by Sole, Linda
‘The shortest route lies past my woods. Follow the path the villagers take to market and you should not miss the highroad.’ The two men clasped hands. Sir William accompanied his guest out to the bailey, where grooms were sent scurrying to saddle his horse.
‘Thank you for your hospitality. If you wish for employment with Burgundy tell him I recommended you.’
‘I shall consider my options.’ Sir William inclined his head. ‘May God guide and protect you, sir.’
‘And you.’
Raoul mounted up and rode away. It was still light and would be so for an hour or so yet. Long enough for him to find a secluded place to sleep where he would not be overheard if he should shout and scream as he slept.
Until the nightmares ceased to haunt him it was unwise to lodge beneath another’s roof, where he might be heard. Raoul did not fear battle, but the dreams that came to him made him sweat and start up in terror. He had murder on his conscience – the murder of a priest and a woman who had betrayed her husband.
He recalled the priest’s terrified look as he begged for his life on his knees.
‘I swear to you I did not corrupt the lady,’ he said over and over. ‘It was she that came to me and asked for my help. She told me that your father was a cruel evil man who hurt her; she swore that he was depraved and given to acts of Satanism and sodomy.’
‘Liar…she lied. You besmirch my father’s memory with your filthy lies. He was a good gentle, generous, man and truly loved her. She was a bitch on heat that lay with any man who pleased her.’ Raoul’s mouth hardened. ‘Confess your sin now unless you wish to go to Your Maker in sin.’
‘I confess that I lay with her,’ the priest said and tears ran down his pale cheeks. ‘I ask your pardon for my sin, D’Avignon – but I swear that I had no hand in your father’s murder. It was all her doing – your father’s wife.’
Raoul looked at him with hatred. ‘I almost believe you. She laughed when I confronted her. She gloried in the acts of wickedness she had performed with you and called you the Devil’s disciple. She said that all men desired her and that she could bend them to her will – that you murdered my father and your prize was to lie with her.’
‘She lied. I beg you to believe me. I know nothing of your father’s murder. Ask her again. Force her to tell you the truth. I lay with her because she enticed me and made me break my vows of chastity. I have worn a hair shirt and chastised myself every day for breaking that vow. As God is my judge, I am innocent of all else.’
‘I would ask her but she cannot answer. She is dead these many months past.’
‘Dead…’ If possible the man’s complexion turned paler, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. ‘How…you killed her?’
‘I killed the bitch as she laughed and taunted me,’ Raoul said coldly. ‘She thought she could bind me with her spells. She thought she would twist me in the coils of her lustrous hair and bewitch me with her scent – but I killed her, as I am going to kill you.’
‘No. I beg you…’ Arnaud fell to his knees, trembling and wringing his hands. ‘I know a secret – a secret that could bring you riches and power. ‘Spare my life and I shall tell you.’
‘Speak then,’ Raoul said and listened as a tale of such evil poured from the priest’s lips that his stomach turned. ‘How do I know that you speak truly, viper?’
‘I swear it on the Body of Christ and if I lie may I know the torments of Hell. It was I who told the old King Henry of the child’s existence. Before he died, John Fletcher told me that he was ordered to take her from her mother and keep her incarcerated until she died but…she wandered off while the men were raping a maidservant and he did not know whether she lived or died.’
‘Then it was you that betrayed the child and caused her suffering. For that you deserve to burn in Hell.’
Taking his sword in his right hand, Raoul thrust into the priest’s soft belly, twisting the blade so that it ripped through him, before drawing it back. The priest clutched at himself as his guts spilled out and the blood trickled through his fingers. As his life drained out of him, his eyes bulging in disbelief, he spoke words that Raoul would never forget.
‘I swear on my soul that I am innocent of the crime of murder. You have murdered a man of God and may your sin lay heavy on your conscience. You are cursed…cursed…’
Shaking off the memory, Raoul turned his horse into the woods. He was a fool to let the lying knave’s words bother him. She had told him it all, laughing at him as she offered her naked body to him, her eyes bright with mockery.
