Hot Summer's Knight by Jennie Reid

scarred, misshapen by disease and hardship, and there’d been a feral look in their eyes, an ugliness that had nothing to do with their deformities.  Without asking for an invitation, they slid onto the bench opposite.
    “Just arrived, sailor?” one asked.
    Gareth merely looked at them, reluctant to offer these two even a word of conversation.  In his mind, he christened them Ugly and Uglier.
    “You from around here?” Uglier persisted.
    “No,” answered Gareth.
    “Looking for work?” Uglier asked.
    “Maybe.”
    “You can fight?”
    “Maybe.” 
    “You look like a fighting man to me.  And this,” Uglier kicked one of Gareth’s bundles, “Looks like a sword.”
    “It could be.”  As a precaution, Gareth’s left hand, beneath the table, slid towards the dagger sheathed at his waist.  His right hand clutched the tankard; he would be able to throw it at Uglier while he stabbed Ugly.  He’d thought a sword would be too conspicuous; now he was wishing he’d worn it.
    “Our Count’s paying well for fighting men.”
    Gareth’s interest in the conversation suddenly increased. 
    “Why?  Is he starting a war, then?”
    The two men laughed as though he’d made a great joke.  “Let’s just say he likes plenty of insurance.  This little exercise is just a bunch of peasants at a summer fair, an old man and a few men-at-arms.”
    “What’s so important?”
    Uglier leaned across the table.
    “There’s a Lady involved,” he leered.
    Gareth felt the icy fingers of premonition caress his spine.
    “Oh?” he answered, carefully non-committal.
    “A rich widow, young, and beautiful they say.”
    Gareth waited, wanting more information, fearing he knew the answers already.
    Uglier leaned back in his seat.  “And old Fulk’s decided he needs another wife.”
    Gareth downed his ale.  He’d heard all he needed to know.
    “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said, gathering up his gear, “I already have an engagement.”
    He’d crossed the Steppes of Russia, fighting as part of a Viking band.  In a Baltic port, a saintly English master called Godric had pitied him, and taken him on as a sailor even though he’d little seamanship.  Finally he’d come back to Aquitaine.  It had taken him eight years.
    After all the years wandering, he hadn’t really known what he was going to do when he finally came back.  At least a thousand times he’d thought about returning to the valley to capture just a glimpse of Berenice.  At least a thousand times he’d dismissed the idea.  How could he see her, and not want to stay with her?
    Fulk’s men had made up his mind for him.  He could do one last thing for her - he could protect her from Fulk.
    She need never know who he was.
    ***
    Now he was mulling over Berenice’s message, passed on to him that afternoon by Esme.
    Berenice regretted she was forced to postpone their lessons.  Her duties at the castle would prevent her from meeting him for a while.  Esme said she’d been told to make sure he understood the Lady was only postponing, not canceling their appointment.
    What was going on?  Berenice’s manner at dinner had been pleasant, but formal.  There was no sign of any disapproval.  If she’d decided she didn’t want him here, she could simply ask him to leave.
    The biggest part of the mystery was the expression on Esme’s face as she relayed her Lady’s message.  She wouldn’t look him in the eye, and the words seemed almost to choke her.  Eventually, when Gareth had thought she must surely burst into tears, she’d stifled a sniff and hurried away.
    Now he could hear her sobbing upstairs, and William’s whispered words of comfort.  There was nothing he could do, he decided.  It might not even be anything to do with him.
    ***
    William stroked Esme’s back.  He’d rather a sword in his hand and enemy in front of him than a woman’s tears any day.
    “There, there, pet.  You’re not making any sense.  Tell me again what’s upset you