Casting Samson (12 page)

“My dear girl, I wouldn’t dream of it!”

The idea of his considering her old had rattled Anne, but being called a dear girl positively incensed her. A stinging retort rose to her lips but before she could utter it he’d moved off to take the empty glasses back to the bar.

Professor Duggan caught up with her at the pub door and walked with her to the car park. As they parted he held out his hand.

“Well, good night, Mrs. Lindsay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned and walked to his own car—in the darkened car park she could just make out the sleek lines of a convertible. She heard the engine roar into life even before she’d started her own, but with old-fashioned gallantry he waited to follow her out on to the road, acknowledging their parting with a quick flash of headlights.

“You’re up early.”

Deborah started as the voice interrupted her daydream. Josh was sitting a few feet away, in the shade of the ancient yew tree. He grinned at her. “Not going for another swim, are you?”

She couldn’t stop herself from grinning back. “I heard the weather’s going to break this afternoon, so I thought I’d get out and enjoy the last of the sun—being careful
not
to walk too close to the river. What are you doing?”

He held up a sheet of paper. “Trying to learn my lines. Not my strongest point.” He squinted up at her. “Could you help me?”

“Me! How?”

“Just listen to me run through them. You know, give me a clue when I forget what comes next.”

“Okay.” She sat beside him and held out her hand. “Give me the script.”

He passed her the paper and she scanned it quickly.

“So was he here just for the weekend, then?” Josh asked.

“Who?”

“That guy. Ber-nerd.”

“Bernard. His name’s Ber
nard
.”

“Whatever.”

Knowing he was watching her, she didn’t look up from the script, thankful that her hair was long enough now to fall forward, screening her face.

“Were you living together, in London?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you miss him—I mean, are you lonely without him?”

She hesitated for a moment, considering. Actually they hadn’t spent that much time together. She’d been out working three evenings a week, and often on her free nights Bernard was working late. Supposedly.

“No lonelier than I was with him.”

Josh picked a small stone from the grass and tossed it into the river. “What on earth did you see in him?”

“What do you mean?” She looked up, surprised. “He’s smart, good-looking, funny, kind—at least, he was when we first met. All the girls in the office fancied him.”

“So what did you have in common?”

“Um…”

“Music?” he prompted her.

She considered the matter, her fingers twisting one dark tendril of hair into a spiral.

She liked Liszt and Rachmaninov, and quiet ballads rather than rock music, but she’d played them only when she was alone, knowing Bernard was impatient of her classical tastes.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Theatre, films?”

Deborah thought of the films she’d cried over in secret and how she deliberately looked away from the bloodier parts of the action movies Bernard took her to see. Josh tried again.

“Okay—how about dancing?”

She recalled going into the crowded clubs, swaying with the rest of the crowd to the latest dance trend while Bernard bought her the newest designer drink. She thought again of the village dance on Friday night and laughed.

“No. Poor Bernard. I’m not surprised he wanted someone new. The wonder is that he ever saw anything in me.”

“Perhaps it was the sex.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But it appears he even preferred that with other girls.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. They say confession’s good for the soul, so perhaps it’s helped, talking about it. Look, let’s read through your lines, shall we?”

“Could you read Delilah’s part?”

Deborah cleared her throat. “
Oh, Samson, tell me the secret of your great strength.”

“No, Delilah. It is a gift, given to me by God. I can tell no one.”

“Oh, but Samson, surely you can tell me…”
Deborah giggled. “It’s not Shakespeare, is it? Is she really going to cut off your hair?” She was aware of an urge to reach out, to run her hands through his thick gypsy curls.

“No way! Yvonne will gel it all back as she pretends to cut it, then I’ll shake it out again when it’s supposed to grow.” He scrambled to his feet and began to speak his next lines.

“
The Philistines imprisoned Samson, blinded him and took him to Gaza. There, he was tied between two pillars while they mocked him, but his hair had begun to grow again, and he called on God to remember him and give him back his strength. Then Samson pulled on the pillars and brought the house crashing down, killing himself and his tormentors.”

Josh fell to his knees, his arms outstretched, his head bowed.

Deborah clapped. “Very good! Almost word perfect. It’s pretty gruesome stuff though.”

“Mmm. The kids’ll love it.” He came back to sit beside her. “Have you finished my costume yet?”

“I gave it to Anne. She’s sewing it up.”

“So what’s it like?”