‘You have always wanted me, Raoul,’ she taunted, her lips soft and moist and red, a very Jezebel. ‘Admit that you lusted after me and envied your father. You thought him too old for such a bride and wanted me yourself. Well, he is dead. I bribed Arnaud to kill him with poisons too subtle to detect. His prize was to lie with me once. Now that I am free and rich I can take as many lovers as I want.’
She was triumphant, so sure of her power to bewitch. Raoul had known that his body burned for hers even as he took her by the throat. She had laughed up at him, believing that he would kiss her but his fingers tightened about her white neck and then, with one twist of his powerful hands, he had snapped her bones. The shock in her eyes in that second before she died had made him smile, but then, as she went limp in his arms a wave of terrible grief and despair had swept over him.
He lay her down on her bed, arranging her limbs, her hands crossed over her breasts, and he had lain beside her for most of the night, riding away only as the first rays of dawn crept across the sky. He hardly knew what he did but as the days passed his resolve had hardened. The bitch had paid the price for her wickedness, as she deserved.
‘You were beautiful, Angeline,’ he murmured, ‘but your soul was blacker than night.’
Sometimes he was haunted by the memory of that night, but his current dreams concerned the priest, whose body he had left where it lay in deep woods some miles from the retreat to which they had been heading. It was unlikely to be found before decay set in and little would be left after the foxes and other beasts of the forest had eaten their fill. He had returned to court reporting that the priest had reached his destination safely and been believed. Raoul did not fear to be arrested and tried for murder; his crimes were secret, but could not be hid from God’s eyes. Despite his rage and his crimes, he feared God. His soul might burn in Hell for what he had done, but at least he had avenged his father.
Had he wronged the priest? If his only crime was that of breaking his vow of chastity he had not deserved such a violent death, though by tattling of the lady Beatrice’s secret he had caused the death of a child. Raoul would never be certain whether or not he had killed an innocent man, but sometimes in his dreams he believed that he was truly cursed.
Suddenly, he heard a voice singing nearby. The tone was high and clear and beautiful. He reined in his horse and dismounted, wondering where the sound had come from. It seemed to be beyond that stand of willows and, now that he listened, he could hear the sounds of water splashing and a woman’s laugh. He followed the sounds and then stood absolutely still, watching as she played in the pool, which filtered from the stream and gathered into a basin of rock.
She was naked, though he could see only the top half of her body: her full breasts, flat naval and shapely arms. Her hair was wet and looked dark red in the moonlight, though as he looked harder and recognised her, he knew in sunlight it was lighter. She was the peasant girl he had seen picking herbs near de Burgh’s castle – the girl he had thought too fine and lovely to be of base birth.
Seized by an urgent need, Raoul stripped off his garments and walked towards the pool. He had entered the water and was moving towards her before she noticed him. For a moment she stilled, a look of fright in her eyes. He smiled at her, wanting to reassure her. He remembered a time when he was young and had bathed with his father, and his instincts led him to make little splashing motions at her. The water sprayed over her. She hesitated, th
en laughed and splashed him back. Raoul moved closer and began splashing for all he was worth. She retaliated; laughing and shrieking as he suddenly pounced on her and pulled her down with him under the water. They resurfaced in seconds, spluttering and laughing. He reached out and touched the end of her nose, then took a strand of her hair and coiled it around his fingers.
‘You are beautiful: a water goddess, a very spirit of the night. I have never seen a woman as lovely.’
‘You are beautiful too,’ she said and reached out tentatively to stroke one finger over his mouth. He caught her finger, nipping it gently between his white teeth. She laughed and made no attempt to move away as he stroked her cheek, then trailed his hand down her slender throat to her breast. His fingers splayed, caressing and cupping her fullness, teasing the nipple with his thumb. She moaned softly, her body arching as if she relished his touch and her lips parted, ready for his kiss. Raoul caught her to him, kissing her softly with tenderness that gradually took fire and became a consuming flame.
