My Beloved (7 page)

E
very moment of Juliana's life at Sisters of Charity had been precisely regimented. There were bells to mark the hours and the occupations therein, there was the soft entreaty of a sister in charge of a certain duty, the rhythmic chant of Latin as a call to worship.

She was expected to adhere to the rules of the community, even though she was only fostered at the convent while awaiting the summons from her husband. She was watched as closely as any novitiate. All such characteristics of form and self that hinted at waywardness were to be modified or expunged. She was not, for example, allowed beyond the convent gates for any reason. Nor was she allowed in the garden simply to appreciate the scent of growing flowers. Her hour there was set aside for weeding, not for idleness. She had known such regulation of her life that it was odd, if not a bit discomfiting, to experience the sudden freedom of her position as the Lady of Langlinais.

“I feel like walking,” she announced to Grazide that afternoon. Instead of protesting, the other woman simply nodded, never ceasing her conversation with the other attendants. Juliana stood there
in the great hall, disconcerted. She had marshaled her arguments for her privacy only to have them be unnecessary.

She removed her toque, left her hair in its braid. Her surcoat was light enough that she would not swelter in the heat. The afternoon was bright and still, the drone of a bee was the only sound she heard as she left the great hall. The Terne flowed in a swift movement below the south wall, the gentle breeze rippled the water and cooled the air. From where she stood, she could see the expanse of Langlinais as it curved in a half-moon shape, its walls following the undulation of the river.

She had known only two homes—the one in which she'd spent the first five years of her life and the convent. Neither had adequately prepared her for the castle of Langlinais.

She had discovered in the last weeks that her chamber overlooked the kitchen garden. Its beauty was not merely ornamental. There were fruit trees and huge plots of herbs, in addition to a pond stocked with fish. The flower gardens boasted all sorts of flowers, most of which she didn't recognize. But she knew the poppies, roses, heliotropes, and violets.

She took a deep breath. The air was warm and seemed colored with scent.

Langlinais was always filled with people who appeared to go about their occupations with enthusiasm and few signs of laxity. The young girls who weeded in the kitchen herb garden, the laundress and her helpers, the smith's apprentices, the kitchen workers, all of them appeared industrious and each of them had a ready smile for her as she passed, even though they did not speak. There was not one cross word heard, and if there was criticism doled
out, it was the type one friend gives to another in laughing jest. Indeed, laughter was the prevalent sound in the courtyard and bailey, not the muttering of complaints. There was no fear here, no sullenness, only the sound of contentment and from time to time a song joined and carried through the summer morning like the gentle breeze over the Terne.

The path she followed was laid with crushed stone, glittering yellow-brown in the sun. A bee darted in front of her, flew away just as quickly. The air was warmed until it seemed heavy, perfumed by the scent of blossoming flowers and long grasses. The walls along the river were covered with green lichen. She wondered what color it would produce if coaxed to ink.

She smiled at herself. Even now, she could not refrain from thinking of her work. Or of Sebastian.

She'd had a friend at the convent for a short time. Anne had been sent there before her wedding, to learn of such things as the nuns could teach her. She'd been thirteen years old and destined to wed a nobleman. She and Anne had shared, for a few weeks, one of the small stone rooms. Set aside from the rest of the dormitory by a stone wall three feet high, it was a secure place for two giggling girls. Enough that she and Anne had lain awake, sharing their thoughts and fears of marriage.

They had decided that life as a married woman would be a wonderful thing. They had gone so far as to conjecture what their wedding night might truly be like, imagining where there was only mystery. Anne, the young bride, had been wed a long time by now, while Juliana had not yet been taken to wife.

Nor would she be.

She did not understand. How many times had she
thought that in the weeks she'd been at Langlinais? Too many. So far, the extent of her life at Langlinais was the beauty of being able to work all day long in her tiny scriptorium balanced by nights of confusion.

At first, she'd thought her husband one of those men who mortify the flesh as a way of worship. Then she'd reasoned that he must have been wounded in the Holy Land, or badly scarred. But the man she'd seen had been so perfect in face that she'd felt almost shamed to be in his presence. Her own lack of grace seemed to scream at her as she'd left the chapel.

