Hot Summer's Knight

by Jennie Reid

  “Of course. What happens now?”

  “We wait until Odo says the blessing.”

  “But won’t they be married by then?”

  “No. Berenice understands Latin. Odo’s been telling her that the soldier and the singer are here to help her, and she must wait until the time is right. Lots more along the same lines.”

  Gilbert grinned. “I thought his name was Gerhard!”

  “It seems Father Gerhard was delayed at the monastery.”

  Odo’s voice increased in volume. He made the sign of the cross over the couple, and then began the blessing. The other monk threw back his cassock, revealing a sword and a dagger, and another sword materialized from beneath the priest’s vestments.

  Gilbert stood, the troubadour’s dagger clearly visible, his empty hands displayed on defeat.

  The Count found speech difficult. From the color of his face, he was on the verge of expiring from anger alone.

  “How dare you!” he spluttered. “You’ll never get out of here alive. Captain, my men…”

  “I’m sorry, my Lord Count, but…” his captain answered.

  “Fulk,” said the shorter monk, “we take back what’s ours.”

  “Don’t kill him!” said Berenice, “I’m not harmed.”

  “But, my Lady,” began the monk.

  “Sir William,” she answered, “Just take me home.”

  “Let me dispose of this piece of garbage first, my Lady.”

  “Then take him to his room,” she answered, “It’s on the top floor of the keep. Restrain him there, while we make our escape.”

  The procession back up the stairs was a little longer than the one that had come down. Fulk was encouraged to lead, followed by Sir William, his sword extended. The troubadour and Gilbert came next, and then Berenice, helped by Odo.

  Cords were torn from bed hangings and tapestries, and used to tie the Count to the chair near the fireplace. As the troubadour had promised, the knots were not intended for comfort. When they left him, the Count’s face was purple with rage.

  “The servants will find him, eventually,” said Gilbert. He led the way down. “I’ll make sure you get out the gates safely.

  “Can we trust him?” Sir William asked of the troubadour.

  “I believe so,” the man answered.

  The priest had produced another cassock, and the Lady pulled it on. No sign of her blue dress showed, and it concealed her hair as well.

  “Won’t it seem a little strange when two monks arrive and three leave?” asked the troubadour.

  “Leave that to me,” answered Gilbert.

  They crossed the dimly lit courtyard without incident. At the gate, Gilbert took Jacques, the senior guard of the night watch, to one side.

  “The monks and the priest are leaving now,” he said, “One of their number had been staying here, and he leaves with them.”

  “I didn’t know we had a monk here.” Jacques’ tone was a little suspicious.

  “He’s only a novice, a relative of one of the women who work in the kitchen, I believe.”

  “Why’re they leaving in the middle of the night? Can’t they wait until morning?”

  “Some sort of vigil for the new novice, they said. Just let them through. I’ll vouch for them, if there’s any trouble.”

  “I’m glad it’s your neck, and not mine,” answered Jacques, “Raise the portcullis!” he shouted up to the winch house.

  As they weren’t in a state of open warfare with anyone at the moment, the gates weren’t always closed at night. The priest and the three monks slipped out as soon as the portcullis was high enough to fit beneath. The smallest and slightest squeezed Gilbert’s hand briefly as he passed.

  “Thank you, and God bless you,” he whispered. He had an unusually sweet voice for a boy.

  Gilbert allowed himself the luxury of a smile.

  “Let the portcullis down,” he boomed, when the four figures were all safely on the other side. The portcullis wouldn’t be raised until morning now.

  He had a busy night ahead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The yellow glow of the lanthorn he held illuminated Gilbert’s bushy beard and yellow hair. Jessamine drew him in through the doorway, into her room.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, “I could hear footsteps on the stairs. You’ll be pleased to know I did as you asked, and stayed here.”

  “The wedding’s off,” Gilbert answered.

  “Is it? Really?” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. As soon as she felt the beginnings of his response, she drew back. That was enough, for now.

  “The Lady’s gone,” he said.

  “Gone? Left the castle? Left Betizac?” She barely restrained the exhilaration rising within her.

  He nodded. “We must leave too, at first light, when the portcullis is raised.”

  “Leave? Us? Why?”

  “It’s not safe for you here, Jessamine. Come with me, I’ll make a life for you somehow. We don’t have to go to England if you don’t want to. There’s the Italian states, Castile, even the Steppes of Russia or far Cathay, if you’d like to go there.”

  “But the wedding’s off, you said.” She pulled herself out of his arms.

  “It is, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with us.”

  There is no ‘us’, she thought.

  “Please Jessamine,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the door, “You must make a decision. Do you come with me, or do you stay?”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she answered, “things have happened so quickly. I don’t know…”

  “You have until first light, Jessamine. That’s when I go.” He turned on his heel, and left, slamming the door behind him.

  He still wants me, she thought. He could be useful. Perhaps she should leave with him. She’d have a protector, and the big man was exciting, in his own way.

  But what about the Count? And all her dreams? Berenice had gone. There was no-one in the way now. The Count would be angry, but at Berenice, not her. She could be the one to console him in his hour of need.

  Dressed in only her shift, with her feet bare as he liked them, she took the candle from her bed side, and climbed the stairs to the Count’s room. No-one answered when she knocked, so she gently pushed open the door.

  The remains of a few candles spluttered in the candelabras, sending demonic shadows flickering around the room. She hesitated. A muffled sound drew her attention to the fireplace.

  Fulk was there, gagged and tied to a chair.

  Jessamine tiptoed across the room. He was awake, she could see. His eyes were open, his fingers struggled against his bonds.

  She removed the gag first.

  “Untie me, woman!”

  Tenderly, she wiped the spittle from his chin. She could see great possibilities in this situation.

  “Ooh, Count, don’t you like sitting there, all tied up like a goose ready for the oven?” She circled his chair, letting her fingers trail over his chest and his back.

  “Jessamine, get me out of these bonds – now!”

  “Don’t you find it a bit exciting?” she purred into his ear. “You tied up? And me here? Why, I could do anything I liked! And you know what I like, Count, don’t you?”

  “Not now!” The Count looked as though he might explode.

  “And which knots do you want me to untie first?” she answered, her fingers playing with the laces on his leggings. “These ones?”

  He cursed her most foully.

  “Really Count Fulk,” she mocked, “And here I am, about to make your imprisonment very pleasant for you. And for me too, of course.” Licking her lips, she lowered her head into his lap, and set to work. Soon she had the response she desired. She felt his body relax a little.

  “That’s better Count, why don’t we just enjoy ourselves?” she said, standing up in front of him. Raising her shift, she lowered herself onto his waiting erection, and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  �
��Ooh, Count, we know what we both like, don’t we?” She rocked herself back and forth, lost in the sensations coursing through her body, ignoring Fulk’s continuing protests. Already aroused by the memory of his hardness in her mouth, only a short time later her climax began to tear through her body.

  He’s stopped cursing, she noticed.

  “Ooh, Count, you feel good, you really do,” she said, still feeling the glow of her climax.

  “Now, woman, untie my feet,” he answered.

  He’d freed his hands somehow, while she’d been busy with other things. With one hand he clutched a great hank of her hair. In the other, he held a long, slender dagger.

  The tip pierced the skin at her throat. Through the corner of her eye, she could see a trickle of blood running into the neckline of her shift.

  Somehow, she managed to move off his lap. The hand holding her hair pushed her to the floor. The knife never wavered from her throat. The cut he’d made while she was in the throes of orgasm had begun to hurt.

  “Count, please,” she whimpered.

  “Untie my feet, slut.”

  Her hands shook badly, and she fumbled with the knots. She found out his feet were free when one of them lashed out, aimed at her jaw. She ducked, and most of the blow went astray. The force was still enough to knock her to the boards.

  “On the bed,” he ordered, wrapping the end of one his bonds around his fist.

  She scuttled over to the bed, climbed up on it, and lay ready for him.

  “No,” he said, “over. On your knees.”

  She obeyed. Waiting, unable to do more than sense his approach, she trembled with fear.

  “That’s better, slut,” he said. The cord lashed out, like a branding iron across her buttocks and her still-swollen genitals. She howled. “Now that’s a sound I like to hear.”

  She felt the bed move as he climbed on behind her.

  “What a silly slut you are,” he said, his voice almost affectionate, “you were jealous, weren’t you?” He rammed into her, hard. She’d had no time to brace herself, and fell face down, almost smothering in the furs. His heavy body pressed her into the bed.

  He talked, his tone pleasant and matter-of-fact, punctuated by increasingly brutal thrusts.

  “If you ever.” Thrust. “Do that again.” Thrust. “I’ll cut you.” Thrust. “Into tiny pieces.” Thrust. “I’d have kept you.” Thrust. “A wife’s for.” Thrust. “Bearing sons and.” Thrust. “Gaining land.” Thrust. “You should’ve.” Thrust. “Known that.” Thrust.

  There was more, much more. How he’d been watching Berenice since she was a young girl. How he’d wanted her, a true aristocrat, whose lineage could be traced back to Charlemagne. How he’d taken her in the forest floor, all those years ago, but her father had palmed her off onto someone else. How Berenice was his and only his, by right of his taking of her maidenhead. How he was going back to Freycinet to get her, with all his men, as soon as there was light enough to see by.

  It was all Berenice, Berenice, Berenice.

  Jessamine wondered how she could stand any more. He raised himself onto his knees, and pulled her up, still spiked upon him. He ground on. She thought she might vomit or faint, until he dealt her another stinging blow across the buttocks, this time with the flat of his hand. She was sobbing now, wailing with the pain of it all. Her distress seemed only to spur him on.

  Finally, clutching her buttocks with claw-like hands, he impaled her one last shuddering time, moaned, and collapsed onto the bed.

  Jessamine lay still, sobbing quietly, frightened to move in case the Count did not wish it. Eventually, the sound of snoring told her he was asleep.

  She rolled onto her back cautiously. She lay, watching the patterns made by the guttering candlelight on the canopy above the bed. Every joint hurt. Her bottom protested even at the soft touch of the furs. The place where he’d cut her neck still stung. Between her legs, she was bleeding as badly as if her time of the month had come.

  She wondered if she’d ever be able to enjoy a man again.

  She’d been misused before. Even the Count had been a bit rough, before tonight. She’d always found that in some strange way, she enjoyed a bit of mishandling. It added a bit of spice, made things more interesting.

  But not this, never this.

  He’d used her like he’d hated her, like he’d wanted to cause her pain. Like he could only enjoy it if he did.

  She had the urge to vomit again.

  One thing hurt more than all the others, far more than any physical agony. He’d wanted Berenice for a wife. Jessamine hated that woman, hated her more than anyone she’d ever met. She swore somehow, some way, she’d avenge herself upon her.

  He’d never intended to marry Jessamine, not even for her to bear his bastards. She’d been nothing more than bed sport to him. Just like all the others.

  He snored on.

  She sat up in the bed, being careful of her many bruises. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his leggings, she thought in disgust. His flaccid penis lay, a discolored sausage, lolling out of his lacings.

  She edged to the end of the bed. Still he snored.

  His knife lay on the floor, where he’d dropped it when he’d beaten her with the rope.

  She looked at him, his head thrown back on the pillow, his stained clothes in disarray.

  Cut you into tiny pieces, he’d said.

  She’d see about that.

  He stirred, and she glanced at him again, tensing, afraid he might be awakening. He mumbled something, and slept on. His penis was still marked with flecks of her blood.

