Girl In A Red Tunic (26 page)

     He smiles, and the expression enchants her. ‘And you, girl, are a woman, for all your tender years.’

     ‘I am,’ she agrees. She thinks she knows what he means and, although she has been brought up to consider such private feminine matters a secret to be concealed from men, somehow this training no longer seems relevant at all.

     There is a moment of perfect stillness. They do not touch; their contact is through their eyes and through their senses, each seeking the other. Then he raises a hand and, with his finger, outlines the curve of her lips. He murmurs, ‘My father was quite right.’

     She knows she should not ask but cannot prevent herself. ‘What did he say?’

     That smile again. ‘He said that Ralf de Swansford has a beautiful daughter, who has her wits about her and looks as if she enjoys life and who is ripe for the plucking. He advised me to get in first before some other lucky man finds you.’

     ‘Oh!’ She is speechless; are men normally so bold?

     As if he reads her reaction, he takes a step back, away from her, and he says, ‘Lady, I mean no disrespect. It is not fitting for us to be alone and for me to speak such words to you; believe me, I honour you.’

     He looks so earnest, puts such stress on the word honour, that she does believe him. ‘You do not offend me, sir,’ she replies, eyes modestly cast down. Still looking at the ground, she adds, ‘Normally I am not permitted to ride out unaccompanied, I do assure you, for my father guards me well and likes me to be in the company of either my family or one of the servants.’

     It is a prissy little speech and she is not at all surprised when he bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, Helewise!’ he says, still laughing. ‘You are a cherished and unblemished young bud; yes, I know that full well.’

     She feels herself blush. Cross with herself – for her carefully nurtured virgin state is surely something she should be proud of? – she lifts her chin and says, ‘I have been raised to be a lady, sir. There is no shame in that.’

     Instantly he is once more apologetic. ‘No, no, of course there isn’t and I am delighted to hear it. Please, forgive me for my laughter and for what you seem to perceive as my mockery – the laughter I cannot deny but I intended no jeering criticism and I am truly sorry if I did not make myself plain.’

     Make myself plain ... Her disordered thoughts prompt the comment, you could never be plain, but this is not, of course, what he meant.

     ‘Very well,’ she says politely. ‘I accept your apology.’

     He bows. ‘Thank you, lady.’

     She is tingling from the effect of his nearness – without her having noticed, he seems to have stepped closer again. She meets his eyes. Now he looks solemn, almost anxious. ‘I must go!’ she cries. Suddenly she wants to flee from him; she is afraid – of him, of herself; she does not know – and running back to the safety of home seems like a very good idea.

     He bows again, as if in acknowledgement. ‘Yes,’ he says. Neither of them makes a move. Then he says in a rush, ‘Will you come here again? Tomorrow?’

     Without one single second’s thought she says, ‘Yes.’

She spends a hectic night, her pounding blood not allowing her to rest. When at dawn she slips into an exhausted sleep, it is only to dream of him, a dream from which she awakes sweating and heavy with some strange sensation that seemed to promise more joy, more pleasure than she had imagined could exist.

     She meets him the next day. They talk endlessly about themselves, each coming up with question after question, as if they would know the story of each other’s life from first memories to the present moment. He keeps his distance – he sits down on the pebbles an arm’s length from her – but, when they get up to leave, he takes her hand and kisses it. She is not sure but she thinks she feels his tongue touch against her hot skin. The sensations of the night tickle faintly through her body, an echo of their dark nocturnal power, and she has to turn away before he sees her confusion.

     The next day they talk again. This time, when they part, he kisses her mouth. And, just as she had thought she would, she melts into him.

There is to be a celebration in the manor because it is May and, despite England’s Christian religion, the country people still honour the Old Ways and they do not forget. The Swansford family are all eagerly chatting about the arrangements for the day. Ralf de Swansford has, as he always does, offered the large meadow bordered by oak trees and a birch copse as a venue and already the villagers have erected a May Pole. A cooking fire will be built in a sheltered corner and a hog will be roasted. The Swansfords will provide most of the victuals but the peasants and the tenants will each bring what they can. Even in the poorest homes, men, women and children feel the thrill of the feast day and it costs nothing to pick wild flowers and make a garland.

     Ralf has invited friends and neighbours to the celebration. He is delighted to say, he mentions with an attempt at casualness that does not fool his daughter for one moment, that Benedict Warin is coming. ‘And he tells me he is going to bring his son, Ivo,’ Ralf adds.

     Helewise drops her head and meekly says, ‘Oh, that will be nice.’

     As soon as she can she races away to find Elena. She has her recent gift of the length of sunshine-yellow silk and she wants Elena to help her make the most gorgeous gown that a girl ever wore. Elena, aware that something has happened to her young charge and pretty certain what it is, falls in readily with the plan. Helewise strips to her under-gown and Elena studies her through narrowed eyes. ‘You’re blossoming, young Helewise,’ she observes. Then, with a lascivious wink that makes Helewise laugh and, at the same time, sends her blood pounding, she says, ‘Blooming like a flower beneath some man’s scrutiny, is that it?’

     Helewise does not answer. Instead she picks up the bolt of silk and lifts her arms in a wide gesture, spreading the lovely fabric and letting it settle around her. ‘What do you think, Elena?’ she asks. ‘Tight bodice and flowing skirt?

     Elena goes ‘Mmm,’ in the sort of tone she has always used when aware that Helewise knows something that she doesn’t. Then, apparently giving in, she says, ‘Aye, my girl.’ With a grin, she adds, ‘Show off your assets, eh?’

