Fair Weather

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Molly wasn’t used to medieval arrangements. “That’s a horrid idea,” I said. “I suppose you think I’ve been unchaperoned in and out of your bed for so long now that you have to make me respectable.” I was falling over my words in such a panic that I bit my tongue. “But no one knows me, and I’m no one anyway, so there’s no one to be shocked. I don’t want to be parcelled off on some stranger.”

  His face showed a mixture of mild surprise and stifled amusement. “Since I’m virtually your guardian,” he said patiently, “this would seem a natural development. I’d try and find you someone you could approve of.”

  I was losing any hope of composure. “Approve of? Someone who would only beat me on Saturdays, for instance? For God’s sake, Vespasian, or whatever I’m expected to damn well call you these days, am I supposed to think that conciliatory? You tease me with talk of undressing me and in the same breath you tell me to marry a man I’ve never met. And what should I tell this poor deluded creature about all the scars on my body, and the nightmares, and the brand of a dragon that you say will never fade? If I ever let him undress me at all, that is, which I doubt. He’ll think I’m a witch.”

  I thought of adding, and I suppose in a way, I am, but thought better of it. “It was easier when you were sick,” sighed Vespasian. “You were less argumentative.”

  “And you’re quite monstrously unfeeling,” I said, with a great deal of feeling myself. “I suppose you don’t know what else to do with me, and you don’t want to have me just wandering around the kitchens and getting in your steward’s way. But after everything that’s happened, I think it exceptionally nasty of you to talk about palming me off on some unknown man.”

  “I accept your apology,” said Vespasian, straight backed, a threatening glitter in the black eyes.

  “Yes, I know,” I said, deep breaths again and taking a gulp of wine after all. “I do apologise. You’ve been wonderful of course and I owe you my life. Many times over and much more than just my life. But –”

  He was standing again, and was ready to leave the room. “If you wish to continue this quarrel later,” he said, “I shall come back prepared. In the mean time I have a lot to do and you are making your headache a great deal worse.”

  Which was true. But how did he know I had a headache anyway? “I just wanted to say,” I added quickly as he opened the door, “that if you want me to get respectably married and consider it so important to my non-existent reputation, then you should marry me yourself.”

  There was complete silence. He stood at the doorway, the door half open. After a moment he closed it again and strode back over to me. He was frowning so deeply that his eyelids were almost closed and the soft curl of black lashes almost masked the glint of annoyance. He was not in the slightest amused. At first I thought he would come and sit beside me on the bed again, but after a moment he walked off to the window and stood with his back to me, gazing out over his own courtyard. He spoke slowly and with some care, his voice so soft that, as usual, I had to strain for every word.

  “My dear child,” he said, “as you are aware, I have been Arthur, I have knelt at Lilith’s altar and I delighted in her foul breath for some years when I was young. My alchemy was pitch as night until I learned better, when it was almost too late. In all other senses,” he turned then and looked at me steadily across the room, “both before I knew Ingrid and again after her departure, I have been as profligate and corrupt in dissipation as whim and desire led me. The circumstances of Ingrid’s death made me angry, perhaps, at the world, and it seemed that very little mattered. I explored most aspects of lust and indulgence, and my imagination in those areas was extensive and diverse. You do not want me either as lover or husband, Tilda, and I will not listen to arguments. You know what I did to you.”

  He turned back to the window, but he did not again go to the door. He was silent, perhaps lost in thought. I tried to answer softly as he did, controlling my voice so that it would have more substance. “Then all that rich experience could be mighty useful,” I said, “since I have none.”

  He answered at once, his back to me, “It is out of the question. We will not talk of this again.”

  It was insultingly dismissive and I was increasingly angry. “It’s impossible to understand you,” I said, aware I was now shouting. “Sometimes I trust you completely. You’re the only person I trust. You’ve saved my life so often and nursed me and protected me. All right, so you don’t want me and I’m a peasant brat who can’t marry a baron and I’m not attractive to you. But why be all snarls and malice and treat me as though I was your enemy?”

