by Cleo Cordell
Romane rolled his eyes. ‘It was fortunate that the charcoal burner was hanged for that peasant woman’s murder. I can see why you would not want a repetition of previous disasters. So you’ve a new mistress? A charity case by the sound of it. What’s amiss? Have you carried her off from a jealous husband?’
Karolan tapped Romane’s hollow chest with the back of his hand in a conspiratorial gesture. ‘Should have known I couldn’t fool you, eh? Truth is the bastard found out about us and beat her within an inch of her life. I brought her here for her own protection. If she goes back to him he’ll surely kill her.’
Romane gave him a withering look. ‘Can you not take a gadling wench when you feel the need of fleshly easement? Pay her and forget her. No good can come of this. The husband’s bound to bring a petition against you. He’ll want compensation if not your blood.’
Karolan hid a smile, wondering what Romane would have said if he had told him the truth. ‘You sound more and more like an ageing mother hen,’ he said with affection. ‘I’ll pay the fellow to keep his silence. Nothing’s earned without risk, as well you know. What’s done’s done. Don’t lecture me on my moral failings.’
‘I would not presume to do so, my lord,’ Romane said stiffly.
‘That’s a mercy – you usually do,’ Karolan said, grinning. ‘You’ll do as I ask?’
‘When have I ever failed you?’
‘Very well. There are a few things you should know about Garnetta. She’s been very ill and is not looking at her best. I want strict orders given that no one is to comment on her appearance. She’s very thin. I had to cut off her hair when wound-fever raged through her. The temporary loss of her looks would be a great shock to her, so I have removed all mirrors from the tower. I want you to make sure that there is nothing reflective in the house. Nothing. Is that clear?’
Romane nodded, his lined face grave. His master must be sorely taken with the wench to be going to so much trouble. He only hoped she was worth it. It had been many years since Karolan had brought a woman to his tower. He sighed, picturing a blowsy trull with yellow hair and a pert bosom. Thank all the saints that his loins no longer troubled him. It was a blessing to be free of the snare of womankind.
Garnetta paced around the tower room, the woollen skirt of her over-tunic swishing through the rushes. She had found a linen wimple and padded circlet in the wooden chest and covered her shorn head with them. She knew that she must appear pale and drawn, so had pinched her cheeks and bitten her lips to put some colour into them. In the chest were many gowns, tunics, and scarves, some of them of fine cloth, trimmed with frosted braid or strips of fur. The sumptuary laws forbade anyone of her class wearing silks and bright colours. She expressed her misgivings about wearing the clothes to Karolan.
He laughed away her fears saying, ‘On my land I am the only law. You may do as you will. Dress to please yourself.’ His eyes glinted as he added. ‘But you might endeavour to delight my eyes also, if you’ve a mind to.’
Garnetta wondered who the clothes had belonged to. Then she coloured. Of course, a man like Karolan must have had many mistresses. Perhaps he kept a woman in the main house. If he did, he could not be spending much time with her. She found herself pleased at the thought, then was angry for caring. Before long she would be leaving. With each passing day, she felt better. Although it was the season of Lent, Karolan insisted that she eat well, dismissing her qualms about falling into a state of sin with a mere wave of his hand. Despite his reassurances, she felt guilty for not observing the rules about fasting.
The food he brought her was the best she had ever eaten. It amazed her that it was so plentiful when the years of famine had brought food shortages to everyone. She ate ravenously of leek and pea pottage, salt meat with parsnips, boiled pudding containing scraps of pork fat. With every meal there was bread – sometimes stuffed with dried fruit. There was always spiced wine, sweetened with honey, rich with the flavours of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Her weakness had disappeared and she felt full of vitality. She was restless, eager to be up and doing. There was so much time in the day, her only task to enjoy herself. It had never been her habit to lie overlong in bed or sit idly staring into the fire. There had always been work to do in Mercer’s Yard. She was accustomed to rising at first light to fetch water, then see to the charcoal brazier. By the time her father left his bed the shop would be warm, the boards swept, and a dish of bread sops in hot wine placed ready for him to break his fast.