     They make a gown that is the most beautiful that Helewise has ever possessed. The silk – imported to France from Genoa and spun in Paris into a cloth that has a subtle self-coloured pattern of flowers and ivy leaves – is heavy and shines like the sun going down in the evening sky. It has a square, deep neckline that shows off the upper curves of Helewise’s smooth white breasts. The sleeves are narrow at the shoulder and flare widely at the wrists. The waist is tight-fitting and, at the hips, the glorious fabric flares out to a generous hem. Over the gown Helewise will wear a little bodice embroidered with pearls. Elena also makes an under-tunic in a deeper shade of yellow that is almost gold; it will show at wrist and neckline and it echoes the colour of Helewise’s red-gold hair.

     On her head she will wear, just like the peasant girls, a garland of flowers.

     For the two days before May Day she does not see Ivo. After a fortnight in which they have – unknown to anybody else – been together for a part of every day, the waiting seems endless. But inevitably, time goes by – with infinitesimal slowness – and at last it is May eve. Helewise bids her family a decorous goodnight and retires early to bed. She looks hungrily at the yellow gown spread on her clothes chest, at the garland of flowers that rests in a shallow bowl of cool water to keep it fresh. She imagines herself dressing in the morning. Imagines Ivo when he sees her.

     It is almost too much to bear.

The day is sunny and warm and everyone is thrilled to think that the gods are blessing their celebration with such perfect weather. The cooking fires are lit early; benches are lugged out of the house for the ladies and straw bales for the better class of men; everyone else will sit on the good green grass. Ivo’s steward is busy organising games for the older children – races, both on their ponies, if they have them, and on their own two feet – and hunts for favours. His wife is looking after the smaller children and Elena has set aside a quiet, cool place in the shade of the oak trees where overwrought toddlers and babies can sleep when necessary. The May Pole has been decorated with ribbons and a small band of musicians are practising their tunes. There will be other dancing too, in addition to the traditional slow measures around the pole that symbolise the Sun’s course; groups of men bearing sticks are going through their moves, anxious to get everything perfect so that the people clap and the lord and his lady are pleased.

     Helewise has put on her gown and her flower garland. She cannot eat and uses the excuse that her dress is tight and she wants to have room for the feast later. Her mother nods without comment; Elena shoots her a look. The family leave the house in the middle of the morning – it has been a tense wait for impatient Helewise, trying to appear only as excited as she usually is instead of filled with this nervous, thrilling sensation for which she has no name – and, with Ralf and Emma in the lead, they make their slow and stately way down to the meadow, greeting people as they go.

     It is some time before Helewise spots Ivo. She has already spoken to his father and been introduced to Benedict’s companion, a silent man named Martin who bears a slight resemblance to his master; she wonders if they are related but such is her state of mind this day that the matter slips from her consciousness almost as soon as it has entered it. Benedict gives her a beaming smile and then a wink, as if to say, I know full well what
you’re
up to! Then he engages Ralf in a conversation about wool export and Helewise, blush fading, scuttles away. She circles the field, slowly, trying to appear leisurely and graceful, and her sister Aeleis bounds around her, drawing her attention to the horses, the ponies, the hounds – ‘Oh, look at the puppy! Isn’t he sweet? Do you think Father would let me have him?’ – although Helewise hardly hears.

     Then she sees him, leaning against one of the great oaks, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wears a tunic in dark green with a lighter green border in which there are touches of rich gold embroidery. His brown hair shines with health and there are bright streaks in it, as if he has been riding bare-headed beneath the sun. He smiles at her and in that moment she knows that he loves her just as she loves him. She walks slowly up to him.

     ‘Hello, sweeting,’ he says softly. ‘I have never seen you look more beautiful.’

     She glances down at herself as if she has forgotten what she is wearing, hardly likely since she thought ahead to this moment, dwelling on its infinite possibilities, with every stitch that she sewed. ‘Thank you.’

     Their eyes lock again. Then he says, ‘I think that I should be presented to your parents, with your permission. My father has suggested that he be the one to do it.’

     ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ she agrees. ‘Shall we find him and take him to my father and mother?’

     Ivo hesitates. It seems that he does not know how these things are accomplished any more than she does. ‘Perhaps my father should perform this presentation with me alone,’ he suggests. ‘If you and I are both there, may it not appear that we have – I mean, that there is a degree of acquaintance between us that your parents have not known about?’

     She understands. ‘Yes. Very well, then. But we shall be together again later?’ She cannot bear the thought that he is to slip off into the crowd and that will be that.

     But he is smiling, gently, lovingly. Promisingly. ‘Of course we shall,’ he says. He blows her a kiss and then he is gone. She watches him stride away. He walks well. She hungers for him.

Time passes. To Helewise in her frantic impatience it feels like hours. Then she is summoned to her father’s side and finds him standing with Benedict Warin, the watchful Martin hovering nearby. Ivo is to his father’s right, a pace behind. Ralf says, ‘Helewise, you have already met Ivo, I understand.’ He gives her a keen glance but she makes herself stare back straight into his eyes; she has done things that he does not know about but, she tells herself, nothing terrible. Nothing more than passionate kisses that she has wished with all her heart, soul and body would go on into whatever comes next.

     But that is not a thought to share with her father.

     Ralf is drawing Ivo forward and, taking Helewise’s hand, places it in Ivo’s. ‘Ivo, son of my dear friend, this is my daughter Helewise.’ There is a pause. Then Ralf says, ‘Perhaps, Ivo, you would care to escort her around the fair?’

     And Ivo says, with admirable self-control, ‘Indeed, Sir Ralf. Nothing would please me more.’ Tucking her hand under his arm, he says, looking at Ralf, ‘I will take care of her, sir.’