Pennyroyal, I think. Mentha pulegium.
“I am.” I wander toward her, careful not to intrude into the well-tended beds. The herb garden, bordered by a low hedge, is tucked into the southwest corner of the inner bailey, well shielded from the northern winds of winter and the persistent breeze from the sea. The soil has been worked over with a hoe and the faint scent of manure, used to fertilize, has been renewed by a recent rain shower. “What are all these used for?”
“Many are used by the cook to season the food. Some have medicinal purposes. Others are grown for their aroma: to strew in the floor rushes or on beddings, or to place in little cloth sacks and tuck into our chests of clothes.” She breaks a stem from a spiky grayish-leaved plant and draws it across her upper lip, inhaling. Her mouth curves upward in delight. She extends the stem to me.
I don’t have to smell it to know what it is, but I do. It reminds me of Claire’s favorite soap. “Lavender.” Of the mint family Lamiaceae, genus Lavendula, species indeterminate.
“Yes!” she remarks in surprise. “How did you —?”
I point to another plant. “Marjoram.” Then another and another. Latin names flow through my mind, but I avoid those. They wouldn’t mean anything to her. Plants and animals won’t be classified for centuries yet. “Rosemary, tansy, feverfew, spearmint, basil, valerian ... But you already know all these.”
“When ...?” She blinks at me. “When did you learn all the names? Such things never held interest for you before.”
“In England, maybe? I don’t remember. I just know them, somehow.” As in years of studying and teaching them to others. I can identify most of the native trees in my area by the color and texture of their winter bark alone.
She tilts her head at me, puzzled by my newfound knowledge. “You have changed so much.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“To me, yes, I think so. But others ... others have noticed things.”
A sentry pacing on the wall walk nearest us pauses, watching as if we’re doing something of interest. Most likely he’s bored. I would be if I were him. I raise a hand to him, a friendly ‘hello’, but he resumes pacing. “Oh. Who?”
Flattening a palm against her abdomen, Mariota turns away. Her head dips slightly. “The Abbot of Melrose has questioned some of your ... habits.”
“Such as?”
“He noticed you feeding your meat to the dogs at supper when he was here.”
“Is that all? I’ve done it since I was a child. The loyalty of a dog is worth twice that of any man I ever knew.” I drift closer to her, so near I could wrap my arms around her. “You like dogs, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer me. Her shoulders are tensed, her hand still pressed to her middle, as if she’s holding something back. “Be careful, Roslin.”
“Careful of what?” I lean my head close. Her hair smells of spices. Cloves, I think.
She begins to turn back toward me and gasps, startled to see me so close. Her hand flies to her throat. I catch her wrist and pull her to me.
“Careful of what?” I say lowly. “I don’t understand.”
The gardener shuffles through the gate nearest us and comes our way, his tools piled in a little hand drawn cart. Mariota shakes her head at me vigorously. The terrified look in her eyes tells me I need to know. That this is serious.
I put my mouth to her ear. “Come to my room tonight. Tell me then.”
Then I kiss her on the forehead, bow, and saunter away. When I reach the gate, I dare a glance over my shoulder.
The gardener is stooped over, cutting blooms from the yarrow and tucking them into a basket at his hip. But Mariota’s fingers are laced together, knuckles touching her whispering lips, as if in prayer.
The door clicks shut behind her. I stand moored in place, arms leaden at my sides. A trio of candles flickers on a table by the wall, their golden light too dim to reach into the shadowy corners of the room. All I can see before me are a high four-poster bed ... and Mariota.
I’ve been waiting for her all day, pacing a rut in the floor, my mind a maelstrom of fear. Yet my worries melt away at the sight of Mariota. Her red hair is unbound, falling past her shoulders and over the curve of her breasts in a twisting cascade of flame. Instead of a modest high-waisted gown, she wears a clinging white shift, the cloth so thin it’s nearly transparent.
I shouldn’t be looking at her. I shouldn’t, shouldn’t.
She takes a step nearer, and I avert my eyes. If this is only a dream — or a memory — why am I so afraid to be near her, speak to her ... even just look at her? What’s wrong with simply appreciating a beautiful woman?
Ah. So that’s it. This is what guilt feels like. As much as I want to get back to Claire, as much as I hope and pray she’s all right, I can’t help but wonder what Mariota looks like beneath her clothes. How she would feel underneath me. God, do I ever wonder.
Here, there is no Claire. Only Mariota. And I am here. Now. With her.
The whisper of skirts draws my attention. Slowly, I raise my eyes. Mariota is a mere arm’s length away. So close, so available. So mine, if I want her. I don’t even need to ask. All I have to do is lead her to the bed, lay her down and do as I wish. As my wife in this time, she has a role to fulfill. There are certain ... expectations.
“What does the Abbot of Melrose say about me?” I blurt out. Anything to distract myself from her nearness. But it doesn’t work.
With each breath she inhales, her flesh pushes against the gossamer shift, revealing the fullness of her breasts, the shadow between them inviting my touch. The heat in my body is rising, blood gathering in certain places.