  He came then, and sat on the bed as I’d hoped he would. “You must not trust me,” he said, quite gently. “I am not your friend, Tilda and you shouldn’t think of me that way. If I treat you harshly, it is to warn you away, because I’m no fit companion for you at all.”

  I stopped shouting and lapsed into a momentary acceptance of rejection. “I’m not a child to be patronised,” I said, ashamed. “Remember, somewhere, somehow, I have my own dark side. I am the gatekeeper to Hell.”

  He smiled then, for which I was deeply grateful. “Not anymore I think. Unless the veleda returns to claim you, there’s no need to think anymore on that.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tilda. “I suppose you think I’m terribly precocious. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” I was shivering. The coverlet was pulled up to my chin and I knew I was blushing. “I am grateful for everything. Besides, I certainly don’t want to antagonise you.”

  “Perhaps a little late,” he murmured.

  “Yes, how unwise of me,” I muttered into the bedcover, “since I know very well what a foul temper you have.” Looking up, I saw the corners of his mouth twitch with what I recognised as sudden amusement. “Well, you do,” I said. “You know very well that you do. Anyway, you don’t have to worry that I’ll go chasing after you or jumping into your bed. I won’t marry anyone.” I wished he would go.

  But since I now wanted him to go, he did not. “I am not some naïve village boy,” he said, “or one of your youthful admirers such as Walter or Richard.” He smiled more gently and leaning forwards, he took my hand in his, which startled me. His hand was warm and I knew mine was icy cold and trembling. “I’ve always been aware of your infatuation, Tilda. It was why I treated you with as much respect and whatever kindness I was capable of. Not much perhaps, but at least I did not bed you, when you tried to make me do so. I would not then, and I will not now.”

  Tilda hadn’t realised she’d been so obvious, or her attempts at attracting him so inept. She was blushing furiously and on the point of tears. “You can rape me, then?” she shouted at him. “But you can’t be tender?”

  His eyes went black and he released my hand quite suddenly. He stood, frowning for a moment. “You know my reasons for that,” he said.

  “For that, yes,” I said. “But not for this.”

  His eyes remained on me for one moment. Then he turned abruptly and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. I curled back onto the pillows and cried through a churning nausea and the raging acceleration of my headache.

  The day seemed long and doubly tedious and there was nothing to do except contemplate a cold, lonely future.

  It was evening again before he returned. I had cried, slept and woken. The headache still pounded at my temples but I was stronger, and I was hungry. He came over directly as he entered the room and stood over me again. I was immediately aware of a change in his face. The bruises of exhaustion around his eyes were emphasised and beneath the prominent cheekbones, his face seemed drawn and shadowed. I knew how badly wounded he had been and a moment’s guilt made me regret my overflowing emotions, having made everything harder, for both of us. Again he sat beside me. “Rejection is a hard teacher, Tilda,” he said. “You’ve already been so badly hurt and I shouldn’t have hurt you more. But it’s better if you accept the inevitable.”

  The sun had gone from the room and I thought I could hear
a steady drizzle outside the newly raised shutters. It was early evening, wintry dark, and becoming cold again. He saw me shiver. “I’ll send a boy to rekindle the fire. Are you hungry?”

  I nodded. I hoped my tears had dried. “I’m feeling much better,” I said, as evenly as I could. “But I’m tired. So are you. You look terrible.”

  He smiled. “I imagine I do.” He suddenly swung both legs up on the bed, one knee bent, leaning back against the foot board, facing me. He was appraising me so intently from beneath lowered lids that I felt Tilda’s blush renewed. The candles had not been lit and we sat in deepening shadows. Knowing myself examined, I pulled the blanket up to my chin again.

  “That’s surely a little pointless now,” he pointed out. “But I confess I find your easy blushes endearing.”

  His sensuality was mesmerising. Deeply aware of sensations Tilda had no idea how to control, nor even barely recognise, she was uncomfortable with the hard lurch in my groin and its steady pounding rhythm. I wondered how in God’s name I’d been married for seven years and enjoyed two other lovers previously without ever having experienced anything quite like this.

