Hot Summer's Knight (21 page)

Or if he placed me on the edge of the bed, and held my legs…

Or if I knelt, and supported myself with my arms…

Or if he lay on the bed, I could ride astride him, as though I were on horseback…

Or if we both lay on our sides, and I wrapped one of my legs around…

She was fascinated by the amazing variety of ways in which a man and a woman could join with each other.  Reaching out, she carefully touched one of the writhing couples.

I was wrong to consider them depraved, she thought.  This could be a true union, a mating of souls as well as bodies.  Oh, Gareth, I want you, I long for you.  I want to find fulfillment in your arms and with our bodies, just as these people have.  If only you were here.

Some illustrations showed two women with one man, or men with men, and women with other women.  If she couldn’t see herself and Gareth playing the roles, she passed over them.

In another set, the couples were joined in other ways, ways she’d never dreamed.

So I could do that with my mouth, she thought.  I didn’t know it was possible!  The man in the carving looks as though he’s enjoying it.  And he could use
his
mouth, too!  The thought of Gareth’s tongue lapping at the secret places she’d only just discovered made her squirm.  One hand began to burrow beneath her shift again, while the other kneaded her breast.

“You like my carvings, little nun.”

At the sound of the voice behind her, she froze.  How long had Fulk been there?  What had he seen?

Slowly, she rose to her feet.  Her limbs felt weak, but she refused to allow herself to show it.  She turned around.  Fulk was seated at the large table in the centre of the room.

“They are most enlightening, Count Fulk.”  The heat in her body warred with the ice in her tone.

She remembered a day, long ago, in the forest.  Still a trusting, innocent girl-child, she’d been looking for the earliest flowers of spring; the snowdrops, and the lily of the valley.  Her mother had begun to warn her not to go to the forest alone, but she’d never been told why.  After all, she’d gone anywhere she wanted on her family’s lands, for as long as she could remember – why should she stop now?

The Count had been hunting.  A freshly killed deer was lashed to his saddle, the blood from its slit throat dripping to the ground.  She’d called out to him.  Everyone knew this was the King’s forest, held in trust for him by her family.  No-one could hunt here, except with the King’s or her father’s permission.

He’d dismounted, and walked towards her, his heavy boots sinking into the old, damp leaves.

“You’re alone?” he’d asked, looking around.

Suddenly nervous, she’d attempted to lie, telling him her maid was not far away.  He’d scanned the undergrowth long enough to find her out.

With a low growl like a beast, he’d pushed her to the damp ground, and ripped her clothes from her.  What he couldn’t tear, he’d cut with his dagger, caring not at all for her screams or her cries for mercy.  He’d held her down with his great weight while he’d forced his way inside her, tearing her flesh, and bruising her body.

She knew now she hated this man, as surely as she knew her own name.

The buried memory of his brutal act had made her a prisoner in her own body for more than eight years.  Because of him, she’d spurned her husband on their wedding night.  Because of him, she’d rejected Gareth in the forest.  She was twenty four years old, and she’d never held a lover in her arms, and felt him move inside her.  She’d never felt a child begin its life within her, or nursed an infant at her breast.

The act he’d perpetrated upon her all those years ago had nothing in common with the erotic play of the figures in the carvings.

“Enlightening?”  He pushed himself out of the chair, and walked towards her.  “I saw you touch them.  I saw your fingers trace the outline of the bodies.  Do you not find them – arousing?”

He stopped when he was no more than a hand’s span from her.  He was far taller than she, and loomed over her.  She could smell and feel his breath on her skin, but she refused to be cowed.

“Should I?” she answered.

“Some people do,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.  He let it fall, slowly, over one breast, and down, tracing the line of her hip through the shift.

“Then I am not one of them,” she lied.  Unable to bear his proximity any longer, she stepped away from him.  “What have you done with my clothes?”

“They’ve been removed.  Such poor garments would be unsuitable for a Count’s wife.  Other clothes will be brought shortly.”

“I am not your wife, my Lord Count.  I’ll wear my own clothes.  Would you please send for them.”