Then what was the reason he wished no true union? Was there something about her he disliked?

She rarely considered her appearance. Vanity was not an attribute at the convent. As long as she was neat and tidy, she was considered acceptable. She was not supposed to know about her body, even her bathing was to be done in the dark, but she supposed she was curved in all the correct places.

Was it her birth? True, her father had not been noble, but he had owned property, and had been a loyal man to the earls of Langlinais. She had brought her dower lands to the Langlinais coffers, and a history of a family that dated prior to the Normans. And if her status had been objectionable, then why had Sir John agreed to the wedding?

Surely Sebastian could forget her appearance or her birth and concentrate upon her personality, instead.

She attempted to be kind, although in truth she found refuge in silence when she could not think of a proper response or a temperate word. She was no healer, but she disliked the suffering of others and aided them where she could. She'd sought out Sister Beatrice and had assisted her in the building of
wicker cages for her wounded birds. She believed she was intelligent and she did not think she was of a mean-spirited nature. Was that not enough in a wife?

As to skill, she had only one. She looked down at her fingers. There was a dark stain upon the side of her thumb and another at the tip of her index finger. Regardless of how much she scrubbed her hands, they seemed permanent. The Lady of Langlinais should not be so slovenly.

She could immerse herself for hours upon hours in the thoughts of others. The words spoke to her like the purest notes, a melody made of discourse. She felt that her duty was one of importance, to transcribe these remarks diligently, without adding her own beliefs or interpretation. In this way, she contributed to the world's store of knowledge; she made available to one more person learning that had not been there before. When she'd finished, and written the words
Explicuit
, on the last page, it meant more than “the end.” It was the passing of a trust. Surely, that ability was worth something? For that skill, could he not forgive her any other faults?

What color were his eyes? It had been too dark to see, and the child she'd been had taken no note of them. And why, as long as she was wondering about Sebastian, did his voice sound so rough and then so smooth, as if callused and pumiced in one breath? Why did it have the power to make her tremble?

It did not seem quite right to think of him so much, especially since he'd repudiated her so ably. Not only by proscribing their marriage, but by moving aside when she would have touched him, or drawn too close.

Had she made the right choice by remaining at Langlinais? By agreeing to this marriage? What
other choice had she? A whisper of her conscience warned that she trod too close to a lie.

For once, she'd wanted to be brave. Now, it seemed, she wanted more. Above all, she wished that all the questions that had begun from the first moment she'd seen Langlinais would be answered.

She was in the lower bailey, now, where the largest of the Langlinais towers commanded the view. Lord Henry's tower it was called, from the first earl granted the property two hundred years ago.

“My lady,” Jerard said. His voice startled her, so rapt was she in her own thoughts. He had evidently followed her and stood waiting at her side, his face solemn, his eyes bearing that eternal watchfulness that marked him as loyal and silent. She stopped.

“My lord has asked that you join him, Lady Juliana.”

Such simple words should not make her breath halt in her chest. But it was the first time Sebastian had ever summoned her. She continued walking. Jerard did not pressure her, merely kept pace at her side.

“It is a large place, Langlinais.” Did Jerard know that she was delaying answering the summons? It appeared he did from the small smile on his face.

“When the keep was given to the first earl, it was very small.” he said. “Each earl has added to the castle, my lady. The great hall and barbican were the province of the second earl. The next finished the wall that follows the Terne. Still another added the chapel. My lord's father raised the roof of the great hall, added the family quarters.”

They passed through the gate that separated the middle from the lower bailey. She was slowly retracing her steps.

“And what are the masons doing now?” she
asked, shading her eyes with one hand as she watched a group of workmen huddled around the base of the north tower.

“There is always construction of some sort at Langlinais, my lady. They are repairing the foundations of the tower.”

The gatehouse loomed before her. A few more minutes and she would be back at the great hall.

“What shall I tell him, my lady?” he asked a few minutes later.

There was no way to delay any longer.

