My Beloved (10 page)

“I became intrigued by their arguments, even more so by the way their teachers listened to them. It was a means of learning I'd never experienced before, a disputation that became the essence of my true education.”

She sat back against the wall, folded her hands on her lap, and smiled at him encouragingly. He smiled at his own eagerness to tell her all he'd discovered.

“I spent many months there. If I posed an idea, I was also expected to defend it. Logical thought was more important than emotion. Curiosity was considered a valuable trait.”

“What brought you home if you loved it so?”

He smiled. “It was time. I'd spent a few years in Paris and Italy, interspersed my studies with tourneys. I was my father's heir and was needed at Langlinais.”

“Yet you left again.”

“Grazide again?” Sebastian asked wryly.

She nodded.

“What else did she tell you?” There was no anger in his voice. Grazide had been part of his childhood. Her penchant for telling tales held no rancor or viciousness. She was simply interested in people and expressed it through speech. There were times, in fact, that it was simply easier to convey some infor
mation to Grazide, knowing that it would quickly find its way through the castle. She was also very fond of him, which was perhaps why he had assigned her as his wife's attendant. He was still a man, despite his future, and wished himself portrayed well. The irony of that thought did not escape him.

“She said you have a brother.”

“And you want to know why I've never spoken of him.”

“Or of Magdalene. She spoke of her, also.” The oil lamp cast shadows that draped around her like a well-met friend. She seemed right in this moment, in this pose.

He stood and walked to the edge of the tower, looking down at the countryside before him. The view was shrouded and covered with darkness. The past was coming closer again. Each day it bumped against him with more force than the day before. He was a creature not merely of the present, but of those lost days and his fixed future.

“Sebastian?”

Her voice called him from his reverie. He turned and looked down at her.

“Did I say something wrong?”

How did he answer her? With enough knowledge to quell her curiosity? Or with more, to hint at the man beneath? He wished her to know the truth, but not the full measure of it.

He sat on the crenel of the tower, his back wedged against the stone. His gaze was fixed, not upon the countryside he knew so well, but rather upon days he chose not to recall often. Why did he now? Because there were so many secrets between them that he would reveal those truths he could.

“Magdalene was my father's concubine, Juliana.
She was well loved. Langlinais was her home until my father died, and then she left here. She became a Cathar.”

He waited, but she made no comment. Her convent had insulated her well, then. “The Cathars did not accept all the tenets of the Church; therefore, they were labeled
infidelis
or not faithful. Heretic.”

“You speak of them as if they are dead.”

“They are. Or, if any of them still live, they hide from the world.” He tapped his fingers against the stone.

“And Magdalene?” Her voice was so soft, almost a whisper. She knew the answer before he spoke it, he was certain.

He could only shake his head. She seemed to realize that he would not speak of that memory. The images of the horror were almost blurred, returned only infrequently in dreams.

“You loved her a great deal, didn't you?”

The image of Magdalene was called up in an instant. “She was a tall woman with a jutting chin and large mouth that was always smiling. Her hair had been laced with gray from my earliest memories, and her voice sounded as if she sang the words.” He smiled at Juliana, then returned to his study of the horizon. “She was not at all graceful, being too angular with large limbs, but she walked as if she owned the earth and everything on it. She gave me her friendship first, then her affection. Over the years, I learned to appreciate it, then return it.” He glanced over at her again. “She would have liked you, Juliana. And approved of your diligence.”

She smiled at him, then looked down at her hands. “Too much diligence I'm afraid.” She stretched out her right hand. Three of her fingers looked as if they curled back upon themselves.

He wished he could have taken her hand between his own and rubbed it until it was no longer cramped.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman, Sebastian. I envy you your memories.”

“Have you no recollections of your mother?”

“All I remember is that she smelled of flowers, and had warm, soft arms. I cannot even recall her voice. I had a ring of hers, but it disappeared some years ago. Either I misplaced it or it was taken from me. I never knew.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each with similar thoughts for the other. An unspoken empathy, it seemed somehow to link them.

“And your brother?” she asked softly a few moments later. “Is that another sad memory?”

“Not a sad one,” he said, “but one just as final. Gregory serves with the Templars. His dedication is to them. We were born of the same parents, reared in the same manner. He was my first opponent. I practiced my swordplay against him. Once he was my friend, but now we are strangers.” He leaned his arm against the masonry. “I learned that he had taken vows, become a Templar, then later became aide to the Seneschal. Ambition, Gregory has it. How far it will take him is all that's unknown.”

