My Beloved

by Karen Ranney

  “See if they are as generous with their food as their information.” He pulled a small drawstring bag from beneath his tunic and handed it to Jerard. As his squire turned away, he called after him. The younger man turned and waited. “Pay them well, Jerard. The people of Montvichet have been ill used.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Sebastian turned, met Juliana’s smile. He should not be so curious, but her eyes sparkled merrily.

  “What amuses you?”

  “You treat him as a father might.”

  “He is my squire. How would you have me treat him?”

  “As you do at Langlinais. He is your steward there, with all of the authority you’ve given him. He uses it well.”

  “Have I not done so just now?” He frowned as he searched out Jerard’s departing figure.

  “No. Your demeanor changed with your clothing. You are no longer the monk hiding away from those who might discover you. You are the knight who is sure of your prowess in battle. And poor Jerard has become your lowly squire again.”

  “Poor Jerard?” he asked, the words too loud for the moment. He discounted that and the fact that several of his men turned to look at him. When had she become so fiercely protective of him?

  His words served no purpose but to transfix her with merriment. He loved her laughter, prized it because it was so rare.

  Did she know how utterly beautiful she was? She could not, else she would have flaunted those attributes in that way women learned from the cradle. Even now she looked lovely, even with her hair coated with the ever-present dust. Her eyes looked tired, and there was a spot of pink upon her nose where the sun had been too cruel.

  It hurt him to look at her.

  If he had been wise, he would have sent her back to the convent when he’d first seen her. The instant he’d recognized that this woman with her trembling fingers and stubborn chin was more than what she appeared. He should have banished her from his life back then, or vanished himself. How could he have known on the night that he had first seen her that she would come to mean so much more to him than Langlinais ever had? If there was something he was willing to die for, it was not faith, nor Langlinais, but Juliana.

  He had come to realize that during the journey. So easily that it had occurred without him knowing. Or perhaps it had come that unforgettable night in her room, when he’d voiced his true thoughts, knowing that he would never do so again. Perhaps all this time he’d only been testing his honor or his resolve.

  His final gift to her would be a revelation. His life with her had been filled with secrets. He wanted an end to it now. He would tell her as much as he could about the Cathar treasure. And then walk away.

  Chapter 29

  Sebastian left her a few moments later, having assigned one of the men-at-arms to provide for her comfort. She smiled her thanks as he offered to arrange a pallet in the shade, but declined. She did not want to have to sit and look composed when she was not.

  The uncertainty disturbed her, the realization that she had no idea what was to happen from this day forward. During the last days of their journey here, it had felt as if their time together was measured in days. Now, it was as if there were only hours left. She wanted, desperately, to hold back the sun so that the shadows would not move, turn the hourglass over to start again.

  How would she bear life without him? She stood straight, head bowed, eyes lowered. Convent posture. There would be time enough to wonder about her capacity to endure. Now was not the time. Not when Sebastian was still with her.

  She found herself at a closed door, pushed it open slowly. Montvichet might not be inhabited, but there was still an air of occupation in that room, as if the people had left for only a moment and would shortly return.

  The chamber was crafted of the same yellow stone as the remainder of the fortress. The roof was intact except for a large section close to the doorway. Nature had intervened in the guise of a trailing plant that draped over the opening. Juliana stepped into the room, enchanted. Six desks, tall and angled for the greatest ease at work, stood at spaced intervals throughout the room, placed where they might be touched by the greatest source of light. It came from the small openings in the roof, windows of thick glass no wider than her hand. In the afternoon sun they sparkled like the glint of sun off a pool of water.

  A table placed against one wall acted as a common work area. Heavy stones weighted down the parchment pages, waiting for the moment they would be needed. A selection of quills, none of them yet cut, lay in preparation for a scribe’s hand. Goatskin containers held what Juliana suspected was powdered ink. There was an assortment of knives, novacula and rasoriums, rulers, regula, linula, normas, needle and thread to repair parchment if torn, and a dozen or so assorted covered pots, one of which contained a particularly odious-smelling dried glue. But there were no finished pages here, no diplomae or completed folia.

  She walked to one of the desks. The scribe’s work space was crafted of wood, once polished with oil. Dark spots on its surface indicated where ink had dropped from a quill, or perhaps soaked through a page.

  At the end of the room there was a series of small vertical openings. She bent and looked through one and felt the fast-moving air against her face. A smile touched her lips. They had thought of everything. The openings allowed the breeze to enter and cool the room, but their design would prevent any dislodging of the work.

  A scriptorium, tidy and waiting, even after five years.

  She sat upon one of the stools, finding it surprisingly comfortable. The sun streamed down onto the surface of the desk, as if a torch had been lit above it. She slowly unwound her bandages, taking care to roll the strips of linen as she removed them.

  Her left hand was nearly healed. But the appearance of her right made her wince. There were red lines all along the top of it, places where the bones had protruded from the skin. It was no longer swollen, and the color had returned to it, but she could barely bend her fingers. She turned her hands over, looked at the palms.