“I will attend him, of course. In his chamber?”

“No, my lady. There.” He pointed, and her gaze followed his finger. Up to the top of the east tower, where a black-garbed figure stood. Was he watching them? Had he been watching her all this time?

Fear shivered through her. Mixed with it was another emotion. Anticipation, perhaps. Would he chastise her for coming into the chapel? Or explain, finally, why he clothed himself in a monk's robe and hid himself away?

Jerard did not speak as he led her to a door at the base of the tower. He said nothing, but then, what could he have said? Sebastian was her husband, after all. He had summoned her, and she would come. Men went to war and endured battle. Women were protected and held safe and, for that, were expected to be obedient. It was the way of the world.

T
he door revealed an endless spiral of steps that led to the top of the tower. They were not wide, and there was no handhold to grab on to, only the curve of stone blocks as they wound up and up to what seemed to be heaven itself.

Her heart was beating so hard she felt herself shake with it. Her knees trembled, as if they would collapse beneath her at any moment. The initial courage it took to mount the first circle of steps quickly disappeared. By the second, she was certain she was going to tremble to pieces. “
Come down from there, child. You will fall to your death
.” Voices from the nuns, from her childhood. An ominous warning that she had no doubt would come true in the next few moments. By the third circle of steps, the only thing that kept her proceeding upward was the fact that it was less frightening than beginning the descent. There was, at last, a handhold. No more than a roughened brick with a worn groove along its length, she gripped it and lifted herself the short distance to the wooden floor of the tower.

At the top, Sebastian did not extend a hand to her to help her up, nor did he seem to notice her presence. She, however, viewed the scene around them
and stepped back, nearly falling into the hole of the stairwell.

He turned and watched her, but did not approach. Ah, there was a lesson learned then. He still did not wish to touch her.

“Are you unwell?”

“No,” she said, leaning up against the merlon and closing her eyes. She made no move to change her position. “I do not like heights,” she confessed.

“Then, why do you come to the top of the tower?”

She raised her head and looked at him. The monk's cowl did nothing to shield his face from view. Or was it simply that she knew it now, and could place nose and eyes and mouth where shadows had before only hinted at features? “You sent for me.”

He pushed the cowl back from his head, leaving his face bathed in the sunlight. His eyes were blue. No, not simply blue, but the blue of her ink, just before it changed to black Their look was solemn, but such an expression did not detract from their beauty. Or his.

From this position her view was only of the battlement itself. Sebastian, however, stood too close to the edge. As she watched, he sat upon one of the crenels, his back to the countryside. What would he appear to any who saw him? A huge crow? A pennant? Anything but Sebastian of Langlinais attired in a monk's robe. Was he oblivious to the danger of his perch?

“I would not have asked you here if I had known your dislike of heights, Juliana.”

She looked away. From her vantage point, the merlons blocked her view of the countryside, even though she could see well enough through the opening of the crenels. The best view was of her fingers.
The sight of them did not make her stomach lurch.

“This is my favorite place at Langlinais. Perhaps because I can view the entire demesne from here. Or maybe it is because of the year I spent encased in a cell. Some days I cannot bear the confinement of walls.”

She sat upon the tower floor, tucking her legs beneath the fabric of her surcoat. Sitting down eased her fear somewhat by hiding the view.

Time seemed to slow as they looked at each other. The sight of his face had the same effect on her as being so high in the air. Maturity had added strength to his face, the delineation of muscle and bone. There was no softness there, no hint of gentleness. A warrior's face. But still arresting. Almost beautiful. Her fingers longed to trace the line of his cheekbone to see if it was that defined or only shadows made it so. And his lips. Should a man's lips be so alluring?

She glanced away, her face heating at such thoughts.

“I thought you scarred, Sebastian. And shy with it.” She spoke to the merlon rather than to him. It was easier, somehow.

“You have a great deal of curiosity, Juliana. It stands a scribe in good stead.”

“But not a wife?” She turned back to look at him.

His smile was bright yet fleeting. One moment there, the next gone, his face left somber. “Why do you dislike heights so much, Juliana?”