He ignored her request.  “You will be my wife, little nun, as soon as the priest arrives to bless the union.  And before that happens, you will bathe, and you will wear the clothes I have provided.”

“I will not marry you, Lord Fulk.  Indeed, I cannot.  I’m already married.”

“Ah, yes.”  To her relief, he moved away, to a chest beneath the window.  “Your husband, the warrior for Christ.  Your late husband.”

“I’ve received no news of his death.  And until that day…”

“What news would be good enough, little nun, to convince you of his passing?”

“My name is Berenice de Freycinet, my Lord Count.  I’d be grateful if you’d use it.”

He bowed, a small, mocking half bow.

“Very well, my Lady Berenice, what would it take to convince you of his death?”  He opened the trunk.

“What has it to do with you?”

“Answer my question, woman!”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated, “Perhaps to see something that I know was his…”

“Such as?”

“This is ridiculous, Count.  Could you please get me my clothes!”

“Such as,” he opened a smaller box he’d retrieved from the trunk, “A ring?”

He crossed the room to her, and raising her hand with his, dropped an ornate, silver ring into the palm.

“You’ll recognize the crest.”

She did.  On their marriage, elements had been taken from both of their family crests to form a new one.  She knew her husband’s crest almost as well as she knew the balances in the castle accounts.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was brought to me by,” he coughed into his hand, “a friend, who had been in the Holy Land.  Your husband is dead, Lady.  He died in the Battle of Hattin.”

“Hattin?” she echoed, “There were no survivors from Hattin.  Forgive me, my Lord, I must sit down.”

He brought her a chair, and she collapsed into it without remembering to thank him.  She turned the ring over and over in her hands.  She remembered Huon wearing it.  He’d not been a bad man, she thought, except perhaps for a fondness for wine.  In the few weeks they’d been together, he’d always been kind to her.  She wondered where he’d slept each evening after she’d turned him out of their bedroom.

She wouldn’t weep now for someone she’d barely known.  If Huon de Fortescue was dead, she was indeed a widow; in that, at least, Count Fulk was right.  She was a free woman, free to marry where her heart directed.

“Keep it,” said the Count, “consider it a betrothal gift.”

Berenice kept her gaze on the ring, certain that if she looked up at the Count, the joy in her eyes would betray her.  She was free to marry Gareth.

All she had to do was escape from here.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

He had another woman up there, Jessamine was sure.  The floor of his room was the ceiling of hers, and she could hear two sets of footfalls, two voices talking.  Other people had come and gone, but the two voices stayed there – the Count’s, and a woman’s.

Who was she?

Jessamine swore she’d make sure this woman never attracted another man again.  Plotting her vengeance alleviated the boredom a little.  She’d been in this room most of the time since the Count had left yesterday morning.  At first she’d been dazzled by the furnishings, and the huge bed, and the novelty of having a room all of her own, just like a real Lady.  The novelty had worn off by yesterday noon.

She wasn’t a prisoner.  She was here of her own free-will.  When she’d decided to go for a walk around the castle, no-one had stopped her.  She could have walked right out the gate if she’d wanted to.

She’d thought about it, briefly.  There’d been few men around – evidently most of them had left with the Count – and the remaining women had been unfriendly, and hadn’t wanted to chat.  They were a cheerless bunch.

Her boredom was made all the worse by the knowledge that, through her badly timed exit, she was missing the fair at Freycinet.  She’d met a few of the fair people before she’d left, and they seemed like a good lot, always ready for a flask of wine and a tumble.

She’d been guaranteed a meal here, at least.  No more waiting on tables and clearing away again before she could eat herself.  A tray had been brought to her door, and her leavings collected later, but it was tedious eating alone.  She found herself thinking about her parents, and her brother.  She’d never been away from them this long before.  She’d never been by herself this long, either.  She didn’t like the feeling one bit.

Surely the Count couldn’t have forgotten her already?  He’d seemed hungry enough for her body the morning before he’d left.  She wanted to see him, to see if he’d brought her anything back from Freycinet.

