My Beloved (3 page)

He offered her freedom. But it was too much a gift, one dappled in sunlight and extended on a plate of gold. Why did he do it? Was he incapable of siring a child? She felt her cheeks warm. Too many questions, after all, and he sat waiting for the answer to the most important one of all.

Would she pretend the union? A strange request from a bridegroom she did not know, a husband wed for so many years but seen only once.

He stood and moved to the other side of the window, on the same side of the room as the bench upon which she sat. They were close enough to touch.

A sweet smell seemed to emanate from his clothing, a hint of cinnamon. She wondered if he carried the costly spice in the little silver ball at the end of his corded belt. He was not the man she'd fashioned him to be. She knew him less now than when she'd entered the great hall.

Word had spread of his exploits, the number of tournaments he'd won, his father's death, his own departure for the Holy Land. Even the convent had not been exempt from tales of Sebastian of Langlinais.

Before today she'd imagined his appearance, had taken the knowledge of his exploits and paired it with what she knew of the world, rendering him almost solid in her mind. He would be strong. Knights must be, in order to carry a lance and armor and sword. He would be tall. The boy she'd seen but
once had seemed to tower over her. He would be handsome. Again, that young man who'd grinned at her had been graced with a flashing smile and a comely face.

She had created a rich and detailed picture of her husband. Except that he had rendered all of her thoughts oddly black, muddied them with the reality of his presence. The man who stood beside her hinted at mystery and secrets she might not wish revealed. There was something about him that cautioned her not to explore further, something buried in his softly voiced words. She knew, without testing the point, that he would not answer any more of her questions.

It would be safer to return to the convent, to live among the nuns and do her work. It would be wiser to heed these currents she felt in the air, the hint of danger and the lure of a voice that made her tremble.

She stood, certain she would refuse him. Sure of it. They faced each other, strangers united. She opened her mouth to speak the words to refuse his strange bond, but the words would not come. The ghostly echo of girlish voices taunted her for her lack of courage, her fright at the click of branches against the roof, a looming shadow. Into the silence came their laughter, the echoes of their derision. As she stood watching him, she remembered all those times she felt frightened. Had it been in preparation for this moment, this decision?

But she could not remain Juliana the Timid forever. Her life had been measured by her fears. Was her future to be limited by them? She was, after all, the Langlinais Bride. She straightened her shoulders, determined this once not to be afraid.

“I will remain, my lord,” she said, and somehow managed a smile.

A
short woman in a deep blue surcoat over a pale yellow cotte bustled into the room within minutes of Sebastian's departure. Her immaculate white wimple accentuated the roundness of her face, her friendly brown eyes set into the wrinkles there.

“I am Grazide, my lady. I have been assigned to be your attendant.”

Juliana was not used to having someone wait upon her, but she smiled.

Grazide busied herself unpacking Juliana's trunks. “My lady, I have never seen such beautiful work.” She moved the oil lamp closer to the gowns strewn on the bed, the better to examine the workmanship.

“The convent is renowned for its embroidery, Grazide. I am fortunate in that my father was generous in providing for me.”

“I would wish to be half this talented, my lady.” Her look was rueful. “But then we cannot all be bluebirds, can we? There are some among us who must remain sparrows.”

Grazide's comment prompted a smile. Her next actions, however, shocked her. The woman untied the linen binding of her toque and removed it from Juliana's coronet of braids, then bent and gathered
up the material of her surcoat and began to drag it over her head.

Juliana's protest was nothing more than a small whimper, but she jerked back the material, clutching it with tight fists.

Grazide frowned in confusion. “My lady, you must change from your journey.”

“I can do it myself.”

“If you wish, my lady,” she said, but at the same time she jerked the wadded cloth from Juliana's hands. “We shall work together.” She smiled a bright and friendly smile.

Juliana felt like a leaf in a gale.

“We have been waiting for you, my lady,” she said as she pulled the cotte over Juliana's head. “It's been a long time since the castle was blessed with a young couple. Why, the last was when my lady was alive and she's been dead these many years. Sir John—he was the lord's father—was an old man when he died five years ago.”