  She’d touched Sebastian’s arm, had felt the strength and the muscles of it. Had threaded her fingers through the thickness of his hair, had touched his face. How odd that she could feel these sensations even now, as if the memory of them was forever embedded in her flesh.

  He’d knelt in front of her, his eyes deep with some unidentifiable emotion. She knew its name now. Despair, such as she had never wished to know. Anguish of the soul. Grief and longing so harsh and real that it became almost solid. It would glow crimson, this yearning. Or white like a faded cloud. Nearly invisible, but with its shadow always remaining. She knew, because she felt the same.

  She had always loved reading the words of others, had felt that those long dead philosophers and saints spoke to her through their thoughts. She knew why that link had been so important, now. It had brought to her a sense of connection to the world that mimicked companionship.

  Had she simply been lonely all her life? It seemed to her now that the occupations of her mind and the skill of her hands had been replacements for something she’d missed and never known. The easy lilting laughter of two people who shared a thought, the conspiratorial smile that bridged words. The ability to seek out and find the face of someone who might ease a momentary loneliness, assuage a temporary ache.

  There was no voice within her pages to ask if she was well, to seek her thoughts or reactions. No smile among the laboriously crafted letters. There was no speech, no harshly rasped words or entreaties. No voice that lowered or whispered phrases that intrigued and beckoned and thrilled, that heated blood and dampened flesh. She would never look upon a folia and feel the awe that came from watching Sebastian, her beautiful warrior, a knight crafted of strength and sorrow.

  She moved from the stool and went to the table, reaching for one of the Cathar quills. Only when she returned to the desk did she attempt to hold it in her right hand. With some pain, her fingers would curve, but not tightly enough to grip the quill. It fell with a small click to the
desk’s surface.

  The work of a scribe required the most delicate touch. Perhaps in time, she would be able to write again. It was something she must believe, because without that ability she had nothing.

  A tear fell on her hands and, surprisingly, it stung.

  The sorrow she felt was not for herself. She understood, finally, the enormity of Sebastian’s fate. Had such a knowledge been prompted by the quiet of this place? Or had it been born in the certainty that there were only hours left for them? She clenched her eyes shut against the thought of the horrible physical changes to come for him.

  Was it wrong to ask God to move time? Would it be a waste of a prayer to beg of Him to allow her to know Sebastian before such a thing happened to him? Please, just a moment in time to kiss his lips, or be enfolded in his arms. Let him touch me in joy. Once. Please. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, uncaring that tears wet her hands, small droplets of sharp sensation. Or if that is wrong, then spare him somehow. Take this from him, God. He is not a saint or so great a sinner.

  Her grief was silent, a moment unplanned. The scriptorium, a place of quiet reflection and studious endeavor, was an odd place to witness such emotion. But then, the thoughts and words of countless minds had been read there, and later transcribed upon parchment. Words conceived in passion remain as years pass, those that speak of the senses, of joy and despair and adoration. Time dispenses with the mundane, but cherishes those of the heart.

  The room seemed to sigh in understanding, or silent compassion. As if it were a sentient being and capable of such things.

  Sebastian removed his gauntlets once he was alone, wished he could rid himself of his armor. But comfort was a selfish thing to want, especially on this particular quest. He looked down at his hands, blocked out the sight of them.

  He knew the path he took well, had walked it but once in actuality, yet often in his memory. He took a deep breath as he neared the area.

  The stench had long since dissipated, wafted away in the mountain air. The circle that had once been burned into the earth had been replaced with tall grass. Only he and a few other villagers knew that a Cathar grave was here. Only one marker bore mute testimony to their martyrdom, a small stone pediment with a chiseled circle as its only inscription. His presence here today was not to ensure that it had been erected as he’d ordered, however. He felt a need to be at this spot, perhaps to honor the memory of the woman who had been mother and friend to him. Perhaps to seek approval for the plan he’d devised at Langlinais. Or perhaps to seek the courage to implement it, knowing the responsibility he assumed for doing so.

  He knew little of the Cathar religion, only those things he’d read in the scrolls he’d found. He did not know if there was a prayer that was proper for this time or this place, or even if they would wish one said for them.

  Magdalene would smile at his confusion, perhaps even tap him lightly on the head as she was wont to do when he was being chastised. He wished he could hear her voice in the gentle breeze that flowed through the grass. Wished, too, that she could offer him counsel in that pragmatic way of hers.

  He would be pitting himself against the Templars, and against the faith that had sheltered him.

  The silence of the spot worked on his mind like rue, drawing out his thoughts. It seemed as if here, as in no other place, could he confess the depth of his emotions. Fear for Juliana’s fate. He’d watched her carefully, had set Jerard to the task of doing so, also, in case her hands began to show symptoms like his.

  He could admit, now, that he was afraid of what the future promised him. It loomed before him with outstretched claws, eager and waiting to grip him until he bled. He could only imagine the months and years ahead, yet while his mind did so often, his heart urged him to think only of the past. Remember those things that brought you joy. Remember when you were a boy and running through the bailey at Langlinais, or challenging Gregory to climb the tallest tree. Recall the moment of your knighting, when your father’s blow, so powerful that it knocked you to the ground, was also accompanied by his rich laughter. Remember all those moments when you were victorious in battle. All those days of study, when your mind raced and your heart beat so loud to hear the speech of others mimic your own thoughts. Remember Juliana.

