by Alys Clare
Then he was laughing for the joy of it, accepting her help with the laces of his tunic, feeling the sudden surprise of the cool evening air on his bare skin as she stripped away his hose and lifted his undershirt over his head. Very soon he too was naked. Together they slid down the low bank, stepped into the stony shallows and immersed themselves in the peaty, green-smelling water of the forest stream.
He did as she did, working up a lathery, milky liquid with the leaves of a pretty pink-flowered plant that grew on the stream banks – she said it was called soapwort – and using it to wash his hair and his body. It was a novel sensation and he felt his skin tingle.
The sky was darkening. Lying on his back, floating in the cool water, Josse looked up and saw the first of the stars appear. Then she was beside him, the warmth of her against him making him realise that he was becoming chilled. As if she knew, she took hold of his hand and led him out of the water, where she fetched lengths of linen with which to dry themselves.
He did not know what to do next. She had kissed him, aye, and then taken off her clothes and stood before him without a stitch on before helping him out of his garments too, but then that had been as a prelude to bathing and maybe it did not mean anything among the people who were now hers. Maybe they all undressed as a matter of course and it was not taken to mean that – er, to mean anything. If she would just give me a clue, he thought desperately, because if I make a move and it isn’t what she wants, then spending further time together will be—
But what it would be went out of his head because she stepped forward into his arms, folded her own around him and, pressing against him so that he could feel every inch of her from her breasts to her firm, rounded belly and her strong thighs, she stretched up so that she could whisper softly in his ear and said, ‘Josse, we could make love if you wished.’
Then there was no more speech between them, just the sounds, soft at first but quickly becoming urgent, of two people who care deeply for each other setting about demonstrating their love. She had spread blankets on the grass and gently he laid her down upon them, cradling her head on one arm while with his free hand he traced the outline of her features, only then letting his fingers follow the line of her neck downwards until he was touching her breasts. Her response was swift and, delight flooding through him, he felt her sure touch on his chest, his belly and down into his groin. It was as if she remembered exactly what gave him the most pleasure; fiercely aroused, hungry for her, he sensed that she was as ready for him as he for her and it was soon over.
They lay wound in each other’s arms. Her head was on his chest – her hair was still damp – and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. He had envisaged getting up, dressing in their undergarments and creeping in beneath the shelter to settle for the night beside Meggie, but, when he made a move to rise, she shifted her weight so that she lay right on top of him and he could not move.
He could just make out the laughter in her dark eyes. She said softly, ‘Spent and ready for your bed so soon, sir knight?’
To which, as he felt his body stir again, there was really only one answer.
Later, lying snug in the shelter with Meggie’s soft breathing and the gently rhythmic tearing of grass as the horses grazed nearby the only sounds, he had to say what was uppermost on his mind. ‘Joanna,’ he whispered, his mouth right up against her ear so as not to disturb the child, ‘should we have – I mean, I hope that I did not take another’s place out there just now.’ Full of confusion, he did not know what he was trying to say. Or, he thought honestly, the trouble was that he did know, all too well, but was afraid that he had not the right to ask.
There was a pause before she replied. Then – and he thought he heard the love in her voice – she said, ‘Josse, I understand what it is you want to know, or I believe that I do. You are asking whether or not there is another man in my life. It is not easy to answer you, for reasons that I hope to be able to make clear to you in time. I have lain with another since I lay with you’ – despite his best efforts he could not prevent his instinctive reaction, although he managed to restrict it to what sounded like a faintly disapproving grunt – ‘on two occasions. But’ – she hesitated, and he sensed that this was not easy for her – ‘it is not quite what you must be thinking. He – it was someone who is of great importance among my people and it’s as if I was being awarded a great favour by being the recipient of his attentions.’
‘He didn’t make you do something you were reluctant to do?’ He of all people, who knew the particular horrors of her past, needed to ask that.
‘No, dear Josse, I was as eager as he.’ She reached out for his hand and gave it a squeeze, as if aware that her words would hurt. ‘He gave me this’ – Josse felt his hand being raised up to her neck, where she clasped his fingers around the pendant that she wore – ‘and I have his protection.’
‘It’s a bear claw, isn’t it?’ Josse said.
‘Yes. He is a bear man.’
There was silence as he tried to make sense of those last five words. Then: ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s a power figure. Someone who has trained so extensively in the ways of our people that he has acquired strange abilities quite outside the realm of what humans usually are considered capable of. Including the ability to shape-shift and adopt the form of a bear.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Josse stated flatly.
Her only answer was a soft laugh. ‘Yes, Josse. Of course it is.’ Then she yawned, released his hand, turned on her side and, after a murmured ‘Goodnight’, settled herself for sleep.
A bear man. God’s boots, Josse thought, whatever will she have me believe next? He smiled; perhaps she had been teasing him, seeing how far-fetched a tale she could tell him and still be believed.
The problem with that was that, although he knew she would not hesitate to tease him about most things, her beliefs and the ways of her people were the exception. But a man who could turn into a bear! No, no, no, it was just not credible.