The discarded cotte was placed gently on the bed. “Langlinais is a beautiful place, my lady. I am sure you will enjoy it here. Why, our lord is the kindest and most generous overseer. My own son was allowed a trade and now acts as carpenter for the castle.” She ceased her talking only long enough to ask Juliana which garment she preferred to wear. Juliana pointed to it.

“And the celebration.” Grazide's hands fluttered in the air. “Well, everyone has been invited. All fifty of the people assigned to the castle. There are to be jongleurs and musicians, my lady, and a feast to rival anything in Sir John's time. Oh, those were the days, Lady Juliana. We had a celebration for almost any occasion. The grandest was when Sir John knighted his two sons.” She sighed, placed her
hands upon her hips, and stared into the air as if to witness the grand event again.

The respite of silence did not last long.

“But I fear those days are gone. The lord does not encourage visitors to Langlinais. He keeps to himself. But you can always find him atop the east tower, looking down on us.” She smiled and shook her head.

By the time Grazide finally helped her into her clean cotte Juliana was suffused in blushes. The cloth felt cool against her heated skin. She had not been naked before another person since she was five and tended by her mother.

“Nothing happens at Langlinais that he does not know of, from the number of hens laying to the roofs needing new thatch. But, he was always that way, my lady, being concerned as he was for his people. Well, at least he was when he stopped being so wild. They were well doted upon, he and his brother. Neither was sent away to foster, no doubt because so many children had been lost before those two came of age.” Grazide sighed. “Their own father taught them how to be knights, and there were many girls in those days who would find reason enough to be near the quintain when they were practicing.”

Grazide set a circlet upon her hair, stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“But it's time you came to Langlinais, my lady. I think, sometimes, that he is of too serious a nature. A new bride is just what he needs. I know this may sound odd, my lady, but he might be too devout. We rarely see him, other than to view him on the tower. But I know he spends a great deal of time in the chapel.”

The agreement, only an hour old, lay like lead in
Juliana's chest. Had he lied, then? Was he indeed a zealot?

She stood, allowing Grazide to fasten the sleeveless train to her shoulders. The embroidery of scarlet-and-gold flowers was so stiff the garment could stand without support.

“You look like a princess, my lady,” Grazide said. She smiled at her, evidently pleased.

In a matter of moments, Grazide was gone, and the room blessedly silent. Juliana sat on the bench in front of the window, the train folding stiffly as she sat.

She was dressed for the celebration to be held in the great hall below. There, the lord and his new lady would accept the congratulations of the villeins, the castle knights, those dignitaries and guests invited for just such a momentous occasion as this. Would he come to escort her? Or would he simply allow the speculation as to their absence to grow? Would lusty ballads be sung about Sebastian of Langlinais and his impatience to make valid his marriage?

Juliana looked toward the bed. What was the reason her husband would not bed her?

She wished, now, that she had never read Ovid's
Ars Amatoria
. She had told herself it had been to prepare for her wedding night. Instead, the poem on the art of love had only added to her questions. So, too, the other ancient poetry she'd read and marveled at, that such words could stir the senses even after so many years.

Come to me, beloved, and smile at me. For sweet is the turn of your lips. Place my hand upon your chest that I may feel the life of you, and sigh with it
.

The oil lamp was pitiful comfort against the night. She walked to the window, looked down at the gar
den. A torch was stuck upon a stand and illuminated a walkway. Light and music, add to that a tincture of laughter and the night welcomed the reveler.

It was a taste of loneliness she had not expected. Something in this odd bargain she had not considered, after all.

It would have been so much easier if she had simply been left at the convent. There, she'd been allowed to spend an hour a day in the scriptorium, and on rare but special occasions was able to coax the abbess into a game of chess. In the convent, men were not required. Women did not wonder about love. Or be afraid at the hint of mystery.

It would be somehow fitting if she sat alone in the night and contemplated her future. But she was Juliana the Mouse and afraid of the dark. She returned to the bench and wished the oil lamp was brighter.

 

Sebastian knelt in the chapel. One lone candle resting upon the stone altar softly illuminated his figure. His head was bowed, his forehead against the wooden rail that surrounded the sanctuary. His arms were outstretched, hands tightly gripping the rough-hewn wood. His coarse monk's robe of black wool extended past his wrists and pooled on the stone floor.

