Turning of the Seasons

Chapter: Eleven

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was poking through the trees, warming the clearing. They were taking a rest before continuing on to the fork in the road. There, they would possibly part company, perhaps for the final time. Will sat on a stool, making light conversation with Christiana when what he really wanted was to let loose the guard upon his tongue and ask her of the child, Christopher. The questions wouldn't budge from his throat, lodged there firmly and what words did come out felt as though they were forced around a great huge boulder.

He glanced around. Roland was with the wagon and the horses. He'd declined to join Will, claiming he needed to sleep a few minutes. Will knew Roland stayed from Christiana's sight so as not to distress her. Not that she seemed particularly distressed. She barely appeared to notice Roland at all now.

Christiana nibbled on a piece of sweet bread, slender fingers pulling off bites of it and popping them into her mouth. Adhemar had brought her the bread, slipping the cloth wrapped piece onto her lap in an almost furtive movement that gave Will a twinge of amusement. Did the man really care if Will saw that gentle squeeze of Christiana's hand, or even witnessed the kiss to her temple that could easily be mistaken for a close conversation had Will not seen that press of lips to flesh?

Adhemar did not want Will to realize he cared for Christiana in some way. Will found that comforting. Christiana would be safe. The picture that was forming of those two was complicated and contradictory and even normal. Odd to consider Adhemar normal in any way. Will had become so used to thinking of him as extreme, that to consider Adhemar as ordinary was shocking. He was an ordinary man though, one with the usual desires of men and Will revised his opinion of Adhemar in slow degrees.

He still hated him, despised what he was as a whole. And yet.... And yet he saw a bit of himself in him. And a bit of Roland, Wat and Edward and every other man he knew. Adhemar, once human and unknown, then a craven monster, had made the switch back to fully human in Will's mind.

It was about time, too, Will decided. He couldn't spend eternity making Adhemar into a monster.

"He's beautiful," Christiana said suddenly, and he glanced up to see her watching him, longing in her eyes.

"He?" That look indicated a wanting of something more in her life. A child, he realized as she answered his question and then fully admitted her desire for a baby.

"Christopher. Your son." She swallowed hard and gave a little shrug and a toss of her head. "He's beautiful. I long for a child of my own now."

As he watched, her glance strayed to where her husband was negotiating with a merchant also stopped in that area. Adhemar was haggling the price of something. What it was, Will couldn't quite make out. Occasionally, Adhemar would hold up the object and scrutinize it, then argue the price a bit more. They'd been at it for long minutes. Will studied Christiana, let his gaze slide over her in relative safety. Adhemar was busy and wouldn't notice the scrutiny.

She was adult now, the manner of a girl behind her. She had put away childish things and stepped into adulthood. Will blinked. Christiana had changed so much since he'd last seen her, and all in her behavior. Always calm, she was more so. However, he'd glimpsed a spirit in her, a liveliness that had gone unnoticed before. Had it always been there, or had he been too distracted with Jocelyn to notice? Both, maybe?

The girl had become a woman in thought as well as body and she'd married the last man Will had expected her to be linked with. Adhemar. Again, it occurred to him that Adhemar seemed to treasure Christiana even if he tried to hide his affection from others. She, in turn, was everything a wife should be. Well, in public. Will didn't want know their private life.

No, he tilted his head to one side. That was a lie. He did want to know. He had a burning desire to know how long Christiana had had such a close relationship with his nemesis. Was their closeness months coming, or a shorter time? "How long," Will began, then shook his head. "Never mind." Asking would cross the boundaries of friendship. By asking, he'd be far too forward with her.

"What? How long what?"

Will sighed and threw all caution aside, forging on with his question, whether it was a wise decision or not. "How long have you been...friendly with Adhemar?"

She stared at him. There was understanding of his question in her eyes and Will could see the very second displayed there when she decided to pretend she'd not understood him. Gradually, a smile slipped across her face and she laughed softly. "I had to learn to deal with him out of necessity. Jocelyn yielded nothing to him even after the point where she should have let the past go. She sent me and I," she paused, wrapping the last of her bread up in the cloth and setting it aside. "I learned to interact peacefully with him. I had to and when the day came that it was he and I alone without her, we still were peaceful." Her smile disappeared. "We became friends, I guess. An odd friendship for our shared and frustrating dealings with Jocelyn."

Will glanced away and back again, noticing Adhemar beginning to finish his business, counting coin into the merchant's hand. "You know what I'm asking."

Her head dipped. "Yes, and it's none of your business. You know I'd have done nothing to hurt Jocelyn or get in the way of her relationships. I helped her as much as I was able. My relationship with Damien was completely proper, Will. Circumstances of his doing brought me back into my station and I am his wife. That's all you need to know."

His cheeks burned. An apology slipped from him. "I apologize. I oughtn't of brought it up."

Christiana's posture relaxed, her shoulders slumping. "I'd have wanted to know the same," she admitted, a crooked tug to her lips. "Anyway, we were talking of Christopher. I hadn't wanted children of my own until I held him, cared for him. There are risks in giving birth, but I'd chance them gladly, as women have been doing since Eve."