He lay, warm and comfortable, with the woman he loved and his beloved, adored child beside him, listening to the night forest sounds all around. The rushing water, the soft footfalls of the horses, the faint stirring of the wind in the treetops. There was the sound of a hunting owl . . . and there the faint and distant squeak of some small rodent, the sure sign that the bird had just found its supper.
I am a long way from my known world out here, he thought sleepily. The rules by which I live my life may not apply here, where the spirits of the wildwood hold sway. His eyes closed and, in the sort of split-second dream that comes when sleep is close, there and gone before it is really registered, he seemed to see a misty-edged figure that appeared to be made of smoke, blurred and vague all but for the eyes, which were bright and pierced like fire. His own eyes wide open again, he stared out into the darkness, his heart thumping. But then, as sleep took him again, he remembered Joanna’s words: I have his protection.
They were Joanna’s words, aye, and he recognised them. Which was odd, really. It might have been because he was drifting into sleep, but he thought he heard the words spoken in slightly different form and in a man’s voice: You have my protection.
Funny what you dream about, Josse thought with a smile. Then he too was fast asleep.
A long way away, back in the Great Wealden Forest of southern England, a man went in peril of his life.
He was taking a risk this evening in riding alone but frequent habit had removed the threat of danger – they never saw a soul on the track – and now he was feeling all but invincible. It was his custom to ride home through the gathering darkness of the warm summer nights, talking idly with his companion when, as he usually did, he had one and relishing the exercise after a busy day, enjoying the soft dusk air on his face, the rapid and skilful swooping of the bats and the sounds of the forest as its inhabitants settled for the night.
It had been a good day. Well, they were all good days now. Everything was going smoothly
and his predictions were proving to have been accurate, if a little on the cautious side. Oh, admit it, he said to himself, smiling broadly, it’s far, far better than I dared hope for and so far shows no signs of grinding to a halt.
He made a mental note to order more supplies. If he put in his request early tomorrow morning then with any luck the goods should arrive by—
There was a sound in the deep woods over to his left.
He drew his horse to a halt and sat quite still, listening.
Nothing.
But no, there was something. Was that a person, moving stealthily through the shadowed undergrowth . . . ?
Afraid now, he kicked his horse to a trot, then to a canter. Fool, he berated himself, so to ride your luck, when simply by making certain you obeyed your own rules, this could have been avoided!
This. What was this? Fighting down the panic, telling himself he was running like a frightened child away from some dread thing that wasn’t even there, he slowed to a walk and listened again.
He could hear no sound but those that he and his horse were making.
He smiled, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Soon be home now, he thought cheerfully, and what a welcome I’ll get when I put this little lot – he patted the heavy leather bags hanging from his saddle – down on the table before her. Her dark eyes will light up, she’ll tell me how clever I am, then she’ll get up, take my hand and walk me over to where she has set out good food and costly wine to greet my return.
He had noticed with appreciation the improvement in the cuisine of his household. Why, he thought now, his pretty wife must be enjoying the delicious food and the costly wines as much as he, for he was sure she was putting on weight. She would not like that, he was convinced of it, for she wore her gowns in a style to show off the contrast between her full breasts and her tiny waist. But the more rounded contours of her body certainly pleased him . . .
Perhaps tonight she would invite him back to her bed. It had been so long, so very long, since he had lain with her. While he could accept that, in her eyes anyway, there had been reasons before why she should withhold her favours, surely that no longer applied now? He had found the goose that laid the golden eggs and she, perhaps even more than he who was working so hard to ensure those eggs kept coming, was enjoying the benefits. Even that bitch of a mother of hers must grudgingly have to admit to herself, even if not to anyone else, that her son-in-law was turning out better than she had hoped.
Why, then, he wondered miserably, did he feel like a stranger in his own home? Why, on his regular visits back to the house to bring home the takings and check that all was well, did he have the distinct feeling that both women would have preferred it if he stayed at the shrine? Dear God – a surge of anger flared swiftly through him – did they think he liked living out there among the whining, whingeing pilgrims and the sweating, deceitful toughs who guarded the property? The pilgrims moaned about everything from the aches and pains that had driven them to the tomb to the quality of the food, ale and accommodation that he offered; the toughs were singularly dull-witted and to a man they stank. Was it unreasonable to expect a bit of a welcome from his wife and her mother when he came home for a bathe, a decent meal and a good night’s sleep? Especially when, each time he returned, he brought yet more money with him?
His earlier happiness had evaporated. Maybe I won’t go home, he thought mutinously. Maybe I’ll turn left when I quit the track that runs around the forest and instead of going home, head for London. I’ll find a nice little house and a comely woman to share my bed, and I’ll dress us both in fine velvets and silks and find the longest, showiest plume for my hat that money can buy.
It was a pretty picture but its appeal did not last long. There was only one woman he wanted in his bed; the trouble was, she did not appear to want him in hers.
