by Jo Beverley
But he was idealistic, and that was dangerous.
As she called for her women, she remembered all too well those times when her father was alive and Raymond had visited Heywood and flirted with her. She'd always been terrified that Galeran would take offense and make it a fighting matter.
What if it came to fighting now? Galeran was a good soldier, but no match for one like Lowick, who was bigger and known throughout the north for his fighting skills.
She'd spoken the truth earlier. Though it would tear her heart into tiny pieces, she would give Donata to the wolves rather than see Galeran die to protect her bastard child.
Her women brought warm water and clean cloths and she let them change and bathe Donata as she washed and drank some ale to refresh herself from the journey. She knew she hovered too close to Donata. She was in the habit of doing nearly everything for her, but now she made herself stand back. The time might come when she would need to be able to act on cold logic.
Distance might help.
Then Donata cried, her milk gushed forward in response, and she reached for her babe with joy and despair in her heart.
* * *
Galeran had John take his armor for cleaning, then went to praise Walter of Matlock for his assistance to Jehanne.
"I knew well enough, Lord, that you'd not want either of them snatched away to Durham."
"Would you do the same, though, if the bishop excommunicate me?"
"Would he be so foolish as that, Lord? To try to unbless a crusader?"
"Ah, yes. I keep forgetting that I'm supposed to glow with glory."
Having the Holy Land brought to mind, Galeran went to find his packs, and carefully unwrapped several items. The wrapping itself might appeal to Jehanne, for inside the leather outer layer he had used a fine cloth from the east called qu 'tun, which held dyes well.
The precious items, however, were inside.
Reverently, he took out rolled palm leaves from the road to Jerusalem, a silver cross holding water from the Jordan, a withered branch from the Garden of Olives, a pouch of dust from Calvary, and a chip of stone from a place supposed to be the Holy Sepulcher.
He contemplated another package, a spherical one, with hesitation, but in the end he unwrapped to revealed a small skull. "The skull of John the Baptist as a child, Lord!" the eager seller had whispered. "For you only..."
It had made him want to laugh as few things had then, so he'd bought it to share the joke with Jehanne. He hadn't needed to bring the skull, of course, to tell the tale—especially since others had bought the same relic without realizing the absurdity—but he'd intended to see how long it took her to realize what an impossible item it was.
Miracles could perhaps preserve vials of the Virgin's milk, or wine from Cana, but it would take more than a miracle to preserve the childsized skull of a man who died in his thirties.
Now, however, there was nothing at all humorous about a baby's skull. He ran a hand over the smooth white bone, tracing the edge of the eye sockets, thinking that doubtless a mother had grieved over this child's death as Jehanne grieved over Gallot.
As he himself grieved, or could...
He wrapped the skull again. It was the ideal gift for Ranulph Flambard, for he wanted rid of it. With luck the bishop would not see the absurdity, for many clever people did not. It would satisfy Galeran to see the man build a rich reliquary for it. If Flambard did see it for a fraud, he could read into it what he wanted.
After all, Galeran had only promised the bishop something from the Holy Land, and it was that.
He had the scribe write a courteous letter. In it, he thanked the bishop for his assistance in smoothing the problems between himself and Raymond of Lowick, and begged him to accept the gift and remember all in Heywood in his prayers.
Jehanne joined him just as he was dispatching the messenger. He told her what he had done, but didn't tell her what the relic was. When, he wondered sadly, would the freedom to share such a joke return to their lives?
"I suppose it's wise to thank him," she said, inspecting the other items reverently. "Though it seems a waste."
More and more he wished he could tell her, and was even tempted for a moment, but—taking strength from Christ on the mountain—he resisted.
She felt the leathery palm fronds. "What sort of tree is a palm? These are more like the leaves of a bulrush."
So he described palm trees to her as the bath was prepared, and olive trees as well. He told her of heat and desert and how ordinary Bethlehem was.
"Were you disappointed?" she asked as she supervised the addition of cold water to hot.
