Suddenly, all that he had been denying, all the bitter realities of his youth came back to him in painful waves. Things he had thought banished from his memory returned to beset him: the smell of animals and hopelessness, the gnaw of hunger and cold, a weariness of body and mind behind anything he had ever known in battle.
Beren broke out in a sweat, reeling with the knowledge of his own existence, but there was nowhere to go, no place to hide. And he was done taking the coward's way, retreating from his own history, burying it as he had all these years. Instead, he pushed aside the blankets and rose. It was time to face everything.
Dressing swiftly, Beren slipped through the keep whose residents were slowly stirring and stepped out into the brisk cool morning. He took a deep breath and felt the ocean air enter his lungs, tangy and delightful. And instead of pushing aside his pleasure, he reveled in it, for he had missed the scent of sea, just as he had missed Guenivere. How had he come to give up so much of himself? And for what?
He walked through the bailey and out the gate toward the village. He did not shut out the past, but let it swallow him up. His birth was clouded in shadow, as were his first years, a darkness of hunger and want and toil, relieved only by sporadic forays to the cliffs, his only solace.
The thought led Beren there, and his breath caught as he let himself look upon the steep crags of this land, more beautiful to him than the greenest of rolling hills that he might claim as his own. Perilous many called them, and those who did shrank from the jumble of boulders that led to the sharp inclines moving straight up. To be sure, Beren had a healthy respect for the cliffs, especially when they were made all the more deadly by cold and rain, and yet, he had been born with a fascination for the rock, with the look and feel of it and with the conquering of it by force of his own will and skill.
And so Beren had found something of worth in his bleak world, that of a poor orphan boy of unknown parentage taken in by the brewer and his brood. He wrinkled his nose, for he still hated the reek of ale and would drink wine or water when he could. He ought to have been grateful, at least that's what everyone said, for he could have been taken for a villein and a life of mind-numbing, backbreaking toil.
The brewer was not particularly kind, but such was the fate of those not born to the castle. Beren had been beaten often enough for "dallying" on the cliffs instead of working, and yet he could not forsake them. Somehow he had found new energy on the stone, an expansion of mind and spirit that renewed his tired body. And it was this passion that had raised him up from a short and weary life.
One day he had climbed higher than ever before, something inside driving him onward and upward until at last he had reached the top and stood staring out from the dizzying height. From there it seemed that he could see the entire world, the sea stretching out into infinity, the line of the cliffs and the coast, and far off, in the distance, a swarm of men, an army, heading toward Brandeth.
That day, Beren had sounded the alarm and the lord of the castle, Clement himself, had plucked him from the sodden despair of his home with the brewers and made him a squire, altering his destiny forever. Many, openly or not, disapproved of this sudden elevation of a ragged boy, little more than a villein, to the coveted position at the lord's side. But not Clement's daughter.
Guenivere had immediately befriended him, and announcing that a squire must be learned, she saw it as her duty to teach him. Although younger than Beren, she was well versed in an existence far removed from his experience, and he eagerly accepted her advice, her friendship, and her tutoring.
She read to him. And Beren listened, rapt, to things beyond his ken, to tales of kings and knights and brave deeds and beautiful ladies, and he had taken them all as gospel. Beren blew out a breath at his own innocence. But Guenivere, with her artless enthusiasm, had made it hard not to believe, to take to heart each word she spoke.
She had loved the stories of Arthur and his round table. With a name like Guenivere, who could blame her? But now Beren wondered if Clement had indulged his own and his daughter's love of such fanciful tales too freely. For the daughter of the castle had filled Beren's head with dreams he would never otherwise have had: to become a knight. And not only that must he rise to such an honor, but also that he was to accomplish great deeds and win his lady fair. Just like Parzival.