Behind him the small chapel was empty and silent. The sound of laughter beyond the iron-studded door was the purest irony. A celebration to honor the union of the Lord of Langlinais. But they would never be truly joined.

The wood cut into his forehead, splinters sliced into his skin. “Please,” he said. Nothing answered him. There was no response. God was silent. So too, his creatures. The owls that nested nearby were solemn and mute. If a mouse made its home in the
Langlinais chapel, its presence was not noted.

The cowl lay on his shoulders, his face bare. Only the shadows, deep and comforting, protected him from prying eyes. He bowed his head again, forced into humility not by faith or devotion but by a despair as wordless and deep as a night sky.

For what should he pray? Absolution for the sin of killing, even in the name of faith? For the sins of the flesh? Or for once enjoying them so heartily? Perhaps he should pray only for death, oblivion rendered fast and just. A swift end, like those he'd meted out in battle. This was nothing less than war, wasn't it? One fought in solitary, with Death on one side and him on the other, the adversaries so unevenly matched that the outcome was certain.

He had always been able to hold Death at arm's length. With each passing day, the distance lessened a hairsbreadth, until one morning he and Death would stand nose to nose and Sebastian would inhale the nothingness of his own breath.

But he did not wish to meet his old nemesis crawling and weeping and grateful for his appearance. He had ridden into battle with no more than a moment's thought to terror. He had stood with sword raised high in both hands and planned when to deliver the fatal blow. That is the way he would have preferred to die. Not this way.

“Please.” A guttural plea.

Both fists gripped the altar rail, his head was bowed in supplication. He was no martyr, no believer in suffering for the sake of his soul. Yet, was it not for the sake of his soul that he was here at all? A soulless husk would have ended his life long since. He could have fallen upon his sword or simply marched into the sea, his chain mail weighting him down. He could have availed himself of poi
soned mushrooms or a hundred plants that promised sweet dreams with no awakening. Or thrown himself screaming and cursing from the east tower.

It was too late to regret that he had not done so. Too late to wish he'd never seen his wife. Seen Juliana.

He crossed his arms and leaned his face against them. The wool scratched his cheek. Sensation. He would lose that. His days were measured now, carefully marked against the loss of feeling. Each morning he awoke and tested himself, the stroke of a finger against the cloth of his sheets reassured him that he could still feel. One day, he would begin to note the difference. On that day, he would leave the world he knew. A few years later, he would let it be known that he had died. A mysterious death, one that would leave Juliana protected without the taint of rumor to mar her future. A virgin widow.

“Please,” he said once more, and this time his prayer was not for himself, but for the sake of the young woman he'd summoned to his side. He wished her shielded from the sight of him, protected from the might of the Templars, guarded from harm.

It was a small thing to ask, in view of his greater prayer.

T
he soft knock upon the door made Juliana sigh and long to ignore it. The morning had been so peaceful, filled with occupation. Grazide would be like a verbal whirlwind in this calm. But obedience had long been instilled in her and was not easily ignored. She called out, and the door opened slowly.

Spread before her was the horn in which she stored the ink she'd already prepared and two sheets of parchment, one still attached to its wooden stretcher. The original of the encyclopedia she was transcribing was cradled reverently in her lap. She had promised the abbess she would finish her work on the Chronicon. In the trunk were various leather pouches containing her ink, the powder that created the blue color she used for her illuminations. She had no vermilion and could not, therefore, write the name of God since it could only be inscribed in red. Therefore, she would leave the gaps for the word, so that the abbess could complete the manuscript.

The true light from the large window in her chamber was glorious. Her only dissatisfaction was the fact she had no proper surface upon which to write. A scribe's desk needed to fit certain requirements,
none of which was met by the few pieces of furniture in the room. Therefore, she did the only thing she could in order to continue her delicate work. She sat on the floor and used the flat-topped lid of her trunk.

The abbess would not have caviled at her posture, nor at the fact that the costly embroidered gown she wore would likely be damaged by the rough wood floor. The abbess had often forgotten her own role in favor of her cherished occupation.

“Juliana?”

She turned her head, her gaze traveling from his boots to the top of his cowl, a lightning journey considering his height.

“Are the chairs not to your liking?” His voice, deep and low, shivered through her.

She set aside the encyclopedia and stood.