The change of subject was welcome. "What's he like?"

"He's like any other baby. He cries, he giggles, he demands attention. He's curious and he reminds me of you though he's so small. He looks like Jocelyn. Christopher is sweet and endearing and I could go on day and night both. You'll meet him yourself, Will. You'll meet him when you find Kate, Wat and Anne."

Longing suddenly gripped him, filled up his chest and Will felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to hold this child she spoke of, but was very afraid that he'd never have the chance. Italy was a long way off and the road would not be easy.

Adhemar came to them and knelt before Christiana. His voice was cheerful. "I have bought you something."

Delight lit up her face. "What?"

Her anticipation of some trinket made Will think of Kate, his chest tightening. He'd always enjoyed giving Kate little presents. A ribbon for her hair. A bouquet of flowers. She'd always thanked him so sweetly....

"This is only a part of it," Adhemar remarked, setting what he had in his hand onto her lap. It was a small ink container. By her reaction, Will would have thought he'd given her precious gems instead of plain ink.

"There's more?" Her voice was breathless, happiness upon her face.

"You'll see the rest when we get to Anjou." He leaned close to her and Will stayed very still, straining to overhear the rest. "I promise."

"You tease me."

Adhemar's reply was too low to hear and Will took the opportunity to get up and find Roland. His friend wasn't asleep, but rather staring silently at the sky from his perch on the wagon.

"Well," Roland asked flatly. "Are we going?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Will nodded. "Yes."

It didn't take them long to prepare to leave Adhemar's group and, without saying any goodbyes, Will and Roland took their leave. Will refused to say goodbye. Someday, they'd see Christiana and even Adhemar again. He was certain of it. At the fork in the road, they paused...and continued along the route that would bear them to London.

~~~~~~~~~~

The battle was done. The streets of Limoges were filled with the dead, stinking bodies left to rot in the sun. The rancid scent of blood was overpowering. The count was at two thousand and still there were more corpses to be added to that number.

Prince Edward walked the street, insulated from the wailing of civilian survivors by the numbness that always overtook him during the latter part of his rage-state. He heard the cries, but didn't fully comprehend them yet. By the dawn of a new day, he knew the weight of his actions would hang heavy upon him, but right now, all he could do was look impassively at what his temper had accomplished.

Casualties weren't supposed to be numbered this many, and civilians even. These men and women and children had fought with whatever they'd had in their homes. So many dead. It was soldiers that were supposed to die in a war, not the people those soldiers were protecting.

Edward could only vaguely remember giving the order to sack the city, giving his men license to pillage and plunder, rape, kill and maim -- the very things he'd once disbanded Count Adhemar's Free Companies for. He turned his face up towards the heavens, taking note of the clouds that gathered above them, dark clouds that were a portend of rain to come soon.

"Marin," he called out. Months before, he'd told William Thatcher that they were both trying to hide who they were and unable to do so. He could no longer hide his nature, that was becoming clear. The violence inside him was breaking free and he couldn't control it without help. He had to ask for the help he needed. Too long he'd struggled on his own. A spasm of fear gripped him.

What have I done?

In his mind's eye, he saw himself attacking Kate, betraying the trust Will had in him. He saw himself slaughtering the people here long after the point he should have stopped. He saw.... He saw himself, a man tormented and no longer what he once was. Edward wanted dignity in the end. He wanted to be the sort of man who left willingly, who went searching for the help he needed. There were two ways before him now. He could take a coward's way or the honorable way and Prince Edward only knew one course of action. There was no shame in conceding that he couldn't deal with this alone.

"My lord," Marin asked, stepping beside him and having obvious difficulty keeping his features from showing his disgust at the smell of the city.

Edward turned to face him. "Send for my brother. Then send a letter to my wife. I need to go home. I need to return to England."

Marin nodded and left.

Edward took a deep breath, let himself smell the blood and the death, then retreated from the city and to his tent, where he sat for a long while alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Will and Roland's journey was coming to an end. Adhemar had suggested that Will do his duty and Will had come to realize that this was the right path after all.

London was only a few miles down the road.

Beside him, Roland heaved an exhausted sigh, one he fully sympathized with. They still had much to do before going after Kate and Wat and he hoped that those two would understand why Will had to do this. He couldn't let Edward wallow in illness without taking whatever action he could. He had that letter to Duke John and would try and see him as soon as he could. They'd cross the river, seek out lodgings for the night and try in the morning.

"Halt."

The voice was loud and Will looked around, stopping his mount and calling for Roland to stop as well. They remained where they were, attempting to see the owner of that imperious voice. "Who demands we halt on our travel," he called out. "Name yourself."

"I call you to halt in the name of John, Duke of Lancaster, brother of Prince Edward."

Will dismounted, finally locating the speaker standing a ways up by the side of the road, half hidden in a grouping of trees and bushes. "We've business with the Duke. Kindly lead us to his camp."

It took long minutes of calling back and forth before they were allowed to go forward. