Hot Summer's Knight

by Jennie Reid

  “Yes.”

  “A bad business, that fight.”

  “My men were all killed, good men, men I’d known since childhood, grown into manhood with.”

  The captain shook his head in sympathy.

  “I’ve always believed I was responsible in some way.”

  “You weren’t. The Count told me. Your palfrey’s harness was sabotaged. The Count’s man took your ring, as evidence you were dead.”

  “The stranger! The one I thought helped me. He came from nowhere. I thought he defended me, while I fought my way back to my men.” Huon relived the memories, the scenes flashing before him as though it had been yesterday. “I saw a Saracen out of the corner of my eye. I’d always thought it was he who dealt me this blow.” He touched his face. “But it must have been the stranger. After all this time…

  “You must take me to Fulk. I’ll challenge him, based on this, on the discovery of the ring.”

  He got to his feet, looking around for his sword, before he remembered in was with his horse.

  “Finish your breakfast, Sir Huon.” The captain munched contentedly. “Some people say your stomach should be empty before you see a sight like I’m about to show you. Me, I believe you should have something to heave on. Gives your guts something to do.”

  Huon could see this man would not be moved until his stomach was full. Taking his seat again, he filled a spare tankard with ale, and resigned himself to waiting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  The captain finished his breakfast, then he led the way down the stairs, and across the yard. Sounds of laughter and raucous singing came from an open doorway. Two men, a woman supported between them, staggered across the yard to the guard room near the gate. Huon was sure they were all drunk, despite the early hour.

  He followed the captain up the keep stairs until they reached Fulk’s door. It was ajar. A strange noise, half laughter, half sobbing, came from within the room.

  “Hold onto your breakfast, Sir Huon,” said the captain, and pushed the door open.

  The smell reached Huon first. Warm blood and excrement, the smell of the battlefield, concentrated a thousand times by being indoors and behind closed windows. There was blood, a great deal of blood, pooling in the rich carpets, dripping from the carvings around the fireplace, matting the fur coverlet, running down the girl sitting on the bed. Her hair was matted with it. Her shift stuck to her body with it.

  “We think most of it’s his,” the captain stated, “but we can’t get close enough to her to find out.”

  “But, Fulk…” Before the words were out of his mouth, he knew the answer. What was left of Count Fulk de Betizac was scattered around the room.

  “Who?” Huon asked.

  “The girl. Jessamine.”

  “She did this?”

  “So it seems. He had a knife he kept in a scabbard in his boot. We believe she used that.”

  “What’re you going to do with her?” asked Huon.

  “I don’t know. Some of the others want me to kill her, but they respect her too. Mad as she is, she did what none of us were brave enough to do.”

  “You can’t leave her there, like that.”

  “I know. Any ideas?”

  “There’s a convent about a day’s ride from here, towards Bordeaux, St. Bernadette’s. Do you know it?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “You could ask the nuns to take care of her. Did the Count leave any heirs?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “When I get back to Freycinet, I’ll arrange for a contribution to be sent to the nuns.”

  “That’s settled then,” the captain sighed, “now all we have to do is get her there.”

  “Good luck, captain,” said Huon, “you’re going to need it.” He turned to leave.

  “Gareth!” wailed the figure on the bed.

  “She knows you? I thought you said your name was Huon,” said the captain.

  “I was the troubadour at Freycinet, for a while. Gareth was the name I used,” answered Huon.

  “It’s the first time she’s recognized anyone today.” The big man placed his hand on Huon’s shoulder. “Stay, please. Help me get her to the convent.”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry. I have business at Freycinet.”

  “Gareth,” she cried again, and began to sob, “don’t leave me!”

  “No-one here will help me with her,” said the captain, “if you leave, they’ll probably kill her.”

  “Gareth, please,” Jessamine sobbed.

  It wasn’t her plaintive wailing made up his mind, so much as the force of the captain’s argument. The mad, it was said, deserved our mercy and compassion. He couldn’t leave her here to be torn apart by a drunken mob.

  “Very well,” said Huon, making up his mind, “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Let’s get her cleaned up first. We can’t take her to the nuns like that.”

  Huon approached the bed, his boots squelching in the carpets. Great fat tears rolled down Jessamine’s face, but she giggled, the closer he came. Eventually, he could reach out his hand. She put an ice-cold hand in his. Her trembling hand surprised him at first, until he realized her whole body was shaking slightly.

  “Come, Jessamine. It’s time for you to leave here.”

  “Sir Peter’s taking me, I know.” She sounded almost normal. He wondered who Sir Peter was. The Englishman?

  “We’re taking you to bathe first.”

  She looked down at her blood-soaked shift.

  “Yes,” she said, and climbed down from the bed.

  “We’ll take her to the laundry,” said the captain.

  “You’re Peter?” asked Huon.

  “Yes, but they call me Gilbert here.”

  Jessamine shrank away when Gilbert went to touch her, so he went ahead, to ready the women in the laundry. Huon held Jessamine’s hand, and led her down the stairs and across the yard, following Gilbert’s directions.

  They stood together in front of a huge, steaming tub.

  “We have to get her out of the shift,” Huon said. The ties were matted together. Gilbert drew his knife, intending to cut it from her body.

  “No-o-o-o!” The thin, pitiful sound started the hairs rising on the back of Huon’s neck.

  “Get behind her, Gilbert, where she can’t see the knife.”

  Gilbert nodded. Without her being able see Gilbert, they were able to get the garment off her, so that Huon could help her into the tub. The women had left soap, and a rough cloth to wash her with. The men set to work, Gilbert behind her, Huon at the front, while she shook like a leaf in autumn gales.

  Huon had seen many gruesome sights in his travels, but Jessamine was in a bad way. He wondered how she’d managed to keep body and soul together. Her skin was a mass of purple bruises and scratches. There was a deep cut at the base of her throat.

  “Look at this,” whispered Gilbert, and showed him the line of the lash across her buttocks.

  There was barely a patch of skin unmarked in some way.

  They persuaded her to sit in the warm water, and they washed her hair. Gilbert found a comb, and while Huon held her hands, he gently untangled her knotted tresses.

  They helped her out of the bath, and while she trembled, dried her off with the cloths left for the purpose. A dark trail on the inside of her thighs had them confused for a moment.

  “Women tie rags there, don’t they? Has she got her monthly flow?” said Gilbert.

  “No, I think it’s what Fulk did to her,” answered Huon, “Jessamine,” he said, and a spark of recognition gleamed briefly in her eyes, “you must tie the rags on yourself, you’re bleeding.”

  She nodded, and taking the cloths, bound them around herself. Gilbert produced a shift and dress the women had left. They were old, too loose and too short, and made of rough, brown, undyed cloth, but they were clean. Sturdy boots went onto her feet. A kerchief was tied around her hair, to keep it out of her face.

  The girl let them dress he
r without protest.

  Death was too good for a man like Fulk, Huon thought, too clean, too simple. He hoped the Count was roasting over a slow fire in hell, for the harm he’d inflicted, not only on this girl, but many others.

  Jessamine reminded him of a bitch, whipped too many times. She stood where they’d dressed her, her head hanging. She’d been a nuisance most of the summer, but he preferred that to this shell of a girl, who shook at the sight of a knife or the sound of a word spoken too loudly or too harshly.

  He hoped the nuns would take good care of her.

  Gilbert brought Huon’s horse and his own out of the stables. A bundle was strapped to the back of his saddle.

  “I was leaving anyway, at first light,” Gilbert explained, “you may remember. If we take her up before us, turn and turn about, you won’t have to bring a horse back here later.”

  Huon agreed, and they set out, Jessamine in front of Gilbert. She’d lost some of her fear of him when he’d helped bathe her. Now she leaned on him a little.

  The day passed uneventfully. Huon wondered whether it was really necessary for him to be there, but then, what was another two or three days, when he had eight lost years to make up for?

  The voices of his dead men were silent now. The information Gilbert had given him had convinced him Fulk was to blame for the events at Hattin. He may not have wielded the sword that scarred Huon’s face, he may not have killed Huon’s men, but his evil influence had been behind it all.

  Now he could return to Freycinet, and reclaim his name and his rights. But did he want to? The man who’d wandered most of the known world for eight years was tempted to join Gilbert, to seek more adventures in the legendary lands of Cathay and Africa. He’d heard the Vikings speak of another land, vast and wealthy beyond imagining, on the far side of Iceland.

  His father had married him to Berenice de Freycinet. He’d made promises to her and to her father which he was bound to keep. He could no longer plead his guilt and unworthiness as a knight; in the deaths of his men, he was blameless.

  He was bound by duty to return to Berenice, even though he was beginning to suspect she’d betrayed him, and their vows, with another man.

  They camped for the evening beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, in a copse not more than an hour or two’s ride from the convent. Huon lit a fire, while the Englishman took his bow and found them supper. In no time at all, two fat rabbits were roasting on a spit.

  Jessamine had barely spoken all day. She sat now, her back against the tree, her eyes unfocussed. Sometimes she would weep a little, and then she would laugh. At the moment, she was silent.

  She ate some food, mechanically, as though it meant little to her whether she ate or not.

  Gilbert took the first watch. There were always bandits, and neither of them were sure Jessamine wouldn’t stray in the night. Huon slept deeply, despite the hardness of the ground. In his dreams, he saw Berenice. She ran from him, and the more he tried to catch her, the further away she appeared. He was relieved when Gilbert woke him.

  “It’s a few hours until dawn, by my guess. I’ll get some sleep, if you’ll keep a lookout.”

  Huon nodded, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He threw another piece of wood on the fire, and prodded it into life. Gilbert’s snores soon filled the clearing. The moon had set, but the stars were bright in the clear sky above. A cow lowed in a field, then all was silent.

  “He loved her, you see, not me.”

  Jessamine’s voice startled Huon. He’d reached for his dagger before he realized what it was.

  She was sitting up where they’d left her the previous evening.

  “He loved her. He wanted to marry her. He bought her the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. He didn’t even bring me anything from the fair. He didn’t want me, nor my children. I wanted to give him sons, lots of big, strong sons.”

  The tears sparkled on her cheeks in the firelight.

  “That’s why I had to kill him. To stop her. I couldn’t let her have him.”

  She watched Huon across the fire.

  “You love her too, don’t you?”

  “Berenice?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “The Lady. She was his lover too, you know. He told me. They met in the forest. He was her first.” She was crying harder, sobbing openly. “I wish he’d been my first! All those others, none of them mattered, not even him.” She glanced at Gilbert. “He said he loved me once too, you know.”

  She droned on and on, about the lovers she’d had, what they’d done to her, what she’d done to them, all in intimate detail. Her language became more and more foul, more and more descriptive.

  Huon heard little of it. Fulk and Berenice. Was it true? Jessamine had no reason to lie about it. She’d said it was her reason for killing Fulk.

  Fulk and Berenice.

  Berenice and Fulk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  The days crept by, as slowly as leper. The people who’d come for the fair packed up and went their many separate ways. The fields outside the gates still bore patches of flattened and threadbare grass, to show where pavilions had stood, and temporary streets had meandered. The fair was over, until next year.

  Berenice lay, alone, in her bed each night. This morning, she’d woken as she had every day since Gareth had left, thinking about him, reliving each moment of the time she’d spent with him, going over each word she’d spoken, wondering if she’d upset him in any way.

