Chapter Six
Green eyes and summer moonlight
Blue moon in a summer's sky
The future in moment's glances
Heaven in a lover's eye
The two months following the Knight's Tournament passed far too slowly and, at the same time, much too swiftly for Sara's liking. Grissom was constantly on the move, traveling back and forth between the Royal Castle and his own lands, tending to errands and services for his king while trying to reacquaint himself with the needs of his own estate.
Sara bristled beneath the weight of his demanding personal and professional duties. She grew moody and disagreeable when his obligations took him away from the castle; so unpleasant, in fact, that no one, not even her father, could stand to be in her presence for more than a few moments at a time. Her disinterest and hasty dismissal of any possible suitors presented before her caused James to abandon his efforts to see his daughter wed until her temperament improved.
More often than not, Sara chose the seclusion of her chambers rather than subject her family to her ill temper. She could not concentrate on her needlepoint for her stitches were but angry, haphazard jabs through the linen, riding gave her no pleasure, reading failed to distract her mind and she was at a loss as to how to deal with the searching restlessness that had come to dominate her spirit. Her thoughts were relentlessly drawn to Grissom; to the memory of his clean, musky scent, the feel of his war-hardened body, the lyrical timbre of his voice. The power and pleasure of the simple kiss they shared had preyed heavily upon her senses. The recollection of that single blissful moment kept replaying in her mind, making her feel his absence all the more keenly.
When Grissom was about the palace, however, the days flew past with the swiftness of the winda fleet. Sara found any excuse, no matter how mundane or frivolous, to seek him out and demand his attention. She insisted on sitting beside him at all meals, begged him to read to her by the light of the fire when the Great Hall had emptied for the night and stood over his right shoulder like a silent beacon as he played chess with her father. She asked him to go for long walks about the palace grounds or lengthy rides through the forest and tried to draw him out of his shell, tried to get to know better the gentle man of which Heather spoke.
One unseasonably warm late autumn day, Sara enticed Grissom from his duties and the couple found themselves by a small stream not far from the keep. A picnic basket had been prepared by the castle cooks and they sat on a blanket listening to the water dance over the rocks while enjoying a light lunch of bread, cheese and fruit.
They sat closely together on the blanket, Sara absently weaving a garland from late summer wildflowers. Grissom reclined, his ankles crossed and right arm pillowing his head as he lay on his back watching the clouds drift by. Neither said much but theirs was the comfortable, companionable silence of two kindred spirits lazily enjoying the mild weather and the company of one another.
Sara glanced at Grissom, taking in his relaxed features with a small, satisfied smile before tossing her fragrant wreath upon the edge of the blanket and reaching over to lightly feather her fingers through his hair. His eyebrows arched with surprise at the suddenness of her gesture, but he accepted the intimacy without flinching. Sara had been touching him quite a bit lately and he was growing accustomed to the feel of her hands upon him.
"You cut your hair."
Grissom yawned lazily, his gaze still directed towards the clouds. "Myria did it."
"Who?" Sara demanded, a sharp flare of jealousy rearing its ugly head. She had never heard mention of this Myria person and demanded to know who she was. She was very unhappy with the thought of any woman being familiar enough with Grissom to perform such a personal service as cutting his hair.
Grissom rolled his head towards her and regarded her with an odd expression, not sure what to make of her sudden harsh tone or flash of temper. "Myria and her husband Conrad run my household," he explained hurriedly, "and see to my affairs while I am away for extended periods of time."
"Oh," she said, dropping her eyes to pick at an imaginary thread on her gown while she considered this piece of information and decided that she need harbor no fear of this woman. "Well," she began, finally raising her face to his again, "she has shorn you like a spring lamb."
Nodding his agreement, Grissom relaxed. "She said I looked like a common knave." The feigned annoyance in his tone and on his face seemed to indicate that he did not particularly care whether or not he looked like a rogue and that he had merely indulged his chatelaine.
Sara giggled. "And that is a problem?"
