My Beloved (12 page)

T
he river had its own voice, effectively muffling every other sound until all Juliana could hear was the roar of swiftly moving water. The Terne flooded from time to time, she'd been told, as if proving that it could not be harnessed. Once even the lower bailey had been submerged.

She stood on the bank of the river, watching the surge of water.

The passing weeks had changed her, altered her in some indecipherable way. How could she live a life in this manner, constantly wishing for more from her marriage when she'd been told from the beginning that nothing would ever come of it?

She felt like a different woman from the woman who had first arrived at Langlinais. The woman who stood here now was not the woman who had agreed to such a union. That woman had been content with her work, with the passage of days marked only by the completion of a difficult passage or an illuminated letter. This woman wanted a true marriage with the Lord of Langlinais. She wanted him to speak with her as he had the nights upon the tower, to talk with her of his dreams, of his past, of the years to come. She wanted him to trust her, and
grant her the secret that rendered him inviolate and alone.

The sound of the river comforted her in an odd way, the swift-moving current a chant of nature. Water was another one of her fears.
You must not go near the pond, child. You could drown
. Did she test herself now by walking closer to the edge of the bank as she had tested herself when she sat naked before Sebastian?

One moment she was standing there. The next, the earth crumbled at her feet and she was falling through air. Into nothingness it seemed. A sudden jerk upon her girdle halted her flight, then tightened until she felt like she was being cut in two.

She could hear no sound above the roar of the river. She screamed, her throat scraped raw with terror as she hung suspended over the river. But her screams were silent things. Not even the rumble of the ground crumbling above her could be heard over the rushing waters of the Terne.

She looked down, her eyes widening at the impossible distance below, at the torrent of water beneath her. In that instant, childhood memories melted together, made her five years old again, gave her a child's helplessness and terror. She was going to fall to her death. Her mouth was open, but the sight of the sheer drop below her had silenced her cries completely. The bank crumbled even further, small rocks and roots tumbling over her as the constriction at her waist increased.

She could not swim. The churning water seemed to grow closer and closer as she dropped still further. The discomfort at her waist was increasing. Had she been caught on an outcropping of rock? She must have. No, she was moving, slowly being drawn up by the chain that formed her girdle. Her
hands reached out and scrabbled at the side of the bank. Her fingers ground into the soil, the heels of her hands pressing against rock and root in a terrorized attempt to pull herself up to safety.

A rock rolled from the earth above, barely missing her. Then another. The rain of powdery soil was the only warning she had. A slab of retaining wall fell from above, slamming into her, a corner of the heavy stone grazing her arms and hands as she covered her head. The impact stunned her. For long moments she dangled weakly against the earth, breathing in the scent of it, hearing the fall of rocks as they splashed heavily into the river. The pain was everywhere, but her hands felt on fire. Her right hand looked odd, and the flexing of her fingers prompted a surprised yelp of pain. The left was badly cut and bleeding profusely.

Sebastian leaned farther out over the embankment, shouting something to her. She couldn't hear him. The sound of the rushing water was too loud. He leaned out precariously over the eroded bank, only his grip preventing her from falling.

She used her left hand like a claw, grinding into the earth in order to find a hold.

One inch and then another. A foot, then. Long, slow, agonizing minutes later, the neck of her surcoat was pulled taut as Sebastian hauled her up the bank.

“Juliana!” Her name was tossed into the air like a song of survival. Her knees touched solid earth and only then did she make a sound. Small, piteous cries a kitten might make, desperate fear churning inside her, demanding recognition.

Sebastian continued to pull her by girdle and surcoat until she was five feet from the edge of the precipice. The painful squeezing of her waist finally eased, but her hands were on fire with pain. She lay
against the ground, blessed earth beneath her back, breathless. She looked up to see the glory of blue sky.

And Sebastian's stark look of horror.

It was difficult to speak, but she felt a need to reassure him. “You saved my life, Sebastian,” she said, finally, after catching her breath.

