by Jo Beverley
Raoul's brows rose. "Your wife's bantam cousin? What have I done to her?"
"Asked her to bathe you."
"Why not?" Then Raoul flashed Galeran a wary glance. "I didn't ask your wife to attend to me. I suggested she send one of the other women."
"That would hardly show proper respect to a guest."
"The situation would never have arisen if the little cousin had attended to it. Why didn't she?"
Galeran poured the last of the wine into their goblets. "Aline's always been very modest around men, despite being the only girl in a family of boys. A few years back she went to live at St. Radegund's convent, thinking to take vows there. She left only because Jehanne needed companionship whilst I was away."
"Then if men make her nervous, it's time she returned to the cloister."
Galeran smiled wryly. "She's doubtless staying on guard. She's a fierce creature for one so small. But once she's sure I won't hurt Jehanne or the babe, she'll doubtless take the veil."
Raoul sipped the last of his wine. "That seems a waste."
"Why? She's an ideal nun—clever, practical, and with no interest in men."
"I can't quite envision it. But I suppose since nuns are supposed to be brides of Christ, He should get some of the pretty, lively ones."
Galeran almost choked on his wine. "One day, a thunderbolt will come down from the sky to turn you into a cinder." But then he considered his friend. "So," he added thoughtfully, "you find her pretty and lively, do you?"
"Oh, no!" Raoul raised his hands. "Keep your mind on your own affairs. Pretty and lively doesn't mean I want to become entangled with her."
"But—"
"But what are you going to do about your wife? Do you think you can just say, 'There, there, we'll forget all about it'?"
"That's turning the conversation with a heavy hand...." Galeran took a moment to wipe his knife clean, first on the remains of the bread, then on the linen cloth. "No, I don't suppose I can brush it aside when she has her brat at the breast."
He regretted the word brat as soon as it was out. None of this was the child's fault—Donata's fault. He must think of her as Donata. Donata should not suffer for her mother's sin.
"Ah, well." Raoul looked at him far too shrewdly. "Perhaps you'll see your way in time."
By silent agreement they went off to their beds.
Once there, however, Galeran couldn't help but think of Jehanne. Their loving that morning had eased him, yet could not touch a deeper hunger—the hunger to be with her in harmony as in the past, playing with each other as musicians play with instruments, drawing tunes both new and old simply for the joy of it.
After a sleepless hour, he left the bed and went into the chapel to kneel before the altar and pray.
First he rubbed away the stain of doubt that had crept into his mind. God did not snatch back gifts because humans were frail. Galeran knew he had done his best in the Holy Land, that he had played his part in all the battles. As for his revulsion at the extent of the slaughter in the streets of Jerusalem, his sudden conviction that a true God would not call for this... Well, it had either been a true insight or a weakness of faith, and God would redress the first or forgive the second.
He would not kill a child in revenge.
Galeran continued to pray, and peace settled on his soul.
Jerusalem and Jehanne had both shaken his faith in religion, but they had not touched his belief in divine goodness. In fact, the Holy Land had brought him a deeper, richer vision of God.
There, for the first time, he had truly believed that Jesus of Nazareth had existed—not the glorious lord of the manuscript pictures, but a man, like other men. As a child He had played with friends in the dust of Bethlehem as Galeran had played at Brome. As a youth He had set out to take up His place in the world. As a man He had died in Jerusalem as Galeran had nearly died.
The Christ had built and mended things, laughed and cried, loved and been betrayed by his closest friend. He had suffered temptation and doubt both in the desert and in the Garden of Gethsemane. Though He had never fathered a child, Christ had grieved for Lazarus in the grave. He, if anyone, could understand Galeran's pain, and light a path through the dark.
* * *
The next day they went on their way, still wary. The expedition proved peaceful, however. Day after day the sun blazed from a clear blue sky, but God granted His children the boon of puffy white clouds and breezes to relieve the heat. Even Raoul began to think more kindly of the English climate.