  Memories flashed into his mind with the suddenness of lightning, Juliana, biting her bottom lip as she concentrated upon the perfect formation of a letter. Juliana, standing silent and still before him, as he knelt and confessed to her. Juliana, laughing, smiling, somber, sad.

  He wished to be like most men, thought noble and infused with honor. And, like all men, he knew he would not always succeed. But he must accomplish these duties he’d set for himself, to protect Juliana and Langlinais. First, by offering up to the Templars what they thought he had, so that the greater secret of the Cathars might be kept hidden.

  And second, by saying good-bye to Juliana. The moment he’d dreaded had finally come. He’d known the morning he’d left Langlinais that such a decision might be reached. Her hope was too strong for his despair. She looked at him with eyes wide-open and accepting, with a hunger in her gaze and a smile on her lips. He would have her sad rather than sickened in horror at the sight of him. This parting must be swift and quick and as painless for her as he could make it. It was enough that memories of her would last him the rest of his life. It must be enough.

  He must not fail.

  Chapter 30

  “I see you’ve found the scriptorium,” Sebastian said.

  He stood framed in the setting sun, a man in his prime. She knew how vital it was that she committed the sight of him to memory. There would come a time, perhaps when she was an old, old woman, when she would not be able to recall it. It was the same with her parents’ faces. They were only remembered through a scent, a voice, a hint of laughter. Sebastian would exist only as a young warrior, a vision blurred by time and distance and pain.

  She studied his face avidly, impressing it upon her mind the way she did a passage she loved and wished to memorize. His lower lip was fuller than the top. His mouth, unsmiling as now. His chin ended in a blunt and chiseled angle. His eyes she would always remember. They were tilted down at the ends just a little. It gave him a slumberous look, or a mischievous one when viewed a certain way. Most of the time, however, she was captivated by their color, so dark they seemed as if they were not blue at all, but black.

  She glanced away, before he noted that tears had come again to her eyes. “It is a wondrous place,” she said, looking around her as if she had not already studied each object in the room. “Do you think they allowed women to be scribes?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, entering the room. “They were leaders. Why not scribes?”

  At her startled look, he smiled. “Magdalene became a perfecti, I understand. A parfecta,” he added before she could ask, “was considered worthy enough to go through the Cathar ceremony of purification.”

  He reached her side, looked down at her hands. She had not replaced her bandages. He rested his hand beside hers on the scribe’s desk. His was so much larger, the silver chain links ending at his wrist glinting in the sunlight. His fingers lifted, his thumb stretched closer. Only an inch separated their two hands, but the distance might be measured in miles. The bridge between them, invisible yet strong, was constructed of the bond between their minds, and the fact that their souls felt intertwined.

  “Lord,” Jerard said, at the doorway. It was clear from his expression that he had not wanted to interrupt.

  Sebastian stepped back and motioned him inside.

  Jerard entered the silent room, his footfalls the only sound. Between his hands he held a wooden chest, its rounded top elaborately carved. He stepped forward and handed it to Sebastian with a small bow.

  He would have retreated then, but for the fact that Sebastian called him back. “Assist your lady with her bandages,” he said, his voice curt, the command almost cutting. He walked to the table that held the scribe’s implements and placed
the chest upon it, his back to the room.

  She looked at him, at the stance he maintained, wondering if these moments were as difficult for him as they were for her. They must be, else his voice would not have been so raspy, his orders so stern. He was not an unkind man.

  Jerard bent before her, wrapping her hands quickly.

  “Should I not fetch the salve, my lady?”

  “My husband does not use his, why should I?”

  Sebastian turned. “I have been as faithful as a hound with that vile-smelling grease, lady wife,” he interjected.

  “It smells of mint, Sebastian,” she said, a soft, chiding smile on her lips.

  “And so do I. Do I not smell sweet, Jerard?”

  He seemed amused by the look on Jerard’s face. He relented, finally, and waved him away.

  Her bandages tied, Juliana stepped down from the stool, walked to the table where the chest lay. It was the length of two hand spans, and as wide as one. The lid was rounded, the top connected to the bottom by three delicate leather hinges.

  Instead of opening it, however, he placed it under the table, then turned to her. He walked to the door, held it open, turned, and smiled at her.

  “Would you like to see the Cathar treasure, Juliana?”

  She nodded, surprised, and followed him mutely.

  There were a series of rooms off of the main hallway, evidently sleeping chambers from their simple design and sparse contents. Sebastian entered the last one to the left, stood looking around him. As with all but the scriptorium, there were signs of disarray. The wooden frame of the bed had been over-turned, the single small table lay with a broken leg. A jug and basin lay littered on the floor, shattered. An arched window carved from the stone allowed the sunlight to stream into the room. Upon everything was a thick layer of dust, the signs of invasion and search preserved for all time.