I don’t even realize I’m staring at her there until she lifts my chin with her finger and forces me to look into her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her this closely, taken her in this completely. It’s impossible to look away now. She’s undeniably beautiful, in a sublime way. Hair the color of copper, falling from her crown in a river of golden fire. I pluck a lock from where it twines against the long curve of her neck, twist it around my finger. Her skin is soft, white as first-fallen January snow. Her lips part slightly, awaiting mine. I turn my head to kiss her, my eyes drifting shut.
Her breath is a whispered promise, in which doubt yields to possibility and restraint gives way to passion. To be present, to live in the here and now, is to abandon control. To trust in tomorrow.
First, I must let go of yesterday. When I do, this moment becomes something more.
The beginning of our forever.
The touch of her lips is like a white hot spark to dry tinder. Electricity zings through my body: sudden, frightening, and glorious all at once. A moment becomes an eternity.
‘I will always love you.’
‘Forever.’
‘And ever ...’
Heaven flies from my grasp. I pull back. My heart is banging inside my chest.
Mariota’s breath comes in rapid gasps. Her hand drifts to her mouth, covering it.
I clutch her hand, pull it away, wanting so badly to kiss her again, to silence the shame clawing at my conscience.
No. No, I can’t go there. I can’t forsake Claire just because it feels right in this moment. Forever means forever.
I force myself to take a step back. But that’s not far enough, not safe. I take several more.
As if I had struck her, she stumbles backward, throwing out a hand to catch herself against the bedpost. Confusion clouds her face.
“Who are you?” Tears brim in her eyes and she blinks them back as she sinks to the bed. “And why are you doing this? Why torment me so?”
In three steps, I’m before her, kneeling. I touch her, just above her knee, and a tremor ripples through her. It rips at my heart to have thrust her away, but I’m torn. I miss Claire and yet ... yet there’s something about Mariota that draws me to her, something deep inside my soul.
“Tell me about that day,” I say, “when we became husband and wife.”
Her finge
rs flutter nervously over the blanket on which she sits. She swallows, bunches the cloth in both fists. “It was cold, January. I had no sooner stepped off the ship, than I was taken to the great kirk in Orkney —”
“St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall?”
Her eyes narrow. “You remember?”
“Just the place, not the day. Go on.”
“There is not much to tell. The bishop held a box containing the bones of St. Rognvald. I kissed the holy relics, but you would not.” She arches an eyebrow at me and then continues. “I was fourteen; you, twenty-two. It was a ... a formal ceremony, but brief. Hardly anyone was there.”
I had hoped details would jog my memory, but it’s all a blank. “Tell me more.”
“The next day you left to join James Douglas, who was tasked to carry our king’s heart to the Holy Land. You fought at Teba, some say bravely ... others claim you were a coward. Within the year, you returned to Scotland, but ... even when I came south to Blacklaw to join you, you would not visit my bed. Again and again you quarreled with your father. Then you were captured and taken to England. Do you remember that?”
“No, I don’t.” Half a minute passes before I remember why I asked her here to begin with, “Tell me, what ... what does the Abbot of Melrose say about me?”
“He questions your faith. Many do. There were rumors that while in Spain you had converted, become one of the Cathars.” She lays her hand over mine then. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A Cathar — and if not a Perfect, then a Credente.”
Again with the Cathars. I’d never questioned Duncan much about them, but he, too, had mentioned them. “I’d answer you if I knew what they were.”
“Cathars believe our souls are reborn seven times before they finally ascend. As you know, that goes against the teachings of the Church.” I don’t know, but I’m not about to admit my ignorance of Church matters. “When the abbot was here, you refused the meat. In the time I have known you, I have not seen any pass your lips.” Her gaze drops to her lap. “Cathars do not eat meat.”
That explains the stares and whispers. Apparently, in the Middle Ages being a vegetarian amounts to heresy. “The night the abbot was here, I wasn’t hungry, really.”
“Then you live on bread and water. Cathars renounce the world.”
I feel like I’m being unjustly judged, convicted on rumor alone. “You seem to know a lot about these Cathars. How is that?”
“I know what I need to. I also know that in order to obtain purification, Cathars believe they must abstain from pleasures of the flesh.” Her voice takes on a plaintive tone. “Why have you never shared my bed?”
What am I supposed to tell her — that I already have a wife and I come from almost seven hundred years in the future?
As to why Roslin Sinclair had kept from her ... Maybe what she’s saying is true? I draw my hand from her leg, rest on my haunches. “There’s so much I don’t remember. I wish I did.”
“Yet you’re here with me now and still you will barely look at me, as if you do not want to be tempted. I was young when we married, yes, but I’m more than old enough for childbearing now.” She looks at me a long time before speaking again, her gaze cutting to my soul. “Are you one of them?”
Clasping my head in my hands, I sigh. “No, I’m not one of them.” Then I fold forward, my forehead touching the worn planks of the floor. I just want to get back to Claire, see that she’s well, and take her home. I want this to end.
Yet I want to be here. Completely. Where I am now, it’s like being trapped between heaven and hell and I hate it.
Mariota slides to the floor to sit beside me, her slender fingers stroking my hair. “Who are you?”