The name brought an ache to his chest, for he well remembered the stories that were Guenivere's favorites: those of Parzival. Despite various spellings and interpretations, they all concerned a boy raised in the woods, ignorant of worldly things, who, finally meeting some knights, decides to take up that life himself. There were different adventures and versions of the classic, but most dear to Guenivere were the ones where the hero was discovered to be the lost heir to a kingdom, won his quest for the Grail, and married his true love, Condwiramurs. A love so deep, so ethereal, that he did not think of making love to her for three nights after their wedding.
Beren loosed a sigh. The dreams he had had back then! And Guenivere had fed them, nurturing his hopes, egging him on with tales of glory until his vision of knighthood, so fiercely desired, bore very little resemblance to the harsh reality of his life, a difference he soon discovered. For Clement was called to war by his liege and Beren went to serve him. There, on the battlefield, he was girded with a sword and named a knight.
He must have seemed much like Parzival, ignorant and foolish, but at least the tales always gave the hero noble lineage, even when unknown. And in some lands, Beren knew that only those of noble birth were legally allowed to become knights. Unfortunately, he had never miraculously found himself to be anything other than what he was, a poor orphan boy of low birth—unworthy, always reaching for those things that were above him, scaling heights that were beyond his grasp… just like these.
When Beren looked up, he saw again the cliffs of his childhood, and his heart pounded out a fierce rhythm that once more dispelled despair. This stone had weathered the tests of time, the continuous onslaught of the waves, yet still rose, fierce and proud, into the sky. Feasting his eyes upon the tall faces, he admired each rise like another man would a lover or a friend, and let himself remember the feel of the climb, both challenge and triumph.
Beren's gaze lit upon his old paths, but he walked on, studying the face of the rock and seeing new routes, where others saw naught but a sheer precipice. He searched and he planned, and then, when at last he had found the perfect spot, he began his climb. As he had discovered the other night, his fingers no longer possessed the strength they once had, but his eye was unerring, charting a route among the faint dips and tiny outcroppings. And all during the long, grueling challenge to himself, he concentrated on nothing but the move ahead until at last he reached the summit, weary and triumphant.
Beren gazed down from the same dizzying heights that he had years before, but he found that his perspective was different now. Long ago, he had stood here and looked out and seen opportunities, the only ones open to him, the challenges of the climb. Now he saw accomplishments, and not just the striving against rock, but his achievements out in the world that he had once only seen from a distance.
Up here the air seemed more fresh, his mind more clear, as if all the debris of the years had been blown away by the brisk breeze off the water. From this vantage point, just as he could see farther distances than from anywhere else, Beren also was able to see deeper within himself. And in that moment of clarity, he realized that whatever his antecedents, he was unlike other men. He had forged a new road for himself, taking the untrodden path, the perilous one that rose straight upward, into the clouds.
What did it matter if his father were some forgotten king or the meanest villein? Beren had made of himself what he willed. But like a child fearing the specter in the darkness, he had let the question of his parentage rule his life and control his actions. If not, he would have returned to claim his bride long ago. But no more would he bow to the past or hide from it, or imagine the judgments of others, based upon his own dread, for
he knew who he was.
Was he not Sir Berenger Brewere, lord of great lands? Beren thought. Then he threw back his head and laughed with a freedom he had never known before.
Guenivere pressed her hands against her pounding temples, though it was not the only part of her body that pained her. Secret spots she had considered private ached this morn. Worse yet, her heart, an organ she had long pronounced dead, was stirring once more. She moved her palms downward, over her eyes, where the tears she had thought finished years ago threatened to erupt, just as they had last night.
Last night. All too well, Guenivere remembered staring into the fire, wary and uncertain, only to have Beren burst in, like the stuff of dreams, and kneel at her feet. Who could blame her for losing her composure? But she should not have spoken so freely, should not have admitted the feelings she had kept hidden so long and, most of all, should not have allowed herself to succumb at last to the temptation of his touch.