He bowed his head, seemed to study her belongings as they lay scattered on the floor. “You did not tell me you were a scribe, Juliana. Is that why you wished to know if there was a man of letters here?”

She folded her hands together. “Hildegard of Bingen was a scribe, my lord, a very famous one. There have been women of great talent all throughout history, although their names have often been removed from their manuscripts.”

“You defend where there is no need. But tell me, why were you sitting on the floor?”

“I required a surface on which to write.”

He turned, and walked through the doorway, then halted and turned back to her. “Perhaps there is a solution,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

Juliana followed him to where the hallway made a sharp angle. At the end was a door she had not noticed last night.

Even her childhood home had not boasted of a
separate floor of private chambers, and an internal pentice. Most dwellings had a covered external passageway that joined chambers. In winter it made the traveling from one place to another miserable, but at Langlinais there was no need to be subjected to the elements. Also, here each chamber did not lead into one another, but to a hallway. It was privacy to a degree she'd never imagined.

“It is an oriel,” he explained, opening the door. “We have no priest,” he said, “but the room was originally constructed for his use.”

“Is there no mass at Langlinais?”

“We have no priest,” he said again, offering no further explanation.

Nor did she seek one after she'd peered into the room.

The oriel possessed a stillness that was sure to guarantee her future contentment. He removed the iron bar across the shutters. The morning sun streamed into the tiny space from the archery slit. But that was not the greatest delight. Stretching from wall to wall, a distance of no more than four feet, was a great oak timber, planed to a smooth finish and placed so that it would act as a perfect surface upon which to write.

“Will this be acceptable to you?”

She nodded, still in awe.

“It is high enough that you might sit on a stool, Juliana.”

“I have never had such a place, my lord. Or such a desk upon which to write. Not even at the convent.”

“There must be some compensations for living at Langlinais.”

A reminder, then, of the bargain between them. She looked up at him, just now noticing how close
he was. The small oriel seemed dwarfed by his presence.

“I will send Jerard to help transfer your writings and tools,” he said suddenly.

He left her then. Only moments later, Jerard appeared with her trunk and a stool from her chamber. Still another trip provided her with all the items she'd left strewn on the floor.

The steward helped her to unpack all of her supplies, stack them neatly upon the shelf. He asked no questions, but she could see that he was curious.

“My inks,” she said, when he handed her two small leather pouches.

“It looks like dust.”

She smiled brightly. “It is, until it is mixed with water. My favorite ink is made with wine as an ingredient.”

“Do you like this? Being a scribe?”

“Yes,” she said simply. It was her only talent and her greatest joy.

What she did not say was that she had not known what to do with herself this morning. She had been beset with questions. Should she leave her chamber? Remain inside? If she had truly spent the night with her husband, would she have been changed in some way that would be visible to others? There was no one of whom she could ask these questions. Only a husband might know, and he had made it clear that he would never fulfill that role.

Therefore, trapped within her chamber by a ruse, she had sought comfort in those things familiar and normal.

She left the oriel and returned to her room. Her husband was there in the middle of the room, standing beside her bed. When she entered, he turned, the gloom of his attire made even more somber by the
light from the window. He did not belong, this shadow, in a room brightened by the sun.

“Why did you seek me out, my lord? Was it to change your mind?”

“No, Juliana.”

She looked away then, her hope extinguished. Yet, for a moment, bright and fevered, it had existed. A union with this stranger would have been a daunting thing, but one of less mystery than the agreement he wished between them.

She had expected to end her maidenhood last night, had feared the intrusion of a husband's touch. She had spent days dreading the idea of lying beside a stranger and having his hands on her. He had the right to do so, to kiss her, and know her body even more intimately than she did.

Surely it was not disappointment she felt?

He pulled the sheets back from her bed, dislodging the careful way she had tucked them in, pulled them tight. She might be the Lady of Langlinais, but she'd been taught to see to herself. Servants were for those who were infirm or aged, and she was neither.

He opened a small vial and held it over the bed. She watched as the blood dotted the sheet, stood in silence as it soaked into the mattress.

“Is that necessary, my lord?” Her cheeks warmed as comprehension dawned.

“There must not be any question of the validity of our marriage, Juliana.”

She had no response to that. Only too many questions, none of which he seemed disposed to answer.