  Tilda was still blushing. “You can’t help being nasty, can you?” she sniffed. “Shall I throw all my covers off then? Or should I just wait until you go to your own bed, since you seem unlikely to come to this one, and crawl into the straw with you?”

  This time he grinned. “Do you hope to seduce me, Tilda? You are delightfully unpractised. But remember, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  I watched him watch me. I hadn’t seen him blink. His head back against the foot board was unmoving. “A great exaggeration,” said Tilda. “I’m eighteen and in my nineteenth year. I’m not only of marriageable age but almost beyond it. The queen wasn’t quite fourteen when she married.”

  Vespasian continued to grin. “For all my vices, child, I am not the king.”

  “And I’m not a virgin,” said Tilda, with some courage.

  This time he did not seem angry. “Perhaps I am not quite old enough to be your father,” he said. “But I repeat, I do not intend to make love to you, and nor will I allow you to seduce me. I believe I have rather more control than you seem to give me credit for.”

  “I give you credit for plenty,” said Tilda crossly. “As you keep saying, you’ve undressed me many times, you’ve nursed me and washed me and you know every part of me. And,” it was impossible to hide the blushing but I continued anyway, “it seems you never found me remotely attractive.”

  Through the growing shadows I was aware that Vespasian’s mouth had begun to twitch alarmingly. “Have I hurt your pride? I think I told you once that the ravages of pain and torture have never appealed to me. However,” he continued, “if you want me to tell you that I find you beautiful, I can tell you that you are. It doesn’t make me change my mind.”

  It was not an argument I would ever have chosen. Tilda was feeling wretched. My headache returned. Vespasian continued watching my reactions and the only concession to his tiredness was the casual hand raised, long fingers smoothing the hair from his eyes.

  “All right,” I said, “since you seem happy to sit there and grin while you humiliate me, I shall ask the obvious question. So, you don’t love me. I understand that. I don’t have a dowry, or a title, no powerful father or property to offer. But does what I suggest seem so disgusting to you? Aren’t you even a little bit fond of me?” His eyes were soft, the corners of his mouth curled. He said nothing but Tilda was encouraged, and hurried on. “You know me - better than anyone ought – to know anyone,” I said. “So there wouldn’t be any nasty surprises. Either – physical – or otherwise. I mean, you probably recognise me more easily naked than clothed. You’ve touched – well, never mind about that. At least you’d know what you’re getting. You’re not in love with anyone else. And I suppose, if you ever did suddenly fall in love with another woman, well, I’d understand and say nothing. I’d expect you to be unfaithful anyway. And I’d try to be good, really I would, and not be demanding and not be jealous. You obviously believe in arranged marriages. So am I that bad? I’ve made my own feelings pathetically clear. And you’ve very studiously rejected them. Why?”

  I did not expect the answer he gave me. “If I told you honour,” he said after a pause, “I suppose you would laugh.”

  I was aware that my mouth was hanging open, and had to close it. “No,” I said, “I would spit. You’ve no right to speak to me of honour. I do not accept it.”

  “I should have beaten you, as a child,” he said, still smiling. “You’ve become quite insufferably disrespectful and it’s undoubtedly my fault.”

  “I’ve spent most of my life being ridiculously dutiful,” I pointed out. “All it seems to have gained me this past year is a great deal of pain and misery. And, my lord, Vespasian, or whatever I’m supposed to call you, you know this honour you have the gall to speak about now, is nothing more than moralistic hypocrisy. You may have thought yourself honourable not to have taken me to your bed when I was a hero worshipping child, but it did me no service in the end. And anyway,” I ended in a flurry of frustration, “what the devil am I supposed to call you now? Baron de Vrais?”

  His eyes beneath the heavy lids danced with malefic amusement. “Call me whatever you like, madam,” he answered me. “I should hate to limit your resourcefulness. No doubt the back streets of London have taught you many more interesting names to bless me with over the years.”

