My Beloved (26 page)

S
ebastian found her, not in her chamber where one might expect to find a wife, or in the oriel where she spent so much of her time, but in the courtyard. He stopped and watched her. She was bent before a large caldron, stirring something with a branch nearly as tall as she was and earnestly explaining something to two young girls who stood in front of her. He wondered if she knew that she was awe-inspiring to the women of Langlinais. She was their Lady, versed in things foreign to them.

The knowledge of how much he loved her came as a fierce blow to his chest. No, it was a poor choice of word. This feeling he had for Juliana was so much greater than anything a poet could say.

I am hers from head to toe. Forever
.

He had never anticipated this moment, of striding through the bailey of Langlinais whole and free of disease. He had sought courage for himself, that he might be brave enough to accept what was his fate. But he had not once believed it might be possible to alter it.

It was, perhaps, not wise to question a miracle. But he found himself doing so. He'd spent the last year preparing for his death, the last few weeks com
ing to terms with his exile. People would have fled from the sight of him, the sound of his clapper. Doors would have swung shut, little children jerked from his path. Yet, in one moment, his future had been changed. A miracle. Yet, he could not help but study his hands, rub the skin of his chest, wonder why he had been so blessed.

The future spread out before him blank and unwritten. Never even dreamed prior to this moment. Perhaps it was a tinge of fear he felt staring at the void in front of him. He had prepared so diligently for death, now he must make ready for life.

He had sought to obey the commandments of knighthood—not to be a party to treason, to honor all women and be ready to aid them to the extent of his power. He had, until the onset of his disease and his caution for the Church, heard mass every day and he still fasted every Friday. He had attempted to be fair, to be just in his life. But he had sinned, acts for which he asked forgiveness. The knightly virtues such as generosity, compassion, a free and frank spirit, and courtliness were more difficult to attain. He gave to the poor and he would protect Juliana with his life. His compassion was reserved for those weaker and less able to defend themselves. But his spirit was not free, and the secret he held within himself prevented a forthright nature.

He was no paragon of knighthood. He knew that only too well. He despised what had happened to the Cathars, whereas a true knight would have defended the acts of the Church even in thought. He had offered up a false chalice to the Templars knowing it would be revered as a relic. He was willing to bargain what he knew in order to save those he loved and Langlinais. And he had brought danger
home with him in the guise of a straw basket. He was no true and noble knight.

Why, then, had he been spared?

Was it because he'd touched the relics? Had they a power beyond their existence as proof of his faith? Or was it the fact that he'd not worn the woolen robe, but his armor, instead? There was but one way to test that, but he could not bear the thought of wearing the monk's garb again. Or had it been the unguent Sister Agnes had given Juliana? He'd been faithful about using the preparation. Could it possess some properties not previously known? Or, perhaps most difficult to bear, what if that physician who first saw him and labeled him leper had not been truly versed in knowledge? What if he had simply been mistaken?

Was he simply doomed forever to wonder? To accept without question? A smile crossed his face as it occurred to him that he had just defined the true meaning of a miracle.

At that moment, Juliana turned and smiled at him. Her young apprentices melted away at his appearance. They were shy, and he was more accustomed to inducing fear than of being pleasing. Besides, he had no patience for those things that separated him from his wife.

He walked closer to the kettle, halted only by a noxious odor. He sniffed. “What is that stench?”

“It is the preparation I use for my parchment,” she said.

“Why does it smell that odious?”

She smiled. “You do not want to know, Sebastian.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“It is water, Sebastian.”

“Water?” He looked into the caldron, one he rec
ognized from the smith's collection. The contents were pale yellow and frothy. For a moment he was speechless. It looked as if most of the castle had dumped their nightly chamber pots into the vessel. He turned and raised one eyebrow at his smiling wife.

“Well, not just any water,” she confessed.

“Why would you use such a thing?”

“It aids in removing the last of the hair from the hide, Sebastian.”

“So, we're to have this odor for how many days?”

“A few,” she confessed. “But you will become accustomed to it.”

“Will I?”