"Only for a moment. Then I liked the thought that our Christ lived as an ordinary man. Not the glowing prince of the manuscripts, but a man with dust on his skin and calluses on his hands."
He spread his own hands thoughtfully and Jehanne took them, turning them to trace the tough pads of skin created by a lifetime of training for war. "How else would a man's hands be?"
"It sustains me," he said, "that thought. That Christ really was a man for a time, and perhaps understands men."
"I feel the same way about Christ's mother." She helped him off with his shirt, shaking her head over the blood. "Though I don't like this new idea that she was a virgin."
"It does seem strange...." Galeran sank into the water with a pleased sigh. "Two baths inside a week. Luxury!"
As she began to help him to wash, Jehanne said, "Tell me more about those baths in Constantinople."
So he did so, and went on to talk of other matters such as the food, and the costumes of the various lands he had seen. He avoided all mention of fighting, though.
When he was drying himself and the servants were emptying the tub, Jehanne said, "I wish we had a bathroom like the one at Burstock."
"It would have to be out in the bailey near the kitchens, I think. What's wrong with the arrangement here?"
"Nothing, I suppose." She smiled. "I'm really thinking that I'd like a sunken marble bath big enough to swim in."
He smiled back. "I'd give you the moon and the stars if I could, Jehanne, but a sunken marble bath is beyond me."
She blushed and laughed, and it was the first time he'd heard her laugh like that since his return.
She glanced once at the bed. His body reacted, but he stayed where he was. Though it would be sinfully easy to slide back into their old ways, he mustn't until he had made sense of it all.
"Jehanne. I need to know exactly what happened between you and Raymond."
She paled. For a moment he thought she wouldn't speak, but then, clearing away damp cloths, she said, "I never betrayed you in my heart, Galeran. I never desired him. Can we not leave it at that?"
"No. Did he rape you?"
She stared at him. "No!"
"If you didn't desire him, and he didn't force you, what did happen?" When she remained silent, he said, "Jehanne, how I handle this matter in the future, what I can expect Lowick to do, all depends on what happened here the night of Gallot's death."
It was as if she'd turned into a painted statue, standing there clutching a damp drying cloth. But then she dropped it and sank to kneel by him in a swirl of colored cloth. "I'm afraid you'll hate me."
He wanted to gather her in his arms and reassure her, but her fear sparked fear in himself. Jehanne was not stupid. He'd forgiven her for infidelity, so why did she fear that the details would be beyond forgiveness? "I am slow to hate. You should know that. And I love you."
She rested her head against his leg. "As I do not deserve to be loved..."
"Jehanne. Tell me. Explain to me."
"I don't know if I can. Perhaps it is simplest to say that I was mad."
"Not too surprising, that." He stopped his hand from reaching to stroke her hair. "You had just lost your babe."
"And it was possible that I had lost you as well. When I heard that news, I began to think that God had taken you as exchange for a child." She looked up. "I never meant that, Galeran!"
&
nbsp; "Nor would God be part of such an evil bargain."
She grimaced. "I knew you wouldn't understand." She rested her head against his thigh again, so he couldn't see her face. "I'm not good like you, Galeran, and I make God in my own image. I bargained with God that I would send you on crusade in exchange for a child. I knew you didn't want to go, but I pushed you to it anyway. When I heard you were dead, I didn't really believe it, but I wondered... I wondered whether God had taken more than I'd offered. Or if I'd offered more than I thought. I prayed for your safety. Every day I prayed. But then Gallot died..."
He did touch her hair then, for it seemed she weighed heavier against his leg.
"It was so sudden, so inexplicable... I decided God had answered my prayers that way, switching items like a cheating huckster at the fair..."
"Jehanne!"
"I hated God." She looked up fiercely. "I did. I hated Him. I wanted comfort, yes, and a brief oblivion. But mostly I wanted to do the most evil thing I could imagine. So I seduced Raymond."