  She returned, time after time, to her gift to him of her husband’s ring. Everything had changed after she’d given him the ring. At the time, it had been such an insignificant thing; now it was the key to all that had happened since.

  Her thoughts took a new path, following a different clue. Fulk could not have known, but the ring was one of the few things she remembered in detail about her husband. Each evening of the few weeks they’d spent together, she’d sat by his side at the high table for dinner. She used to watch his hands. She’d grown to like them. They were strong, and capable, the nails always neatly trimmed. Fine hairs grew on the backs of them, and once or twice, she’d felt brave enough to wonder what it would be like to touch them, and to have them touch her.

  She’d known her husband’s hands better than she knew his face.

  Gareth had slipped the ring, without hesitating, without trying any other finger, onto the same finger her husband had used. That was unusual, she thought. Most people would try a few different fingers, to see if it felt more comfortable on one than another. He hadn’t.

  She sat up in bed, realization lighting up her life like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day.

  Could Gareth be Huon, her husband? If he was, she didn’t have to be concerned about whether anyone knew she’d spent a night with the troubadour. She didn’t have to worry about her husband not being dead, and coming back to claim her. It no longer mattered whether Gareth was a worthy enough man to become a knight, to be Lord of the valley.

  He was her husband! The more she thought about it, the more sure she became. He was a knight, a true knight, and the rightful Lord of the valley. He was her love, the husband of her heart, the man she would have chosen if she’d been allowed.

  She leaped out of bed, and grabbed her clothes. She must tell Esme and William, as soon as possible.

  But as she dressed, she hesitated. Why then had he not declared himself? Why the disguise of Gareth the Troubadour? And where was he now?

  Two days ago, a man from Betizac had passed through, on his way to the monastery. The Count was dead, he said. They needed the brothers for the burial. He would say no more, give no details of the manner of Fulk’s passing.

  Neither had he any news of Gareth. Huon, she corrected herself, she must think of him as Huon now. A man had arrived at Betizac, and had left again with the English captain and a woman. That was all he knew.

  She found Esme and William, sharing their morning meal in William’s downstairs room.

  “Is there any news?” she ask
ed. She’d asked the question so often, they both knew what she meant.

  “Not since last night, my Lady,” answered William, “will you join us?”

  She sat at the place they made for her on the bench, but she was too excited to eat.

  “William,” she began, “when the troubadour arrived, at the beginning of summer, was he familiar to you in any way?”

  William and Esme exchanged a look across the table.

  “What do you mean, my Lady?” he answered.

  She told them the story of the ring, how Fulk had given it to her, how she, in turn, had given it to Gareth, and how she now believed him to be her husband.

  William drained his tankard of ale in one gulp.

  “You’re right, he is, my Lady.” He and Esme sat silently, waiting for her reaction.

  “But why did you not tell me? Why did he not tell me?”

  “I didn’t tell you, my Lady, because he asked me not to. He’d heard about Fulk’s plans for you when he landed in Bordeaux. He’d wanted to keep everything secret as long as possible, in case Fulk heard. At first, I assumed that was all there was to it.”

  “And you don’t any longer?”

  “No, I don’t now. There was something else, something in his past. He always promised to tell me what it was, but I’m afraid he never did.”

  “Something dishonorable?”

  “Perhaps. Or something he felt was dishonorable. He’s a man of high moral principles. He would never have,” William faltered, “um, I mean…”

  “What Will’s trying to say,” added Esme, “Is he would never have taken you to bed if he hadn’t believed he had the right. He’s not a man who’d take love or marriage lightly.”

  “You knew him too?” she asked Esme.

  “Yes. He slept on this bench each night, the first time he was here.”

  “Am I the only one who did not know my own husband?”

  “It was only Will and I, my Lady. We agreed to keep his secret. I believe he planned to ensure your safety, and then leave.”

  “So why did he stay?”

  “Because he still loves you.”

  “Oh, Esme,” Berenice threw her arms around the maid, “are you sure?”