“Cotton leggings and a tunic in case the weather’s cold. If it stays sunny like this, you’ll be bare-chested.”

“And what if it rains?”

She grinned. “You’ll get wet!”

“Thanks very much! Deborah—” Josh began to pick at the grass beside him. “I’m not working next Tuesday night. I was wondering if you were—um—free?”

Deborah’s mouth went dry. “What about Demelza?”

“Yes, well, I wanted to explain to you about that…”

She didn’t want him to tell her about open relationships, about not being ready to settle down and all the other old clichés. She said quickly, “S-sorry, I’m busy that night.”

He looked up at her from under his black brows. “Not washing your hair, are you?”

In spite of her disappointment, she grinned.

“No. I’m painting the walls of Jericho!” She glanced at her watch. “Look at the time. I’d better be going.”

“Oh, can’t you stay a few more minutes and go through my lines again? I can learn them so much better if I have an audience. Then I’ll walk back with you.”

Deborah hesitated. She glanced at Josh, his dark chocolate eyes were watching her hopefully.

“Okay. Just once more…”

“…The original church would have been barnlike, with a chancel and possibly the rounded apse.” Professor Duggan walked slowly through the church, glancing about. “The way the stone altar is positioned against the eastern wall—that’s a pre-Reformation idea. And the walls would probably have been painted, but such decoration was frowned upon after the Reformation, and most of it was destroyed.”

“Then what about the stained glass windows?”

“Yes, it was a miracle they were left to survive. They were used by the priest, you see, in medieval times, to help tell the Bible stories to his illiterate flock.”

“The kids still enjoy that today. That’s why we’re using them as the basis for our pageant. Daniel and the lion, Moses and the Ten Commandments, Samson.” She paused, staring at the figure in the last window. They’d been fortunate to find a Samson who looked so much like the image.

“I suspect the church elders had a soft spot for these action pictures, and they incorporated them into their alterations. Look, you can see where the nave was widened at a later date. That’s when these pillars were put in, to support the new roof. Then in the seventeenth century, the new screen was added.”

“I’m impressed, Professor—”

“Please, call me Toby.”

“You know more about architecture than you admitted to me.” Anne didn’t know how to respond to his olive branch, so she ignored it. “I think the apse and the Lady Chapel are the oldest parts of the church. Come and meet Hugh.” She led the way into the Lady Chapel and opened the gate in the iron railings. The hinges creaked softly as they passed through. “Here he is. Look at him, crossed feet—and the shield, you see, it has two vertical blocks in the centre—I read that that was a symbol used by the Templars.”

“Yes, but not exclusively. I’d have been more convinced if there was a cross. And there’s nothing on the stonework of the church itself, no carvings on the doorposts or corbels to substantiate your theory.” He pushed his glasses into place and leaned forward to examine the engraved stone beside the effigy. “And this date—like I said, the Templars had fallen from favour by then.”

“That could account for the lack of visible evidence. Perhaps he wanted it kept secret.”

Her companion was unconvinced, but after staring at the stone figure for a few more minutes, he shivered and moved away. “These old stone buildings are always chilly. Let’s look outside.”

“We’re hoping the pageant will raise enough money for a new heating system.” Anne closed the gate to the Lady Chapel and followed the professor towards the main doors. “It’s important, you see. It’s difficult enough keeping a congregation these days, and almost impossible if the church is freezing. The under-floor heating we have now was installed in Victorian days, and barely takes the chill off the place.”

“I sympathise with your aims, but that won’t make me change my mind. I don’t agree with you glamorising St. John’s.”

She stopped, an indignant flush burning her cheeks. “That’s not why I said it. I wasn’t trying to influence you.”

He turned and looked down at her, then to Anne’s astonishment he reached out for her hand and carried it to his lips, lightly kissing her fingers. “No, of course not. Forgive me.”

Shaken by this act of old-fashioned courtesy, she could think of nothing to say. Toby Duggan released her fingers and continued to the door, as if what he’d done was the most natural thing in the world.

Anne followed him out of the church and carefully locked the old doors. Her fingers were trembling and she found the traffic noise in the High Street strangely reassuring. She paused for a moment to enjoy the sun on her face and regain her composure. Moving on, she found the professor studying the outer walls of the church and its foundations.

“It’s old,” he said at last, “possibly built on older footings, but I say again, Mrs. Lindsay, it is
not
Templar. I’m sorry if you are disappointed—”

“There’s nothing to disappoint me—you haven’t convinced me I’m wrong!”

