, and made a mental note pray for her.
“I understand Lady Berenice is quite learned, for a woman.”
“Berenice is indeed. She reads Latin well, and can write, a little.”
“Then my calling shall be a joy. I will be blessed indeed to be in daily communication with a person who will appreciate my instruction.”
“Forgive me, good Father, I understood you were to be attending Count Fulk’s wife.”
Gerhard looked at him blankly.
“You do not know?”
“Know?” repeated Odo. The long grace must have done more than affect his stomach. His mental faculties were definitely not working as they should be this morning.
“The good Count marries the Lady of Freycinet this evening.”
“I believe the Lady of Freycinet does not consider herself free to marry again.”
Gerhard waved a hand, dismissing Odo’s comment.
“Of course she is. Her first husband has been gone for many years. The bishop told me you’d sent a request on her behalf for the marriage to be annulled. It’s no longer necessary. The Count discussed the issue with the bishop. There’s no impediment to the marriage.” He laughed. It was a high pitched, irritating sound. “Indeed, I would not be here if there was!”
Odo could only look at the pompous priest in horror. Fulk was going to take Berenice – today – and he was trapped in his study with the man who was to bind her for the rest of her life to one of the most evil people Odo had ever met.
God help me, he prayed, I cannot let this happen to my sister.
“Would you care for some refreshment, good Father,” Odo asked calmly. He had to get away, he had to think, to plan. There must be something he could do! He might be a fat, old monk, but he’d been a knight before he’d taken his vows, and Berenice was in grave danger. If this marriage went ahead not only would she suffer, but every person in the valley would be ground beneath Fulk’s heel. He had to do something.
Father Gerhard, despite his ascetic appearance, always seemed to welcome refreshment.
“Allow me to attend to it personally,” said Odo, “I have some interesting manuscri
pts here. Perhaps you’d like to read them?”
Odo forced himself to move slowly, setting up on a wooden stand one of the monastery’s precious books for Gerhard to read, murmuring polite, but meaningless words all the while.
Once out of the study, he ran to the kitchen as fast as his bulk would allow. A plan was taking shape in his mind. As he hurried, he prayed God would forgive him for what he was about to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The annual fair had been the highlight of Berenice’s year for as long as she could remember. Although only small, it attracted some of the more unusual and original of the traders and entertainers who spent their lives wandering from one fair to the next.
Last year there’d been a man with a tame bear, all the way from the forests of Scandinavia. She’d felt a little sorry for the bear, with his heavy chain around one ankle. His keeper had prodded him until he’d danced, and everyone had laughed. And a few years ago, there’d been a man with very dark skin who had a tame monkey dressed up in proper clothes, just like a miniature person. Unlike the bear, the monkey had enjoyed performing for the crowd, and had made comic faces and shrieked.
Berenice had looked forward to enjoying this year’s fair in the company of her friends, with Gareth by her side. It was not to be. From the first sign of daylight, Count Fulk had demanded her attention. He’d swept her off to the fair grounds, ignored her protests, and had given the others no choice but to follow.
In defiance, she’d clung to Esme’s arm. The Count had soon seen through her ruse. He’d bought her silly little knick-knacks and trinkets she neither wanted nor needed, and Esme was expected to carry them. The field was left free for the Count to trap Berenice’s arm permanently beneath his own.
The day quickly became a trial. Fresh air became nothing but a memory, with the ever-present heat and dust. Far worse than these, the Count stank. His clothes had not seen the inside of a laundry in long while, and every time he turned to say something to her, his breath washed over her like a noisome tide. Cleaning out the cesspits held more attraction than spending another hour with the Count.