"Evidently," he shrugged.
"The next thing you know," Sara said, trying to twine a finger about one of his shortened curls, "she will be shaving the top of your head and you will look more like a monk than you do now."
His brows drew together as he considered her words. "Are you displeased?" he asked with a hint of nervousness.
"No, Grissom, not at all," she laughed gaily, her amusement twinkling in her eyes. "You are a handsome man regardless of whether your hair is short or bound at the nape of your neck.
Sara watched with delight as a faint blush colored his cheeks above his beard. Grissom was obviously not accustomed to being complimented on his looks. Heather was right. The knight had no inkling as to how attractive he truly was.
"Gris?" Her tone was light but a current of steel ran beneath her words. "Just don't let her near your beard."
Friday falls like warm moonbeam
Monday falls and the rain is cold
And Friday falls like sweet sunshine
Saturday falls like gold
"Why have you never married?"
Grissom blinked and cocked his head, startled by her sudden question. Sara had grown bold in her questioning of late and Grissom was unsure of her motivation. He did not know if she was merely curious, trying to make small talk, or if there was a deeper, more personal motive. The thought that her reasons might be along a more personal line both thrilled and frightened him.
"My life does not allow for such pleasures," he finally replied as he sat up to face Sara.
"You have never sought to court or marry?"
"Not really, no," he said with a slow shake of his head.
Sara crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, her face and voice colored by heavy skepticism. "None of the many women who throw themselves at you and constantly gaze upon you with lust in their eyes you have managed to catch your attention?"
"None of those fair ladies want to marry me," he scoffed, his lips twisted in a bitter smirk. "They merely wish to garner my reputation and holdings," he sneered derisively. "Any one of them that I would wed would pray nightly that I fall in battle so that they would stand to inherit all that I have earned."
"That is a rather harsh perception."
"Perhaps," he shrugged, "but it is true."
Grissom reached out and grasped her hand, willing her to believe the truth behind his jaded sentiments. "Sara, every hardship can be endured if you know that it is only temporary. Any woman would consent to be my wife, knowing that my days are numbered. They can play the gentle spouse and bed-mate for they know that one day soon I will not return. Once rid of me they will have gained a lofty station in life and be free to pursue their own hearts."
His words stumbled to halt and his face grew pensive. He idly played with Sara's fingers as he focused his gaze upon the swiftly running stream. "There is one, perhaps," he said, speaking more to himself than Sara, "who could abide my presence and feel some measure of affection towards me."
"Lady Catherine."
Sara's softly muttered response drew his attention back from the water and he tightened his grip about her hand again. "Yes. She and I have long been friends. It has crossed my mind several times to ask her to wed just to ease her life a bit and ensure that her daughter has a suitable dowry. She would be a good companion."
Narrowing her eyes, Sara regarded him for a long moment, seeking to understand all that he had not said. "But you do not love her." Her voice was quiet, but confident, a statement rather than a question.
He shook his head, his response a silent "no."
Sara reached for his other hand, drawing him closer. "Has anyone ever managed to capture your heart?"
"Aye," he whispered, closing his eyes against the sudden pang of longing that rose within him.
Sara's breath caught in her throat at the pain in his low admission. She tightened her grip on their entwined hands, willing him to look at her. "And you do you not wish to take that woman to bride?"
His eyes slid away from hers as he huffed a humorless chuckle. "At one time that might have been possible, but those days are long since gone."
"But why?" she implored, pulling his gaze back to her. She swallowed tightly against the sudden unshed tears clogging her throat. "Why is it such an impossibility?"
"Sara..." Grissom shook his head, trying to make her understand. "It is just impossible," he sighed sadly. "Besides," he continued, regret dripping from his words, "I have reached the point in my life where I no longer have anything to offer a beautiful young woman."
She stared at their knotted hands, watching his thumb caress her knuckles as she puzzled over his response. "If you are concerned about your age, there are men much older than you taking maidens to wife."