  “There you are,” I said, my voice rising, even more irritated by his benign disguise. “You can’t even help being nasty. It’s your nature. It’s pointless trying to talk to you.”

  “Then I suggest,” he said sweetly, “since I’m a rapist and a lout, unpleasant of character and insensitive from birth, you make the simple decision to stop these most improper advances and accept my offer of a respectable husband and future, which I can arrange over the next few weeks. I will even throw in my own friendship, if that’s of any use to you.”

  I heard myself gulp. “It isn’t,” I said. “It isn’t enough.”

  His eyes narrowed though the smile remained bland. “Then I’m sorry. It is all I can offer you,” he said. He stayed, still watching me from the other end of the bed, his outstretched foot beside me and the long muscled line of his calf. “Have you always considered me impossibly unprincipled? I suppose you have,” he went on. “Strange as it may seem, however, I have my own standards, which I believe and uphold implicitly, and will not prostitute. Remember, my card is judgement and it is myself I judge.” I stared back and said nothing. “Now, once I can be sure of your reaction,” he said, “I’ll check your bandages. Then I’ll send for food and have the fire made up.”

  I thought I’d made sufficient fool of myself. I nodded, modestly lowering my eyes, and found I was examining his foot. There was a small hole in the heel of his tights, which I ought to darn. “Whatever you say, my lord baron,” said Tilda.

  Vespasian snorted. He remained where he was for a moment, then swung his legs back over the side of the bed and stood, looking down at me again. “Very well,” he said, and briskly pulled the coverlet down from my chin. The bandages were stained where blood had seeped and spoiled their crisp whiteness. He sat and began to unwind them. He had another folded roll on the bed beside me. Again half naked under his hands, I shivered. He washed away the blood, examined the wound, and began to spread a second layer of the sweet blue unguent. This time his fingers were very gentle. He did not look up at me but concentrated on his work. His eyes and hands were on my breast when I said what I had no intention of saying.

  I said, “Did you find me attractive when you raped me?”

  I thought he would strike me. His hands froze instantaneously and, heavy with shock, his eyes flew to my face. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, the threat unsuppressed in his voice. “I did not make love to you, Tilda. I have never pretended anything but the truth. I was violent and I hurt you. It was a terrible abuse, but to subjugate the Gate Ke
eper, it was imperative. My – actions – saved us both. Because of that we vanquished Arthur and his cult. It helped us overcome Lilith. But it is not something I care to remember nor am proud of.”

  “I understand,” I said, refusing to acknowledge the pounding fear in my heart and stomach, “but I also suffered the pain and the degradation. So don’t you owe me the love you denied me then?”

  He sat quite still, looking back at me. I realised, with total surprise, that he was not breathing quite normally. I knew then that I’d stung him deeply, and was pleased. After a moment he looked down, releasing me from the intensity of his gaze, and returned to the bandages. He controlled his breathing, and his hands, and carefully did not touch me as he unwound the folded linen beside him. I had now forgotten to breathe myself. This time, so rare for a man who usually kept his emotions utterly hidden and expressionless, I now felt I could watch his thoughts struggle with each other, one decision fighting against another.

  Finally, after what seemed an intolerable pause, Vespasian looked up again and the anger had quite faded from his eyes. He looked desperately tired. “It is in trying to repay you what I know I owe you,” he said, “that I have been refusing you my more – intimate – companionship.”

  So I tried to control my own voice, as he did. “But, since I am not young enough to be your daughter,” I said, “why can’t I have what I want, instead of what you judge to be proper for me?” In silence, he returned my gaze with a look of unusual and disconcerting intensity. Tilda was, as usual, deflated. In abject apology, she mumbled, “My lord baron?”

  The silence seemed to hang in the warm air, floating sweet and heady with the perfumes of the herbs and ointments. I had the strangest sensation, as if an eternity was suspended there, waiting for the answer. Vespasian had not taken his eyes from mine. Then I heard him sigh, very softly, an extended exhalation of breath.