"He is not lord here, really, but an overlord who will soon be away," Guenivere corrected.
"Off to far places and magnificent castles to fight for his lady!" Alice said with a sigh, while Guenivere grimaced. She had no idea what battle Alice could imagine being conducted on her behalf!
"Surely there has never been the like of such a man, tall and broad-shouldered and dark of hair and eye," Alice said. "Why, just the sight of him is enough to cause any maiden to swoon. And if that were not enough, he is a knight and a baron and a companion of Edward himself. Why, 'tis almost as if an intimate of King Arthur's round table came to life!"
"I thought I told you to stop reading romances," Guenivere said, snapping her thread sharply. She lifted her head to send both girls a quelling glance, for she had scolded them more than once for their habits, yet they continued to defy her.
Guenivere frowned at the ensuing silence. When would they ever learn? The romance stories were fantasy, as were the ballads sung by the troubadours to willing audiences. Despite the prevalence of such plots, knights didn't really commit adultery with queens and ladies or they would be castrated by their lord. There were no "courts of love," unless they existed in exotic foreign lands, for here, men didn't make vows that were judged by ladies. Most were too busy seeking their own glory to give a thought to any female. And those women who hoped otherwise were only asking for heartache. Guenivere pulled on the thread again—hard.
"But, my lady," Alice protested. "How can you ask us to forgo our only pleasure? The stories give us a glimpse of the excitement, such as is, to be had at court and beyond, of far-off places and handsome princes! You have to admit there is little enough chivalry to be found here."
Or anywhere, Guenivere thought, but before she could speak, Alice sighed deeply. "If only some great knight like Sir Brewere were to come for me!"
"Beren didn't come for me. I sent for him," Guenivere said, exasperated. Although she disliked speaking of her marriage, it was better that the girl know the truth than babble on like a dreamy-eyed maiden fed on fables. Like the girl she had been.
Guenivere drew in a harsh breath. Her father, having loved the Arthurian stories, had dubbed her accordingly and encouraged her interest in her namesake and the heroic legends of the past. In truth, Guenivere had needed little urging, for she had devoured the romances, reading them aloud to others, planning and dreaming and investing all her hopes in nothing but a bit of ink and parchment, a tale told by a fool.
But with age had come wisdom and, thankfully, the ability to tell the difference between fact and fiction. Knights did not fall in love with maidens at first sight, nor become so consumed with that love that they forgot all else. 'Twas the maidens they were more likely to forget.
"Lest you twist the truth to suit your fancy, Alice, I might remind you that until my summons, Sir Brewere had no intention of returning to Brandeth. And he married me only because I held him to the oath he made to my father," Guenivere said, bitter though the words might be to speak.
"But how can you claim so after last night?" Alice asked.
Guenivere's face flamed, and she ducked her head once more, as if intent upon her handiwork. "What do you mean?" she murmured. Surely, no one knew of the kisses Beren had stolen or the way she had felt when he did so.
"Why, 'tis said that so enamored was he, that he called the very clouds to his bidding and soared through the air to your window to enter your bower!" Alice said.
Guenivere grimaced at the obvious falsehood, yet what did it matter what people said? Whether they claimed he sprouted wings and flew or drifted on the breeze or crawled like a spider up the stone, she knew it was a feat that only Beren could have accomplished. Of course, she had watched him climb before, years ago, her heart in her throat, as he seemed to dangle in nothingness only to emerge at the top of a crag, laughing and triumphant.
The memory seared her, tempting her to revisit others, but Guenivere hardened herself with more recent recollections and bitter truths. Only Beren could turn everything, even a seemingly impenetrable wall, to his advantage. And only Beren would expect to take up just where he had left off. But Guenivere was not so quick to forget the intervening years. Nor did she intend to let this man, whom she no longer knew, into her life—let alone her bed.
