Hot Summer's Knight (26 page)

His father had married him to Berenice de Freycinet.  He’d made promises to her and to her father which he was bound to keep.  He could no longer plead his guilt and unworthiness as a knight; in the deaths of his men, he was blameless.

He was bound by duty to return to Berenice, even though he was beginning to suspect she’d betrayed him, and their vows, with another man.

They camped for the evening beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, in a copse not more than an hour or two’s ride from the convent.  Huon lit a fire, while the Englishman took his bow and found them supper.  In no time at all, two fat rabbits were roasting on a spit.

Jessamine had barely spoken all day.  She sat now, her back against the tree, her eyes unfocussed.  Sometimes she would weep a little, and then she would laugh.  At the moment, she was silent.

She ate some food, mechanically, as though it meant little to her whether she ate or not.

Gilbert took the first watch.  There were always bandits, and neither of them were sure Jessamine wouldn’t stray in the night.  Huon slept deeply, despite the hardness of the ground.  In his dreams, he saw Berenice.  She ran from him, and the more he tried to catch her, the further away she appeared.  He was relieved when Gilbert woke him.

“It’s a few hours until dawn, by my guess.  I’ll get some sleep, if you’ll keep a lookout.”

Huon nodded, and sat up, rubbing his eyes.  He threw another piece of wood on the fire, and prodded it into life.  Gilbert’s snores soon filled the clearing.  The moon had set, but the stars were bright in the clear sky above.  A cow lowed in a field, then all was silent.

“He loved her, you see, not me.”

Jessamine’s voice startled Huon.  He’d reached for his dagger before he realized what it was.

She was sitting up where they’d left her the previous evening.

“He loved her.  He wanted to marry her.  He bought her the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.  He didn’t even bring me anything from the fair.  He didn’t want me, nor my children.  I wanted to give him sons, lots of big, strong sons.”

The tears sparkled on her cheeks in the firelight.

“That’s why I had to kill him.  To stop her.  I couldn’t let her have him.”

She watched Huon across the fire.

“You love her too, don’t you?”

“Berenice?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “The Lady.  She was his lover too, you know.  He told me.  They met in the forest.  He was her first.”  She was crying harder, sobbing openly.  “I wish he’d been my first!  All those others, none of them mattered, not even him.”  She glanced at Gilbert.  “He said he loved me once too, you know.”

She droned on and on, about the lovers she’d had, what they’d done to her, what she’d done to them, all in intimate detail.  Her language became more and more foul, more and more descriptive.

Huon heard little of it.  Fulk and Berenice.  Was it true?  Jessamine had no reason to lie about it.  She’d said it was her reason for killing Fulk.

Fulk and Berenice.

Berenice and Fulk.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The days crept by, as slowly as leper.  The people who’d come for the fair packed up and went their many separate ways.  The fields outside the gates still bore patches of flattened and threadbare grass, to show where pavilions had stood, and temporary streets had meandered.  The fair was over, until next year.

Berenice lay, alone, in her bed each night.  This morning, she’d woken as she had every day since Gareth had left, thinking about him, reliving each moment of the time she’d spent with him, going over each word she’d spoken, wondering if she’d upset him in any way.

She returned, time after time, to her gift to him of  her husband’s ring.  Everything had changed after she’d given him the ring.  At the time, it had been such an insignificant thing; now it was the key to all that had happened since.

Her thoughts took a new path, following a different clue.  Fulk could not have known, but the ring was one of the few things she remembered in detail about her husband.  Each evening of the few weeks they’d spent together, she’d sat by his side at the high table for dinner.  She used to watch his hands.  She’d grown to like them.  They were strong, and capable, the nails always neatly trimmed.  Fine hairs grew on the backs of them, and once or twice, she’d felt brave enough to wonder what it would be like to touch them, and to have them touch her.

She’d known her husband’s hands better than she knew his face.

Gareth had slipped the ring, without hesitating, without trying any other finger, onto the same finger her husband had used.  That was unusual, she thought.  Most people would try a few different fingers, to see if it felt more comfortable on one than another.  He hadn’t.

She sat up in bed, realization lighting up her life like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day.

