Beloved (46 page)

She looked at him closely for a moment before she realized that it couldn’t be Stefano. The eyes were all wrong. And she felt a vague sense of unease as she looked at his beard. How could it be Richard? She was sure that a very long time ago Richard had promised her that he would never grow a beard, though she couldn’t remember why. She leaned unsteadily on the small table, then sank down into the chair, staring vacantly at the floor.

“Richard is dead.”

Richard was surprised, to say the least. “Who told you that? Surely Robert would have told you it wasn’t true?”

“But he didn’t…he said nothing.” She looked up at him. He certainly seemed to be Richard. “I mentioned it to him and he said nothing.” She was in a state of shock. She could barely breathe.

“Nevertheless, I’m very much alive. It was Robert who sent for me.” It was obvious something was terribly wrong. “He felt you needed to see me.” He took another step toward her, then knelt beside her, placing one hand on the back of her chair. It was all he could do to keep from touching her.

“Chrissa…if Robert was wrong, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I haven’t come to cause you any pain.” He studied her face, unable to understand what had put this terrible distance between them. It was obvious that far more than time separated them, now.

“No…” she said slowly. “I…”

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Richard rose quickly, putting his finger to his lips as he pulled the cowl back up onto his head. He returned to the window and Christina opened the door.

Three monks entered the room, two of them with buckets of steaming water and the third carrying the rest of Christina’s things and a small wooden tub.

“Your speed surprises me, Brothers,” she said nervously.

One of them smiled at her as he set the tub in front of the fire. “The Abbot anticipates you, Madame
.
The water has been heating for some time.”

None of the monks seemed to take any notice of Richard as they deposited their burdens on the hearth and turned to go.

“Please thank him for me,” Christina said, as she closed the door behind them. She turned and stared at Richard.

He came to her, very slowly reaching out to take her trembling hand in his. She just looked at him, her expression one of utter confusion.

“I’ll leave you to your bath. Perhaps I can find us some supper and then we can talk.” As he lifted her delicate fingers to his lips, he noticed the narrow bandage around the palm of her hand. He also noticed she was wearing the heart-shaped garnet ring he’d intended for their betrothal so long ago, the ring he’d been unable to give her himself. His eyes searched hers looking for the answers to a thousand questions. If the answers were there, he couldn’t read them and so, reluctantly, he left her.

Christina stared blankly at the heavy door as it closed quietly behind him.
Richard…alive? How was it possible?
Had he really been in the room with her only moments ago or was the strain of the past few months playing tricks with her mind? Was she now completely out of touch with reality? She smiled sadly, wondering if that was how it would finally end—with madness.

The buckets of steaming water finally caught her attention and she stood up wearily and went to the armoire. She was comforted by the feel of the smooth, dark wood beneath her fingers as she opened one of the beautifully carved doors. A tremendous sense of relief washed over her. She was actually back at the abbey, back among her own things, back where she felt safe and protected.

She removed her nightdress, dressing gown, her brush and a towel from the cabinet and began to undress. Her thoughts were scattered. Already she was beginning to wonder if perhaps she’d only imagined one of the monks resembled Richard.
He kissed my hand…didn’t he? Did I imagine that, too?

She returned to the fire. Standing there, nude, she began to take the pins from her hair. Perhaps he
had
been there. That thought gave her comfort, but it was all too brief, for her next thought was that it hadn’t been Richard at all, but rather Stefano, returned to play another cruel joke on her.
What if it is Stefano? Did he come on his own or did Guy send him?
She smiled.
Surely even Guy wouldn’t dare try something that perverse within the walls of the abbey. No, it’s probably just a new monk who happens to resemble Richard, who lingered a moment to introduce himself. I must remember to ask Robert tomorrow.

