Hot Summer's Knight (6 page)

The castle wouldn’t miss her presence for the morning, perhaps even the entire day.  She felt a delicious sense of freedom, as though today were a holy day, and she’d now been given permission to celebrate.  Except this was even better than a holy day, with all the work entailed in preparing the festivities.  This was a day for herself and herself alone.

She dressed in an old, comfortable dress and leather sandals, and quickly pinned up her hair and fixed her headdress. 

She stopped at the kitchen first.  Despite dedication to his faith, her brother always appreciated Robert’s cooking, especially his almond meal biscuits.  For good measure, she added some of last season’s pears, their wrinkled brown skins concealing the sweet flesh beneath.  Wrapped in a cloth were some of the white rolls she’d baked two days before.  A small flask of wine and a piece of old cheese filled the basket.

Berenice felt so much better today.  Her rest had revitalized her, and there was a spring in her step as she crossed the courtyard and headed out, through the gates. 

There was no sign of the troubadour about the castle.  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.  The effect he had on her was disturbing, the feelings he aroused in her were unlike anything she’d experienced before.  They were too strange, too strong, and part of her yearned for her old, peaceful existence once more.

On the other hand, she knew a world without him would be a greyer place.  She found herself looking for him as she left the castle, but it was a fruitless exercise.  Doubtless William had found him something useful to do again.

She took the path to the left outside the castle gates, away from the main road which wound down the valley to Pontville, the old Roman bridge and, eventually, to Bordeaux.  She followed the castle wall until she came to the river.

Near the castle the river was broad, and deep, and slow.  Further up the valley, where the foothills began to turn into mountains, the river ran faster and was shallower.  There was another village there, a few cottages clustered around the skirts of the mill the monks had built to take advantage of the rushing waters.  On the other side of the village, where two swiftly flowing streams came together to form the river, on an outcrop of rock high above the pines and conifers, stood the monastery where Odo was Abbot.

Berenice was proud of her brother.  He was Abbot not because he was the younger son of the family which had endowed the monastery, but because he’d been elected to the post.  The brothers both respected and liked him.

Her path followed the bank of the river, sometimes only a couple of feet from the bank, sometimes veering further inland.  She knew it well.  She’d traveled this way many times before, both alone and with her brothers.

It was cool beneath the trees, and a welcome respite from the eternally blazing sun.  Even the light was subdued, filtered through green foliage.  It was quiet too, the quietness of a vast cavern, or one of the cathedrals just built in Rouen and Chartres.  Even the birds had stopped singing in the heat of the day.

Berenice was completely alone.  Everyone was at work in the fields or the gardens, or at the castle.  She had a sudden urge to take off her sandals and feel the grass beneath her bare toes.  The grass was still green here, protected from the sun by the trees, and it felt delicious.

Next she removed her headdress, and the pins which kept her hair in place.  The deep brown mass tumbled down her back, and she ran her fingers through it, lifting it up off her neck, and letting it fall again. 

Everything would have to be back in place when she reached the monastery, so she carefully wrapped her headdress and the pins, and placed them on top of the basket.  Then she loosened the drawstring of her shift, and let the cooler air of the forest soothe her heated skin.

White and yellow and pink wild flowers grew amongst the trees.  She picked one, and tucked it behind her ear.  She found another she liked, so she picked it too, until she had a posy in her hand. 

Pausing for a moment, she studied their colors and breathed their delicate scent.  She wove them into a garland for her hair as she walked.  The path took her inland for a while, but the constant murmur of the river was always with her. 

The sudden sound of splashing jarred the peace of the day.  Berenice feared it could mean someone, or something, was in trouble. 

There was no direct way to the riverbank, so she pushed her way through low bushes and long grass. 

The splashing diminished a little.  Berenice stopped.  The sound of singing took her completely by surprise.  It was a man’s voice, and the song was one she knew, of a beautiful maiden and her lost love.  She’d heard it sung two nights ago, in the great hall of the castle.