“Well, after the hide is boiled in it. It smells a good bit, too.” She smiled brightly at him.

Her hair had come askew, damp tendrils clung to her temples. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, her cheeks blushed with color. He did not even try to hide his enchantment.

“Would you be willing to take a moment from your vile chores?”

As he watched, the color of her cheeks deepened. He laughed, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her until her ears were scarlet.

He did not speak further, just grabbed her hand and pulled her with him, nodding at the smiling faces he passed. He knew full well what they thought, and he had plans for that, too, but first he wished to give her his surprise.

“Why must I keep my eyes closed?” she asked as he led her into the chamber that had once been hers. He did not answer, simply pushed her into the center of the room.

“I know you've been practicing,” he said gently, “for that day when you will be able to write again.
And when you do so, you should have the finest surroundings.”

Her old bedchamber had been converted to a scriptorium, but not any place where a scribe might work. This was a room alight with the sun's rays, captured from prisms mounted in the ceiling. But that was not the only Cathar wonder that had been duplicated. The window that had once overlooked the kitchen garden had been replaced with a series of openings to allow fresh air into the room. But where the ones at Montvichet were open permanently, these had small louvers that could close during cold weather.

The desk, however, was the greatest innovation. Instead of being simply a smooth surface on which she could write, the structure was formed in three parts, a center unit and two flanking areas of the same height.

Slowly she walked around it, then sat on the padded stool and looked about her. On her right was a place to store her powdered inks. On the left, a long shelf for blank parchment. The surface of the main desk was divided, one side for the parchment she was copying, the other for the original, both gently slanted. There were two holes carved into the top and inside these rested twin reservoirs crafted of glass. One would hold the ink she mixed for the day, the other her quills.

On top of the desk rested a large coffer. She looked at him questioningly, but he only smiled. She slowly opened the lid. Inside was a tray, separated into sections. She lifted the tray free, and laid it aside. The body of the coffer was filled with a square box. He said nothing at her glance, only shook his head.

He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms,
as enthralled as she. Not in the gifts, but in her reaction.

The box was enameled, its corners rounded. She removed the top cautiously. A thin parchment sheet lay on the top. A gasp of wonder escaped her. “Goldbeater's skin,” she whispered in awe. Beneath the thin, hardened membrane were more than a hundred leaves of beaten gold.

She glanced over at him, the look on her face one he wished he could hold forever. Amazement and joy, both contained in her eyes and her expression of wonder. “How did you know, Sebastian? How did you know I've always wanted to work with gold?”

“Your abbess arranged it. I asked her to send me all that a scribe would dream of having.”

“But I've never worked with gold, Sebastian. I might waste some of it.”

“Then you'll learn,” he said, his smile coming from deep inside him. She looked so earnest, so sincere. What did it matter if she wasted a few sheets of gold? He would have given his life for her.

“It was a good harvest, Juliana. And my ransom is fulfilled. Don't tell me you are going to turn into a nagging wife, telling me where to spend my money?”

She shook her head, her eyes misty.

“You haven't seen the rest,” he said, the words having to travel around the boulder in his throat in order to be voiced.

She looked inside the tray. There were five drawstring leather bags, each one of them contained a different powder. “Vermilion,” she whispered as she opened the first one. She glanced up at him. “Sebastian, do you know how costly this is? Only the abbess was allowed to use it.”

He raised an eyebrow. She smiled and turned back to the tray. “Lapis and orchil, azurite and orpiment,” she said, after she'd opened all of them.

“What colors do they produce?”

“The lapis and azurite are blues, the most beautiful shades of blue. And the orpiment is yellow. The vermilion, of course, is scarlet.”

“Orchil?”

“Purple,” she said softly. Her fingers played upon the tray, and when she turned finally to him, her smile was radiant.

“Have I made you happy?” he asked, and took a step toward her, pulled her from the stool and into his arms.

“Oh Sebastian, I am happy even when you do nothing.”

“Allow me the pleasure, then,” he said, turning her cheek against his chest.

The day was bright, the weather fair, the harvest was in and there were no Templars on the horizon. He had pleased his wife.