Grissom nodded his head hesitantly, uncertain as to where Sara was taking the conversation. She let her eyes wander up and down his torso before asking in a frank manner, "Well, are you worried that you might not able to consummate your vows?" His eyes widened and he blushed profusely, his ears glowing a flaming red. Sara leaned closer, her voice a mere whisper against his cheek.
"I have heard the whisperings of woman who have found themselves wedded to older men hinting of such things, that their husbands no longer have the ability or desire to properly complete the rite of marriage."
He floundered a bit, not knowing how to answer. Sara was not some bawdy wench or fellow knight with whom he might bluntly discuss such matters. He cleared his throat. "I am...more than capable of fully consummating any oath which I might swear."
Sara looked at him then, her eyebrow cocked saucily, a blatant dare on her face and a look of shy desire in her eyes. Grissom held her gaze as he purposely removed his hands from hers and reached out to grasp her gently behind the neck. He leaned in slowly, his breath fanning over her features before pausing and giving her a last chance to refuse. She shook her head slightly, licking her lips in remembrance of their last kiss and anticipation of the next.
For a slow dance in a blue blue moon
A slow dance as the river runs
One chance came none to soon
For a slow dance in a blue blue moon
Grissom finally touched his lips to hers, the barest flicker of a caress that reawakened Sara's senses and sent her mind reeling. That spark was there again, rekindled and blazing, that jittery excitement that slid down her spine and had her clutching helplessly at his tunic as his lips brushed softly, gently against hers.
Pulling back, a breath of space between them, Grissom studied her flushed cheeks, the intensity of his gaze burning into her, searing her soul. Sara stared back, a silent plea growing in the deep chestnut of her eyes, an innocent entreaty he was powerless to refuse. He gathered her tightly against his chest and settled his mouth firmly against hers, savoring her warmth and sweetness before deepening the kiss, his lips moving and tasting with ruthless tenderness.
Sara reeled beneath the sensual onslaught, her hands slipping up to grip his shoulders. Grissom's mustache tickled her sensitive skin and a nip and suckle along her plump lower lip released a sigh a pleasure from deep within her. His tongue soothed along her lip before slipping inside to touch against hers. She started at the silky intrusion and would have pulled back from the strange sensation but his hand tangled in her hair beneath her maiden's veil to press her mouth securely against his. A low growl of pure male satisfaction rumbling from the depths of his chest sent answering white hot chills of excitement coursing through her and she slowly returned the intimate caress, running her tongue over his while fitting their lips more tightly together.
Growing bolder, Sara gently pushed her way into Grissom's mouth, testing and touching and exploring, thrilled to feel his heart racing against her chest in a rhythm that seemed to hasten with every kiss, every press of their lips, and every stroke of their tongues. The force of their passion had them moving against each other, trying to move closer until Sara lay on her back. Her hands slid from his shoulders down his muscular back, grasping and pulling at him until he lay half atop her, pushing her deeper into the folds of the blanket.
Awash in a flood of sensation, Sara buried one hand in Grissom freshly shorn curls and gripped his arm with the other, trying in vain to anchor herself against the tide of newly awakened sensuality that was threatening to pull her under. Surprised by the bulk of his arms, by the sheer strength of the trembling muscles hiding beneath the surface of his linen undershirt, she clutched him more tightly before sliding her hand down to twine her fingers with his.
She writhed helplessly beneath the onslaught of his hot wet kisses and feel of his hard body moving with hers. Scarcely understanding the urges compelling her onward, she pulled Grissom's hand to her breast, sliding her hand atop his to press his fingers more firmly against the bodice of her gown. He moaned into her mouth while his fingers gently squeezed, testing the weight and feel of her breast, pulling the fine woolen mantle more tightly to feel as much of her as possible.
Sara arched wantonly against his hand as he rubbed small circles against her sensitive nipple, trying to increase the contact, the delicious ripples spreading from her chest to settle hotly between her legs in an urgent throb of need. Grissom gave her breast one final squeeze before lifting his head to break their kiss.