“You are a stubborn woman, Anne Lindsay.”

“Nonsense. Local legends usually have some factual basis. I just have to find it.”

“
We
have to find it.”

“Pardon?” She looked up, startled.

“I said, we have to find it.” His smile was infectious. “I am quite as determined as you to solve this mystery.”

She opened her mouth to ask him why it had suddenly become so important to him, but she had an urgent thought that she might not want to know the answer, not yet. Silently she accompanied him back to the churchyard gate, where he held out his hand to her. She gave him her own and knew a fleeting disappointment when he didn’t kiss it again, even though his grip was firm and surprisingly reassuring.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Lindsay. I’ll ring you if I discover anything.”

On Tuesday night Deborah arrived at the village hall just as Alan Thorpe was unloading several large cans of paint from the back of his Land Cruiser.

“Hi. Let me give you a hand.”

He gave her a distracted smile as she picked up two of the cans to carry them inside.

“Thank God someone else has turned up! Godfrey is inside with the Scouts and Guides, who were asked to come along and help, but Anne can’t come, Clara Babbacombe’s gone off on some errand of mercy for her sister, and I’ve got another meeting at eight.”

He pushed open the door and stood back for Deborah to go in. The interior of the hall resembled a paper recycling plant. A mountain of cardboard boxes filled the centre of the room and spilled out over the rest of the floor, along with piles of newspapers. Godfrey Mullett was looking bemused, standing in the midst of the newspapers, while the young volunteers milled around, kicking boxes and chattering loudly. Usually Deborah was only too pleased to let others organise her, but faced with two men who were clearly out of their depth, all her management training came to the fore. She took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry,” she said, taking off her jacket. “I’ll sort it. First we need some space.”

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the fray and took command. She set most of the children to work moving all the boxes to one side of the room while Godfrey and the rest of the volunteers spread newspapers over the remaining floor space. Then she began sorting out the paint and brushes that Alan had supplied.

When Josh walked into the hall an hour later, the scene was one of cheerful industry. Godfrey hurried forward to greet him, wiping his paint-stained hands on an old rag.

“Josh my boy! Have you come to help? Deborah has got us all organised, you see, but I’m sure she’ll be able to find you something to do.” He turned to include Deborah in his warm smile as she walked up to join them.

Josh gave her a lopsided grin and nodded towards the large box he was carrying. “Thought your volunteers might like some supper.”

Although he hadn’t spoken loudly, several budding Michelangelos immediately stopped painting. Deborah laughed.

“Okay, gang, supper break when the first pile of boxes is finished!” she called. She turned back to Josh. “Let’s see what you’ve brought us.”

“So what are they doing?” Josh asked as he followed Deborah into the small kitchen.

“Making the walls of Jericho. We’re painting the boxes to look like stone blocks, then they’ll be piled up on one of the floats, and fixed together so that they can come tumbling down at the right moment.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “That’s the theory, anyway!”

Josh began unpacking the box, pulling out small bread rolls with various fillings, a box of tiny vol-au-vents and a large tray of mini Danish pastries. He grinned at her look of surprise. “Compliments of the Towers.”

“Great! We’ve got plenty of cola and squash, but I was planning to slip across to the pub and beg a box of crisps. This is much better, thank you. It was good of you to give up your free evening.”

“Well, I’d nothing else planned.”

Deborah was hunting in a cupboard for napkins. “I’d have thought you’d be glad to have an evening with Demelza.”

“No, she’s out. Very independent, Demelza.” Something in his voice made her look at him, but at that moment the first group of painters descended upon them, eager for their promised supper.

Josh stepped back from the counter. “I think you’d better referee to make sure everyone gets a share.”

By the time the last of the young volunteers had left the hall, Deborah was exhausted. She dropped onto a paint-spattered chair. “Never again!”

“Well, I think you did jolly well, young Deborah,” Godfrey declared. “The way you organised those youngsters was admirable. Have a humbug.”

Deborah caught Josh’s eye and grinned.

“They did work hard, didn’t they?” she said. “But I think it was the promise of supper. Thank you for that, Josh.”

“No problem.” He looked around. “Right, there’s still a bit of clearing up to do. Let’s get on with it, then I’ll walk you home.”

Thirty minutes later they left Godfrey to lock up and set off towards the Yew Tree Restaurant. The air was warm, heavy with the promise of rain.

