by Jennie Reid
You never lose it, he thought. Once a knight, always a knight!
His plan had as many holes as a mendicant’s habit, and he was old enough and wise enough to acknowledge it. William’s men numbered but half a dozen; it would take desperate measures to protect Berenice from Fulk. Perhaps he would still be in time. Perhaps his sword might be useful still.
And if he were too late to prevent Fulk’s abduction of Berenice, all was not yet lost.
***
“Gareth, we can’t lay siege to Betizac! The place is huge, we’ve only got a few men, and we’ve got no siege engines. Do you want me to go on?” William growled.
“And besides,” said Esme, who was trying to bandage the arm William kept waving about, “what good would it do? We need a way to get the Lady out, not keep her in there!”
Gareth sank to the wooden bench beneath the old walnut tree, suddenly weary. He’d been so sure their plan to protect Berenice was succeeding, until the hunting horn had sounded. The Count had dropped his sword and held his hands wide, in a time-honored gesture of defeat.
“Another time, perhaps?” he’d sneered, and then he’d ridden away. In minutes, the courtyard had been cleared of the Count’s men, except for two of them, who were dead.
Gareth had helped William to the bench in the centre of the courtyard, and then surveyed their forces. There’d been a few injuries, but nothing serious. Amazingly, none of their own men had been killed.
A general air of excitement had pervaded the castle, as though they’d vanquished their enemy. It seemed only Gareth realized Fulk had chosen to leave the fight. He hated to think what the casualties would have been if Fulk had decided to stay.
Fulk had had no need to stay; he had Berenice. Esme had staggered out of the door of the Lady’s tower, not long after Fulk’s departure, rubbing her head. She’d told William and Gareth the dreadful news.
“Yes, Esme, you’re right,” agreed Gareth, “we need to get Berenice out, not keep her in there. He will take her to Betizac? He has no other stronghold?”
“He’ll take her there alright,” said William, “he’ll want everything to look legitimate, so that when the duke and the king hear of it, everything can be brushed over with the least amount of fuss.”
“Could we send an envoy to the duke or the king?”
“How much time do you think we have, lad? Three months, perhaps? Because that’s what we’d need if we wanted an answer, with the fall rains approaching. He’ll have her with child by then!”
Gareth’s fists clenched, and he made a low noise in his throat. The need to finish his duel with Fulk was eating away at him, like acid on metal. He wouldn’t rest until the man was dead.
“I’ll go alone,” he declared, “one man, after dark might be all that’s needed. Perhaps I’ll be able to get into Betizac unnoticed.”
“It’s not like this place, lad. The Count’s been building Betizac for years. It’s got a tower on each corner, a central keep, a portcullis, and a few dozen armed guards on watch day and night. Even if you got inside, you’d never be able to get to the keep. That’s where Fulk’s quarters are, and where Berenice will be kept.”
“There’s got to be a way!” said Gareth.
“Pray for a miracle, lad,” said William, “because we’re going to need one.”
“The Lady’s going to need one too,” added Esme.
Gareth let his head drop into his hands. There had to be away to rescue Berenice.
“Sir William!” The bellow from the gate startled them all.
William stood up, looking for the source of the cry.
“Abbot Odo?” he said.
Gareth noticed the mule before he absorbed the details of the rider. The beast looked as though it were about to drop, whether from exhaustion or sheer stubbornness it was difficult to tell.
Knowing mules, it was more likely to be stubbornness, he thought.
Not that the mule was to blame, in this case. Packages and bundles had been lashed to the saddle, and in the middle of them all sat a well-rounded monk. In spite of the seriousness of their situation, Gareth had to try hard to suppress a smile.
The monk was Gareth’s age, or a few years older. He had the unlined, worry-free face of the dedicated religious, and wore a patched, brown habit. His hair, what was left of it in the fringe around his tonsure, was an earthy brown.
With difficulty he dismounted from the mule, and made his way towards them.
“Am I too late? Berenice, is she safe?” he called across the courtyard.
William waited until the monk drew closer. He didn’t answer Odo’s question immediately.
“Odo, my friend, there’s someone here I want you to meet.” Gareth stood at Gilbert’s side. “Abbot Odo, this is Gareth the Troubadour. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
“Indeed I have,” answered Odo, “God bless you, my son, for the joy you’ve brought to the valley this summer. I’ve heard about your clever devices to bring water to the fields and the gardens. Well done!”
“Gareth,” continued William, “Abbot Odo presides over the monastery at the head of the valley. He’s also Berenice’s brother.”
Gareth could see the family likeness between the rotund man and the small, fine-boned woman. It wasn’t so much in physical appearance, as in their demeanor. In Odo, it was expressed as a guileless geniality; in Berenice, it was kindness and a quiet joy.
“And to answer your question, Odo,” Gilbert continued, “Yes, you are too late, Fulk’s taken her. But how did you know?”
“We’re not completely isolated in the monastery,” answered Odo, “news travels fast, especially, in this case, bad news. What’re you going to do about getting her back? You can’t leave her with that monster!”
“We don’t intend to,” interrupted Gareth. He’d wanted action, but all he’d been given was a genial monk with all the time in the world to waste.