His face was strong and compelling but not unkind. He had asked her a question to indicate that he had no intention of answering hers. The husband she'd feared had been transformed into a handsome man who sat opposite her dressed in the garb of a monk, a small smile playing over his lips. Was she
simply to accept his appearance without explanation? Never question him or their odd marriage or the reason for it? It seemed she was, a determination she made in the silence that stretched between them.

“Must one have a reason, Sebastian? Can some people simply not be born with a medley of fears? A man can be born with brown eyes, another blue.” She traced the mortar between the stones with one finger, not looking at him.

“And some are brave and others are cowards?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically.

“Yet I remember a child who made a face at me and stuck her tongue out very rudely.”

She felt her face warm. “I didn't.”

“Oh, you did,” he said, smiling. “Enough for me to think you were not timid at all. What happened in the intervening years, Juliana?”

“I don't remember sticking my tongue out at you, Sebastian. I may have frowned a bit.” She looked down at her hands. “I was not that rude.”

“The child I met wasn't rude. She was daring. It was her wedding day, after all.”

She met his gaze, then looked away.

“Did you know there are sixty-one instruments of good works? Abbess Gertrude reminded me of at least twenty of them. I was not to hold a grudge, nor give way to anger. I was to honor all, and patiently to bear wrongs done to me. But in all honesty, Sebastian, I found it difficult.”

He did not ask inane questions, but sat there waiting. He seemed to know that the telling of this particular tale was difficult. She'd not repeated it to anyone since it had happened. Even now it seemed odd to do so, as if she disobeyed some celestial dictate.

“A few months after we were married I was sent
to live at the convent. It was chosen, I believe, because of the proximity to Langlinais.”

“You were only five years old.” His voice sounded absurdly kind. He must not be, or she could not finish this tale. She could hardly bear to think of that child.

“My mother had just died, you see, and I was underfoot. My father wanted to go fighting, and my brothers were all fostered. It was probably the best thing.”

“For him.” There was a note of disgust in his voice that made her smile. She was not the only child who was unwanted and sent to live with others. At least her father had arranged her future by contracting an advantageous marriage. Even if the deed had been prompted by ambition, it had still benefited her.

“I was lonely, I think, and probably a nuisance to the older girls.”

“What did they do?”

“They locked me in the bell-tower.”

She glanced over at him. There was an expression on his face that was not at all difficult to read. It was anger, and its presence seemed to warm her heart. Or perhaps it was the heart of that little girl of so many years ago.

“I do not remember going there. Or even why. All I can remember was that it was dark in the bell-tower. Very, very dark.”

“Did no one hear your cries?”

She smiled. “I had been counseled to maintain silence, Sebastian. Even though I was frightened, I was almost as afraid of making a sound.”

“So you sat in the dark and waited.”

“No.” She sat up straighter. Even now she could see the ground beneath her feet, so far away. It seemed to rush up at her. She closed her eyes.

“I knew, you see, that it was past dinner, and no one had found me yet. I wasn't sure if anyone would ever come. So, I crawled off the top of the tower and decided to climb down the roof.”

He said nothing to her confession. She looked down at her hands. “I slipped and nearly fell, but it was my surcoat that caught on the edge of the roof. I dangled there for what seemed like hours.”

“In silence?”

“You sound like the abbess, Sebastian, when she was told. In truth, I forgot the admonitions of silence and screamed a good deal. Enough that a few of the sisters came to investigate. They all wished to rescue me, but I was too high. I fell, finally, into a pile of hay Sister Margaret arranged below me.”

“And suffered no broken bones?”

“Perhaps it was not as high as I thought,” she admitted.

“But from that day you've hated heights and darkness.”

“And horses and water and no doubt a great many other things added to that list,” she confessed.

“Yet the child who climbed out on that roof was brave and dauntless.”

“Foolish and unthinking,” she countered.

“I wonder, Juliana, if it was your fear that marks you, or what you were taught? Which had the more influence?”

She glanced over at him again, startled.

“I've no doubt you were told over and over that you could have been killed by your foolish actions.”