“There was a community of Knights Templar located not far from the convent.”

“They have many such holdings throughout the country, some dedicated to hospitals, others to act as their domus. The one near you is where they train their English knights.”

She looked at him, the frown on her forehead accentuated by the shadow cast by the oil lamp. “How do you know such things, Sebastian?”

“I have made it my duty to learn as much about
them as I can. There are those among the Templars who wish the glory, not of God, but of the Order. For that they will betray women and children and call it faith.” He stood, wondering if he trembled over the edge of a cliff by giving her this truth. “I know for they made me their witness.”

She silently placed all the pieces back where they belonged on the board. Her deliberation was such he knew she was barely concentrating upon her task.

She stood and came too close. So near that he could smell the scent of her, feel her warmth.

“Will you tell me, Sebastian?” Her voice was filled with compassion.

She reached out one hand. Too close, she was only inches from him. He flinched and drew back. He stepped back, closer to the edge of the crenel. If necessary, he would jump from the tower rather than have her touch him.

“Do not touch me, Juliana. Ever.” He should have shouted the command to her, but evidently his hoarse whisper was enough. She dropped her hand and stepped away. By the light of the lamp he could see her surprise. Better she question his rage than be afflicted as he was.

He could not, suddenly, wait to get away.

“I
s my husband well?”

Juliana held her hands tight in her lap, certain that the answer would be in the affirmative. It simply must be.

Jerard nodded. Tonight he sat beside her on the dais, keeping her company as she ate. It was the first time he'd done so. The drone of voices around them encouraged conversation, but she was as disinclined to talk as she was to eat.

Etiquette demanded a certain set of manners at table, and Jerard was the perfect companion, his nails and hands scrupulously clean. He did not pick his teeth with his knife, nor did he use the shared utensils for only his food. He was gracious and courtly and as silent as she. Perhaps he knew that it would be useless to try to charm her from her mood.

The hunters kept the castle in meat, the gardens provided vegetables such as onions, cabbages, leeks, peas, and beans. But, there were no luxuries at the table. There were few spices, although there was mustard in abundance. No loaves of sugar, the food being sweetened with honey, instead. Nor was there rice, or almonds or raisins. Perhaps one day, such an oversight might matter enough to question it. For
now, there was a more pressing omission in her life.

“I have not seen him all week,” she said, hoping Jerard would contribute the information she needed. Was Sebastian ill? Or had she somehow angered him?

Jerard's sideways glance indicated that it would not be worthwhile to question him further. He would not speak.

“Will you convey this note to him?”

The folded parchment she gave him was a message to Sebastian. Short and private, it consisted of only two sentences.
I concede to your requirements, Sebastian. Will you come to me?
She would never reach out to touch him again. Nor would she ask another question of him. If only he would continue with their conversations. She missed them so. No…she missed him. Every night she'd returned to the tower and had waited for him to appear. But he had never come.

The rest of the meal passed slowly. After she left the table, Juliana went again to the top of the tower. She sat there for nearly an hour until it was obvious that Sebastian was not going to come that night, either.

She retired to her room and stood silent while Grazide helped her remove her surcoat. The garment was truly beautiful, one of the loveliest garments she'd ever worn. Of diapered gold cloth, it was adorned with a diamond pattern of blue and embroidered with gold braid and worn over a long cotte of deeper blue. She'd worn it tonight in the hope that Sebastian might agree to see her. Hoping to appear beautiful to him.

Grazide hung the garment in the tall chest. Inside were more beautiful fabrics fashioned into lovely clothing, soft leather shoes embroidered with deli
cate flowers, toques and chin bands of white linen.

There was nothing she lacked. Except for a husband.

Grazide unbraided and brushed her hair, all the while keeping up her ever-present chatter. It droned over her and around her, but Juliana paid no attention to the words. When her hair was arranged in the loose braid for sleep she stood.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” Grazide asked.

Juliana shook her head.

“I've left water for your bathing on the bench, and a length of toweling. The new soap is finished, but it burns the skin, my lady, so I would be cautious of it.”

She nodded, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Grazide.”

Finally, Grazide left the room.

Juliana removed the rest of her clothes, sat naked on the bench and began to bathe. She dipped a cloth into the basin of water. Here, in her chamber, there was only the sound of water pouring over her hands as she washed herself. The slight squeak of a hinge was all the warning she had that she was not alone.