Guenivere flushed anew, but remained resolved. Last night she had managed to stay him. He had slept on a fur before the fire, completely clothed, while she had lain atop the bedcoverings, wide-eyed and wary. When she finally had drifted off, it was to awaken with a start, bewildered and angry at his presence in her private chamber. Yet there he had been, and she wondered just how long he intended to stay.
What if he remained this day, as well? What of this night? Guenivere felt her pulse pound in a rhythm born of panic, not excitement. Or so she told herself. Obviously, she could not count upon Beren's disinterest to protect her. Nor could she lock herself away, for it was unseemly to have him shout through her door. Or break it down. Guenivere felt a shiver pass through her at the thought of defying the man Beren had become: strong, confident, and lethal looking.
What, then, could she do? Fleeing was out of the question, for travel was too difficult, and she had no safe haven but her own home, a keep that now belonged to him. Guenivere swallowed that bitter draught and concentrated. Her recollections of the night were a haze of recriminations, threats, and the overriding fear that he would press her to submit. Fear that she would succumb.
Unbidden, the memory of his kisses returned, and Guenivere shivered, though she felt suffused with heat. For just a moment, she allowed herself the recollection. How different those kisses had been than her girlish imaginings! She had thought such things involved only a touching of lips, not a melding of mouths and tongues, not a fusing of souls… But perhaps Beren felt no such connection, Guenivere thought. How could he, for he was as a stranger to her now, who refused even to excuse his long absence?
That knowledge drove away whatever warmth that lingered, and Guenivere hardened herself once more. She had spent many hours of the night angrily wondering why Beren could not simply admit that he had forgotten all who dwelt at Brandeth. Instead, he had blustered and hedged his words and lashed out at her! And as for his claim that he had not wanted to see her married to another, Guenivere would have laughed had she the heart.
If Beren had wanted her for himself, he had only to claim her, at any time since that moment in her youth when she had first set eyes upon him and vowed to herself that this man was the stuff of her dreams, the other half of herself, her destiny. But such a man would never have left her, or else he would have returned, triumphant, to sweep her off her feet.
Guenivere made a low sound of disgust, for now she was lapsing into the ways of the romances, a foolishness she had thought long past. Unfortunately, just the sight of Beren seemed to send her slipping into that old habit, for had she not brought up Parzival in their conversation despite her best intentions not to do so? Guenivere winced as she remembered her final words. Such was Parzival's regard for his wife that he did not think of making love to her for three nights after the wedding.
It was nonsense, for surely nothing could be farther from her marriage than that of the legendary hero and his wife. Yet when she had quoted the romance to him, Beren had left her, angry at the comparison between himself and the knight of the tale. Had he been reminded of the lack of chivalry in his behavior, or had something else stayed his hand? Guenivere did not know, but she hoped that the words would work as well again, if she were pressed by him in the future.
And after three nights, then what? Guenivere trembled and told herself that Beren would be gone by then, off again to his adventures, leaving Brandeth behind as before.
Beren, however, was still in residence come supper, and Guenivere felt her nerves stretched taut. She had avoided him all of the day, even going so far as to take the main meal in her chamber. Still, she had hardly been able to swallow a bite, for fear he would search her out, bearding her there,
especially after Alice breathlessly reported his absence at the high table.
Where had he eaten, and when? Guenivere found herself wondering and worrying only to chide herself for slipping into old patterns again. What did she care if Beren starved? More than likely, the simple fare at Brandeth no longer appealed to his more sophisticated tastes. And 'twas not only the food that could be so described, Guenivere thought bitterly.
She frowned, pushing aside such thoughts to consider what Beren was about. According to Alice, he had shown little interest in the keep or its outbuildings, preferring to remain closeted with Hubard, the old bailiff, going over the books. The notion of another judging her work here annoyed Guenivere, for what did Beren know of this place anymore? Luckily for him, he had not dared to approach her with any questions or quibbles about her management, lest he receive a tongue-lashing far harsher than last night's.