Karolan had been surprised to find that she could read. He took great pleasure in selecting books for her from his extensive collection. She, in turn, was amazed to discover that he was a man of such learning. Together they discussed the merits of Virgil, Plato, Homer, and Aristotle. All her life Garnetta had been encouraged to put her education to use, the main aim of her endeavours to make sure that the shop showed a profit. There had been time only to read a few verses from the Bible before going to bed and rarely a spare moment to study the beautiful illuminations in her book of hours. Now that she had time to read for the simple love of it, she could not get enough of books.
In particular she loved the romance of the Châtelain de Coucy, which told the tale of Renault who loved the Dame de Fayel. She wept when Renault was wounded by a poisoned arrow while on crusade. His farewell letter to his love was dispatched in a box along with his embalmed heart and a lock of his hair. The jealous husband intercepted the box, serving up the cooked heart to his wife, whereupon she swore never to eat again and expired for love. It was a pretty conceit and she was delighted to find such a fanciful book in Karolan’s collection. When she commented on it, he smiled thinly and gave one of his characteristic dismissive gestures.
‘The book was a gift. I forget who gave it to me. Courtly love is an illusion. I have no stomach for melancholy and amorous foolery. How can it ennoble a man to make sheep’s eyes at another’s wife, but not to look for love within his own marriage? Such works foster dangerous illusions. Has not a knight the right to kill both his unfaithful wife and her lover? Why fill women’s heads with such nonsense?’
‘True enough,’ she countered swiftly. ‘But it is refreshing to read of a woman who inspires male glory. In the real world we are simply chattels, objects for the breeding of children and free to be ill-used by any man if it so pleases him.’
He looked at her in amazement. She smiled, seeing that he had never given this matter much thought. And why should he? He inhabited a world where men held the right of property and ordered women’s lives. Women lived in a different world. In truth, she was a little amazed at her own reasoning. She had never spoken out so boldly before and was at a loss to discover where her bravery had come from. She looked sideways at Karolan to see if he would rebuke her for her presumption. Instead he chuckled as if her asperity was something entirely expected. She saw that he was regarding her with new respect and something else – something she could not comprehend. Reaching out he took her hand. Conveying it to his mouth, he brushed it with his lips.
‘Forgive me. My words were churlish. You are right to remind me of the world’s cruelty. You have been sorely used. The wounds on your body told their own tale.’ His strange grey eyes gleamed with secret triumph. ‘But no more, Garnetta. No one can hurt you, ever again. No one.’
She was too astounded to ask him what he meant. His touch on her skin stirred her senses, confusing her. When he dropped her hand, she could still feel the place where his lips had touched.
‘Let there be honesty between us at all times,’ he said. ‘You may speak freely before me as an equal. I am not bound by conventions as are other men. I want you to be yourself. Say whatever is in your heart. But outside these walls it would be best to guard your tongue.’
The strange concept took some time to encompass. Women never spoke freely, but deferred to men in all things. All her life she had been taught not to look a man in the eyes, never to speak first when a man was present. Karolan was urging her to act in a way that was unnatura
l. And what a glimpse of freedom that was. What could he mean by, ‘no one can hurt you ever again’? Was he offering to become her protector? Surely he was not speaking of marriage. She had no dowry, nothing to give her any status at all. It probably amused him to pay chaste court to her, practising love for its own sake, while he kept a mistress near at hand for the relief of his more base passions. And yet, she did not think him so shallow. The other explanation, that he meant what he said, was just too unlikely. For that would make Karolan a strange breed of man indeed.