Everywhere, insects, animals, and people labored against harsher times, and the workers in the fields both blessed and cursed the life-giving sun. On the moors the sheep were glad to be free of their heavy fleece. In the valleys the peasants rejoiced as the first hay was formed into stacks. Cattle grazed stoically on thick grass whilst back in cottages and manors their rich milk became butter and cheese. Little armies of geese, chickens, and ducklings swarmed from spot to spot under the command of children, fattening for the autumn slaughter.
The countryside was bursting with food, and Galeran's hawks regularly brought him tasty birds. Each evening the men and hounds chased rabbits and hare for the pot, and for the joy of the sport.
This was his land, this was his life, and he found its health and welfare healing.
He didn't forget Jehanne's warning, however. In every hamlet he asked about strangers, but consistently he was told that none had been seen. Gradually, he relaxed his vigilance. At this busy time it would be hard for armed men to move though the country unobserved, and it offended him to ride on his own land as if among enemies.
In each village and hamlet he made it known that he was home, and available to his people. He was greeted with heartwarming joy and offered new cheese, ripe fruits, and fresh-caught fish.
Yes, it was sweet to be home even if he felt surrounded by a silent question. And what does this mean for the Lady Jehanne?
No one mentioned Gallot. Perhaps it was too difficult a subject, or perhaps it seemed a sorrow too long past. Children died. It was no great event. Except to the parent.
The parent who had never known the child.
He heard no direct complaints about Raymond of Lowick, and it was clear that in general Lowick had managed matters well enough. It was also clear, however, that he had ruled with a heavy hand and had not been above taking more than Heywood was entitled to.
That was not so uncommon in Rufus's England, but it wasn't Galeran's way.
As the days drifted by, and the journey took them farther from Heywood, Galeran found that the simple people had heard little of events at the castle. Though they knew there had been trouble, they knew nothing of Jehanne's infidelity. If they'd heard of her second child at all, he was congratulated about it. Presumably they couldn't count months, or had no idea how far away he had been.
Doubtless they thought the Holy Land was somewhere not far beyond Wales.
Sitting on the ground beneath a tree, earnestly discussing just where one village's fields should end and another's begin, Galeran could almost envy these people their simple lives. But then a case would be brought before him for judgment, and he'd realize that in their way a village's problems were just as complex as his own.
Biddy of Merton was a thief, the people of Threpton said, who had no right there anyway now that her man was dead. It seemed to be so, but looking at the defiant young woman, with her sneering mouth and cocked hip, Galeran saw someone alone and frightened. How was she to survive all alone without stealing?
On the other hand, she didn't strike him as a naturally honest sort, either.
Biddy clearly couldn't remain where she had become so unpopular, so he sent her to Heywood to be employed there. He promised that if she behaved she could have a place, or he'd find her a new husband. If she stole again, she'd be whipped and driven out to fend as best she could.
As Gil and others wanted to have Jehanne whipped.
As the churchmen would doubtless want to have her whipped if they b
ecame involved.
But the Church would be more merciful than the civil courts, who would probably want her burned to death.
People at all levels had a relentless desire to see justice done.
The next case brought forward for judgment was a complaint against Tom Fetler, who had allowed his animals to escape and get into the corn before harvest.
That was simple enough. Galeran levied a fine.
Then the village headman laid complaint against the miller, that he took more than his share. Nothing new in that, and it couldn't be proved, but Galeran made sure the man understood that if he were caught at it, he'd rue the day. From an incautious remark the miller made, Galeran suspected that Lowick had been willing to take a cut of the extra profits in return for protection.
So, Raymond of Lowick had been filling his purse at the expense of Galeran's people, had he? It was not uncommon, but Galeran was pleased to hear it. He knew Lowick had many good qualities, but he wanted reasons to despise him.