It’s all too much to deal with. I don’t know what I should tell her, if anything at all. Hell, I’m beginning to doubt myself. I roll over to look up at her. Her concern is genuine. Stretching out, I lay my head in her lap. This is weird and yet ... comforting. I need someone to tell my secret to. Someone who will believe me. If I don’t confide in someone soon, my skull is going to implode.
“If I share the truth with you, Mariota, you must swear on your life not to tell anyone.”
“That is a grave oath to make without knowing what that truth is.”
“Then maybe you aren’t ready to hear it yet? I can’t tell you if you can’t promise me.”
“Is there danger in knowing?”
Given what they do to non-believers here, yes.
I sit up and frame her face in my hands. “No, I won’t tell you. Not yet. In the end, it may not matter anyway. We need to get to know each other first.” Closing my eyes, I lean forward, touch my forehead to hers. “Whether or not you trust me will make all the difference. Until then ...”
With a sigh, she puts her head on my shoulder. Her breath, warm and moist, caresses my throat. All resistance, all anger is gone from her body. I slide an arm around her back and pull her closer. Her hand moves across my thigh, fingers curving lightly around the inside. I lean back against the bed, watching her, thinking I should tell her to stop and yet wanting her to go one step further, past that irretrievable point. If this is a dream, why not let it play out, take its natural course? What red-blooded man hasn’t had one of ‘those’ dreams?
“If they believe you are a Cathar,” she says softly, a tremor of fear in her voice, “they will kill you — and it will not be a quick death. First they will torture you, make you name others. Then once you confess, they will burn you alive.”
Lovely. That’s one way to douse my rising desire. “They have no proof.”
“They don’t need proof to claim you are one.” She slides a leg over mine. “But you could give them proof that you are not. Irrefutable proof.”
“How?”
“Prove you have not forsaken desires of the flesh.” Turning to face me, she straddles my hips and sits back. Her fingers skitter over the laces on her chemise. With agonizing slowness, she tugs them free, revealing a deep cleavage. She inhales, then rolls her shoulders back, shrugging her garment off. Even though the light is dim, the candles wavering on the table behind her, I can make out the pale curving outline of her breasts.
I draw back as much as I can, but that’s hard to do with her weight, however slight, pinning me to the floor. “And just how would we ‘prove’ that? I don’t think they’re going to take our word for it.”
She bites her lip, then bends forward to offer a kiss. Her lips brush mine, teasing. “If we make a child, they will know.”
Oh, God. If she shifts forward a few inches, she’ll know had badly I want to do that.
“Up, Mariota.” My palm cupping her jaw, I guide her face back from mine. “To bed.”
She rolls back, her glance darting nervously to my face and then down as she moves from me. I get to my feet, offering her a hand, but she stands on her own, her arms now limp and awkward at her sides, as though she doesn’t know what to do next.
Of course she doesn’t. She’s a virgin.
The light from this angle is different, even more revealing. Her eyes still downcast, she raises a hand and touches the opening of her chemise.
I grab her hand to stop her. “That honor will be mine, when I choose to take it.”
Perplexed, she blinks at me. I peel back the covers for her. Hesitating, she slides beneath them, her back to me.
I open the chest at the foot of the bed, remove two blankets and place one on the floor.
“Good night, Mariota.”
Slowly, she turns a questioning face to me.
“You don’t trust me yet,” I say. “Until you do, and until I can give up that which I left behind —”
“You love someone else.”
I do ... did.
I snap the remaining blanket out and toss it over my shoulders as I lie down. How do you go on loving someone you may never see again? Someone who might already be dead? Can you grieve, not knowing, and simply pick up and go on to give your love to someone else
?
All I know is that with every day that goes by, it’s Claire who passes further into memory and Mariota who becomes more and more real, more and more a part of me.
29
LONG, LONG AGO
Blacklaw Castle, Scotland — 1333
The first shards of the sun’s rays span above the horizon, far out over the sea. Here and there, the sky is broken by high dusky clouds of purple etched in silver, drifting lazily northward, promising the splendor of a brilliant morning. The stones on which I sit, tucked away in a crenel along the northern battlements, are damp from the nightlong drizzle. It’s here that I come to think when I can’t sleep — which of late is almost every night.
Closing my eyes, I let my chin drift to my chest. Salty air fills my lungs, the tang of it barely sharp enough to keep me awake. Mariota hasn’t come to my room since that night, over a week ago, nor have I gone to hers. I can’t allow myself to be tempted, even though what I feel for her is so strong it seems like I’m denying a part of myself by keeping from her.
“Who is she?” Mariota says.
My head snaps up. I throw a hand out to catch myself, even though the crenel is deep enough that I’m in no danger of falling. “What?”
She’s standing not ten feet from me, the scuffed toes of her slippers peeking out beneath the hem of a light green gown that has seen many wearings. Her hair is loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, loose strands teased away by the breeze. She, too, looks as though she hasn’t slept much. Step by step, she drifts closer, like one would approach a wounded and frightened animal. “There is someone you care very much about. Someone you love.”
I stretch my legs out, glancing back out over the sea to avoid her gaze. “Why do you think that?”
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