Beloved Pilgrim (8 page)

Reinhardt strode right up to the dais at the
end of the hall and climbed and took the high seat where Sigismund
traditionally had presided over meals and court. He pushed back
Adalberta's chair with his foot. "Sit," he said. He called to the
servants who hung about in the shadows along the side of the hall.
"Here, you! Bring wine. And something to eat. Someone build up that
fire."

His men were filing in through the door,
eying the rest of the trestle tables where they were stacked
against one wall. "Oh just sit," Reinhardt called to them
irritably.

Reinhardt ordered servants to bring more
chairs and called to his officers to join them at the high table.
The wine flowed generously; the boisterous conversation belied the
fact that the household was in mourning.

Reinhardt suddenly leaned to her and asked,
"Is he buried?"

She looked at him startled. "Who?" she asked.
She knew whom he meant but the word came out anyway.

"Your brother. That sodomite. Is he
buried?"

Her face paled. She was not sure what the
word meant, but she could guess it was not a praiseworthy thing to
Reinhardt. "Yes, my lord, in the family vault in the church."

"Good," he replied shortly. "I hate
funerals." He went back to talking with his men.

It was listening to that raucous group that
told Elisabeth what had happened to Reinhardt in the Holy Land.
When she was able to break away on the excuse she had to push the
kitchen to prepare a feast for her husband and his men, she sought
out Albrecht and shared the tale.

"It seems that once Jerusalem was in
Christian hands, the Franks and the Flemings snatched up all the
estates and positions. Whatever Reinhardt thought he was going to
get it all went to others. As soon as he realized that, he set sail
for home," she whispered to him in an alcove.

"More's the pity he had no reason to stay
there," Albrecht growled.

"Albrecht, what is a sodomite?"

He stared at her, dumbfounded. At last he
asked, "Why do you ask, my lady?"

"That's what Reinhardt called my brother."
She gazed at his face. He had gone pale. "Oh," she answered
herself. "That. But how could he know?"

Albrecht shook his head. "I know not. But it
may mean I must take leave of you."

"Why?" she asked, putting her hand on his
arm.

Albrecht eyed her unhappily. "He may know
about me, too, and that sort of man is not gentle with my
sort."

At supper Reinhardt informed Elisabeth, "I
have a guest coming with his small retinue tomorrow. I had hoped to
introduce him to your father, but ah, well." He yawned. He reached
to take her hand, leaning to look into her face. "Pity I am as
tired as I am. I should like to have explored whether under all
those unattractive clothes you had a real woman hidden." He laughed
at her offended face. Kissing the hand he clutched in his fist, he
said, "Better get used to the idea, my dear. You won't be a maid
much longer."

The guest was an old comrade of Baron
Reinhardt's from the Holy Land. He was a Frank, a knight, Gautier
du Visage Cassé, and no better a piece of work than Reinhardt
himself. He was tall with the muscular upper body of a swordsman,
but his long legs seemed wrong, as if his own had been cut off by a
Saracen and a skinnier man's legs sewn on to his trunk. He had
greasy black hair that hung in his face. It was a saving Grace,
since the long scar that gave him his soubriquet nearly split that
face in two. One eye was gone and his eyelid literally sewn shut,
the stitches black and ragged. His breath reeked. Even the Baron
winced when the man leaned into his face to make some bawdy
remark.

"Mon Dieu, Reinhardt! I did not know you were
a buggerer. This is a boy, is it not?" He examined Elisabeth who
stood silently next to the baron.

Reinhardt scowled but did not reply. He
gestured his comrade to a seat at the table set on the dais at the
end of the hall.

Gautier went to the dais, stepped up and took
the seat indicated. Reinhardt ushered Elisabeth before him up onto
the rise and seated her between him and the Frankish knight.
Gautier glanced around the hall. "Who died? Everyone is going about
with their chins scraping the rushes."

Reinhardt looked at Elisabeth as if waiting
for her to answer the man's question. She cleared her throat. "My
lord, my brother died quite recently."

"Her twin brother," Reinhardt added.