“You don’t have to see me all the way home, Josh.”

“I know, but I’d like to.” He didn’t miss her sudden wariness and added lightly, “I need to walk off that supper.”

She laughed. “You can’t have eaten very much. Our budding artists fell on it as if they hadn’t been fed for a week. Still, they deserved it. The boxes look good, don’t they? When they’re fixed in place on the float I think it will look very effective as the walls of Jericho.”

Josh kicked at a stone lying on the pavement. “Have you thought what you’re going to do when this pageant’s over?

Deborah shrugged. “Start looking for a job, I suppose. Dad wants to sell the restaurant, so he won’t be needing me around long-term.”

“Will you go back to London?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so.”

“Because of that guy?”

Deborah considered for a moment. “No-o,” she said slowly. “It’s just that…London’s a big place and I don’t make friends that easily. I find it difficult to talk to people, you see.”

“Wouldn’t think that, watching you working in the Yew Tree.”

“That’s because it’s home ground. I feel safe there.”

“And you talk to me okay—do you feel safe with me too?”

Deborah bit her lip. With Josh beside her she might feel safe from attack by any mad axemen that might be lurking in Moreton’s dark alleys, but he was certainly a dangerous threat to her peace of mind.

“Well?”

She risked a glance at him. His eyes were narrowed in amusement and she found herself smiling back at him.

“Not entirely safe,” she admitted.

They’d reached the forecourt of the Yew Tree. The yellow light spilled out of the windows and suddenly Deborah found herself wishing the walk had been longer.

“Would—would you like a coffee?”

“Thanks, but I promised I’d look in at the Towers kitchen when I get back. I have to check everything’s okay for the morning. Some other time, perhaps?”

“Sure.”

She watched him walk away, noting the loose-limbed easy stride, and she felt a frisson of excitement within her.

“Easy girl,” she whispered, “he’s just being friendly. And besides, you’re only just getting over Bernard. It’s too soon to risk getting hurt again.”

***

When Hugo and Lady Agnes arrived in Acre, my lady took Hugo directly to the Comte de Chercourt. She waved away a servant who approached to help her as they crossed the courtyard. Her tired limbs faltered, and she looked up at Hugo.

“Will you give me your aid, sir, for one last time?”

Leaning heavily on his arm, my lady led the Templar between the lemon trees, past the cool fountains and pots of sweet-smelling herbs into a shady antechamber, where a liveried servant awaited them.

“Raoul, will my lord receive us?”

“He is expecting you, my lady.” The servant bowed, then threw open the heavily carved door.

With a brief glance at her companion, my lady led him into the room. It was cool and dark, sparsely furnished in the Norman style, and in the centre of the room on a daybed lay an old man. A silk sheet covered his legs, but his body was clothed in a tunic of scarlet and gold. His white hair was brushed back from a broad brow, and in his lined face with its sunken eyes and hook nose Hugo could discern the vestiges of the once-handsome nobleman who was Jean de Chercourt. My lady ran forward and knelt beside the bed.

“My dear lord!” She lifted one wasted hand to her lips and pressed it to her cheek.

The old man regarded her fondly. “You are safe. I had begun to despair.”

“We were attacked, sir. We have to thank this good knight for my deliverance.”

“And I do thank you, sir knight. But what of your guards, sweetheart, the men we paid?”

My lady frowned, her eyes darkening. “They deserted us, sir, taking with them everything of value!”

He patted her cheek, smiling faintly. “But not my most treasured possession.” He looked up at Hugo. “And you, sir. In returning this flower to me, you have rendered me a service not easily repaid, but I will do my best. Name your desire, sir.”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“But there must be—”

My lady interrupted him. “I have already argued the case with him, my lord, but he will have none of it.” She turned at the knight. “The most we can hope is that you will remain here tonight and allow us to entertain you.”

“If you wish it, my lady.”

She looked pleased. “Good. My servants will show you to your quarters, and give you food and wine. Then, when you have rested, we shall dine together.”

Hugo was shown to a room sumptuous with eastern luxury. Plump cushions were scattered over the floor, the walls were hung with jewel-bright silks and damask, and on a low table a flacon of wine and platters laden with nuts, fruit and goat’s cheese awaited him. When he had eaten a little and prayed, Hugo donned the nightrobe he found draped over the narrow daybed and slept, waking just as night was falling. Aromatic scents drifted in through the window—coriander, ginger, the tang of lemons—reminding him that he was to dine with his host. There was a light scratching at the door, and a servant entered with a lamp.