After only a few days, the pleasures of learning to play dice and backgammon began to pall. She felt eager to be outside. The snow was beginning to melt and the scent of spring was in the air. Soon it would be Easter and the beginning of a new year. Her restlessness increased hourly, her thoughts bounding ahead of her, seeking new stimulation. The strange acuteness of all her senses had not diminished. She became used to her clarity of sight and hearing. Gradually she learned that she could control the alarming impressions of sight and sound. It was possible to shut them off, draw upon her new ability at will. The same applied to her sense of smell. The pungent odour of the floor rushes no longer sickened her.
She told Karolan about the tingling of her skin, the itching of her scalp. He examined her, as he had done that first time, explaining that after such a grave illness she must expect to feel different. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ he told her. ‘Any feeling of strangeness is your body settling.’
She lowered her eyelids against his penetrating gaze, hardly daring to admit to the feelings that his nearness brought out in her. There was a growing tension between them, a promise of things to come, which both drew and terrified her. Karolan continued to treat her with unfailing courtesy. He was a considerate and entertaining companion. If not for the fact that she was still grieving for all that she had lost she would have been completely happy. She found him fascinating to watch. He was graceful without being in the least effeminate. He had a knack of appearing soundlessly in a room. Sometimes, from the tail of her eye, she caught a subtle movement. Turning she would find that he had traversed some distance across the floor without seeming to have actually moved.
Karolan left the tower most mornings to go riding on Darkus, returning well after midday. She knew that there must be many tasks for him to oversee on such a large estate. An army of servants was needed to run the house and tend the flocks. She felt nervous at having to meet them all. She said as much to Karolan that evening.
‘The only person you need to impress is Romane,’ he said with a grin. ‘The others go in fear of his sharp tongue. Just remember that you are my niece.’
‘But will anyone believe that? Ought there not to be some kind of resemblance between us?’
‘It matters not whether they believe it, as long as they appear to and act accordingly,’ he said. ‘My vassals do as I bid them.’
‘As I am expected to?’ Garnetta said, before she could stop herself. She had noticed before that this unthinking arrogance was natural to him. He had been bred to order the lives of others, while she was part of the newly emergent merchant classes – free, but without the trappings of nobility which conferred the protection of rank and wealth.
Karolan grinned, not in the least offended. ‘Of course not. You are my guest. Have I given you any cause to think otherwise?’
Garnetta held his gaze with difficulty. This candour between them was hard to get used to. ‘No cause at all. Forgive me. You have done so much for me. I do not mean to be uncharitable. It is just that there is no way of repaying you.’
There was a pause before he answered. ‘I need nothing. Your presence is payment enough. Do you not yet realize how much I value every moment I spend in your company?’
The tone of his voice was like silk. She could feel the timbre of it, throbbing within her as acutely as a note of music. Her mouth dried. The silence stretched between them. This was dangerous. A feeling like thirst rose up inside her. And he was the well from which she would drink. She felt her natural reserve melting, slipping away like butter down hot meat. ‘Karolan . . .’
He smiled and his eyes were soft, dark pools. ‘That is the first time you have called me by name.’ His slanting black brows drew together. ‘There is no need of payment. I . . . I want something of you. But I wish it to be freely given.’ His voice was intense.
Under the onslaught of his regard, she lifted her chin. Had he saved her only to demand that she warm his bed now? She felt a surge of righteous anger. He was just like any other man, treating her like his chattel. The church warned against a woman surrendering her virtue to anyone but her husband. She was about to answer primly that he asked far too much, when something sparked between them. There was a burning pressure in her temples. She heard him without surprise.
‘You must know that I mean to lie with you,’ he said huskily.
‘I do know it, my lord,’ she said.
In that moment everything changed. His glamour seemed to blind her. Her response was immediate and shattering. This feeling had nothing to do with courtly love, everything to do with condensed animal attraction. She gasped at the sensation between her legs. A hot throbbing spread outwards from her centre, curling over her belly, running down the inside of her thighs. Karolan had not touched her and she was on fire. Had he cast a spell over her? Her breasts swelled, the nipples standing out as berries. Little shocks of sensation stabbed at her as the sensitized tips brushed against her silken tunic.