Now even more curious, she emerged from the forest at the top of a muddy bank.  The sudden sunlight blinded her, and she shielded her eyes with one hand.  Leaving her basket, she ventured as close to the edge of the bank as she dared.

He was standing up to his waist in the water, scrubbing himself with a rag, and singing at the top of his voice.  The sunlight glistened on all the fascinating planes and angles of his damp body.  His wet hair coiled in serpentine tangles around his face and neck and onto his shoulders, sending rivulets down his arms and chest and back.

He reminded Berenice of the paintings of naked men on the cup someone had dug up near the bridge.  Dark figures, quite obviously male, marched around the cup’s rim.  Odo had said it was very, very old, and definitely pagan. 

The figures might have been male, but they’d been undoubtedly beautiful in their artistic perfection.  The troubadour was beautiful too, as he bathed himself and sang, and in the same pagan way.  He was like a river god, ancient and wise, a part of this valley. 

Forgetting her anguish of the day before, she drank in the sight of him, too intoxicated by it to divert her gaze as a modest woman should have done.  She was afraid too, of his pagan beauty, and of his ability to make her forget all modesty and all shame. 

Almost unconsciously, she made the sign of the cross.

She couldn’t tear her eyes from him.  The water was clear, and even from this distance, she could tell he wore nothing beneath the water’s surface.  She knew she should look away, as a proper lady would when a gentleman was bathing.  But being a proper lady had, quite suddenly, ceased to be important.  She feasted her eyes instead, devouring each bronzed curve and plane and angle, and longed to see what the waters hid.  Her bare toes curled in the grass at the riverbank’s edge. 

Who knows how long they would have stood there, Gareth in the water, Berenice on her bank.  The water beneath it was far deeper than Gareth’s bathing place.  Before either of them knew what was happening, the riverbank gave way, and Berenice felt herself falling.

The deep, dark waters of the river closed over her head.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gareth saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and knew he was no longer alone.  For a moment he resented the intrusion; he enjoyed his morning bath, and had purposely come this far from the castle to avoid any interruptions.  Then he saw who it was.

Berenice stood like a primitive queen on the riverbank.  Her long, brown hair tumbled around her shoulders.  She was crowned with wild flowers, and her feet were bare.

This was not a frightened child-bride.  This was a woman, with a woman’s confidence and pride.

Eight years before, he’d ridden out of the castle gates as a knight, one day to be Lord of this valley.

He remembered the day well.  His beautiful young wife had come to say goodbye to him; she’d been told to do so, no doubt, by her parents.  There’d even been tears in her eyes, he was sure.  Or perhaps they’d been in his own.

After the oaths had been sworn before the priest, after the festivities were over, she’d stood in front of the bed in the bridal chamber, the bed she probably still slept in.  Her crown then was a garland of early spring flowers, slightly askew, and her long, dark hair had swirled around her naked body.  He’d never seen a more exquisite sight.

Until now.

Gareth thought for a moment his heart would cease beating.

His clean tunic and leggings were waiting for him on the bank.  The clothes he’d just washed were hanging over bushes to dry.  All were at least a dozen feet away, too far away for him to reach without Berenice finding out he was standing here in nothing but his skin.

He was proud of the gifts nature had granted him, but Berenice had a virginal quality about her, something unsullied he’d no wish to spoil.  So he stood, motionless, while she watched him.

Who knows how long they would have stood there, Gareth in the water, Berenice on her bank.  Beneath her feet, the river had undermined the edge, and the water beneath it was far deeper than Gareth’s bathing place.  Before either of them knew what was happening, the riverbank gave way.

The deep, dark waters closed over Berenice’s head.  Her dark hair and skirts spread out around her.

Gareth launched himself in her direction.  With a few powerful strokes he reached the place where he’d last seen her.  The crumbling bank had muddied the waters.  She’d vanished into the murky depths.

Holding his breath, he dived beneath the surface, thrusting with his legs, using his hands to search for any sign of Berenice.  In moments he found her dress, then, pulling her towards him, the rest of her.

His arms closed around her.  He drew her up to the surface, and helped her to her feet.