“Well,” repeated the imperturbable Odo, “What’re you going to do? What are your plans?”
“Young Gareth wants to go into Betizac alone, but we haven’t figured out a way to disguise him as a will-o-the-wisp yet.” William’s frustration showed in his voice.
“Ah, is that all!” answered Odo, “Then perhaps I can help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
They’d taken her dress, and her headdress, and her shoes. Every time she moved, soft, silken fur caressed the bare skin of her arms and legs and neck.
Berenice thought it felt wonderful, and without opening her eyes, snuggled deeper into the pelts. Perhaps she should remove her shift too, and feel the fur touch every part of her body. She drifted back into drugged sleep.
When next she woke, the furs still brushed her skin, setting up an almost unbearable yearning within her. She knew she wanted something, needed something, ached for it in fact, but she’d no idea what ‘it’ was.
She stretched out her legs, letting her shift ride up around her hips. The furs felt wonderful, but she knew the feeling was only a small fraction of what would be required to satisfy this aching need.
The wanting was like being with Gareth in the forest before the apparition had frightened her, or on the ledge, when he’d kissed her, but it was stronger, much stronger. She longed for Gareth. She needed to rub her body against his, to feel…
To feel what?
The ache, she realized, was stronger in some parts of her body than others. Her nipples stood proud, small and hard against her shift. The place between her thighs, the secret place she’d given little thought to until now, felt hot and wet and empty.
Empty?
She pondered that thought. Perhaps it needed something to fill it, to make it whole. Experimentally, she slid her hands up her thighs, until she reached the flimsy barrier of her shift. She’d never explored herself there before. Now she let her fingers burrow through the dark damp curls. The discovery of smooth, slick folds encouraged her to venture further.
She stretched her thighs as far apart as they would go, a
llowing the cool air to soothe her heated flesh. Memories of Gareth flooded her mind. What would it be like to have his hands doing this to her? To have his body close to hers?
One finger slid deeper, finding the wellspring of her moisture. She dipped it in and out, and in, and out again. Her muscles clenched, and she groaned. Her own small finger was not enough. She needed something larger, harder, firmer, stronger.
The fingers of her other hand discovered an exquisitely sensitive spot further forward. The tip of one finger traveled around it, trying to define its shape, gently stroking backwards and forwards.
The more her hand moved, the more sensitive the little hard nub seemed to became. She stroked harder. It seemed to grow larger. She rubbed it now, moving faster, and faster still.
Every muscle in her body spasmed, and then relaxed. She heard herself cry out. For a moment, she wondered if the things she’d been doing to herself had brought on some sort of fit, but surely a fit would not have felt so lovely. And whatever it was, it had eased the longing a little, although she could feel it rising within her again.
What was it, this need, this warmth? Would she be able to recreate the sensation if she rubbed that place again?
A cool draught of air flowed over her body. Berenice heard a muffled click that could have been the latch of a door.
Regretfully, she moved her hands away from her body. She needed to find out where she was, and where her clothes were. Her last proper memory was of the giant in her room at Freycinet, forcing her to drink the sleeping draught.
This had to be Fulk’s room, she reasoned, opening her eyes. The rich hangings and huge bed bore his mark, his love of ostentatious display.
She swung her legs onto the floor, reluctantly leaving the warm embrace of the furs. Her toes burrowed into thick, rich carpet. She touched one of the tapestries, marveling at its texture.
A dozen candles in two large candelabras burned on the mantelpiece. Drawn like a moth to the flames, she drifted across the room towards them.
The fireplace surround was covered in carvings. Lifting down one of the candelabras, she placed it on the hearth, and sank to her knees in front of the frieze. The flickering flames gave the sculpted figures life and movement.
She gave a gasp of recognition when she realized the theme of the carvings. For a moment she averted her gaze, shocked by the depravity of the scenes.
The images drew her back.
This was what she craved! The women in the frieze, so unlike her physically, could be her in reality. And the men were all, of course, Gareth.
She studied each pose in detail.
So, she thought, if I were to lean over something, he could approach me from behind…
Or if he placed me on the edge of the bed, and held my legs…
Or if I knelt, and supported myself with my arms…
Or if he lay on the bed, I could ride astride him, as though I were on horseback…
Or if we both lay on our sides, and I wrapped one of my legs around…
She was fascinated by the amazing variety of ways in which a man and a woman could join with each other. Reaching out, she carefully touched one of the writhing couples.
I was wrong to consider them depraved, she thought. This could be a true union, a mating of souls as well as bodies. Oh, Gareth, I want you, I long for you. I want to find fulfillment in your arms and with our bodies, just as these people have. If only you were here.
Some illustrations showed two women with one man, or men with men, and women with other women. If she couldn’t see herself and Gareth playing the roles, she passed over them.
In another set, the couples were joined in other ways, ways she’d never dreamed.
So I could do that with my mouth, she thought. I didn’t know it was possible! The man in the carving looks as though he’s enjoying it. And he could use his mouth, too! The thought of Gareth’s tongue lapping at the secret places she’d only just discovered made her squirm. One hand began to burrow beneath her shift again, while the other kneaded her breast.