Both were flushed and breathing hard, Grissom's eyes hooded and glowing with an odd mixture of vulnerability and what Sara could only guess to be desire. Sweat beaded along his hairline and temples, causing his hair to curl in tightly coiled ringlets. He bestowed a last brief kiss to the Maltese Cross pendant about her neck before finally moving away to sit up. Sara blew out a heavy breath before moving to sit aside him.
"Why did you stop?" she asked in a husky voice she scarcely recognized as being hers.
Grissom's head dropped and his hand reached for hers, his voice heavy with regret. "We need to return to the keep, Sara. I have to leave soon."
She shook her head, unwilling to believe he would leave, unwilling to let him go. "Stay. Please stay," she implored. "I do not want you to go."
"I must Sara." She could hear the regret weighing upon his words. "I have responsibilities, obligations to duty and my estate that I cannot ignore. I shall return soon, in a week's time or less if I can manage it, and then we will talk, about...this," he said, waving his hand back and forth between the two of them.
Music's like a midnight railroad
Electric as a dance hall band
Slow dance is a blues in moonlight
Moonlight is a lover's hand
Grissom knelt before a carved mahogany cross, a single candle illuminating the delicate craftsmanship and artistry of a thorny-crowned Christ in the hour of His death. Three scant days had passed since his picnic with Sara, three days of questions, confusion and seclusion.
The chapel, located down a short narrow hallway off the Great Hall of his estate, was cold; no fire lit this room and Grissom could see puffs of his own breath as he recited his Psalms aloud. Holding his worn Psalter and fingering the prayer beads securely fastened to his belt, he paused and lifted his head, puffing a grunt of frustration as his mind strayed yet again from the lessons and wisdom of the Scriptures. He rolled his head and hunched his shoulders to relieve the tension that had built during his long hours of prayer. His eyes were drawn to the fourteen rich wood carvings along either of the long stone walls depicting the Via Crucis*.
His gaze touched upon each of the scenes in turn; he could not see them well in the dim lighting, but knew them all by heart. Grissom's mind imparted what his eyes could not; filling in the details shrouded in the murky darkness and spinning his thoughts back to the Holy Land. He remembered the images and the scriptures, mumbling the words of the Apostles as he contemplated once again the passion and mystery and wonder of this ultimate sacrifice.
He had walked in those dusty footprints now erased by time when he visited the church of the Holy Sepulchre** and wandered the Garden of Gethsemane***. He had reflected upon the crucifixion and all that it represented and wondered if what he was doing in the name of God and Christ was truly righteous. He prayed daily for guidance, yet remained unsure as ever about whether or not his deeds had actually been those of a just and honorable man, a just and honorable cause. His mind was increasingly clouded by questions that seemed to have no clear answers.
Despite the many hours he spent in prayer seeking solace and guidance from his turbulent emotions, he found his thoughts ever turning towards Sara for comfort when he should be concentrating on his lessons and his Psalter. He still believed, devoutly. His faith had not faltered, but he found his focus was slowly shifting. For the first time in his life, something was actually competing with his theism and duty for his undivided attention. It was unsettling; it was frightening. He had never before been in this position and nothing in his training had prepared him for the intensity of the feelings that were bubbling to the surface.
The more time he spent with Sara, the further in love he fell despite his attempts to fight it. There was no future in pursuing her or longing for her; such a union would never come to pass. Fate had decreed he was to forever remain alone; for he could not undo the past or right the wrongs that had been done. He would pay the penance for those sins until the end of his days.
Grissom shook his head to clear his thoughts and pressed his knees harder into the cold stone floor as he turned his attention once again to his Psalter. He had to banish Sara from his mind. She was his greatest temptation, the forbidden fruit, the one battle he would never win.