  Quietly, Jessamine slid off the bed. She picked up the Count’s knife. It was long, and thin, and very, very sharp. She weighed it in her hand.

  She started at his throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Esme was waiting in the forest not far from Betizac. The horses grazed nearby.

  She ran to William as soon as the small party came into view. He kissed her tenderly, and stroked her cheek.

  “It’s alright, my dear,” he said, “we had some unexpected assistance, in the form of the Count’s captain. Everything went as planned, in fact, better than we’d planned.”

  Esme hugged Berenice next.

  “What an awful garment for a Lady to be wearing,” she exclaimed.

  Berenice laughed, “This habit saved me, Esme. Be kinder to it – it can’t help being old and tattered.”

  The two women embraced again, tears in their eyes.

  “And the draught that man made you drink – did it make you ill?”

  “No, Esme,” answered Berenice, “I slept, that’s all.” But she remembered the strange sensations she’d experienced in the Count’s room. Could they have been connected to the sleeping draught? It wasn’t something she could discuss with Esme now, here. And they might still be followed, if someone had discovered Count Fulk.

  Despite her anxieties, William made them all proceed slowly back to Freycinet.

  “It wouldn’t do for one of us to have an accident, after going to all that trouble to get the Lady back, now would it?” he said.

  The horses walked along the forest paths, and picked their way over the bumps and ridges of the road, until they reached Pontville. After that, the moon was up, the way was clearer, and they could let their mounts stretch their legs a little.

  I’m safe, Berenice thought, I’m safe, I’m free, they came for me, Gareth came for me.

  She rode astride, her gown and the monk’s habit spread out around her. The mare moved beneath her thighs, as they raced along in the moonlight. The movement brought back memories of the events at Betizac.

  Her self exploration had awoken something within her, something strong, and powerful, and wonderful. Had the Count watched, while that great surge of pleasure had arisen within her? Now she knew the role he’d played in her life, she almost hoped he had. It would be justice, in a way, if he’d desired her, and had not taken her when he could have.

  Gareth rode at
her right hand. She could see little of him save his outline, but she could sense his presence, his quiet strength. She smiled in the darkness. Soon, she would be with him. Soon, she would be free to express her feelings for him. The demon of Fulk’s foul act had been exorcised; no barrier remained to separate her from the man she loved.

  No-one would expect a widow to be a virgin, she thought. May God forgive me for what I am about to do.

  Behind them rode William and Esme. Odo, a little uncomfortable on a horse instead of a mule, brought up the rear.

  The silvered silhouette of Freycinet came into view. Berenice thought she’d never seen a more beautiful sight. When they rode into the courtyard, a crowd of well-wishers greeted her, despite the late hour. After they dismounted, some-one offered to take care of the horses. Everyone was there: Marie and her Reginald, the huge blacksmith; Robert and his apprentices; the carpenter and his family; all those who lived in the castle, she was sure, and many from Pontville, and the other villages as well.

  “Welcome home,” they cried, “welcome back.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, tears of joy on her cheeks, “thank you.” Her hands were gripped, her shoulders touched, her cheeks kissed.

  “Forgive me,” she said at last, “I must go now. But I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “Forgive me, my friends,” she repeated.

  “Can’t you see the Lady’s tired?” said Esme, “Now, let me see her to her bed.”

  Her people drifted away one by one, still chattering, to find their own beds. It was a like a feast day revel, everyone happy, full of hope for the future.

  “Gareth,” said Berenice, “where’s Gareth?”

  “I’m here, my Lady.”

  And he was, his hand holding hers. He raised it to his lips, and brushed a kiss across the back of it. Their eyes met. She didn’t need daylight to see the desire burning in the depths of his soft, grey eyes. She could feel it in the touch of his hand, in his nearness.

  “Come, my Lady, we’d best get you to your room.” Esme was determined to take her duties seriously tonight.