“You like my carvings, little nun.”
At the sound of the voice behind her, she froze. How long had Fulk been there? What had he seen?
Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her limbs felt weak, but she refused to allow herself to show it. She turned around. Fulk was seated at the large table in the centre of the room.
“They are most enlightening, Count Fulk.” The heat in her body warred with the ice in her tone.
She remembered a day, long ago, in the forest. Still a trusting, innocent girl-child, she’d been looking for the earliest flowers of spring; the snowdrops, and the lily of the valley. Her mother had begun to warn her not to go to the forest alone, but she’d never been told why. After all, she’d gone anywhere she wanted on her family’s lands, for as long as she could remember – why should she stop now?
The Count had been hunting. A freshly killed deer was lashed to his saddle, the blood from its slit throat dripping to the ground. She’d called out to him. Everyone knew this was the King’s forest, held in trust for him by her family. No-one could hunt here, except with the King’s or her father’s permission.
He’d dismounted, and walked towards her, his heavy boots sinking into the old, damp leaves.
“You’re alone?” he’d asked, looking around.
Suddenly nervous, she’d attempted to lie, telling him her maid was not far away. He’d scanned the undergrowth long enough to find her out.
With a low growl like a beast, he’d pushed her to the damp ground, and ripped her clothes from her. What he couldn’t tear, he’d cut with his dagger, caring not at all for her screams or her cries for mercy. He’d held her down with his great weight while he’d forced his way inside her, tearing her flesh, and bruising her body.
She knew now she hated this man, as surely as she knew her own name.
The buried memory of his brutal act had made her a prisoner in her own body for more than eight years. Because of him, she’d spurned her husband on their wedding night. Because of him, she’d rejected Gareth in the forest. She was twenty four years old, and she’d never held a lover in her arms, and felt him move inside her. She’d never felt a child begin its life within her, or nursed an infant at her breast.
The act he’d perpetrated upon her all those years ago had nothing in common with the erotic play of the figures in the carvings.
“Enlightening?” He pushed himself out of the chair, and walked towards her. “I saw you touch them. I saw your fingers trace the outline of the bodies. Do you not find them – arousing?”
He stopped when he was no more than a hand’s span from her. He was far taller than she, and loomed over her. She could smell and feel his breath on her skin, but she refused to be cowed.
“Should I?” she answered.
“Some people do,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. He let it fall, slowly, over one breast, and down, tracing the line of her hip through the shift.
“Then I am not one of them,” she lied. Unable to bear his proximity any longer, she stepped away from him. “What have you done with my clothes?”
“They’ve been removed. Such poor garments would be unsuitable for a Count’s wife. Other clothes will be brought shortly.”
“I am not your wife, my Lord Count. I’ll wear my own clothes. Would you please send for them.”
He ignored her request. “You will be my wife, little nun, as soon as the priest arrives to bless the union. And before that happens, you will bathe, and you will wear the clothes I have provided.”
“I will not marry you, Lord Fulk. Indeed, I cannot. I’m already married.”
“Ah, yes.” To her relief, he moved away, to a chest beneath the window. “Your husband, the warrior for Christ. Your late husband.”
“I’ve received no news of his death. And until that day…”
“What news would be good enough, little nun, to convince you of his passing?”
“My name is Berenice de Freycinet, m
y Lord Count. I’d be grateful if you’d use it.”
He bowed, a small, mocking half bow.
“Very well, my Lady Berenice, what would it take to convince you of his death?” He opened the trunk.
“What has it to do with you?”
“Answer my question, woman!”
“I don’t know,” she hesitated, “Perhaps to see something that I know was his…”
“Such as?”
“This is ridiculous, Count. Could you please get me my clothes!”
“Such as,” he opened a smaller box he’d retrieved from the trunk, “A ring?”
He crossed the room to her, and raising her hand with his, dropped an ornate, silver ring into the palm.
“You’ll recognize the crest.”
She did. On their marriage, elements had been taken from both of their family crests to form a new one. She knew her husband’s crest almost as well as she knew the balances in the castle accounts.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was brought to me by,” he coughed into his hand, “a friend, who had been in the Holy Land. Your husband is dead, Lady. He died in the Battle of Hattin.”
“Hattin?” she echoed, “There were no survivors from Hattin. Forgive me, my Lord, I must sit down.”
He brought her a chair, and she collapsed into it without remembering to thank him. She turned the ring over and over in her hands. She remembered Huon wearing it. He’d not been a bad man, she thought, except perhaps for a fondness for wine. In the few weeks they’d been together, he’d always been kind to her. She wondered where he’d slept each evening after she’d turned him out of their bedroom.
She wouldn’t weep now for someone she’d barely known. If Huon de Fortescue was dead, she was indeed a widow; in that, at least, Count Fulk was right. She was a free woman, free to marry where her heart directed.
“Keep it,” said the Count, “consider it a betrothal gift.”
Berenice kept her gaze on the ring, certain that if she looked up at the Count, the joy in her eyes would betray her. She was free to marry Gareth.
All she had to do was escape from here.