Hugo sat up and stretched. “Where are my clothes?”

The man bowed. “Sir, the mistress ordered that we clean them. Your mantle and under-tunic are being washed in scented waters, the sheepskin breeches are to be brushed and aired, and the mail shirt polished and greased—”

“Very well, very well, I do not need an inventory. When do we dine?”

“Within the hour, sir. Will you bathe now, master?”

Hugo followed the servant across the courtyard to the bathhouse, a cool chamber decorated with blue, red and gold tiles. Musky scents rose from the water in the tiled bath built in the centre of the room. Hugo stepped into the warm water and gave himself over to the luxury of having servants wash his body.

Later, wearing the cool white robes supplied by his thoughtful host, Hugo made his way to the dining chamber. At the doorway he paused, his broad shoulders brushing each side of the opening. Lady de Chercourt was alone in the room, reclining on a bank of cushions. She beckoned him to approach her.

“Madam—your husband?”

“My lord never dines now. He is too weak, but he sends you his compliments and begs you will allow me to express his gratitude.” She had braided her hair and covered it with a soft veil. The scratches and cuts on her face had been treated, and only the blue-black bruise on her temple remained as witness to her ordeal.

When the servants had finished laying out an assortment of dishes, the lady dismissed them, and she herself poured wine for Hugo. She served him with delicately spiced chicken and tender kid, rice flavoured with saffron and an assortment of succulent fruits.

Hugo tasted each dish, but ate and drank sparingly. Although the Knights of the Temple lived well, with wine at their meals and meat three times a week, such a wealth of dishes hinted at sinful gluttony. He noticed that my lady also consumed very little. At length she pushed away her dish and refilled their wine goblets. As she leaned towards him on the cushions, he was startled to see that she was wearing only a thin silk chemise that accentuated every curve and contour of her body. His eyes shifted quickly to her face.

“You wonder, perhaps, at the difference in age between my lord and myself? I was his ward before he married me.” She smiled. “He has not always been old, you know.”

“Nay, madam, I did not think—”

“We have been very happy over the years, and now when he is so ill, he leaves me to manage his household. My visit to Tyre was to attend his business. But I shall not leave him again. I do love my husband, Sir Hugo.”

“I do not doubt it. But I saw for myself today how weak he is. What will you do, when…”

“When he dies? I shall take him back to France. My lord had wished to see his birthplace again, but he is too ill now to undertake such a journey, so I have vowed to take his body back, that he may rest with his family.”

“Would that I could do the same.”

“Can you not?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I have taken a vow. I cannot return.”

Her eyes widened. She said softly, “Is your sin so great, then?”

“It is with me constantly.”

“Even here, now?”

“Even here.” They were sitting very close. He could smell the tantalising scent of jasmine on her skin. Drawing a breath, he turned away from her, disturbed. “Madam, perhaps I should leave you now.”

“Is that what you wish?”

He turned back, his eyes running over her face, the delicate flush on her cheeks, the lips parted to show a glimpse of her small white teeth. “No.”

“Then will you not allow yourself a little pleasure?” Her hand touched his cheek. “Let me help you forget. Just for a short time.”

He pressed his lips to her wrist, breathing in the sweet perfume of her skin. His mouth moved along her arm, to her neck, her lips. As they kissed, her body moved against his, their limbs separated by nothing more than the thin layers of cloth. Desires he had suppressed for years swelled within him, coursing through his blood, firing his brain and his loins. His arms tightened about her, sliding effortlessly over the silk, aware of a tension in her body that matched his own. Then, unbidden, an image rose up in his mind, a heart-shaped face framed with dark braids, sombre hazel eyes that looked into his very soul.

“No!” Summoning every ounce of his resolve, he turned from Agnes. “Forgive me, my lady. This cannot be.”

She lay back on the cushions, breathing heavily. She pressed her hands over her heart. “Sir, if I have offended you—”

“Madam, your husband—”

“My lord knows of it. He is aware that you can offer me what he can no longer give.” She watched him slide to the floor. He knelt there, his hands covering his face and, with a small cry she threw herself on her knees before him, her fingers pulling his hands away from his face. “Hugo, Hugo, if it were not for you, this body would not be mine to give. Will you not take what is due to you, that which I have granted no man save my husband, and which will be all the sweeter because we both desire it?”