Her moans of pleasure made him harden with a fierce need and he lifted her from the water. Her legs went round him as he bore her to the bank and lay her down on the clothes he had discarded in a heap. She was even more beautiful now that he could see all of her and her skin was as soft as silk. He lay with her, beside her, his hands caressing the arch of her back, cupping her small buttocks and squeezing them. He stroked her thighs, found his way between them and gently caressed with one finger. She stiffened a little but then relaxed and let him have his way.
‘So wet and hot,’ he murmured as he kissed her throat. ‘You smell delicious – like honey and flowers but no flower that I have ever plucked.’
His mouth was on hers as she murmured something but the words were lost as his tongue pushed inside, tasting her sweetness, meeting with hers. She gasped, her body close to his as she matched him, straining towards him, her breath coming faster as the heat built between them. He looked down at her, seeing the need in her eyes, a need that was echoing within him.
‘You are ready, my sweet water nymph?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I am ready, my Knight of the Raven.’
So she had noticed him that day. Raoul smiled as he slid into her, thrusting gently at first, feeling her tightness and the silky warm of her sheath as he took her slowly, knowing that his size was sometimes too much for a woman who had not borne a child. She gasped but raised herself to kiss his lips, her nails raking his shoulders as she silently begged him to continue. Thrusting deep inside her, he heard her scream but knew it was pleasure that made her cry out. He smiled and thrust harder, crying out himself as she brought her hips up to meet his and something inside him gave way.
It was as if he had been released from the shadows and grief that had lain heavy on him since Burgundy had told him of his father’s murder. He had no thought now but to please and be pleased, to love with such intensity and joy that he was swept along to a pinnacle of rolling desire that made him shout out as his climax came and came and then he lay on her. In a moment, he was rolling to his side, taking her with him, still joined, imprisoning her with his leg, as if he feared that she would escape him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked as he touched her face and wiped her tears. ‘You are sweeter than the dew on the first rosebud of summer.’
‘I am called Beth,’ she said. ‘You are the Knight of the Raven. I saw your arms when you rode to the castle.’
‘My name is Raoul,’ he said and brushed her mouth with his thumb. ‘You are the witch’s daughter.’
‘Marthe is dead. She was not my mother.’
‘Then who are you? Where do you truly belong?’
‘I do not know.’
‘A mystery,’ he said and smiled and held her closer. He did not want to let her go yet, this water nymph, this girl who did not know where she came from. Their loving had been such that he would need to rest before he had her again, but he knew that soon he would want her again. He held her tighter, determined not to let her go, but a strange lassitude was creeping over him and his eyelids were heavy, as if the nights of too little sleep had suddenly overtaken him. ‘Sweet lady of the woods…’
Beth lay beside him as he slept. She liked the musk of his body scent and her hands moved over his strong back and shoulders. His body was so beautiful – as fine and perfect as his noble face. He was the fairest man she had ever seen, the more so when he wore no clothes and she could see his dark blond hair curling wetly into his nape, and the slender hips and long legs, the sprinkling of fine hair on chest and naval. He did not have Sir William’s powerful build but he was very strong, his muscles hard beneath her touch. She had seen scars, proof that he was the fierce warrior his emblem seemed to proclaim him.
She did not know how he had found his way to her pool. It was her secret place and she had formed the habit of visiting it late at night because the nights were hot and she wanted to cool herself after the labours of her day. He had startled her when he first entered the pool but somehow she had not feared him; it was as if this moment had been destined, as if she had been waiting for him all her life.
He had loved her, as Mistress Soames had told her a man would one day. Where Sir William had forced and taken, this man had persuaded and given. She had given willingly, finding the experience so delightful that she wished it might happen again.