She nodded.

“Would you have been as afraid to this day if you'd been congratulated on the bravery of your deed?”

It was an odd thought, one she'd never had before.

“So what I fear is not so much the actuality of a thing, but the consequences of it? Is it not wise to do so?”

“Anything can harm if taken to extremes. Even fear.”

“You would have had me become foolishly courageous.” She pulled her legs up beneath her surcoat, leaned her arms on them.

“You're too intelligent to be foolish. Your sense would have cautioned you, not the hysterical words of others.” Her face warmed at his words.

“Or, it could be that I truly am afraid of heights, Sebastian.”

“You asked if some people could not simply be born with fears. I believe so. But to acquire them where none previously existed indicates to me that there is training more than natural-born fear.”

“It is an interesting point to ponder.” She leaned her chin on her folded arms.

“I would have applauded your courage, and congratulated you on the effort.”

“My stay at the convent might well have been marked with punishment, then,” she said, smiling up at him.

“Instead of loneliness.”

How did he know? “Yes.”

“Did the abbess punish those responsible?”

“There were always girls leaving and arriving at the convent. I'm sure they did not stay long after that. In truth, I was there longer than most.”

He said nothing to that, only studied her as if he made certain the placement of her features was the same as it had been the day before, that her hair was
arranged the same. He looked away, just as she was beginning to warm under his regard.

“I did not mean to pry when I came into the chapel,” she said, the words prodded by conscience. He had not questioned her presence there, but she still wished to explain.

He smiled, his gaze returning to her. Surely she was not the first woman to have sighed inwardly at the effect of both that look and that effortless smile. They did not make him appear younger. Instead, they added an aura of wickedness to his strong face.

“I did not summon you here in punishment, Juliana. Did Jerard indicate as much?”

“He did not. I doubt he would ever speak ill of you.” In fact, Jerard simply smiled whenever she asked a question he did not choose to answer, not unlike the Lord of Langlinais.

He looked away, to where an early star appeared on the horizon. It winked, like a mischievous cat. “He is,” he said, “the most loyal man I've known.”

“He is not from Langlinais, though.” He had said as much to her one day.

“No,” Sebastian said. “I met Jerard on one of my many rounds of tourneys.”

“Is it true that King Henry excommunicates those who participate?”

“Perhaps in England, but in France they are still popular. They are, after all, designed to train a man in war, although some are not necessarily mock warfare.” A small smile tilted his lips. It was not one of amusement, but rather of recollection. A fond but bittersweet memory touched upon, then as quickly gone. “A knight marks the beginning and end of each tourney with Mass, because there is every possibility that a man might not survive it. Two sets of knights face each other across a level meadow. Then,
at the signal, the two armies charge each other. Those who are defeated are held for ransom. That's how a victorious knight wins horses and armor.”

“But you were never defeated.” She knew that much.

The look he sent her was wry. “I was victorious from my very first tourney, but arrogant. Once, I ransomed the horses I'd won and didn't keep one for my own use. Consequently, I'd not even a decent horse to ride, since my own had gone lame. I was leading him, limping, to the next tourney when I met Jerard. He was working in the stables of his liege lord. He treated my horse so well I was able to fight and win again.” He paused, then continued. “I purchased his freedom with my winnings and made him my squire.”

“He was a serf?”

He nodded.

“Now he is your steward.”

“And has proven himself well in that capacity also,” he said.

“I cannot believe it is strictly your horse that claimed you all those prizes.”

Her words seemed to embarrass him. He raised his head and watched the sky.

“They were not all prizes,” he said, turning once more to her. Evidently, he did not wish to speak of skill with sword or lance. “I was once awarded a fish. A very large pike. And another time, a grove of trees. And in another tourney I won the hand of a very nice lady with a very large nose. I was at great pains to inform her father that I had been married for a goodly number of years to a girl I'd not seen since I was twelve.”

“While I learned my letters at Sisters of Charity, unknowing that another wished my husband.”

“Oh, I do not think she wished me. She was intent upon another, a German knight with a huge head and nearly as large a nose.”