Moments passed like hours. The bench upon which she sat, the basin of cool water, the flickering oil lamp, the cloth now wadded into a ball with one hand, all those things were noted as if she took inventory in her mind.

The shadow on the wall was too large to be hers. Then it moved, even as she remained motionless.

“Forgive me,” Sebastian said softly, “I should have announced myself.”

She could not look up at him. Her trembling hands smoothed out the cloth and then placed it across her naked breasts. A paltry gesture to hide a
small part of her from his gaze. Why did she not move more quickly? Her fingers seemed too slow in their movements, as if playing with time itself.

“You sent me a note, Juliana. To lure me here?”

She shook her head. In truth, she did not know if she could speak. She sat naked before him, her only covering the soft, flickering shadows.

He said nothing further. There was no sound at all in the room except for the drop of water sliding from the rim back into the basin. Her hearing seemed acute enough to hear that, and to note the harshness of Sebastian's breathing.

The light wavered, as if his hand trembled as he held the oil lamp. Her hands fluttered in the air, uncertain as to journey or destination, then came to rest against her naked thighs. She did not speak, however, did not entreat him to come forward or to leave her.

She bowed her head, her hands fisted. Her own breathing was too fast.

He was her husband. This moment proved that. His entrance into her room did not need to be announced. Neither the door nor her inclination could bar him.

The heat of her skin seemed to warm the cloth that stretched damply over her chest. She averted her head, closed her eyes, waited for him to leave the room. A final renunciation. It would come, she was certain. He had refused her as his wife. She waited in silence for him to repudiate her as a woman.

She did not know if he thought her comely. Yet ever since she'd seen him, ever since he'd smiled at her, she'd worried about her own face and form. She wanted him to look at her as if he were captivated. The same way she felt about him. She wanted to see his hands, to have her fingers entwine with his. And
his lips upon her brow, that it might cool her skin, and on her neck where her flesh felt especially warm. And if it were not too shocking, upon the curve of her shoulder.

She wanted, most especially, to be beautiful for him.

He still did not speak. Had he been struck dumb with aversion? Or was he shamed that she had not covered herself with the toweling that lay only inches from her fingers? Or was he shocked that she did not protest his appearance even though she trembled in the silence?

“Forgive me,” he said.

Why did he beg forgiveness for something that was his right? Or had his chivalry extended even to this room? Such graciousness. Such kindness. She wanted neither. No, that was not true. His kindness cushioned her, made her smile when she was not with him. His thoughtfulness had weaned her from solitude. He had gifted her with oddities, things of such uniqueness that she'd known he had thought of her in the selection.

Please, Sebastian, do not go. Curse me for a sinner, name me a harlot, but do not leave me
. She drew a soft breath, listening for the soft slide of the door closing.

Instead, he moved closer, a brush of air against her bare legs told her that. He was behind her now, a still and silent figure. She could see him in her mind's eye as perfectly as if she'd opened her eyes, his figure dark clothed and silent, one gloved hand outstretched and holding the lamp. His beautiful face would be hidden in shadows. Those eyes that so mirrored the evening sky, what emotion did they express?

He said nothing, but the light wavered again. Did he bend closer? Was that the warmth of his breath
upon her back or had she only imagined it? She straightened her head, felt another faint sensation upon her skin. No, that surely must be imagination. He'd never ventured this close. A sudden brightness beneath her lids. She opened them a little to peer through her lashes. He had placed the oil lamp on the bench beside her. She closed her eyes again. Where was he?

Her lips felt full, and the pulse beat at her neck as loud as the convent's bells. There were other places where the sensation was just as disconcerting. Her breasts ached. Her skin felt tight. The cloth, drying upon her heated skin, felt abrasive.

A soft footstep alerted her to his location. He was in front of her now. Did he kneel? Was that the explanation for the sound she heard? She could not open her eyes this time, her lids were fused, her breath fueled by heated coals in her stomach.

Was he watching her? Did he look at her sitting there, nude except for a cloth across her breasts? Her knees were pressed together, her hands rested on her upper thighs. She was immobile, but her blood was racing.

“Juliana.”

Her name seemed breathed from his lips. A whisper, no more. The sound a breeze might make when dancing through the branches of a tree. A sigh of storm upon the land.

She did not want to answer. He would pull her from this place of secrecy, force her to open her eyes, to face what she was doing. She wanted to remain in this half world, enticing without a word, inviting him to touch her without entreaty. Adrift in sensation that heightened as each moment passed. Imagination coupled with curiosity.