“Berenice, speak to me!”

“I’m fine,” she coughed a little.

They were standing together, waist deep in water.  His arms encircled her, holding her tightly.  Her breasts were crushed against him, and her long, wet hair hung over his arms.  She made no attempt to move away.  Instead she leaned her head against the solid wall of his chest, while one of his hands slowly rubbed her back.

“I thought I’d lost you.  When you fell into the water, it was as though everything slowed.  The river seemed to pull you under.”  His warm lips brushed her cool, damp forehead.  “Berenice.”

Tentatively, she raised a hand to his chest.

“Gareth,” she whispered, “my brother was lost in the river.”  She looked up at him, and smiled shyly.  “You saved my life.  How can I ever repay you?”

He smiled too.  He was holding her in his arms, at last.  It was something he’d never dared hope for.

Now, he wanted to kiss her.

The heat of her body penetrated her damp garments.  Even the smell of her was intoxicating.

He shouldn’t be longing to know the feel of her lips on beneath his.

“No! I can’t, please…” she cried.  She began to struggle, pushing with all her might against his chest.

Gareth’s feet were planted firmly on the river bed, but the same strong river current which had caused the bank to collapse tugged at Berenice’s skirts.  She was swept away, out into the centre of the river.

With powerful strokes, Gareth swam after her.  The river wasn’t deep, just swiftly flowing.  As soon as he’d caught her, he swooped her out of the water, and threw her over his shoulder.  He had no intention of losing her again.

“Gareth,” she cried again, this time extremely indignantly, “put me down!”

“Not until you’re safely back on the bank,” he patted her neat, round rear, “and out of these wet clothes.”

“Put me down!” she insisted.  She tried to kick him, but he’d too firm a hold on her legs for her to do much damage.

Soon they’d be out of the concealing waters of the river.  In one swift movement he dumped her unceremoniously on the river bank, and gathered his clothes from the bush where they were drying.

“There,” he called, throwing her a square of linen, “Get dry!”

She patted at her damp garments.

“Take them off,” he ordered.  He tied a cloth around his loins to protect her modesty.

“What did you say?”  She looked horrified.

“Take them off.  You’ll catch a chill, even on a day like this.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am.  Do you want me to do it for you?”  He wondered if anyone had given Berenice an order since her father had died.  No, he decided, it was probably long before that.

“No, thank you,” she answered, with as much pride as she could muster, “I’m capable of disrobing.”

“Don’t you need your maid?”  Women, especially well-bred women, always needed their servants.

“No, thank you.  I’ll manage.  Turn around.”

He did as he was told, granting her privacy while she struggled out of her dripping dress and shift.

“What am I supposed to wear instead?”

“You can wear my clean tunic.  Wrap the piece of linen around you as a skirt.  It’ll do until your clothes dry.”  He disentangled his tunic from the branches.  “It’s almost dry.  Nowhere near as wet as your clothes, anyway.”  Forgetting he was supposed to be looking the other way, he held it out to her.

She’d anticipated his move, and had already wrapped the linen around herself.  She still showed a fair amount of arms and shoulders, but at least it was an attempt at modesty.

“Thank you,” she answered stiffly, and struggled into his unfamiliar garment.

While she rearranged his tunic, he took her garments back to the river.  In a moment he’d rinsed and wrung them out, then hung them on bushes to dry. 

“There you are, my Lady.  You’ll be able to wear them in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours!  If you were thinking of me at all, you’d walk back to the castle and get me some fresh clothes.”

Berenice was being the Lady of the castle once again.  A pity, he thought.  He much preferred the Berenice he’d held so briefly in the river.

“Do you want me to do that?  Leave you here, alone, partially dressed, while I walk into the castle and declare, ‘I need some dry clothes for my Lady, because she’s sitting on the riverbank half naked’?”

“You wouldn’t do that!”

“I might.”  He grinned.

“Why would you want to embarrass me like that?”

An idea occurred to him.  To be fair, the idea had been growing in his mind for a while now.