Gautier leveled his one-eyed gaze at her.
"Identical twins, or so it seems. Are you sure they didn't
mistakenly bury the girl?" He laughed at his own joke. "Well, can't
you get some dancers or jongleurs in to lighten the mood? It's like
mass in a poor monastery in here."

Reinhardt fingered his beard. "I regret to
tell you, mon ami, that I brought no such with me. Any entertainers
installed here at Winterkirche fled as soon as the young master
died."

She had realized what he said was true by the
morning after her brother's death. Not only had the minnesinger and
other musicians decamped as soon as they knew a returning Baron
Reinhardt would replace the young lord. Several of the servants had
gone as well. She understood their fear and only envied them their
ability to escape.

"Can it sing or dance?" Gautier smirked. He
was looking at her.

"No, my lord," she hastily responded.

"I told you, Reinhardt, it's a boy. And not a
very pretty one."

Reinhardt glowered. He gestured to a servant
for wine and changed the topic. "What do you hear of the new call
for crusade, my good fellow?"

New crusade? It was the first Elisabeth had
heard of it.

Gautier took the cup of wine the servant
placed before him. "His Holiness, the new pope, Paschal II I think
he styles himself, has called for it. There was a letter sent to
the Frankish churchmen. It seems that Baldwin thinks the Paynim
will try to take back Jerusalem. My brother, who is an abbot, says
he calls for 'all the soldiers of your region to strive for
remission and forgiveness of their sins by hastening to our Mother
Church of the East; to move their arses thither,' or words to that
effect." He considered his comrade-in-arms. "Will you go, mon
frère?"

Sitting back in his chair Reinhardt caught
the hopeful look Elisabeth flashed at him. "I am sorry to
disappoint you, my dear. I have been to the Holy Land and fought
for the Faith. Therefore all my sins, past and future, are wiped
away as the sun clears the dew. I have no intention of going back
to that scorpion-infested sun-roasted hellhole. Not for God, not
for the Pope, and certainly not for you."

Gautier laughed aloud. "Nor I, cher
Reinhardt. I have lands to control, sons to beget, Frankish whores
to bed and wine to consume. But you shall enjoy this. I hear His
Holiness singled out those who fled the Siege of Antioch, promising
they shall linger excommunicate and lightened of their lands and
goods, unless they go back and make men of themselves again."

Reinhardt slammed his cup of wine onto the
table before him, and slapping his thighs crowed, "My God! Stephen
of Blois will never live that down. So I suppose he is going?"

The Frank shrugged.

Elisabeth ventured, "Did he flee the siege?
Why?"

Reinhardt raised his eyebrows as he looked at
her. "Interested, are we? Well, yes, he did and he did it because
he is a lily-livered weak-assed shameful excuse for a man. He did
worse than desert, he convinced Emperor Alexios to turn back with
the army he was bringing to assist our armies."

Gautier joined in in a squeaky voice, "'They
are dead, all dead, I tell you! Flee, flee for your lives!'"

"Were they all dead?" she asked,
incredulous.

"Not 'they,' dear girl. 'We.' We were very
much alive."

"I should not claim exactly that, my dear
Gautier. We were starving to death. We were the ones under siege by
then. That fool monk insisted the lance was buried in the church,
and sure enough there it was. Everybody was hallucinating
something. For the bishop it was a holy lance. I for one was
hallucinating a feast served by houris."

Gautier made an obscene gesture, then seeing
the woman's puzzled look, explained, "Virgins the heathens believe
will serve them when they go to paradise."

"Sometimes I prefer the Paynim vision of
paradise to our Heaven. I would rather lie in an oasis sipping
nectar from the valley between a woman's breasts than on my knees
before Our Lord singing psalms. Can you imagine Bohemond with his
terrible voice singing psalms in the wrong key?"

Gautier toasted his host. "Mayhap in heaven
all can sing like angels."

"So who is going?"

Gautier looked blank. "To heaven?"

"No, imbecile. On crusade." Reinhardt picked
up the flask of wine from the table and refilled his friend's cup.
When he started to pour some for Elisabeth he saw the cup was
untouched. "Drink, you ugly bitch. Don't be inhospitable to my
guests," he rasped in her ear.

She took the cup in her hands, brought it to
her lips, glaring at him, but set the cup down as full as it had
been before. He growled under his breath.