Could Gareth be Huon, her husband?  If he was, she didn’t have to be concerned about whether anyone knew she’d spent a night with the troubadour.  She didn’t have to worry about her husband not being dead, and coming back to claim her.  It no longer mattered whether Gareth was a worthy enough man to become a knight, to be Lord of the valley.

He was her husband!  The more she thought about it, the more sure she became.  He was a knight, a true knight, and the rightful Lord of the valley.  He was her love, the husband of her heart, the man she would have chosen if she’d been allowed.

She leaped out of bed, and grabbed her clothes.  She must tell Esme and William, as soon as possible.

But as she dressed, she hesitated.  Why then had he not declared himself?  Why the disguise of Gareth the Troubadour?  And where was he now?

Two days ago, a man from Betizac had passed through, on his way to the monastery.  The Count was dead, he said.  They needed the brothers for the burial.  He would say no more, give no details of the manner of Fulk’s passing.

Neither had he any news of Gareth.  Huon, she corrected herself, she must think of him as Huon now.  A man had arrived at Betizac, and had left again with the English captain and a woman.  That was all he knew.

She found Esme and William, sharing their morning meal in William’s downstairs room.

“Is there any news?” she asked.  She’d asked the question so often, they both knew what she meant.

“Not since last night, my Lady,” answered William, “will you join us?”

She sat at the place they made for her on the bench, but she was too excited to eat.

“William,” she began, “when the troubadour arrived, at the beginning of summer, was he familiar to you in any way?”

William and Esme exchanged a look across the table.

“What do you mean, my Lady?” he answered.

She told them the story of the ring, how Fulk had given it to her, how she, in turn, had given it to Gareth, and how she now believed him to be her husband.

William drained his tankard of ale in one gulp.

“You’re right, he is, my Lady.”  He and Esme sat silently, waiting for her reaction.

“But why did you not tell me? Why did
he
not tell me?”

“I didn’t tell you, my Lady, because he asked me not to.  He’d heard about Fulk’s plans for you when he landed in Bordeaux.  He’d wanted to keep everything secret as long as possible, in case Fulk heard.  At first, I assumed that was all there was to it.”

“And you don’t any longer?”

“No, I don’t now.  There was something else, something in his past.  He always promised to tell me what it was, but I’m afraid he never did.”

“Something dishonorable?”

“Perhaps.  Or something he felt was dishonorable.  He’s a man of high moral principles.  He would never have,” William faltered, “um, I mean…”

“What Will’s trying to say,” added Esme, “Is he would never have taken you to bed if he hadn’t believed he had the right.  He’s not a man who’d take love or marriage lightly.”

“You knew him too?” she asked Esme.

“Yes.  He slept on this bench each night, the first time he was here.”

“Am I the only one who did not know my own husband?”

“It was only Will and I, my Lady.  We agreed to keep his secret.  I believe he planned to ensure your safety, and then leave.”

“So why did he stay?”

“Because he still loves you.”

“Oh, Esme,” Berenice threw her arms around the maid, “are you sure?”

“You only had to see the way he’d follow you with his eyes.  All the time he was here he had to know where you were, what you were doing, who you were with.  It was more than just concern for your safety.”

“So why has he left, Esme?  Where’s he gone?”

“If I were in his shoes,” put in William, “I’d be going to ask Fulk a few questions about that ring.”

“But Fulk’s dead,” said Esme.

“Do you think Gareth killed him?” and Berenice added, “Huon, I must think of him as Huon now.”

“No,” replied William, “The Count’s men would have been after his blood if he had, and we’ve heard nothing.”

A knock on the door ended their conversation.  It flew open.  Marie’s youngest, Gerard, who worked in the stables, bounded into the room.

“There’s a man at the gate, my Lady, Sir William.”

This has happened before, thought Berenice.

The three of them emerged from the cottage into the morning sun.  The summer was almost over, the heat no longer oppressive, but Berenice felt that same trickle of perspiration down the inside of her shift.

Today, Esme and William walked with her to the gate.

This time, he rode into the courtyard, dismounted, and handed the reins to the stable boy.