He closed his eyes. A man should be content with such a day. But then, there were the scrolls, and the codex that pulsed its presence louder each day like a living entity.

“I
suspected as much, my lady,” Grazide said. She bustled into the scriptorium carrying a tray. She bumped the door shut with her backside, frowned at Juliana. “When I don't see you or the lord at the noon table, I know it's one of two things. You've either got it into your head to make Langlinais an heir, and right about time it is, too.” Juliana could feel her face flaming. “Or he's in the tilting yard and you're in this place.”

“Then I take it that my husband is practicing with his squires?”

Grazide set down the tray on the wing of Juliana's desk. “No, it's too wet and raw a day for that. I've no idea where he is, my lady. In truth, I thought he was with you. No doubt he's with the masons or fiddling with that special door of his.” It was no secret at Langlinais that Sebastian had explained the Cathars' secret door to their masons in an effort to duplicate it.

“But just in case you were holed up here, my lady, I've brought you something to eat. Some bread and cheese and some good Langlinais beer. It will line your womb and make you fertile.”

Juliana blinked at her, but she dutifully picked up
the cup from the tray. Sebastian laughed at the notion she'd ever been timid, lauded her occasional ferocity, yet before Grazide she still felt as defenseless as a child.

Now her attendant stood before her, tapping her foot and frowning at her, so that Juliana had no choice but to tear off a bit of the bread and begin to nibble. Juliana sighed, albeit silently. Each day brought her closer to being able to form her letters. So much so that she ached to practice. Even now she could grip a quill at just the right angle, and she'd been able to draw a glyph, although it was more clumsy than her usual effort. But perhaps the respite would make the writing easier when she returned to her task.

“I thought I would find you here,” Sebastian said as he opened the door. “I'd not constructed this to be your cage, Juliana.” Grazide smiled approvingly at that comment before leaving the room. Juliana only rolled her eyes and continued eating.

“You sit within this chamber for too many hours. You need a change from your reading.”

She slitted her eyes at him. “Why do I think you not altogether truthful, Sebastian? I suspect you wish a rematch of the chess game we played yesterday.”

He smiled slightly. “If you have the time.”

“You do not like it when I win.”

His current frown mimicked the one he'd worn all day yesterday. “I am a better man than that, Juliana. Besides, it was only once.”

“Then why did you walk away when I won?”

“Jerard needed my counsel.”

Her smile could no longer be hidden.

He came closer, leaning over her plate. She held a bit of cheese against his lips and his bite encompassed both the food and a portion of her fingers.
She laughed and pulled her hand away.

“You have the beginnings of autocracy in your nature, Sebastian,” she said softly.

“Indeed?”

He circled her desk, pulled her from the stool. She fell into his arms. He bent, and in a move that startled her, released her girdle, then grasped the hem of her garment and pulled the surcoat over her head.

She gasped. “Sebastian, Grazide…” That was as far as she got before his lips closed over hers.

“Autocracy?” he murmured when she surfaced from the kiss. “Perhaps you are correct, Juliana. I'm feeling despotic at the moment.”

He stepped back and fumbled with her quills, selecting one that had been newly sharpened. His fingers pinched a fold of the linen of her cotte; the quill pierced the material easily. He inserted one finger and slowly pulled the fabric apart until there was a gap of more than a hand's span. Her eyes widened as his fingers reached in to play on her skin. A gasp escaped her as a warm palm cupped a heated breast.

“Not chess, then,” she softly said, “but another game.”

“You cannot fault me, Juliana. I have a wife who enslaves me like Circe.”

Her head fell back as his fingers caressed her flesh.

His two hands rent the material of her cotte to its hem. Another quick tug and that was ripped apart. The cotte hung by her shoulders, and he reached in through the folds, his palms sweeping over her skin.

“Did you know I used to dream of you?” he asked, his attention directed to the flush that enveloped her breasts. One finger toyed with a nipple, as if encouraging it to lengthen.

She shook her head. Her hands gripped his arms.

“Should we not retire to our chamber, Sebastian?”