Dreaming in blue blue shadows
Holding someone four four time
Dancing in a million shadows
Dancing in a lover's eye
A relentless banging on the door of the Great Hall drew Conrad from the kitchen. He held his body against the massive oaken portal to brace against the violent wind and keep the rain out as much as possible. The light from the torches framing either side of the entryway danced wildly in response to the fury of the tempest, their reflected light winking and flashing atop Conrad's bald pate as he cracked open the heavy door to find Berenger outside, shivering violently in the cold driving rain. His dark brows knitted suspiciously as he reluctantly allowed the boy to enter and herded him like an errant sheep over to the fire.
"I need to speak with Lord Grissom right away," the lad croaked, his voice trembling and cracking under the dual weights of nervousness and the bone-chilling cold. "'Tis a matter of great urgency and importance."
Conrad looked down his long, hawk-like nose at the boy, his distrust evident as he took in the lad's frightened face and worried eyes. He was well aware of Berenger's identity and wondered if Tarek had once again sent his son to do Grissom some harm. He had heard about Tarek's disgraceful actions at the Grand Tournament and suspected that the elder Grissom was up to no good.
"Please," Berenger begged, spreading his dark, rain-drenched cloak wide to show Conrad that he was bearing no weapons. "I need help to prevent a great wrong and do not know where else to turn. I give you my oath that I am here without my father's knowledge. He has done something terrible...."
Wordlessly indicating a wooden peg near the fire where Berenger should hang his sodden cloak, Conrad finally spoke. "Come", he said, once Berenger had removed the heavy dripping woolen garment and hung it up to dry, leading the way down a hall to the ornately carved door of the chapel. Berenger peeked around the partially opened door to see Grissom kneeling before the simple alter, his lips moving in silent prayer.
"You will wait until he is finished reciting his Psalms," Conrad whispered while grabbing the boy's arm to prevent him from entering.
"But..." Berenger began to argue but the ferocious look in Conrad's caused his words to die in his throat.
"You will wait."
Grissom felt a presence behind him as he prayed but banished it from his mind. He was distracted enough these days and knew whoever it was had been instructed to wait. Conrad would approach if it were truly an emergency.
Mumbling a final Paternoster and crossing himself, Grissom rose and turned towards the door, regarding Berenger with some surprise as he massaged his aching knees. Time and injuries had taken their toll and his joints suffered painfully from time to time. He walked slowly from the chapel with a slight limp in his gait and motioned for Berenger to follow him back into the hall. Conrad took his leave as the knight inclined his head towards a stool before the fire, indicating that Berenger should be seated. He poured them each a cup of tea from a kettle warming on the hearth before speaking.
"What brings you here on such a wicked night?"
"'Tis my father, Lord Grissom..." Berenger began, fiddling with his cup.
"There is no need to be so formal," Grissom interrupted in a gentle voice, attempting to quell some of his nephew's obvious unease. "You may call me Grissom as everyone else does, or Uncle, if you prefer."
Berenger nodded and took a scalding gulp of tea, the hot liquid causing him to grimace slightly. "My mother came to me this evening and told me that we must gather some things together for we needed to leave quickly. I was to help my younger brothers and sisters pack while Mother filled several bags with food."
Grissom's eyebrows arched but otherwise he made no attempt to interrupt Berenger's tale.
"From what I gathered, because she was very frightened and mostly babbling, Father and some others have kidnapped the Princess. She is but bait to lure you into a trap. Father has become a demon since you bested him in the Tournament. He rants and swears heartily about the humiliation he suffered at your hands and has vowed to see you dead. He has not the stones to seek you out man to man and decided to use Lady Sara as a means of calling you out."
Berenger's narrative dwindled into nothingness as he watched his uncle's eyes shift to a cold, steel gray and his large hands clench tightly into white-knuckled fists.
"Do you know where he planned on holding her?"
Grissom's voice was flat, wholly void of any emotion. All remnants of the gentle, civilized man were gone, replaced by the vaunted warrior who had never been bested in combat. Berenger swallowed his fear and regarded his uncle with growing awe and wonder. He had heard tales all throughout his childhood of the savage Black Monk who fought like a hell hound upon the plain. He had never seen his uncle in battle, but from the look in Grissom's eyes, he knew he never wanted to. The icy calm settling about the man frightened him more than anything he had ever seen.