The effort to comfort him did not alter his glance nor cause his eyes to soften their expression. Her gaze followed his. Her left hand gripped his forearm tightly, the fingers of her right lay lightly against his bare skin.

“Merciful God,” he whispered.

 

His gloved hands tenderly lifted her fingers from his skin. Her right hand was swelling; he wondered if it was broken. Both hands were badly torn. Her survival had cost her dearly. Too dearly.

“Sebastian?” His silence worried her. He could hear it in her voice.

Her eyes had the power to unman him. Did she weep?
Please, do not let her weep. Not now
.

The growl of thunder warned of the oncoming storm. The birds that roosted in the castle's embrasures were silent, the breeze that preceded the rain was thick with nature's tears.

“Sebastian?”

Her eyes were filled with confusion. There were several scratches on her cheek, and an angry red spot upon her forehead where it had grazed one of the stones on her way up the bank. The most terrible moment in his life had been when she had suddenly disappeared from view. No, perhaps the most terrible moment was still to come.

He did not answer her unspoken question. He felt curiously numb at this moment. He had been so
careful, so damnably careful. Not once had he touched her; he'd never allowed her to come close. He'd seen the look on her face when he'd move away suddenly, had placed distance between them. He had locked himself in his honor, bound himself with restraint, and all of it was for nothing.

Now, she would have to know.

“Will you come with me, Juliana?” The words were forced from his lips.

She smiled tremulously, but rose to her knees, then stood. His people parted for him, the look on his face evidently so severe that it muted their whispers.

He could remain silent, not tell her. But that idea was abhorrent. It would spare him her revulsion, but at what cost? He might as well surrender his honor, his word, all the oaths he'd taken as a knight.

When he reached the forge, he ducked beneath the low-hanging roof and stepped aside for her. The hut was open on two sides, a necessity since the fire was never extinguished. Otherwise, the structure would be too hot in which to work.

He turned to the smith. “Leave us,” he said, and the smith and his two apprentices disappeared as quickly as steam from the cooling vat. He turned to the crowd with the same demand, and they were not as silent although they dispersed as rapidly. Unfurling the flaps at either end of the structure, he enshrouded the two of them in heat and privacy.

He stood looking down at Juliana, savoring these silent moments. Her face, so bruised, was still lovely. Her mouth trembled in a timorous smile. She had said nothing since that moment he'd removed her hands from his arms. But the questions remained in her eyes.

How did he tell her?

He'd no cause to smile for years, but those nights on the tower had given that back to him. He could not add up a column of numbers without stopping to think of her. Even the movement of his own fingers around a quill brought to mind her deliberate strokes as she labored in the oriel. He had searched through all the codex and scrolls he owned, looking for comments in the margins, learning the personalities of the monks, or perhaps nuns, who had transcribed them in the long ago past. Nor was his enchantment for her limited to those things of the mind and spirit. He'd wanted her from the moment he'd seen her, trembling and innocent.

A flush appeared on her cheeks. A week ago she'd sat naked before him, coaxed to desire by only his words. She'd blushed so then, and her lips had fallen open the slightest bit. Another similar moment would never come again, and he did not doubt that she would soon wish that one stricken from her memory.

She stood in silence, his Juliana. For these last moments he could call her that. For these puny moments, and those that she had so artlessly given him, would be what he recalled when he was alone. All the moments of her smiling, all the times he'd heard her soft voice, all the recollections he'd had of her would have to last him until the day he died, screaming to God for final deliverance.

But not for her. Not for her.

He knelt on one knee at her feet, bowed his head. It was a similar posture as that of his knighting, or homage to his liege. He had long since won his spurs, and the king was far away, but he knew no one more worthy of his respect than Juliana. She had braved her own fear and given him acceptance with
her company. Afraid, she had still come to him, and for a few nights made normal his life.

He could not bear this. His heart beat in steadied, resolute strokes. His mind clamored in the same strong rhythm. It must be done. For her sake. It must be done.