He smiled. “Indulge me, Juliana. Have you never wished to be naughty?”

“Only children are naughty,” she said. Her eyes watched him, widened as he picked up the enameled box and opened it slowly. He held it only an inch from her body, bent and blew softly. A sheet of gold leaf fluttered from the interior to be caught on his open palm. He laid the sheet of thinly hammered gold across her breast. A gentle breath was all it took for the gold to splinter, glittering dust bathing her skin. A touch of a finger spread it from sloping curve to nipple, turning it coral and gold.

“You are no child now, my lady wife.”

She shook her head, her eyes fluttering shut as his gold-tipped finger brushed softly between her breasts, coating her skin. “Sebastian, I truly believe we should retire to our chamber.”

“You've never been timid in my arms, Juliana. Is it your wish to be so now?”

Her eyes flew open. “We've coupled in almost every room at Langlinais, Sebastian. A timid wife would not do so.”

“Oh, but that was my naked Juliana. Devoid of clothes she is a siren. Garbed, she is timid and quiet.” He bent to capture her mouth with his. Their kiss was heated and carnal, luring her to feverishness. As it was every time he touched her.

“Perhaps she is only conspiring in silence,” she said, pulling back from him, a small smile lifting her lips. She reached for his hand and pressed it to her breast. His smile broadened. “Perhaps she is reading Ovid again and thinking of all manner of things she might do to a husband who is a knight with a wicked grin and talented hands.”

He extended his hands to her shoulders. His gold-
tipped thumb brushed against her neck, leaving a glittering trail.

“Then do with me as you will, Juliana. In the meantime, I will satisfy a dream I had.”

“You dreamed of me?” Her words felt heated, but he had that ability to stir her, to encapsulate her in thoughts only of him, to entwine her in passion. She sometimes grew breathless simply remembering how she felt when he entered her, her body welcoming him, easing for him.

“You have filled my nights since you came to Langlinais.” His fingers curved around her breast. He bent his head and kissed her shoulder where his other hand lay, then trailed his lips down her chest.

A tremor seemed to skitter over her skin at his touch. Her breath quickened.

“Warm and enticing.” His tongue sampled her glittering skin between her breasts. His palm brushed against a nipple that felt hot and tight. A thumb brushed against it as he bestowed a delicate kiss to the side of her neck.

He kissed her again, brushing her mouth with soft strokes. Tiny flecks of gold glittered on his mouth and she reached up and traced her tongue over his lips, cleaning him.

She pulled the ruined cotte from her shoulders, stood naked before him. Her smile felt daring. His eyes seemed to darken as he looked at her, but she did not move to cover herself.

“The vision in my dreams is a poor replica of you, Juliana,” he said, his voice harsh.

She knelt before him on the floor, gathering up her ruined cotte to serve as their mattress. It was she who reached for his hand and urged him down to her, propriety and timidity forgotten.

He kissed her, leading the way into a vortex of
darkness and desire. He removed his tunic and she kissed him again. Each successive bit of clothing he removed was marked and rewarded by a heated kiss.

He laid her down, then thrust gold-tipped fingers into her hair, holding her immobile while he plundered her mouth.

She held herself still, her breath captured on a sigh as he sat up, reached for the enameled box, opened it. A breath dislodged another sheet of gold. It fell to her belly in a tremulous quiver. His fingers broke it apart, his palm smoothed it over the curve of her hip, then halted at the juncture of her thighs.

He watched her as a soft touch of two of his gilded fingers brushed the gold dust over the delicate curls, touched her intimately.

A soft, helpless gasp escaped her. She closed her eyes as he painted her with a breath and the exquisitely delicate touch of fingertip. Her legs widened, welcoming him without a word. But he continued softly stroking her. His fingers were gentle but demanding. She opened her eyes to find him smiling at her.

The passion was building, the moment soon here when the world turned heated and white and she shattered into a hundred pieces. But she'd never felt it without him.

“No.” Her head moved from side to side.

His small smile was wickedly charming, but resolute.

“Yes.”