He sighed. He thought, I’ll just have to—
He did not complete the thought. At that moment a sound immediately behind him startled his horse, which leapt forward in alarm. Clinging on – he had lost a stirrup – the man tried to gather the horse but it was alarmed and had the bit between its teeth. The dim light beneath the trees hid what awaited man and horse a short distance along the track, so that the first the man knew of it was when the rope stretched across the path at neck height took him under the chin and threw him backwards off his horse.
The horse, thoroughly terrified now, galloped off down the track, stirrups and money bags banging against its sides and adding to its panic.
The man lay quite still on the track.
After a moment a broad-shouldered figure materialised from out of the darkness under the trees. He stepped quietly on to the path, where he bent down over the prostrate figure and felt for a pulse, the stout club that he held in his other hand held ready.
There was no pulse; the encounter with the taut rope had broken the victim’s neck, just as the big man had predicted. Quickly he rolled the body off the path and a good distance into the undergrowth, pushing aside brambles and lodging the corpse deep in a thicket. He spent a few moments making quite sure he had left no sign that the vivid, surging greenery had been disturbed. Then he padded softly back along the track and located the place where he had tied the rope, deftly unfastening it and coiling it up in order to loop it over his shoulder. Pausing for only an instant to sniff at the night air and without another look at the shady and secluded spot where he had left his victim, he melted back into the forest. He would walk in the shelter of the trees and the undergrowth until he came upon the horse which, or so he guessed, would soon recover from its panic and slacken its pace until some tasty-looking clump of green and succulent summer grass caught its attention. When he came across it, grazing peacefully by the side of the track, the man would step out from beneath the trees and catch hold of its reins.
For now, the important thing was to get away from here. Leaving the body of the dead man to cool in the darkening night, he went silently on his way.
Chapter 9
Josse and Joanna spent all of the next day travelling through the Brocéliande forest. Observing keenly, Josse noticed another difference between the Breton woodland and the Wealden forest: here there was not that sense – so very strong in the Great Forest – of a large area where the outside world was made to feel unwelcome; it always felt as if the Wealden Forest were the zealously guarded and personal preserve of those creatures, animal and human, who lived within. Here, in contrast, roads and tracks criss-crossed the forest and there were even small settlements growing up in woodland clearings. Mankind seemed more welcome here, and it did not appear that his attempts to fell a few trees and cultivate a patch for himself and his family were treated with such threatening hostility.
They stopped at one of the forest settlements to fill up their water bottles at the village spring and to purchase food. At first Josse had been anxious about advertising their presence in this way. Were anyone from Dinan to be hunting for them and chance to come this way, one of the villagers would surely report that yes, they had seen a man and a woman travelling with a small child, adding details of when the strangers had arrived and which way they had gone. But then Josse, Joanna and Meggie had to eat; he put his misgivings to the back of his mind.
They bought bread, a hunk of rather crusty cheese, dried meat strips and some of last autumn’s apples. These were rather sharp but refreshing to a dry throat. Josse also bought a stone jar of cider, stowing it away in his pack with the aim of bringing it out with a flourish when he and Joanna had their evening meal.
His mind and body were full of her, singing with the delight of her. And she felt the same; he would have sworn she did, for her eyes kept returning to his and each time she gave him a sort of secret smile. Once, as if some particularly powerful reminiscence were stirring in her mind’s eye, she even blushed.
Tonight, he promised himself, will be even better than last night . . .
Joanna was finding it quite difficult to recall that she and Josse were here
for a reason, and that reason was not for the two of them to enjoy a sort of holiday out in the forest. She had both longed for and dreaded the moment when at last they would become lovers once again; she had known it would happen – had wanted it to happen – but she could not help the slight sense that she was somehow betraying a newer alliance in this re-forging of an old one. What would her people say if they knew she and Josse had made love and would continue to do so? What would the bear man think?
My people, she told herself firmly, would be happy for me. They – we – do not regard sex as the world does, as something strictly reserved for the marriage bed and, more often than not, the payment a woman makes in exchange for her keep; the duty she performs for her husband in order that she will bear him a son to whom he may pass on his wealth and his property. We see sexual joy as the gift of the Goddess, which is why we celebrate her major festivals by making love with whoever catches our eye. And as for the bear man . . . She shrugged, for she did not know. What she guessed, however, was that had there been any obligation on her to keep herself chaste for him, then doubtless somebody would have told her. She wore the claw that was his symbol and that marked her out as blessed by his having chosen her. It was no secret that she had lain with him.
She thought about him now, smiling as she recalled Josse’s predictable response to being told that her only other lover was a man who could turn himself into a bear. Never mind, dear Josse, she thought lovingly; it’s not imperative that you accept every aspect of my new life and you certainly don’t have to wrestle with the truly incredible ones.
Even Joanna sometimes found it hard to accept the concept of the bear man.
As they rode on through the afternoon, always following the same generally southerly direction, Joanna repeatedly checked the unfolding landscape against the markers stored in her mind. She had been told what to look out for, not having trodden this road before; when, the previous year, she had travelled from the north coast of Armorica down into the Brocéliande, she had set out from further west than Dinan. But her people knew how to give foolproof directions and that ability, together with her own growing skill at finding her way, gave her the confidence to know that she would not lead her small party wrongly.