Pulling one of the chairs over next to the small wooden tub, Christina laid her things over the back of it. She poured some of the hot water into the tub, tested it and then stepped in. As she began to sponge herself, her thoughts turned back to Richard.
Oh, what if it is him? What if he didn’t die and he’s finally come to take me away?
What if God was the kind and loving God she’d grown up with who wanted her to be happy and who had finally sent her love back to her?

A half smile crossed her lips.
What if he is Richard and, even now, he’s looking for something for supper? Then he’ll return to this room…then what? What will he find? Certainly not the girl he loved all those years ago.

Christina sighed. She had no illusions about what she’d become. When Richard had last seen her she’d been pretty. She’d been young and full of the promise of their future together. She’d felt so sure of his love then and so secure in it. Though their last moments together had been difficult with the shocking news of Marco’s death, she’d felt safe. It had been a long time since Christina had felt safe outside the walls of Montmajour.

Suddenly, the door opened. Christina’s heart stopped as she grabbed frantically for her nightdress, dropping her sponge to the floor. She held the soft material against her wet body, staring at the hooded figure who entered the room.

Richard closed the door quietly, then set the tray of cheese and fruit beside the bottle of wine on the small table. He pushed back his hood and looked at Christina, seeing the fear in her eyes.

“Chrissa? Dear Heart, don’t you know me?” he said softly.

Christina just stared at him.
Dear God, is it truly Richard?

He stood looking at her for a long moment before he bent down and picked up the sponge. He was conscious of her fragility, but unable to imagine what caused it. He tried to take the gown from her, but her fingers clung tightly to the thin fabric. Immediately, he let go. He noticed her trembling and was hurt by the terrified expression on her face. Surely she knew she was in no danger from him?

“Chrissa, do I frighten you?” he asked, tenderly touching her cheek. His voice was gentle, barely a whisper.

She looked into his eyes. It really was Richard. And impossible though it seemed, she longed with all her heart for it to be true. When he reached for her gown again, she let him take it.

He laid the gown back over the chair, his questioning eyes never leaving hers. Why was she so frightened? He’d imagined many responses to his return, but never fear. And why had she called him Stefano? Was it possible that she knew the man he’d met in Marseilles?

As he began to gently sponge her shoulders, Christina’s eyes started to fill with tears. Her hands moved awkwardly in an effort to cover her nakedness. It was Richard. Impossible as it seemed, he was there and she knew he must be terribly disappointed in what he saw.

Richard found her demeanor a far cry from that of the proud young woman who had stood before him that morning in the stable.
You’ve been deceiving yourself, this is another man’s wife. She made a choice seven years ago and she didn’t choose you.
Yet Robert had intimated that she wasn’t happy with Guy, and had asked him to return.
What is wrong?

Convinced she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he began to attend to the business of bathing her. It was almost a ritual, a tender offering of his love on whatever level she might choose to accept it. Then he saw the bruises.

The discolorations on her shoulder had faded to a sallow yellow, but those on her upper arm were more recent. Richard was shocked. He looked at her, silently seeking some explanation, but Christina continued to stare blankly at the floor.

Once again, he dipped the sponge into the warm water. This time he took her hand from her breasts and gently removed the bandage. He turned her hand over and saw the cuts that ran across her fingers and the deeper cut on her palm. They seemed to be healing well with no sign of infection, but how had she gotten them? He took her wrist and she flinched. He saw the new bruises that seemed to be forming there. Tenderly, he put her hand down at her side and realized her slim fingers had covered yet another contusion across the top of her breast.

As he gently sponged her belly, a tear fell from Christina’s cheek and struck the back of his hand. He reached up and slowly lifted her chin.

Christina couldn’t bear to see his disappointment. She closed her eyes, wincing as he touched another bruise along the curve of her jaw. His hand remained there until she opened her eyes.

So many times in their years together, they’d found no need for words between them. The closeness they’d shared all their lives went beyond childhood friendship. For Richard it had been love, deep and abiding, from the first moment he laid eyes on the baby Christina. Now, when she looked at him, there was no love on her part, no trust. All he sensed was deep regret and a tremendous feeling of loss. Wordlessly his eyes questioned hers, but there were no answers for him there, only pain.