Galeran didn't know whether to rage or cry. "That was the most evil thing you could imagine?"
"Other than murdering my child, and perhaps I'd already done that."
Chill shot through him. "What do you mean?"
Her eyes widened. "I didn't! But it seemed some act of mine, some thought of mine... those prayers..." She leaped to her feet to pace the room. "Babes don't die for no reason. Perhaps my prayers for you were answered. Perhaps I could have either Gallot or you, and I'd chosen you...."
"That's nonsense. How can you be sure Raymond didn't kill him?"
She stopped to face him. "As I said before, I'm not a heavy sleeper. When have you ever left our bed and I not wake?"
"True. And you could not have been given a drug?"
"I would have known. And anyway, he would not have done such a thing. He was fond of Gallot. He would play with him...."
Now Galeran leaped to his feet. "For the mercy of God, Jehanne! Is it not enough that he took my place in your bed without him dandling the son I never saw?"
It was as if he'd hit her again. "I can only tell the truth."
"Then let's not speak of it."
"Galeran..."
"Go away."
"Galeran!"
"Go!"
She ran, which showed wisdom, for he could feel the rage building like a fire capable of consuming everything in its path.
Galeran sank back onto the bench, trembling with it. Jehanne was right. They needed truth to clean these wounds, but not yet. Not yet. Truth such as today's revelations was more than he could bear.
He'd had little direct contact with young children, but he could still imagine Raymond of Lowick—handsome, charming Raymond—bouncing an infant on his knee. He could hear the infant laughing, thinking of this golden god as his father.
He pushed to his feet and dragged on the clothes Jehanne had laid out for him. It was time, anyway, for him to preside over a meal in his hall, to convince even the doubting that peace and harmony reigned in Heywood.
His hands paused in the tying of his braies. Peace and harmony, indeed.
She'd seduced Lowick because she hated God? It was madness, but it was just the sort of thing Jehanne would have done in her willful youth. He'd thought she'd grown out of such wild ways.
Finishing the knot, he saw the ivory rose on its table. The cracked petal was straight again, but he didn't dare touch it. She'd not meant to break it all those years ago, he was sure. Her frustration had just exploded.
More recently, in a more cataclysmic way, her grief had exploded into rage. Shattering rage against God. He could believe it, and he sent up a prayer for her forgiveness, and another that she never confess such a sin in public.
As he put on the floor-length tunic of blue silk-embroidered wool that Jehanne had selected for him and added a gilded belt, he began to feel some comfort from their talk, bitter though it had been. He did understand now. His problem, he thought, choosing a silver and gold chain to wear around his neck, was how to convince the world that there was no need of punishment.
A good start would be an impressive appearance as lord and lady. He summoned Jehanne back and told her to dress more richly.
She exchanged her workaday linen tunic for one of silk, and her braid girdle for one worked with gold thread and pearls. She dressed in silence and without looking at him at all.
"Don't fear me," he said. "I'm in control again."
She paused in the tying of the girdle to look at him, and it wasn't fear he saw in her eyes, but a frowning concern. "I must fear you, for then I will be cautious. If you were to hurt me, Galeran, you would never forgive yourself."
She knew him too well.
As he knew her.
"I hit you." There was still a faint yellowing on her face from that blow.
"And it bothers you still, doesn't it?"
"Deeply."
"So I must be careful for you. But if it serves a purpose to beat me, I hope you will."
"It is the last thing I want to do, Jehanne." But he told her then, while she rolled on fresh stockings, about Agnes and Edric. She smiled at some parts of the story, but she understood.
"You know," she said, standing to adjust the folds of her gown, "in a strange way I might even welcome a whipping." She came over to fuss with the hang of his garment. "Do you think that sort of thing heals the soul like a penance after confession?"
"No," he said, seizing her busy hands. "Have you confessed your sin?"
She became very still. "No."
"Why not?"
"How can God forgive...?"