Her new determined self seemed to be struggling for precedence. This is wrong. I do not care. The old Garnetta was being subsumed beneath a stronger, more determined persona. It was as if there was some connection between this new person and Karolan, a silver thread that wound tight – tighter, drawing them together. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was a glory to acknowledge that fact.
‘If it is too soon . . .’ he murmured.
Her heart trembled for this man who was a warrior, medicus, and God alone knew what else – yet was made uncertain by the blinding attraction between them. Their joint need was a tangible force in the chamber. She was blind and deaf to anything other than him. She shook her head, whispering, ‘No I . . . I want this too.’
The desire for him spread through her veins. Even the tips of her fingers tingled. She was all eagerness, a map of melting curves and moist flesh. How shameless, how wanton she had become. Her lips curving in a smile as old as time, she spread her arms in welcome.
Karolan took a step closer, his eyes glittering like jewels. ‘If you knew how long I have waited for you,’ he groaned as his mouth covered hers.
She wanted to ask what he meant, but found herself straining against his hard body, opening her lips to accept his tongue. Then there was nothing in the world but sensation. His taste thrilled her. It was unique – fresh and heady, strong like spiced wine. His hands pressed against the small of her back. The evidence of his arousal was firm and potent between her thighs. She knew what he would do to her. He would push his hard maleness into her, hurting and possessing her as all men did to women. She ought to have been terrified; it had been agony when the bearers violated her. She was afraid, but she wanted this – badly. Besides, even if she had wanted to stop, her body and instincts were running on ahead of her. She had become a stranger to herself.
Her breath came in short gasps as Karolan’s long fingers stroked her face, cupped the back of her head. His lips burned her mouth, her chin, her neck – his kisses a cautery iron that burned away the morbus of her fear. Somehow they moved across the chamber. She felt the bed against the back of her knees. Laughing with sudden self-consciousness they fell backwards. She turned to face him as he plucked at her shift, desperate in his eagerness to have her naked. The fabric was trapped beneath them. He gave a sound of impatience and gripped the low neck in his two hands. The linen parted with a tearing sound. She gasped as the velvet of his tunic prickled against her naked breasts.
She helped him to disrobe, fumbling at strings and laces,
pressing kisses to his bare white skin when shirt and hosen were snagged at elbow and knee. Then they lay close, flesh cleaved to flesh, too awed by what was unsaid between them to move at all.
‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ Karolan murmured.
So was he. Merciful God, so was he. If his beauty was of the Devil, and this an enchantment, she did not care. Gradually, slowly, his lips pressed a burning path down the side of her neck and came to rest in the hollow of her throat. She knew that he was pressing the tip of his tongue to her pulse. Something hot and primeval exploded in her head. His tongue moved and his breath fired her damp skin. It felt as if he was reading her soul. ‘Ah, no. It is too much,’ she whispered in an agony of need and confusion.
How could something be this sweet, the feelings so welcome yet so desperate? Was this what love was? Feeling like this made her afraid. Karolan moved against her. She meshed her fingers in his long black hair as he bent and began to suckle at her breast. Then the pleasure was all of the body and less of the mind. It was bearable, but only just. For a long time they simply lay naked on his bed, twisted in a tangle of silken sheets. Her shift was crumpled under her where Karolan had thrown it aside after tearing it from her body. She sensed a subtle shift between them. It seemed that they obeyed a subconscious signal as they strained to get closer, ever closer. Her fear changed then, to something deeper and darker.
Karolan’s caresses became more intimate. She twisted in his arms, her head thrown back to expose her throat. The violence of his passion excited her beyond measure. She arched against him as he bit at her nipple, grazing it gently with his teeth. He pressed his long, naked body against her as his hands stroked her skin, exploring the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, then moving inwards to her hot, pulsing cleft. The smell of his arousal was mingled with the scented oils he always wore – spikenard and musk. She parted her thighs to allow him access, moaning softly when his slender fingers parted the lips of her coynte.