“Please, Sebastian.” Her breath was coming too fast, there was that feeling like fire in her blood, heaviness between her thighs, anticipation too intense to be endured for too long.

“Now?”

“Yes.” A soft gasp, but he did not enter her. Instead, his mouth came down to bestow the most intimate of kisses. A stroke of intrusive tongue threw her into the white void. She called out to him and he rose up and held her tightly, was there when it ended and she became whole again.

 

She trembled, but not from fear. Her sobs unmanned him; her effortless soaring into ecstasy enfolded him in pride. She came apart in his arms, and it entranced him.

He had been married to her as a boy. Had not known her until a few short months ago, but in that time she'd changed his life, made it brighter. She'd brought him joy and acceptance and curiosity. Would he have always loved her, or had it taken the knowledge of his own mortality to change him from the youth he'd been to a man worthy of Juliana? Would he have seen past her beauty to the soul of her? Would he have known that when she laughed it was almost with a note of surprise, as if the sound of it astonished her? Would he have seen that she had such passion about her work? She had wept for the Cathar women and children, with a generosity of spirit he'd witnessed and that had humbled him. Would he have appreciated, this man who had been untested, that she was a woman who loved deeply, without restraint? Or perhaps such questions were not important after all. She was here and so was he, whole and untainted.

“Are you pleased, Juliana?”

“No,” she said, her voice somber. Surprised, he raised his head to look at her.

“Not as much as when you are in me, Sebastian.” Her eyes were lambent, her face flushed, and there was a small smile that played upon her lips. Had he
ever believed that she would be capable of saying such words to him, or that her glance would be filled with remonstrance? Timid Juliana? Had she ever truly existed?

She pushed him to his back and held him there, a palm placed on his chest. The box was open again. She licked two fingers and pressed them against the sheet of gold leaf. It clung to her fingers.

He wanted to be in her, but he slowed himself, curious as to what she would do. She draped the gold between his thighs, over his erect and straining flesh. He closed his eyes at the feeling of her fingers brushing against him, coating him just as he had done with her. A hesitation of touch had him opening his eyes again.

She seemed to study him, examine her adornment of him as closely as she would one of her manuscripts. He raised his head and looked at himself. He glittered like an idol.

Her fingers curved around him, lightly squeezed.

“I had the oddest thought, Sebastian,” she said, her fingers trailing in delightful torture over his flesh. “Your phallus is not unlike a quill, I think.” Her soft, daring smile startled him. So, too, the bubble of laughter in his chest. The moment seemed so filled with passion that humor was a strange emotion to feel. But he choked it back, gave her soberness instead.

“Am I not substantially larger than a quill?” His smile released some of the silly happiness he felt.

Her head bobbed down and her soft, intimate kiss banished his humor. A wordless groan occupied its space.

“You write beautiful love poems, Sebastian.” Her gold-tipped smile teased and promised.

“If that is a result of your reading, my lady wife,
I shall send to the abbess,” he said, the words pushed through a cloud of exquisite agony, “and beg her to send me some more of her most audacious texts.”

She returned to her task, and he was treated to the oddest sensation of smiling lips brushing over his flesh.

He raised up and flipped her on her back, hovered over her.

She undulated beneath him brushing her breasts against his chest, hips and thighs arching, a teasing touch.

He looked down at her, frozen into wonder by the sight. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed. Upon her cheek was the beginning of a glittering trail that led to the generous slopes of her breasts. Her nipples were engorged and tinted golden, her open thighs sparkled with gold.

He tried to hold back, to make the moment last, to make their joining even more fervent and desired. But somewhere in between the words of that thought crept another—he must be in her now or die.

He moved back, kneeling, and pulled her onto him, her legs curving around his hips. The position thrust him deeper into her, but she was slick and ready for him.

Her arms wound around his neck as she hung from him. She whimpered, not in distress as much as yearning. His hands pressed down on her hips as he rose up beneath her.

He covered her breasts with kisses, anointed her neck with soft bites, breathed into her ear words he'd once thought with such ferocity. “Mine, Juliana. You're mine.”