"God can forgive anything. And perhaps if the priest gave you a suitable penance, you'd stop wanting me to."
He'd meant it as a joke, but she sighed. "Am I anything to you but a burden?"
"Dear God!" He pulled her roughly into his arms. "You are everything to me, Jehanne. Everything. But it will take time to grow out of this." He held her close, closer, knowing he must almost be suffocating her. "Let us give ourselves the time," he whispered into her hair.
She pulled back enough to look up at him. "As long as the fates will give us."
She meant, as long as the world—the community, the bishop, the king—would give them. As if speaking for the world, the horn sounded to announce the meal, and he had to let her go, had to take her hand and lead her out to preside at the castle meal.
Everyone was there except the guards on watch and a few servants needed elsewhere. At the raised head table sat Raoul, Aline, Matthew the steward, and Brother Cyril the scribe. Galeran and Jehanne took their places in the central chairs. It was all as it had been for most of their married life.
The rest of the household sat at tables running down the sides of the hall, Galeran's knights closest, with Jehanne's ladies mixed among them. Beyond, the upper servants of the castle were placed—the falconer, the head stable groom, the mistress of the looms, and the smith.
Lower still were the other servants and the men-at arms.
The kitchen varlets entered with jugs, bowls, and platters, presenting the food first to the head table.
Galeran courteously chose good pieces and placed them on Jehanne's trencher. She smiled her thanks and did the same for him. He couldn't help thinking, though, that this would have gone somewhat better if she'd not stirred his jealousy of Lowick. Lowick and Jehanne ate at him like a canker. He wouldn't experience any true peace or happiness until he came to terms with it.
Thus far, he had discovered that Jehanne had seduced Lowick because she hated God. To many people that might seem insanity, but he understood her enough to see that she might have thought that way. Jehanne had a very human picture of God. For her, He was a person to be admired in good times, blamed in bad, and to be cautious of always.
Rather like a king, actually, Galeran thought, glancing sideways at her and drinking from the goblet they shared.
Because he was turned that way, he noticed that Raoul and Aline were being much more successful
at presenting the appearance of a happy couple.
Raoul and Aline?
Galeran loved his friend almost like a brother, but he had few illusions about his behavior with women. Surely Raoul would never be so foolish as to attempt to seduce a virgin lady. Especially one like Aline, as good as pledged to the Church.
If he did, it might end with Galeran having to discuss it with him at sword's length. That he certainly did not need.
Aline was pink. Was Raoul embarrassing her?
* * *
Aline didn't know if she was in heaven or hell.
Truly, Raoul de Jouray was just the type of man she disliked, and the fact that he was handsome and charming only made it worse! He probably expected all women—lowborn or high—to crumple at the mere sight of one of his slight, teasing smiles.
But ever since the bath that morning, it had been as if she'd an itch on her skin, an itch made worse whenever he came near her, or whenever he caught her eye across the room. Her normally clear thoughts were constantly tangled, probably because she couldn't think of anything except when he would appear, and what he would say or do when he did.
For some reason, having seen his naked body once, his clothes, even his mail, had become transparent and she could see it all the time.
The ride from Burstock had been exquisite torture, since he had ridden by her side the whole way. She'd tried to ignore him, but he had asked questions about the countryside, forcing her to answer. When she was reluctant to speak, he had told her of his own homeland in France and his travels to Spain, and to the Holy Land.
Footloose, she'd tried to tell herself. A wandering free lance really, without property or prospects. Though why that should bother her, she didn't know, since she was going to be a nun, and had no interest in Raoul de Jouray.
Or no interest she couldn't rid herself off with a bit of willpower.
Now, at the meal, Raoul wasn't flirting with her. He sent her no special looks, gave her no teasing touches. He was not praising her skin, her eyes, her lips, her hair.... They were just talking and eating. So why did she feel hot and twitchy?
He was speaking of Flanders. "I think you'd like it, Lady Aline. They are a very practical people, the Flemish."
