My Beloved

by Karen Ranney

  He propped himself up on one elbow, and one by one, divested her of her garments, ripping out the seams of the fitted sleeves when they could not be easily removed. She did not bother to protest; one did not gainsay a crusader. The moonlight created shadows on his face, rendering it beautiful in a stark fashion. She brought her hand up to rest against his cheek. He halted in his determined campaign.

  “What is it, Juliana?” He turned his head, bestowed a soft kiss in the center of her palm.

  “Only that I would hold this moment safe forever, Sebastian. Until the end of time.” The words came from some place deep inside her, a secret spot kept hidden and vulnerable.

  His smile was blazing white in the moonlight, his kiss was invitation to lose herself again within his embrace, be lured to passion once again.

  He had only hoped to divert her attention from the noise the masons were making. It had been easy enough when her scriptorium had been built; he’d simply kept her occupied in the bailey or in their chamber. But the oriel was being converted into a bathing room, complete with a stone bath similar to the one at Montvichet.

  All thoughts of diversion had slipped through his mind at her look and he’d found himself falling into lust quickly enough. So deeply that he did not care if smiles followed their exit, or they were spoken about with ribald comments.

  He was a man well versed in his power. A warrior must know his strengths, work to eliminate his weaknesses. Why, then, did he feel like an untried boy when she smiled at him, or lay in his arms? Perhaps what he felt at this moment was not so much lust, he thought, looking down at her. Love? Too small a word, too puny a thought. He knew he would feel this way about this woman for the rest of his life, and perhaps into eternity.

  He could not wait to touch her, so the final seam on her cotte was ripped rather than unlaced. She lay, naked, her garments strewn around her like a foil for her beauty. The moonlight bathed her in a glow, gave a mysterious curve to her lips, a beckoning glint to her eye.

  It seemed somehow right and fitting that they should come together here, in this place that was the scene of his greatest yearning. How many nights had he sat and watched her and felt physical pain that he could do no more?

  For the shadow of that man, he bent and kissed her breast, tasting the stiffness of a nipple. Because that man had wished to know, had dreamed about such things, he drew it between his lips, heard her soft gasp as he grazed her delicate flesh with his teeth.

  The man he had been knelt beside him, a ghost of longing and need. He heard the commands in his head, the urging, and stroked his hands over Juliana’s body. He knew her flesh as well as he knew his own. The indentation where waist met hip was especially sensitive to her. Her toes curled when he brushed the tops of them. Her breath halted as his fingers traced up one thigh and then, to their juncture. Instead of holding herself tight, her legs fell open, wordless invitation.

  He divested himself of his tunic, his waistbelt, the patterned hose. Soon he was naked, his figure draped in shadow as night fell over them like dust.

  His fingers seemed acutely talented at this moment, imbued with instinct or perhaps the coaxing of the man he had been, who had spent too many hours envisioning just such an occasion. He touched her gently, with restraint born of wishes. His lips covered her breasts, neck, arms. He loved her with his mouth, her skin anointed with kisses and sighs, as if his breath could not come deeply or quickly enough.

  She gripped his arms, her hands reaching out, her head twisting from side to side. Eagerness and protest, all in one. He felt her, swollen and wet, and touched her softly, then with more insistent strokes.

  “Sweet Juliana,” he said, against her lips.

  The siege was forgotten, the need paramount. He slid into the depths of her, heard the shuddering breath she took. He leaned back, supported only by his knees, placed the heel of his hand upon her, just above where they joined. He pressed gently, as she arched beneath him. Then again, as a soft sob emerged from between her lips.

  “I want to hear your screams,” he said, watching her. “I want you needy and hungry, Juliana.”

  He rocked with her, the thrusts shallow and fast. Her body arched to take more of his. Her hands clawed at his arms. He reached beneath her with one arm, thrust her clothing beneath her, then raised himself again. The angle of her body now brought him closer to the core of her. Again, he rocked, his need a battering ram, his fingers a key.