“I warned you never to touch me,” he said, the words sounding harsh and raw. “Did you never wonder why?”

Her left hand moved until it rested on his head. A benediction of touch. He closed his eyes, knowing it would be the last time she ever touched him.

It was the most profound moment of his life. The most difficult.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Always,” she added.

He looked up at her, then away. She stood waiting, patient in the way only Juliana could be, draped in silence and composure. He wanted to hear her laugh, wished to see joy on her face. Not wariness, nor revulsion. But what he would say would only invoke fear. Loathing. Disgust.

The words were almost impossible. He forced himself to meet her gaze, to look into her green eyes even as he delivered the words that would set them apart forever. He gave her the truth, stark and brittle as it was.

“I am leper, Juliana.”

T
he world reeled, insurgent and heated. Juliana stared at him. On his face was a look she'd never before seen. As if he anticipated the wounds her words would bring him. Did he expect her to repudiate him? It was evident he did. He knelt before her, silent beneath her touch, but separate in spirit.

I am leper
.

It was only fitting that the storm descended upon them. First, the scent of rain, then the wind, blowing against the canvas flaps of the forge, swirling her surcoat around her ankles. In moments, they were encapsulated in darkness, the yawning maw of the fire making the small hut appear like the entrance to hell. A thought appropriate for this place and those words.

She could hear the squeals as the laundress and her helper rushed to gather their dried linen. The cook cursed the rain, a door was slammed shut. Laughter, then silence, as all of Langlinais seemed to huddle beneath the storm.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe the thunder, great booming waves of it, were happening inside her head. But she did not close her eyes, sim
ply stood there absorbing the storm as if it were penance of a sort.

Juliana, come inside. Do you want to be struck by lightning?
Odd that she should realize that the voices were afraid, more so than the childish Juliana had been.

Her hand slid down until it rested upon Sebastian's shoulder. A journey made in pain. Her hand throbbed. She would need to wrap it. But how did she treat her soul? What bandage could she place on it?

He did not move away from her touch, but only closed his eyes. But she should not touch him, should she? There were no words from her past to guide her. No admonishments. Only the cautions of her own mind. But it warred with her heart and her heart won. Her hand remained where it was.

The storm was directly above them now. A flash illuminated the hut, the sudden brilliance pouring over them. Thunder followed instantly, shivering through the ground, through her very body. The earth beneath her feet seemed to shake like a giant beast coming alive after centuries of sleep.

“
Intellige clamoren meum
.” She could invoke the same words now, in the same tone of despair.

“Juliana?”

She blinked and looked down at him. His eyes, those lovely dark blue eyes were filled with…what? Her left hand moved from his shoulder to his cheek. The backs of her poor bruised and torn fingers were numb, but they could feel his face. She expected it to be bristly to her touch, but his skin was soft. She traced the line of one eyebrow, smiled as it arched beneath her touch. How utterly beautiful he was, like a rare stone, polished until it was shining. A large obsidian stone.

It was pain she saw in his eyes. She recognized it finally.

“Juliana, did you hear me?”

“Yes, Sebastian, I heard you.” Her voice sounded strange even to her. Did it appear so to him? She suspected it did, by the look of concern on his face.

She was adrift in thoughts, as if they were butterflies swirling around in her head, but none of them would remain still long enough to make sense. Sebastian. All her life she'd wished to have someone to confide in, to laugh with, to talk to, and her wish had been granted to her in the guise of this husband. He'd been her friend and the lover she'd thought about, dreamed of. Once, she'd feared him, garbed in the colors of night and hinting of mystery. Where was the fear now? Expunged, drained from her. She could feel nothing but pain at this moment, not simply the physical discomfort of her hands, but a deeper anguish, one of the spirit.

“I would not have such a thing happen to you, Juliana.”

She was here but not here. She was standing before Sebastian, attentive to his words.

I am leper
.