If only it had not been so beautiful, Guenivere thought. Her throat constricted, adding to her discomfort. She drew a deep breath, frantically grasping for her usual equanimity. She could not let others see her like this, especially Beren. She had already admitted too much weakness to him, which he had exploited easily enough.
Guenivere sighed, a faint despairing sound. She was being unfair, and she knew it. Beren had not taken advantage of her, for at any time during the long night of passion, she could have denied him. But she had not. Instead, she had embraced him, reveling in the fulfillment of all her hopes. Except one.
Though he had plied her with sweet words, never had Beren said what she had so yearned to hear. He had explained his absence glibly enough, but what had he really said about his feelings? Although Guenivere racked her mind, the memory of their speech was hazy and dim, overwhelmed by what had followed. And now she found herself belatedly advising caution, an act that resembled throwing water upon the remains of a building that had already burned to the ground.
Guenivere felt her cheeks flame. Burn was right. From the moment he kissed her, she had been lost, a creature of heat and desire. The things he had done to her! Guenivere had never imagined that a man might suckle a woman like a babe and press his mouth to every part of her. And she could not have protested, for it had been Beren who touched her, Beren whose hard body moved over her, Beren who thrust inside her until she cried out in ecstasy.
Guenivere covered her hot cheeks with her palms, moaning softly as memory washed over her. How could she distance her heart from such intimacies? And this morning had been no better, for she had awoken in his arms, feeling safe and warm and blissful for one long, precious moment before she had returned to her senses. Then she had fled the naked male body beside her, the bed where she had lost her maidenhead, and the room that no longer seemed her own.
But there was no escaping the body that had betrayed her, and Guenivere had roamed restlessly until, unwilling to let others see her distress, she had sought out the quiet of the tiny solar, shooing away any who would disturb her. A trencher of uneaten food lay nearby, but Guenivere ignored it, walking to the narrow window to stare out sightlessly.
Last night she had surrendered to pleasure, that she could not deny, but no matter how much her body had enjoyed its initiation, she could not allow herself to feel anything beyond the throes of passion. For, sooner or later, Beren would be gone again, lost forever to his fine estates and royal companions, while her place was here. And she would once again be naught more than a forgotten piece of his past.
Guenivere had lived through that torment once, somehow finding the wisdom and strength to survive, but she would not risk her heart again. In truth, she didn't think she could endure another breakage of that tender organ. But meanwhile, how was she to get on? Guenivere wondered hopelessly. How was she to distance herself from the man who had invaded her world, her mind, and her bed!
As if her very thoughts had summoned him to mock them, Guenivere heard Beren's unmistakable strides as he walked into the room. Turning slowly to greet him, she drew in a sharp, painful breath, whether because of the intimacy they had shared or something else, he appeared different today to her eyes. Taller. Broader. Stronger, yet more gentle. And so handsome that she wanted to weep for the sight of him. She swallowed hard.
"My lady," he said, his voice dropping to a low rendering that reminded her of whispers in the dark, and Guenivere heard herself make a soft, helpless noise. Who knows what might have happened next, whether she would have fallen back into his arms, despite all her vows, or fled the chamber like a frightened hare? Luckily for Guenivere, she did not have to make that choice, for Beren's entrance was soon followed by another, a boy who raced into the room like an eager pup.
"My lord, my lord!" he said. Guenivere tried to still her trembling as Beren turned his beautiful face toward the youth. "Yes, Farman, what is it?" he asked, giving the boys a smile that made Guenivere's knees so weak she sought a seat. She sank down upon a settle, entwining her hands in her lap to keep them still.
"My lord, a messenger has come from your demesne!"
"What? Who is it?" Beren asked, his smile fading into a somber expression.
The youth shook his head. "I knew him not, lord. He did not linger, but bade me give you the message and sped away!"
Beren's dark brows drew together. "And just what was this message?"
"That you are needed at your lands and must return at once," the boy said.