Before leaving the village, he inspected the millrace to be sure it was properly maintained, and checked some hedges and a footbridge the village was responsible for, then he rode on, wishing he were not such a coward and was home in bed with his wife.
* * *
It was at the end of the third day that the woman was brought before him, babe in arms. He thought his heart would stop.
She was nothing like Jehanne, being stocky and dark, but something in her fearful defiance made him think of his wife waiting for him in the hall, and he was not surprised when told she was an adulteress.
Here, however, the case was different, for the woman would not say whose child it was. She had tried to claim that it was her husband's, but he—a quite elderly man—swore he'd never had his wife.
The local priest had been brought into the matter and had preached long and hard at the woman, begging her to name the father. Now Father Swithin repeated his exhortations, explaining to the woman that if her husband could not fulfill his duties, the marriage could be annulled and she could marry the true father of her child.
She remained stubbornly silent, and everyone looked to Galeran for judgment.
Once he would have been impatient with such a silly business, but now he wondered if there were as many complicating factors in this case as there were in his own.
In this village he was sitting on a bench near the ale house, under the shade of a spreading beech tree. Raoul and his men were off to one side, enjoying a hearty meal of ale, bread, and cheese.
Taking a draft of his own ale, Galeran called the women to sit on the bench with him. She came, hesitantly, still carrying her bundled baby.
"What's your name?" he asked, offering her some raspberries from the dish that had been set alongside his bread.
"Agnes, Lord." She took a few berries warily, but then shoved them in her mouth.
"Do you know who the father is, Agnes?"
She swallowed the berries in silence, and he thought she wouldn't answer, but under the pressure of his gaze eventually she nodded.
"Is he married?"
She looked down, scowling. "Lord, I'd rather not say."
"Why should he avoid his responsibilities? At the least he owes a fine and should support his child."
"Edric always said he wanted a child of me. Why shouldn't he support it?"
"Edric's your husband?"
"Aye, Lord." She flashed a scowl at the sinewy white-haired man, who scowled back.
Galeran beckoned the man forward. "Edric, do you have any children?"
"Nay, Lord. My first wife never caught."
"Not surprising," muttered Agnes.
"Be silent, woman," said Galeran sharply, and Agnes settled warily to eating the raspberries. Her babe suddenly stirred and turned to her, and she lowered the loose neckline of her tunic to put him to the breast. The tiny, dark-thatched infant latched on and suckled greedily.
Galeran looked up at the husband, whom he caught eyeing the child rather wistfully. "He looks to be a healthy lad. He could be a support in your old age...."
The scowl returned. "I'll not raise another man's brat, Lord, with all the village laughing at me."
"If you'd not made a fuss," Galeran pointed out, "no one would have known."
That was a choice he would have welcomed.
"She told me in public, Lord Galeran! That she were with child. It were a shock."
Galeran turned to the woman. "Agnes, why did you do that?" When she remained silent, he said, "Speak, or I will have you whipped."
She flashed him a resentful look, but muttered, "I never thought he'd admit his failing, Lord."
"Ah. So you thought shame would keep him silent so you could keep both husband and lover."
Betraying color rose in her round cheeks.
A merry coil indeed, but Galeran felt some sympathy for a young woman tied to an old and impotent husband. "Edric, why marry a young, lusty wife if you've no interest in swiving her?"
"Oh, I've interest, Lord," said the old man, raising a laugh from the bystanders. "I thought a young 'un'd spark me up, like."
Galeran turned to Agnes. "And why did you marry Edric? Were you forced?"
When she hesitated, a burly man stepped forward. "She was not, Lord Galeran. I'm her father, for my sins, and it was her will entirely to marry Edric."
Galeran waved him back. "Well, Agnes?"
She was still scowling, but he thought her lips trembled. Despite her sturdy build, she was surely younger than Aline. "He's a well-to-do man, Lord. I didn't know about his problem. He should have said something."
"True enough. And, as the priest has told you, if you want to complain of your husband's inability, it could be grounds for breaking the marriage so you could marry the father of your child."