Oh, dearest God, it all made sense now. All of it. He moved away from her because he'd not wished to contaminate her. “
Do not touch me, Juliana. Ever
.” A warning. She'd not heeded it, but only accidentally. She had not meant to touch him.

Without issue. Or hope of it
.

Something died within her. Something bright and gleaming and new. Hope? It seemed so. Perhaps she had been pretending all along that such a dictate might be changed. That she might understand his objection to a true marriage and soften him in some
way. If so, that notion shivered and succumbed to a final, bloody death.

“
I am leper
.” The words echoed in her mind, like the corridors of the convent were wont to give back sounds. She'd seen a leper only once. He had been a pitiful thing, with hands whittled away to putrid stumps, his face blackened and heavily bandaged.

No, not Sebastian. Please.

“There are those who believe it possible to prevent the disease by fire,” Sebastian told her now.

She looked down at him again, startled into awareness by his words. “You would burn my hands, Sebastian?” She looked down at them. She could no longer feel her right hand. Swollen nearly twice its size, it looked almost blue. How strange that it seemed to belong to someone else, not her.

“I would do anything to prevent your suffering as I do, Juliana.”

What did she say to such earnestness? To such pain? Another thing they shared, it seemed.

She was someone other than herself at that moment, someone who felt absurdly cold when the forge was an inferno. The throbbing of her hand was fierce, the pain measured her words, rationed her to those she could speak quickly and easily. He wanted to burn her hands. She looked down at them, imagined them without their flesh, singed and raw, bones emerging from beneath her sleeves. It would make her safe, he said. Her vision was graying, the edge of it furred and wavy.

She blinked and focused on him kneeling before her. Sebastian, the brave and noble knight, the husband who would never be her mate. She had gotten what she wanted, hadn't she? All the answers to all the questions.

“No, Sebastian,” she softly said, and surrendered to the blackness.

 

She'd fallen, unconscious, at his feet.

Jerard carried her through the rainswept bailey as Sebastian followed.

She had effectively trapped him with her denial, lanced him to the spot with one word.
No
. There was no cure for her now, only an eternity of watching and waiting and hoping that she did not evince his same symptoms. Fear spread like a fast-growing weed through him.

A spear of lightning lit the sky again, a jagged, omnipotent greeting.

Rain bathed his face as he looked upward, as if to find God in the black sky above Langlinais. Sebastian closed his eyes, felt the stinging slap of wind. The unadorned savagery of this storm was as elemental to him as a prayer. Perhaps it was nature's way of worship.

His own prayer was simple, the intent not for forgiveness, but for Juliana's hands. And most of all for her protection against the leprosy that had so changed his life. He did not want for Juliana what was promised for him.

An Egyptian physician had uttered his death sentence in a voice filled with revulsion. From that day on, he'd been sequestered from the other prisoners, led to a cell barely large enough to accommodate him. There he'd remained, adrift in a horror that recalled every occasion in his life in which he'd seen one of the untouchables, the poor shambling wrecks who were defiled and shunned for their disease.

The Church reasoned that only sinners contracted leprosy, that it was a punishment for lascivious thoughts or lecherous acts. He had never been able
to identify any of his sins as great enough to render him one of the living dead. His worst transgression had been a questioning mind, one that asked why it was permissible to kill in the name of faith and yet forbidden otherwise. Why did the Church, founded on the tenets of charity and love, approve of torture to extract a confession? But why, if he was given a mind capable of wondering, should he then be punished for it? Surely God would not grant man an ability that should not be used?

There were no choices then—no vast range of options between good and evil. He would either be surrendered to the pits of hell, burning blood red against the blackness of eternal damnation. Or uplifted in a golden chariot, his journey accompanied by seraphic voices. There were no such careful markers now. He was neither abject sinner, nor perfect, but somewhere unremarkably in between.

The thunder growled in agreement.

He stood in the bailey, legs braced, fists outstretched to heaven itself.

Juliana. It was the sound of a storm-tossed wind. And it was not until he felt the rawness of his own throat that Sebastian realized he had screamed her name.