Guenivere quivered as something between a laugh and a sob rose in her throat, quickly choked back. Even though she had warned herself of Beren's departure all morning, still she had never expected it to come so soon. After one night. She swallowed and twisted her fingers in her lap in an effort to maintain her composure.
"Did he say what was the problem?" Beren asked. Guenivere heard him, though the conversation no longer interested her. All her thought and will was brought to bear upon herself, upon maintaining her dignity, and she lifted her chin and drew a deep breath.
"Nay. Only that it was urgent that you return immediately. Perhaps the king is there, waiting for you?" the youth suggested.
"I doubt that," Beren said. Guenivere saw him rub a hand over his face and thought she heard him mutter a low curse. "I wish I could discover exactly why I am needed, so that I might judge for myself the necessity of returning."
Personally, it mattered not to Guenivere why Beren had been called away, only that he had. And gradually, as she regained control of her wildly careening emotions, she told herself that it was better this way, for him to go at once, rather than tarry here, tempting her to give her heart to him again.
After another whispered oath, he sighed. "Very well. Tell the men to prepare to leave," Beren said. He stood watching until the youth disappeared through the doorway, then turned to Guenivere, his face somber. What now? Would he pretend regret? She nearly laughed aloud at the notion.
"As you can see, I am urgently needed at my own demesne," he said, with a rather awkward gesture of his hand.
"Yes, though I find it odd that the man delivering this vital request did not tarry long enough to discuss it with you," Guenivere said, suddenly struck by a dark, painful suspicion. Was there really a message? Or had Beren tired of Brandeth so quickly that he must needs invent an excuse to depart?
"I admit 'tis unusual, but thus did the messenger from Brandeth leave his summons," Beren said, with a frown. "I can either send a man or go myself, but if 'tis truly a matter of importance I hesitate to wait." He paused to gaze at her directly. "How soon can you be ready to go?"
Guenivere jerked in surprise. "What?"
"When can you make ready to leave?" Beren asked.
"What on earth do you mean?" Guenivere asked, her heart pounding.
Beren eyed her quizzically. "You are my wife now, so I would have you with me," he said, as if stating the obvious.
"I am not going anywhere!" Guenivere answered. "This is my home, and my people need me." She felt panic seize her, constricting her breat
h, and she struggled to draw in a deep draught of air. She had sought to wed Beren in order to avoid just such a wrench from Brandeth and all that she loved. How could he think that she would willingly leave it now?
Unlike Beren, Guenivere had no wish to see other places or foreign lands, to wander amidst strangers or live among those she knew not. For one terrifying moment, she envisioned a future of being shuttled from castle to court to manor, forgotten by Beren and yet not free to return to Brandeth. Gripped by fear, she lashed out. "Why would I want to be dragged about like a useless appendage?" she asked.
Beren's eyes narrowed. "I thought—" he began, then he paused, as if to consider his words. "Surely you cannot think yourself useless! I wish for your companionship and advice. And though I have done a lot of traveling, I hope to be able to settle down now that I am married, with lands of my own."
"At your demesne," Guenivere said dully. When Beren nodded, she lifted her chin. "That was not part of our bargain."
"Neither was last night!" Beren answered. "Yet you cannot deny what happened between us."
"I see," Guenivere said, her voice cool, though her insides seemed to roll and pitch with a hot mixture of shame and loss and anger. "Am I to be so grateful to receive your attentions at this late date that I am willing to be wrested from my home, now and forever?"
Beren blinked, as if she had struck him, and his expression hardened into the threatening knight he had first appeared upon his return. But Guenivere refused to be intimidated. "Perhaps you have forgotten our conversation upon your arrival," she said, as calmly as she could muster. "But I married you so that I could remain here and hold Brandeth for my own."
If he had looked dangerous before, Beren now appeared positively lethal, his dark brows lowered, his beautiful mouth tight, and his strong body taut. "And that is it? That is the only reason?" he demanded.
Simmons, Deborah - The Bachelor Knight Page 6