"Aye, Uncle, he replied, regaining his voice. "Mother made mention of an Inn two days ride north of the Palace. Father knows that King James will send you to find his daughter. He will be waiting there to spring his trap and kill you."
Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Grissom addressed his nephew over his shoulder as he hurried from the Great Hall towards the kitchen. "Thank you, Berenger. Coming to me and turning against your Father took a great deal of courage." He paused and spun back to look the lad in the face. "You have done right by both yourself and the Princess."
Grissom resumed his trek to the kitchen, calling loudly for Myria as he went. When the small, gray haired woman appeared wiping her hands with a towel, the knight began giving orders in a calm voice.
"I need you to awaken Sandre and fetch a trustworthy lad from the village who is capable of riding all night to hie to the Castle and tell the King what has happened and that I am off in pursuit of Sara."
"He cannot do it?" she asked, waving a rough, chubby hand toward Berenger.
"No. Despite the fact he is entirely innocent in this matter and came to me as soon as he learned of his father's deeds, James will be enraged." Grissom paused and shot a glance at his nephew. "Berenger need not bear the force of that wrath."
"Aye, Milord," she replied. "I shall send Conrad to find someone. What do I need to make ready?"
Grissom thought for a moment, preparing a list in his mind. "Some warm clothes, blankets and three or four days worth of provisions. My large pouch of herbs and salves from my chamber. Do not take the time to pack anything elaborate. We can get by on soldier fare until we find safe haven."
Myria grabbed a burlap sack hanging from a peg near the fireplace and scurried off to rapidly pack as much as possible. Moments later a bleary-eyed Sandre rushed in wiping the last remnants of sleep from his face with a damp cloth.
"Saddle our steeds, Sandre. We need to leave forthwith. I need a large pack and weapons but no maille. We need to move as swiftly and silently as possible. Weave some strips of cloth through the metal workings of the bridles and stirrups to dampen the sound."
After watching Sandre hurry off in the direction of the stables, Grissom once again focused his attention on his nephew. "Do you know who else is involved with this?"
"Nay. The only person Mother called by name was Queen Sofia." Berenger's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice so low Grissom had to strain to hear him. "It would seem that the Queen and my father have been intimately involved for the past few months."
Grissom blinked his surprise at this revelation. "Very well," he mumbled, his mind racing with the implications of this bit of information. He looked at the frightened young man before him, and grasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. "You have done well, Berenger," he said quietly, seeking to reassure the boy, "and you shall always have haven here."
"Uncle, may I go with you? I can help..."
"No." Grissom shook his head sharply. "I do not mean to seem unkind, Berenger, but your inexperience will slow us down. Sandre has been to battle with me and knows what is expected of him."
Berenger nodded, reluctantly accepting the truth of his uncle's words.
Grissom looked his nephew in the eye, his voice once again taking on the tone of cold steel. "I will most likely have to fight Tarek. I will kill him if necessary, Berenger. I do not want you to watch your father die."
For a slow dance in a blue blue moon
A slow dance as the river runs
One chance came none to soon
For a slow dance in a blue blue moon****
* The Stations of the Cross or the Way of the Cross. Refers to the final hours (or Passion) of Jesus and the devotion commemorating the Passion. There are traditionally fourteen stations, beginning with Jesus being sentenced to death and ending with Jesus being laid in the tomb and covered with incense.
** Christian church within the walled Old City of Jerusalem. The church has been an important site for Christian pilgrims since the fourth century as it is the purported site of the death and resurrection of Jesus.
*** A garden at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem where Jesus prayed with his disciples the night before his crucifixion. In Orthodox tradition, the Garden of Gethsemane is where the Apostles buried the Virgin Mary.
**** "Slow Dance". Words and Music by John Stewart. Bandera (Folk Era, FE1436D, 1997)