Hot Summer's Knight (29 page)
Read Hot Summer's Knight Online
Authors: Jennie Reid
The two men moved away from the crowd a little.
“The night we were camped in the forest, with Jessamine, on the way to St. Bernadette’s,” Sir Peter began.
“Yes,” answered Huon.
“I wasn’t asleep. I heard the things she said, about Lady Berenice and Fulk.”
Huon remained silent.
“Jessamine had a way of twisting things, so the words weren’t lies, but they weren’t exactly the truth either.”
“I am coming to see that now, but my thanks,” answered Huon.
“Good. I wanted you to know. You’re a lucky man, my Lord. Your Lady is, as they say, priceless beyond rubies.”
“My thanks again, Sir Peter,” answered Huon.
“I’ll be off then,” answered the knight, “I’ll not accept your hospitality.”
Huon and William watched him walk over to Martha and her husband.
“A good man,” said William.
“Yes,” agreed Huon, “but now I must see Berenice.”
They climbed the stairs together. A surprise awaited them at the door of the Lady’s chamber - it was locked.
Huon called softly, not wanting to disturb Berenice.
Esme refused to let him in.
“Speak to her, Sir William!”
“Perhaps she’s right,” answered William. He could feel the anger, suppressed for many weeks, building within him.
“Right? I’m her husband!”
“You’ve realized that at last, have you?” asked William, “Forgive me my Lord, but there’s something I’ve wanted to do for some time now.”
Balling his hand into a fist, he punched his Lord as hard as he could.
Huon hit the landing floor like a tree being felled. He lay there, dazed for a moment, rubbing his chin, before struggling unsteadily to his feet.
“You’d better have a good explanation for that, old man!”
“If you’d been twenty years younger, I’d have taken down your leggings and removed a layer of skin with my belt for the way you’ve treated the Lady over the past weeks. No, months!”
“William, wait, I can explain.”
“Did you give
her
a chance to explain?”
Huon hesitated.
“No, I thought not. Everything’s clear as crystal to you, isn’t it? Nothing’s ever murky, nothing might ever need a bit of understanding or thought.”
“I’m willing to forgive her,” said Huon, “I know about her and Fulk, but I realized on the ledge how much I love her. I’m willing to have her back, despite…”
William thought he might have to hit Huon again.
“You’re willing to forgive her! Forgive her what? For being thrown to the ground and having her clothes ripped from her body by a madman? For being violated in the most brutal way?”
“But…”
“I heard her beg him not to do the things he was doing, my lad. Until my dying day, I will hear her screams. But I was too late. All I could do was hold my sword to his throat until he got off her. Later Esme bathed her, and tended her bruises. She was fifteen years old.” William knew the tears were running down his face. “And you never knew a sweeter, sunnier-natured child,” he went on, “they married her to you because Fulk would have claimed her otherwise. Would you have had them do that?” he shouted, shaking his fist at Huon.
Huon took the fist in his own two hands. He was close to weeping himself. “No, William, no, I wouldn’t. I’ve seen what Fulk could do to a woman.”
“Then you see my point.”
“Yes, William, you’re right, and I do. I’ll ask her, no, I’ll beg her to forgive me.”
William rapped gently on the door.
“Esme, it’s me,” he said, “you can let the lad in now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Berenice’s shift was tangled around her. There was a heavy weight on one side of her bed, making movement difficult. Her head ached, and she was hungry. She felt as though she’d been asleep for a long time.
She opened her eyes. Daylight welcomed her. Why hadn’t someone wakened her?
Turning her head, she could see there was a head resting on a pillow next to hers. A man’s head. His body, lying on top of the bedclothes, was the heavy weight restricting her movement. While she watched him, he rolled over to face her. He was asleep.
“Gareth,” she whispered.
Dark lashes fluttered open. Soft, grey eyes looked sleepily into hers.
“My Gareth.” She traced the line of his jaw. There was a red mark on one side of it. “You’ve shaved off your beard.” Her fingers burrowed into his hair. “And you’ve cut your hair.”
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m well, thank you, kind sir,” she answered, “why do you ask?”
“Jessamine hit you with a rock.”
“Jessamine? Why would she want to hit me?”
“I don’t know, my love, but she did. You’ve slept since this morning. It’ll soon be time for the evening meal.”
“Oh! I must…”
“You must stay here. Esme can bring us something to eat later.”
“Us?”
“I’m staying here. Until I’m sure you’re well, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“But…” She blushed.
“No-one can object to your husband sharing your room.”
“My husband?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
“I’m you’re husband, Huon. You acknowledged me in front of the people of Freycinet weeks ago.”
“But you’re Gareth, my Gareth. We made love, here, in this bed, this morning!”
“There, there,” he murmured into her hair.
She sat up in bed. “I’m not a horse or a child to be soothed,” she said, “what’s going on?”
She swung her legs out of the bed, and stood on shaky legs. “Why am I so weak?”
“You suffered quite a blow. Here, let me help you.” Huon came to her side, and she wrapped one arm around his waist. Together they walked to the window.
“The walnut tree – it’s bare!” she cried.
“Winter’s almost upon us,” answered Huon.
“But when I went to sleep, it was late summer.” She leaned against him. “What’s happening to me?”
“You had a blow to the head. Sometimes memories can be affected. Do you remember nothing since the day we woke together, here?”