Gautier was speaking. "That Archbishop of
Milan, Anselm or something, is gathering Lombards for a crusade. I
have no idea if he is getting any recruits."

"Nothing from the Germans? The Franks?"

Gautier spread his hands. "How should I know?
I would not put it past some of the young men who could not go the
first time. And I suppose your Emperor will want to send
someone."

"Humph! Well, God help them and the Devil
take them!" was the Baron's ironic response.

Elisabeth allowed herself to relax as the two
men drank and reminisced. All day she had been on edge, wondering
when Reinhardt would demand his matrimonial rights. She swung
between crippling fear and violent anger. She looked for Albrecht
whom she knew was trying to stay out of the baron's sight.

"I can't stand it. I'll kill him. I'll run
away." She spat as she paced the aisles between the stalls in the
stable.

Albrecht could think of no comfort. His own
nerves were raw, his internal debate as to whether to run himself
and desert her taking its toll.

At the high table she began to wonder if she
would be alone for one more night. It was little comfort but it was
something. If he got drunk enough, perhaps he would not . . .

"Well, my dear, it is time for bed. I think
under the circumstances the pomp and ritual of a bedding is
unnecessary." It appeared that Reinhardt had shared the delay after
their marriage with his friend, as the man just leered. Reinhardt
gave him a brisk nod. "No father or mother here to stop me this
time." He grasped Elisabeth's hand and stood, dragging her to her
feet. She was too stunned at first to resist.

As they passed down the hall she started to
hold back. Reinhardt spun to face her. "Do not even think of
humiliating me before my men. You will get much worse than a
bedding."

Her mouth agape, she let him lead her out of
the hall and up the stairs. He took her to her parents' old
chamber. Entering, he surveyed the servants' preparations and
ordered them out. He kicked the door shut and bolted it.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded. He
went to a table and poured himself wine.

Elisabeth did not move. She wrapped her arms
around her breasts and glared at him.

After a moment he turned and stared mockingly
at her. "What? Do you think I will just say, oh well, if you don't
want to?"

"You are going to have to fight for whatever
you take," she growled through bared teeth.

He took a long draught of the wine, put the
cup down, and replied, "Actually, I rather like that idea." He
strode the few feet to her and reached to grab her.

In a flash she had a knife in her hand. He
jumped back when she would have stabbed him in the belly. "My God,
woman, are you mad?"

She glared into his eyes. She watched him
shake his joints loose and lean forward as if looking for an
opening. He held no knife but nevertheless appeared to spar with
her. He feinted, nearly grabbed her wrist with his other hand, then
jumped back again as she avoided him. "You are quite the hellcat. I
am going to enjoy this immensely."

She anticipated his next move, a double
feint, but was unable to move fast enough when he grabbed for her
and clasped both her hands in one of his. He twisted her wrists,
grinning at her sharp cry of pain as she dropped her weapon.

He had his lower lip caught between his teeth
and his eyes sparkled. He did not say a word. Instead he forced her
backwards until the back of her legs hit the bed. Then he turned
her around and forced her to bend so her upper torso was pressed on
the counterpane and her knees pressed into the side of the bed. He
put one hand on the small of her back and held her down. She tried
to twist free, but it was no use.

She could tell he was fumbling with his other
hand, pulling up her layers of skirts, finally ripping what he
couldn't push away. His grunt was not of pleasure but of
condemnation. "No arse to speak of, but they'd better be all right
for childbirth."

Her arse exposed, she waited, forcing away
tears. She swore at him continuously, calling him names he had not
guessed a woman of her station might know. When it finally struck
her that her behavior stimulated his lust, she stopped. The next
sound out of her mouth was a scream as he forced his way into her,
tearing her maidenhead violently, and all she could do was cry out
over and over again.

Afterwards she stayed in her awkward position
as he reached for the torn clothes on the floor. He tossed them on
the bed next to her. "Get dressed and go. I don't like to share a
bed."

She grabbed the clothes and without covering
herself dashed as quickly to the door as the pain between her
sticky thighs allowed. She fumbled with the bolt, and then shot it
open, running out into the corridor half naked.