She stared straight at him. "Nay, Lord. I'd not want that!"
"Why not?"
Her eyes slid around, perhaps hesitating for a moment on a florid, black-haired young man who seemed to be finding this inquiry amusing. "I don't like him," she muttered at last.
"Then why lie with him?"
"He's lusty and I itched for a man."
Galeran was distracted by the notion that such a simple itch might explain Jehanne's behavior. But no. She had at least as much willpower as he. Perhaps more.
"So," he asked the woman. "What's going to happen next time you itch?"
She sniffed. "I don't know, Lord. I plan to be a better wife, but I do miss the swiving."
It would be nice, thought Galeran, if England had a version of the Arab harem but with one woman having a number of husbands. Agnes could have a husband to support her and help her raise her children, and a lover to ease her itch and conceive them with her. As it stood, there was no neat solution.
"Perhaps I can give your husband a few suggestions that might help matters a little," he said. Both husband and wife looked at him with cautious hope but then scowled at each other with resentment.
"Well, Edric?" Galeran said to the sour-faced old man. "You deserve a penalty for making a foolish marriage. Will you take her back, babe and all?"
"If I take her back, I'll have a rod to her first. A man has his pride!"
Galeran saw Agnes stick out her tongue at her husband, and was tempted to kick her under the table to try to make her behave. He felt less like a lord in judgment than like a nurse trying to govern two unruly children.
"That's between you and her," he said.
"Nay, Lord, it ain't," protested Edric, "for she's stronger than me, and faster too. I can't catch her!"
Galeran was hard pressed not to join in the laughter of the crowd. "Well, Agnes? Will you stand still long enough to be beaten?"
He thought she'd refuse, but her round face twisted in thought. "He's to beat me only the once?"
"He'll get my help to do it only the once."
She looked up at her husband. "Will you always be on at me about it? Will you be nasty to the child?"
"Nay," said Edric grudgingly. "
I'll forget. And I'll not take it out on the child. It's true enough that a healthy son'll be a good thing to have. You shouldn't have spoke it out in front of the village, Agnes. You should have given me time to think about it."
She sighed. "Aye, I reckon that's true. For that I deserve the beating." She stood, dumped the grubby baby in Galeran's arms, and went to kneel in the dirt. "Go on, then, Edric. Lay it on. You'll not get another chance."
"Right, then!" said Edric, a light in his eyes. "Someone get me a stick!"
As the old man rolled up his sleeves, a grinning woman came forward to relieve Galeran of his burden, but he shook his head. He'd never held his own child, or the new one—Donata. It seemed right to hold this black-thatched mite.
He didn't like this business at all, though, for it cut too close to his own case. Everyone was grinning as if at a festival, happy that justice would be done; relieved, perhaps, to have a problem wiped away.
Within moments a whippy green branch was put into Edric's hands. Accompanied by laughter and cheers, he laid about his erring wife's back with great ferocity. Galeran noted that the black-haired lover cheered along with the rest and marked him in his memory. If the lout ever crossed the law, he'd get an extra dose of punishment.
Not that Agnes was suffering much. She was shouting mightily, but Galeran reckoned that with at least three layers of clothing on her back, the flexible stick, and the old man's weak arm, she wasn't coming to much harm. It would sting, but nothing more than that.
It was all for show, to salve Edric's pride and put matters right again in the eyes of the village. A wrong must be redressed.
He looked down at the cause of the trouble, and the boy looked up with huge dark eyes, his mouth working slightly in hope of food.
"Mother will be back soon," Galeran said, hearing Agnes's wails reach a crescendo, begging for mercy.
Sure enough, the noise stopped except for the merry cheering and laughter. Agnes was immediately surrounded by women and helped to her feet as if grievously hurt.
Edric, rosy from exertion and with a spring in his step, came over to Galeran. "You had some suggestions, Lord?" he asked hopefully.