  Small sounds emerged from her lips, moans or entreaties, he didn’t know. He lowered himself, began to make longer strokes, withdrawing almost entirely, then thrusting forward to the depths of her.

  Her eyes opened, the look in them helpless and wanting.

  He abruptly recognized the significance of this moment. He could give her passion but it would be because he’d conquered her. He did not want submission from Juliana.

  He was too close to shattering in her arms. His breaths came in gasps, the need ran through him in shuddering waves. He lowered himself, and rolled over until she was atop him, their bodies still joined.

  “Take me with you, Juliana,” he whispered.

  Her nails skittered over his chest, her head arched back as her entire body seemed to shiver.

  “Sebastian.” His name was a sigh.

  His hands gripped her hips, raised her, lowered her against him. A lesson she learned quickly. The next movement was hers, as she braced her knees against the floor, rose up and teased herself on him. The sensation was too much, pushing him closer to the edge.

  “Take me, Juliana,” he bit out. He closed his eyes, his body demanding that he surge even deeper into her, finish this. His mind urged restraint. He didn’t know which would win, flesh or intellect.

  She widened her legs, wedged herself farther on him. How had he never before discovered that ecstasy could border on torment?

  She arched up one last time, the demand in her grip as ruthless as his had been. Her nails almost pierced his skin. He felt her shudder around him, as her body urged his on to completion.

  Finally, her cry announced her release. It was so sharp as to be pained, but filled instead with joy. A moment more and she slumped over him, her kiss swallowing his groan as she accompanied him into bliss.

  The man he had been, wraithlike and lonely, vanished forever, his flesh appeased and his soul complete.

  Chapter 46

  One of the benefits of his new position as aide to the Marshal was the ability to be absent from the brotherhood on D’Aubry’s business. But Gregory’s return to Montvichet was not on the Marshal’s business but for his own. He wanted to discover the truth about the Grail, and the only person who could substantiate his suspicions was his brother.

  He stood on the other side of the mountain, called out across the gorge, “Sebastian!” The sound of his brother’s name ricocheted back to him. Either he was refusing to answer him, or was too weakened by lack of food and water.

  It took him nearly the whole day to form a crude ladder, After several tests to ensure himself it would hold his weight, he laid it across the gorge. He threw his sword into the gateway of Montvichet, then crawled slowly across his ladder.

  Once there, he pulled the ladder to safety and left it leaning against a stone wall. He bent to retrieve his sword, then walked slowly into the courtyard.

  “Brother!” No response, only the sound of flapping wings as a bird was disturbed from its nest.

  He held his sword in front of him, bulwark against what he might find. But there were some things against which a sword was no protection. Whispers, soft and faint, the sound of a child’s cry. It was the wind, the gentle breeze that soughed through Montvichet. Even as he told himself that, he doubted the truth of it.

  He walked through each sleeping chamber, noted how neat and tidy everything looked. A doll rested upon a pillow, and he looked away. The refectory was empty, there was no sign of food or even recent occupation. Finally, he walked through the scriptorium. The dust there was not as thick as elsewhere, and it l
ooked as if the table to the side of the room had once been cleaned and used.

  He walked back to the courtyard, his confusion deepening. Sebastian was not there. Nor was the woman.

  When he saw the opening, he walked toward it, his smile growing wider with each footfall. He descended the curving steps slowly, feeling his way in the darkness. Halfway down weak sunlight illuminated the way. A few moments later he emerged at the bottom, near the place where he’d left his horse tied.

  He retraced his steps, walked to the gateway, and tossed his makeshift ladder into the gorge. This place needed no intrusion, no casual visitors. Indeed, if he could have covered it with dust and blocked its existence from the world, he would have. There were hints of things he did not understand and an air of sadness that threatened to seep into his bones.

  He turned and headed for the hidden steps again. Before descending, he turned and looked around him. He was grateful that he’d had no part in the siege of Montvichet.