His emotions in turmoil, he moved around behind her. Her hair still fell to her waist, but the soft brown curls were dull and lifeless. He stroked it lightly, remembering how he’d loved her hair, how he’d made her take it down so he could bury his face in it that afternoon by the river. They were both so young.

He started to push her hair aside so he could wash her back, but she reached over her shoulder, touching his fingers to stop him. There was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire.

“No…please…” she whispered, as if afraid to break the silence.
Please…

Richard bent and kissed her fingers. With a sigh of resignation, Christina’s hand fell to her side.

Richard was stunned. For a moment he did nothing. He could only stare at the angry red welts across the middle of her back. While the bruises and even the cuts could be attributed to an accident of some sort, there was no doubt that these had been inflicted by someone else.
Who did this?

He blamed himself. It was his fault. He never should have left Arles without her. She was too young and inexperienced to have made a sensible choice about her future. He clenched his teeth against the oath rising in his throat.

Richard was so angry he could barely think as he very carefully began to dry her back.
Is it possible Guy’s responsible? For the love of Christ, why? Why didn’t Robert tell me?
He could have come for her sooner. He could have spared her this.

When he finished drying her, he took her by the hand and helped her step out of the tub. Silently, he knelt down and dried her feet. Christina, overwhelmed with shame, refused to look up as he slipped her dressing gown on and led her to the pile of furs and pillows in front of the fire.

She sat down, watching him as he went to the big chest by the window, opened it and pulled out his saddlebags. He rummaged through one side and removed two small packets. At the table he dumped the fruit out of the small wooden bowl, poured in the contents of one of the packets, added water and stirred it with his finger. He added the powder from the other packet to one of the cups and then filled it full of wine.

Christina was unable to interpret the look in his eyes as he handed her the goblet. He seemed angry, and she couldn’t blame him.

“Drink it,” was all he said. He couldn’t trust himself to say more. He didn’t know where he should begin with her and was fearful that whatever he might say would hurt her even more. That he couldn’t bear.

Sitting down behind her, he carefully pulled the robe off of her shoulders. Christina continued to stare into the fire as he gently started to rub the salve into the welts on her back.

She was barely aware of the sting of the medication as her thoughts traveled backward in time, as they so often did in the refuge of that room filled with cherished and familiar things. She thought of another time, another place, another fire, but the same man and the same tender touch. She sighed and drained the goblet.

She offered no resistance as he removed her robe and helped her into her gown. He tied the pale pink ribbon above her breasts and then took her injured hand in his. He turned it palm up and brought it to his lips, before gently rubbing a bit of the salve into the cuts. When he finished, his hands moved very carefully to her shoulders, conscious of the dark bruises beneath the thin cotton. At last their eyes met, her filled with tears, his full of anguish.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, as he carefully brushed the tears from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’m not pretty anymore.”

Richard smiled sadly. He was afraid to speak. Christina, herself, had yet to do or say anything that would indicate that she wanted him back in her life.

He sat down in the big chair, pulling her into his lap. The sleeping draught had begun to work and she relaxed against him, her head on his shoulder as she sat watching the fire.

Christina was tired, unwilling to think beyond the moment. She took comfort from Richard beside her, holding her and slowly stroking her hair. It was enough.

Before long, her head began to nod. Richard scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. The covers had been turned back and he lay her down gently and pulled the bedclothes over her. As he brushed the stray strands back from her cheek, her eyes opened.

“Richard…don’t leave me…please…” There was a note of desperation in her voice, though the drug made her groggy.

He sat beside her on the bed, taking her hand in his. He smiled tenderly down at her. “I won’t leave you, Chrissa…ever.”

His words seemed to reassure her and she closed her eyes. In moments she drifted off to sleep.