“No,” she said, her voice muffled by his clothing. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “We are truly husband and wife?”
“We are.” He smiled down at her. “I was waiting here until you woke to ask your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness? Why should you need that?”
“Because I doubted you, I doubted your love.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. I love you, Berenice.”
“As I love you, Gareth.”
“It’s Huon, now.”
“Not to me. To me, you will always be Gareth the troubadour. You stole my heart with your songs and your tales, all through the long, hot summer. You taught me to love when I didn’t know what love was.”
His kiss was gentle, but it left her breathless.
“Show me, Gareth, show me how much you love me.”
Her hands crept up his chest to frame his beloved face.
“Your head,” he said, after he’d kissed her again.
“My heart,” she replied, “tells me you’ll not harm me.”
“Never.” His kiss was deeper, longer, his tongue caressing hers. “I’ll never hurt you.”
Her legs grew weak, and threatened to give way beneath her. She clung to him while he scooped her into his arms, and carried her back to the bed. He laid her gently upon it, and knelt beside her.
“Show me, Gareth,” she whispered.
“I love your toes,” he answered, “each of your ten, dainty toes.” He kissed each one.
“I love your legs,” he kissed his way from her ankle to her knee, “and your knees.”
“How can you love my knees?” she giggled.
“They’re beautiful knees,” he said, “round, and neat, and perfect in every way.” He kissed each one. “And your thighs. Oh, I worship your thighs.” His hands undid the buckle of his belt.
“To tell you,” he said, pulling his tunic over his head, “how much I adore the rest of you, I must remove this.” Her shift was whisked away, leaving her naked to his gaze.
“Your wonderful hair,” he removed what pins were left, letting it pool around her shoulders, “your brow, your eyes, your nose, your delicate ears.” Each word was followed by more kisses. “And your neck.” He found the place that, when he kissed it, melted her very bones.
“Your shoulders,” he caressed them, “and your breasts. I pay homage to your breasts, my Lady.” While his mouth worked it’s special magic, his hands undid his lacings.
His leggings and boots were discarded. He was on the bed next to her, erect and near bursting with male power.
“Show me, my love,” she said, reaching out to him, bringing him into her, wrapping her body around him.
At first they lay, content to be united once more. Then he began to move. She followed the pace he set, riding the storm again, feeling the thunderhead build inside her.
The storm within her burst, and she cried out.
Still he kept on, his rhythm relentless, carrying her with him, taking her, taking both of them, up and up and up, until the world burst into a million sparkling shards.
Together they floated back down to the bed.
He stroked her hair, and she caressed his broad chest.
She smiled.
Some time later, he said, “Do you feel well enough to come to the evening meal tonight?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I do, but you’ll have to be my maid tonight.”
“Gladly, my Lady.”
He pulled his leggings back on and laced them up. She sat on a stool in her shift while he brushed her hair.
“I did this for you once before,” he said.
“I remember that day well. You told me a story, about a man who chose to live rather than die. A man with a beautiful wife.”
“I can tell you now, I was that man,” he said, “I held the memory of your face in my mind all the time I rowed in the galley, chained to my oar. Your image was there while I fought my way across Russia with the Vikings, and while I sailed with English traders from the Baltic to Bordeaux.”
“You loved me when you married me?” She turned, and looked up at him.
“Yes,” he answered, “I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. I fell at your feet, you may remember.”
“And I thought it was the effect of the wine!” she laughed.
“No,” he replied, “it was you. I’d never seen anyone as beautiful, as wonderful as you. You robbed me of speech, of sanity even.”
“And yet you went away.”
“How could I stay? You’d made it clear you’d never be mine.”
“Was that why,” she asked, “you did not declare yourself when you returned? Why you assumed the role of Gareth the Troubadour?”
“There were many reasons, my love. First of all, I was sure you despised me. As well as that, I believed I could never be good enough to be your husband, to be the Lord you and your people deserved. My men all died at Hattin, and until recently, I believed I was to blame. Fulk’s captain, the man who probably saved your life this morning, told me Fulk was responsible for their deaths, not I.”
“Oh, Gareth,” she said, standing and turning to him, “how can we ever make up for the years we’ve lost?”
“Do we have to? Can we not enjoy the years ahead, however many God may grant us?” he answered.
“Yes,” she answered, “we can do that.”
With Gareth’s help, Berenice dressed in her deep blue dress, trimmed with gold. The color, she knew, brought out the blue of her eyes.
“My Lady Berenice,” he said, as he held out his arm for her, “my wife, you are more beautiful now than the day I first saw you. I lay my heart at your feet, if that is what you wish.”
“No, my Lord Huon,” she answered, “my troubadour, that is not what I want. I want my husband by my side, to love me and be loved by me.”
It is as I believed, she thought. My husband is a man who lives by his word, no matter how rash, no matter how hasty. But if the oath he swore to me in anger is forgotten, it can no longer harm either of us.
She thought about the times in recent weeks she’d stood on the edge of the precipice, longing for the strength to cast herself from it. Two things had stopped her. Deep in her heart she’d believed Gareth still loved her, even though cold, proud Huon may not. And she could not kill the child she carried within her, the child they’d conceived together, in joy and passion.
I’ll tell him about the baby one day soon, she thought.
Her husband opened the door, and they walked down the stairs together.
THE END
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