  Had the leper’s robe and disease been another of Sebastian’s lies? He felt a reluctant admiration for his brother’s cleverness. He had fooled them all.

  Should he send men to England to force the truth from Sebastian? If he did so, others would discover that he had been tricked. He had nothing to gain by telling the truth. Instead, he would be a laughingstock. No, worse. He would be sent on some endless round of inspections again, making a tally of sheep and cows and lecturing the monastic brothers in how to keep better records.

  If he pretended the Grail was real, his own career would be advanced, and the honor of the Templars would be enhanced. Only he and Sebastian would know that the Grail they revered was a false relic. And who would believe Sebastian, a lover of heretics, over the word of a Templar? It took him less than a moment to come to that conclusion, and the decision, once reached, drew a broad smile from him.

  Gregory descended the steps and disappeared from sight.

  The breeze began to blow, catching dust and flinging it into the air, swirling the bits of dried leaves and fluttering the stems and flowers of late-blooming plants that grew on the roof and between the stones.

  From somewhere came the sound of laughter, a faint and reminiscent echo. Then there was only silence enveloping Montvichet again.

  There was such a look of disgust on Sebastian’s face that Juliana laughed. He frowned at her amusement, then scraped another gall from high atop the tree trunk.

  “You do not have to eat them, Sebastian,” she said.

  “At least you do not ask me to help you scrape your hides. Has that been done yet?” There was such a look of repugnance on his face that her lips trembled in amusement. Who would have thought that the great knight Sebastian of Langlinais had no stomach for certain things?

  She nodded.

  “There must be a better way to make parchment. And to make ink. Nor can I understand why it needs to be made so often.”

  She shrugged. “It goes bad, Sebastian, just like wine.”

  “But these are bugs.” He scowled down at the mess in his hand and shook his fingers over the basket.

  Her laughter echoed through the wood.

  “We’ll see how much you laugh when we go falconing this afternoon.”

  It was a bargain between them. She would overcome her dislike of the mews and the birds, and he would help her fetch some oak galls from the trees.

  “Must we?” Juliana had vowed to avoid the mews, a separate building built with high-arched doors and airy slits that made it appear larger than it was. She had never been around hunting birds before, but the gyrfalcons, the sakers, the lanners, all used to pluck ducks and geese from the sky seemed like fierce, angry creatures. There were two falconers in attendance, an old man and his apprentice, who spent more than an hour introducing her to all their charges and explaining their various stages of training. Though she smiled and thanked them for their information, she was grateful to leave the building.

  “We must,” he said, smiling down at her. He grabbed a branch and swung himself up into the tree. “Care to join me, my lady wife? It is a good sturdy branch.” He rested against the trunk, one leg aligned along the branch, the other dangling. His grin was infectious, his invitation too tempting to resist. She placed the basket on the ground, extended her left hand to him and found a toehold in the large burl of the oak. Sebastian simply pulled her into place, grabbing her waist and holding her steady until she was in position.

  She sat on the branch, her legs dangling before her. A posture not fitting for a chatelaine of a great castle, surely. But the Lord of Langlinais sat beside her, idly twirling the end of her braid.

  “What is Ned building, Sebastian?” She watched as the carpenter, his wife, and his son gathered branches from the forest floor.

  “Nothing. He’s gathering the wood to make charcoal.”

  She frowned, perplexed. “What does a carpenter need with charcoal?”

  “He provides it to the smith, and in return, the smith keeps his tools sharp. There is nothing about our demesne that isn’t linked in some way, Juliana.” He settled himself into the notch of the tree, staring out at the view before them. The denuded branches of the large oaks allowed them to see the sweeping vista of Langlinais, the upper bailey, the first bend in the river, all three tall towers. “The millstone is kept sharp by the people of Langlinais, and the miller, in turn, charges only a small fee to grind the wheat brought to him. The weaver provides good quality cloth for the castle and in return his loom is kept in good repair by the carpenter. Every person has a duty, and every duty leads to another person. Even if a man has no trade, he’s put to work thatching roofs, spreading dung, or whitewashing the castle walls.”