Guenivere stilled at her place by the hearth, seized by the image, for she now knew other uses for her tongue, and she glanced at the chamber door, fearful she would be tempted to them. Already, twilight was gathering outside her window, Would he come, or not? Guenivere was atremble already, though she knew not which outcome she most dreaded.
And then he was there, opening her door as though he had full use of it, her chamber, and herself. Guenivere drew in a sharp breath and glanced up at him, but his dark eyes were shuttered, and she could read nothing in his expression. Would he suddenly seize her? Scold her for avoiding him? Guenivere set her shoulders and told herself she feared no man, least of all Beren Brewere, lord or no.
"I went over your accounts today," he said. Guenivere did not deign to look at him. "You have done well."
Surprised at his words, she glanced up and tried not to stare at the sight of him. Would she ever be used to it? His dark hair swept back, thick and smooth, nearly to his shoulders, which were now broad and wide and strong, as was the rest of him. He had always been tall, but now his body had grown to match it, not an inch bulging or thick, but all hard with muscle, visible even through the linen of his tunic. Guenivere swallowed hard and tore her gaze away.
"Did you get something to eat?" she asked, carefully neutral.
"Yes," he said, and then he astounded her by laughing, though it was not a lighthearted sound. "You might not be pleased to know that since neither of us were at the high table, all the keep thinks that we were up here, engaged in newly wedded bliss."
Guenivere jerked around, nearly choking on her own breath. "B-but, you—! I—" she sputtered, then turned her head angrily away. "Do you listen at keyholes?"
"Nay. I did not have to," Beren answered. "Brandeth is buzzing with rumors and speculation."
That would die down, if you would but leave, Guenivere thought. Aloud, she said, "Yes, I heard some of it myself, most notably how you sprouted wings and flew through my window."
Beren laughed, and this time the sound was soft and low and so compelling that Guenivere had to use all her will to remain still. "Apparently, over the years, the people here have forgotten your unusual talent for climbing," she added.
Silence met her comment, so long and all encompassing that finally, Guenivere turned to look at him again, only to find that he had wrapped his cloak about him and lay upon the floor, his back to her. Obviously, his brief interest in her charms had faded once more. Guenivere struggled with a sharp sense of disappointment that bordered on pain before convincing herself she ought to be relieved instead.
Then she rose to her feet and sought her own bed, pulling the drapes close around her and shutting Beren out. But it seemed as if the habit of long years returned, for though he might be out of sight, he was never far from her mind.
Beren tried to sleep, but it would not come. He had made his bed on harder, colder spots, but none more painful to both body and spirit. All day, he had spent hiding from his past, closeted with Hubard, concentrating on the management of the demesne and redirecting the old man whenever he started to reminisce. But the place pressed upon him, like a weight against his chest, stifling his thoughts and stealing his breath.
Beren winced as the scent of roses wafted over him, making him dizzy with want, while rousing his blood to a fever pitch. Although he prided himself on his good sense, it appeared to have fled, for why else would he ache and throb for a woman with whom he could not even bear to talk? How had he come to marry the one woman who would not have him? And why was she even here, unmarried after all these years?
Beren seized upon that question, worrying it until he could not let it go. Had he not heard that she was betrothed at one time? Without examining too closely that memory, he wondered what had happened. Had the man died or been found wanting? The more Beren thought about it, the more tense he became. Finally, he rolled over and, staring at the bedcurtains, he spoke aloud into the dimness.
"What happened to your betrothed? Why did you not marry?" Beren asked, his voice harsh and accusing as he rose up on one arm. For a long moment, he thought she was asleep or feigning so and would not answer. Angry, he felt like striding over to rouse her; but, in his current state, he knew that was not a good idea. He shouldn't even be looking at her bed, he thought, even as the drapes fluttered and moved.