“The troubadour’s back,” the small crowd murmured.  They’d come out of the smithy, and the kitchen, and the laundry to see him, but no-one walked up to greet him.  That was Berenice’s duty.

He’d cut his hair to just above his collar, and shaved off his beard.  The scar, she saw, went clear to his jaw line.  His tunic was no longer that a peasant would wear.  Although plain, braid trimmed its hem and cuffs.  In place of the great Viking broadsword, a sword of more appropriate length for a nobleman hung from his belt.

There was no doubt in her mind that this was Lord Huon de Fortescue et de Freycinet.  He was thinner, that was true, leaner than he’d been all those years ago, and his face had lost it’s youthful softness.  It showed his strength of character now, and betrayed the hardships he’d experienced over the last eight years.  She wondered how he’d received the terrible scar.

If he’d been dressed in this way on that first day, months ago, she would have known him then.

She walked towards him, and dropped into a deep curtsey.  His hand came down, and he raised her from the ground.

In a strong, clear voice, she said, “Welcome home, my Lord.”

He bowed formally, and replied, “Thank you, my Lady.”  In a louder voice, he cried, “You have all heard the Lady acknowledge my right, as her husband, and by the will of the old Lord, to be Lord of this valley, of Freycinet.  I will ask Sir William to vouch for me, so you will be assured I am who I say I am.”

Sir William stepped forward.

“I swear to all of you, this is your Lord, the Lord of Freycinet, wed to our Lady, Berenice, eight years ago.”

The murmuring in the crowd grew louder, and the people moved forward, jostling each other for a better look.

“It’s only Gareth,” someone said.

“Why?” said one, “How?” asked another.

Berenice looked from one face to another.  Would they accept him?  They’d had no warning, no time to prepare for this change.

“Three cheers for the new Lord,” shouted someone, and then they were all cheering, waving their arms in the air, coming forward to touch both of them, to congratulate them as though they’d just been wed.

Huon was back, and her people loved him as she did.  All would be well.

She smiled up at him, and froze.  The soft grey eyes she loved were as hard as steel, as cold as the winter wind.

He turned away from her, and spoke to William.

“I’m moving into the old Lord’s chamber.  Could you have someone bring my belongings there?”

“Of course, my Lord,” answered William.

The crowd drifted away, back to their various tasks.

“Huon?” she said, reaching out, touching his arm.

He took a step away from her.

“I must bathe after my journey,” he said, without meeting her eyes, “If you will excuse me, my Lady.”

He bowed perfunctorily once more, and strode towards the old Lord’s tower.

Berenice was alone in the courtyard.

***

She’d thought she’d been lonely before he’d returned.  She was wrong.

She’d thought she’d missed Gareth while he’d been away.  It bore no comparison to sitting at the side of a cold stranger each evening at dinner, and knowing it was the same man who’d held her, and loved her.

The summer ended.  When she woke in the morning, the air chilled her skin before she dressed.  She felt as though the cold had seeped into her heart, and would remain there, forever.

Huon was always polite to her.  Every evening, he knocked on her door.  He escorted her down the stairs, across the hall, and to the dais.  He held out her chair, and waited while she was seated, before sitting himself.  They shared a cup, and a trencher, as they had a long time ago.

He never allowed himself to touch her hand, to brush his arm against hers.

He took her place in the monthly courts.  She stood behind his chair, a symbol of his authority as he dispensed justice.  Sometimes he would ask her counsel, respecting her wide knowledge of her people.  But the final decision on punishment or otherwise was always his.

He worked with the people of the valley, as he had when he was known as Gareth.  His days were spent on horseback, visiting all the villages, getting to know the way the place worked.  The rumors came back to her, via Esme, that he was a good Lord, and a fair and just Lord; as good as the old Lord had been.

But he never visited her room.

The time came when she could bear it no longer.  She had to know why he’d changed so much towards her, what it was she’d done.  He was in his room, she knew, going over the castle accounts.  That was another task she no longer had responsibility for.  She would ask him, she decided, if she could do the accounts for him.  She was not like other ladies, she knew; she could not be content with sitting in her room, mending and embroidering.