  “And the Lord of Langlinais? What duty has he?”

  He smiled down at her, swung his legs beside hers.

  “Perhaps the most onerous and difficult. Pleasing his lady. My present obligation, besides harvesting bugs, is to convince her to share our new bathing chamber.”

  She turned her head to look at him. There was a boyish grin on his face, and his eyes seemed dark with mischief. She shook her head and looked away from him. “I’ll tell Jerard not to make the water too hot. That together we’ll warm it,” he said in a coaxing voice.

  She reached over and pinched his thigh.

  He only laughed.

  “You are a lusty man, Sebastian of Langlinais. I see that now. Perhaps even a satyr.” Her mock frown made light of her words.

  He pulled her to his side, bent and kissed her on the nose, a tender gesture that surprised her. She smiled at him.

  “Are you happy, my lady wife?”

  His voice had changed so quickly from amused to somber that she knew the question was a serious one. She reached over and placed her hand on his sleeve. “I do not see how anyone can be happier than I am.”

  He seemed to study her in the afternoon light. “I remember once, at Montvichet, thinking that I would never be able to see your smile or hear your laughter again.”

  “Is that why you are so generous to me? Why you give me things like rare ink and a scriptorium and build a bathing chamber?”

  “To see you smile? Any gift is a paltry expense.”

  “Will such generosity excuse me from the mews?” she asked, her smile returning.

  He shook his head. “You’ll come to respect the birds, Juliana.”

  “I respect them now.”

  “Then you’ll come to like falconing.”

  “Will I?”

  “You must trust me in these things. You do not mind sitting in a tree do you? Despite your fear of heights?”

  She looked down at the ground beneath their feet. In truth, they were not all that high.

  “I’ve given up my fears, Sebastian. I think you were right all along. I think being afraid is something I learned.”

  “I am a wise man,” he said smugly.

  She made a face at him. His laughter made her frown.

  “There she is, the child I knew.” His fingers framed her
chin as he turned her face to one side and then the other. “I knew she would come again if I was patient.”

  “She has grown, Sebastian, and now possesses a husband who is arrogant and lofty-headed.”

  “Come with me falconing,” he said in his most persuasive voice. “You may grow to love the sport. But at the very least, you should attempt it.” He smiled again, and the place in her chest that was once hollow expanded again with love. “I wish to share my life with you, my joys, my interests.”

  She looked away. There were some things they could not share. Not now, not yet. She felt a measure of guilt for not confiding in him. He had said that he wanted no more secrets between them. But this secret needed to be kept hidden for a day or two more. That’s all she needed, and then she would tell him everything.

  “Juliana?”

  She glanced back at him. “Very well, Sebastian, but before we go to play with your precious birds, my entire basket must be filled with galls.”

  His look of disgust kept her amused as he helped her down from the branch.

  Juliana avoided the presence of the master mason, a sober man with a face that appeared as quarried as the stone he chiseled. She skirted the north tower, entering through the door now framed in timber. For months the mason and his apprentices had been shoring up the north tower. Now the structure, once used to store armament, stood empty.

  The workers, like the rest of the people of Langlinais, were sharing their noon meal in the great hall. She must hurry. Any moment, Sebastian would be looking for her to join him at the dais. Today Jerard would leave Langlinais forever, and she must be there to bid him farewell.

  But first, she must find the perfect spot.

  One way to correct the damage done by the flood was to demolish the tower completely and build it over again, an expensive undertaking. Another alternative would have been to allow the tower to remain empty, but even that was not acceptable, since eventually the structure might topple. The easiest way to solve the problem of the crumbling foundations was to build an interior wall. It would be like slipping one quill inside another, thereby strengthening both.