He was her only reason for staying here.  He would look after her, she was sure.  Perhaps, if she bore him sons, he would even make her his Lady one day, or close enough to it.  How she’d enjoy rubbing that in the faces of all the people at Freycinet.  Especially the Lady herself.  Lady Berenice wouldn’t be able to look down her then.

She adjusted the neckline of her dress so more of her ample bosom spilled over.  Whoever the other woman was, Jessamine knew the Count liked her big, round breasts, even if he did get a bit rough with them sometimes.  If he wasn’t going to come to see her, she’d just have to go to him.

She opened her door in time to see two menservants walking down the stairs, carrying empty buckets.  She was curious to know who was having a bath, and at this time of day as well.  She’d had to bathe in the laundry.  It must be something to do with that woman, she was sure.

She climbed the spiral stairs to the Count’s room.  The door was ajar, so she pushed it the rest of the way open without knocking.  It swung open on well-oiled hinges, allowing her full view of the chamber.

He did have another woman!  Jessamine swore beneath her breath.  How could he, after all the things they’d done together only the night before last!  She’d done everything he’d asked her too, and then thought up a few more little tricks she thought might entertain him.  He’d certainly acted like he appreciated her – and wanted her.

The strange woman was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, her head bowed, waist-length, brown hair falling over her back and shoulders.  The hair gleamed in the light of many candles.  Jessamine wondered what she put through it – no-one could have hair as glossy as that naturally.

The woman was wearing nothing but a shift, and an old, mended one at that.

A big wooden tub had been set up near the foot of the bed.  On the bed lay the most beautiful gown Jessamine had ever seen.  Made of silk damask, in a deep, rich red, it was trimmed with ermine around the neck and the edges of the long, long sleeves, which were lined with scarlet silk.  Next to it lay a shift, white as drifts of snow, edged with embroidery and drawn thread work and tiny satin ribbons.

Jessamine would have died for the shift alone.  It was an outfit good enough for a queen.  Or a Countess.

“You will disrobe, and bathe in the water that has been brought for you,” the Count was saying to the woman, “and if you continue to refuse, I will remove your shift, and bathe you myself!”

“I bathe in my own home, in the privacy of my own room, with my maid present.  No-one else,” she answered.  Her voice was quiet and calm.

“You will allow the women to dress you in that garment!”

“Nor do I accept gifts of clothing, no matter how costly.”

The Count’s face was flushed.  His mouth moved as though he were about to speak, but no sound came out.

“I will wear my own clothes, Count Fulk.  I refuse to wear that gown.”  The woman’s voice was so soft, Jessamine could barely make out the words.

“You will,” he roared.  Leaning over the woman, he grabbed her upper arms, and wrenched her up and out of the chair.   Once she was standing, he raised his hand as though to tear the patched and darned shift from her body.

Her hair fell back, revealing her face.

The woman was Lady Berenice.

“You!” screeched Jessamine,  “what’re you doing here?”

Berenice turned to face her, freeing herself from the Count’s hold.

“Perhaps you could direct that question at the Count,” snapped Berenice.  “And by the way, I could ask you the same thing.  We’ve had searchers out looking for you.”

“Don’t lie to me!  I know you were glad to see the back of me.  You hated me from the day I arrived!”

“Jessamine, that’s not true!” 

The girl was across the room in an instant.

“You get everything you want, don’t you, you high born whore, while the rest of us have to grovel for your leavings.”  She was mindless in her need for revenge, planned in detail before she even knew her identity of her adversary.

That Berenice was the unknown woman made the possibility of vengeance even sweeter.  First she’d taken the troubadour from her, now she was stealing the Count.  Jessamine intended to destroy her, to rip that smug look from her face, to scar her so no man would want her, ever again.

With a howl like a demon from hell, she flew at Berenice, her fingers curled into claws.

The Count stepped between the two women.

“You will not harm the Countess.”

Countess.  That single word destroyed all Jessamine’s hopes, all the fantasies built up since he’d left the previous day.  Her hands landed, ineffectually, on his chest.

“No,” she whimpered, “you can’t have married her, not her.  You don’t know what she’s like!  You don’t about her and…”