Although he had tried to forget everything to do with the lady of Brandeth, Beren knew that no matter how long he lived, he would ever remember the sight of those curtains parting. Whatever he thought, he wasn't expecting that, and he held his breath in tense anticipation, his heart thundering. When at last Guenivere was revealed in the dim light of the fire, he could see she was fully clothed, yet still he felt hot desire run rampant through him, for there she was, kneeling upon the covers, her hair loose and flowing…
" 'Twas broken off," she said simply. As if that marked the end of her comments on the subject, she reached up to draw the curtains once more. Beren's heart lurched, as if it would leap out of his chest in order to stay her hand.
"By whom?" he asked, hoarsely.
"By me," she answered, her eyes downcast.
She looked as if she did not care to speak of it, but suddenly it was imperative to Beren that he know. What had the man done? "Why?" he demanded, ready, despite all, to battle on her behalf.
With a sigh, Guenivere swung her legs round to sit on the edge of the bed. "As I grew older, Father became concerned because I had shown no marked partiality for any who sought my hand," she explained in a flat voice, still without looking at him. "So, he thought to force a decision from me by betrothing me to William of Langbane. I thought that, rather than cause trouble for my sire, I should accept," she said, and though her words rang true, Beren's gut churned.
"I believed that I could do it," she said. And while Beren stared, she took an interest in a decorative cord that dangled from the drape beside her, rubbing it between her fingers as though it would give her comfort or strength before dropping it abruptly. "But I could not," she murmured. "I finally told Father that I could not in all good conscious commit myself to the marriage when I felt I would fail William as a wife."
Beren swallowed a protest, for Guenivere had never failed at anything. And he knew of no man who was worthy of her, not even himself.
"Since my father cared very much for my mother, he was reluctant to compel me into a loveless union, especially when it would take me away from him," she added, finally meeting Beren's gaze with a rather defiant look. "And so, that was the end of my betrothal. William was very gracious about it and married Elizabeth Trowford a few months later."
Beren knew he should have been relieved at her words. Instead, he felt a wild euphoria beyond all reason. He was glad that there had been no love between the two, all too glad! And fast on the heels of his elation came a surge of possessiveness. At that moment, Beren wanted nothing more than to go to her, take her in his arms, and make her forget every other man she had ever known.
"What of you? Why have you not wed?" So lost was he to his emotion that Beren barely heard her voice, but Guenivere's question penetrated his thoughts,
staying his rampaging impulses and scattering them all like the fancies they were. He pulled his cloak about himself tightly.
"Mayhap I was a bachelor knight too long to change my ways," Beren muttered. Then he turned over once more, shutting her out and hiding from the past that she would dredge up, lest he be laid bare before her.
* * *
four
Beren stood at the doors of the hall, staring out to the sea and wondering what he was doing here when it was the last place he wanted to be. He ought to leave. There were no obstacles to his doing so, certainly not the wishes of his wife. And yet, something held him here—whether the past or the future, he wasn't sure.
Meanwhile, he was accomplishing nothing, reluctant as he was to come to terms with his history, while other duties waited for him at his own demesne. Back home. Yet even as he thought the words, it seemed to Beren that his new lands were not his home, that his destiny lay here, with his roots. He shook his head with a grunt of denial.
"Are you still here?" As if his own thoughts were being voiced aloud, Beren heard the question, but he had not spoken. He turned slowly to find Crispin standing behind him, a sneer on his lips.
"This is my keep now, Crispin. Would you try to rout me from it?" Beren asked, in no mood for the older knight's taunts. His patience had already been worn down to nothing by his bride. For a moment, Beren thought Crispin might challenge him, and his own hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but the other man only crossed his arms over his chest.
"Nay, for I'm sure you'll be gone soon enough," he said. "Linger for now, if you must, though for what purpose, I wonder? No one remembers you, and those few who do wish they did not."
Beren might have disputed his claim, for from what he had seen, Crispin was in the minority. The other people of Brandeth treated him with courtesy, if not enthusiasm, he noted, surprising himself with the realization. As if to bear him out, another of the keep's knights strode by, calling a greeting.
Simmons, Deborah - The Bachelor Knight Page 4