Please, Sebastian, touch me
.

“Juliana.” Another summons, in a voice that had grown harsh. Still, she did not open her eyes.

“Yes?” She licked her lips as if to cool their heat.

“Remove the cloth.”

Time stopped. So, too, her breath. Her hand reached up and flattened itself against the drying cloth. Then her fingers crept to the edge, gripped it and slowly peeled it back. Her skin was cool where it had lain, and her nipples hardened in the sudden surprising chill. Yet, it was as if heat entered her body at the same time.

She opened her eyes to meet his look.

He knelt in front of her, his head bare. His eyes studied her, and wherever they touched she felt as if a tiny flame had been lit. His mouth was compressed into a thin line, his face looked more severe than she'd ever seen it. An ascetic's face, a warrior's mien. She closed her eyes again.

“‘As she waited before me, her clothes cast off her body, no blemish appeared. What shoulders, what arms, what thighs are hers, this youthful beauty. The shape of her breasts are fit for my hands. There is nothing not worthy of praise about her. How I wish to press her up against me.'”

Her eyes opened. “Ovid?” The word passed through the constriction of her throat.

He nodded.

One of his large hands, covered in its eternal glove, reached out, came closer. She could almost feel the heat of his skin through the leather. His palm curved as if to mimic the shape of the breast it would hold in the next moment. Instead, he hesitated an inch from her skin. His hand trembled. She looked up then, to meet his eyes.

“Sebastian.” A wisp of sound. Neither admonishment nor question, but rather a plea.

She ached, hurt with the pain of this moment. She wanted him to touch her, wanted his hands on her body.
Please, Sebastian
. Words that were spoken in her heart, in her mind. Instinctively, she knew that he was the answer for this ache she felt, his hand on her would ease this longing.

She extended her hands to him, palms up, a sign of surrender.

He looked at her hands for a long moment, then his eyes lifted until they met her gaze.

From the great hall came the sounds of merriment. Laughter and singing. Voices arranged in harmony, in raucous enjoyment. They would have no idea that their joy was counterpoint to this moment of silence, stretched so thin she could almost see through time. Her chest ached; she could barely breathe, and when she did her breath felt too hot, as if her body was an inferno.

He did not speak, but she could feel the heat of his hand still, even through the leather of his glove. It remained poised an inch from her body. She closed her eyes again.

“Did you lure me here to tempt me, Juliana?”

Her face warmed at the thought.

“If so, you've succeeded at your aim,” he asked, his voice rough. “Do you know how badly I want to touch you, I wonder? Do you know how the sight of your body arouses me? No? Of course you can't. You are an innocent, aren't you? Then, innocent Juliana, would you like to know what I wish to do at this moment?”

Her eyes opened, then closed again quickly.

“I would kiss you first, Juliana. I think you would like kissing. Your lower lip especially, it seems almost too full for your mouth. Such things are some
times an indication of a passionate nature. Is yours, I wonder?”

She looked beneath her lashes at him. He stood.

“I think it is. You've read love poetry in secret. Did the words you read make you hunger, Juliana? Want something you've never had?”

He moved, circling the bench.

“You would become adept at kissing very quickly. I would learn the shape of your lips, the sounds you make as I deepen the kiss. Lovely Juliana, passionate Juliana.”

Her lips felt oddly strange, as if they were being kissed. But not simply in passion. In anger. It was there in his words, in the tone of his voice.

“I would touch you, Juliana, on your shoulders, your neck. Kiss you there, where your skin is soft and your pulse beats strong. And at your temple.” His voice changed. He was behind her now. He bent and whispered in her ear, as if the words were too intimate to be heard even by the shadows. “I would touch your breasts, Juliana, stroke those lovely nipples of yours. My fingers would make your blood leap.”

Her blood seemed on fire, her skin too tight for her body. Her hands were clenched now on her knees. Again, the sensation that his breath brushed her skin. Or was that his hand again, suspended over her body? Why did he not touch her?

“Press your fingers against your lips, Juliana.”

She hesitated but a moment, then followed his instructions.

“They are my fingers now, just as your body is mine. You wanted this moment, Juliana. Then experience it.”

She shivered at the note in his voice. Not cruel, nor punishing but firm. The tones of a warrior,
brooking no refusal. Still, she did not speak to protest his assumption, didn't tell him that his presence here was only an accident. Instead, she felt trapped in the web of his words, entranced, flushed. Wondering.