Beth smiled as she realised her knight was sleeping soundly. She moved slightly but his arm and legs imprisoned her and to escape him she would have to wake him from his sleep. He looked so peaceful and she was warm and safe cradled within his embrace. She had never slept in anyone’s arms, but nestling into his body she found that she liked the feeling and her eyes closed; she drifted away into a pleasant dream.
It was the warmth of the sun filtering through the canopy that woke her. Beth opened her eyes and sat up, looking about her. What was she doing here by the pool? As the memory came sweeping back, she felt both pleasure and anxiety. She was lying on something soft – a cloak of velvet. He had left her his cloak, wrapping part of it over her so that she would not turn cold. Why? Was it a sign that he would return? Why had he not waited until she woke and told her that he must go – told her that he would return one day?
Beth stood up and looked for her clothes. She kept the cloak wrapped round her as she retrieved them and then dressed hurriedly. Her stomach was empty for she had not eaten since the middle of the previous day. She must find food and fetch water from the spring. For a moment she considered what to do with the cloak. It was very fine. If she left it here it might be found and stolen. She would keep it for him, because surely he would return if only to retrieve his cloak.
As she hurried towards the hut, she was smiling. If it had not been for the velvet cloak she might have thought she’d imagined the previous night. The sweet loving between them seemed almost a dream, something precious to be remembered and kept in the backwaters of her mind.
Her knight had said such sweet things to her as he held her and loved her. Mistress Soames had told her that one day she might find such a man – such a love. Beth had thought it unlikely. Who would love a woman like her? Men lusted after her but they did not love her. She thought that John Blacksmith and the priest had hated her. Why should the Knight of the Raven be any different?
His name was Raoul. She remembered now that he’d told her his name and asked her who she was and where she came from. A smile touched her lips. He had been gentle and tender but strong and powerful too.
Was this feeling inside her love? She did not know but she knew that she was happier than she had been for a long time. At the moment it did not matter if she saw her knight again. She had experienced something special and sweet, a feeling she had never expected to know. For the moment it was enough.
As he rode towards Winchester and the meeting with his friends, Raoul felt a faint regret that he had not waited to see her wake. She was more beautiful than he had dreamed a woman could be, giving herself with such sweetness that his fe
elings of rage and hate had been washed away. He was not sure why he had not waited. Surely her life was hard in those woods. She might have come with him had he asked. Yet he knew that the bitterness was still there inside him. He needed to cleanse himself of sin before he could become whole again. He would take Henry’s message to the Duke of Burgundy and then he would go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady and pray to be forgiven for the evil he had done.
He forced his mind to the task in hand. Duke Burgundy had been his father’s staunch friend and it was he that had heard the rumour that took Raoul flying home to discover that his father was dead – foully slain by his beautiful wife and the sly priest. They had both deserved their deaths. Raoul would seek forgiveness but he would not suffer nightmares again.
His sweet lady of the woods had healed him. One day he would see her again and then perhaps he would ask her to be his mistress. He would take her to his chateau in France and install her as its lady. He must one day get himself an heir, but his wife could live in England, at his estates there and he would keep his lady of the woods in France to ease his heart and give him rest.
But he must think of the business in hand. Raoul had no doubt that Henry V of England had made demands that the French could not accede to in order to have an excuse to make war. He wanted to claim the heritage that he believed was his by right, and wars were useful to keep the unruly barons in place. Left to themselves they might make trouble, and William de Burgh was not the only one who thought that Edmund Mortimer had more right to the throne than the son of the Lancastrian usurper. It would not be surprising if there was already a plot to put the young man in Henry’s place.
Raoul had not yet decided where his loyalty lay. It might depend on whether Burgundy was for Henry’s claims or his own. De Burgh had suspected him of being in Burgundy’s camp. Better that than he should know the truth. Raoul had given service to the English King for one purpose these past months. Now he was free to do as he pleased.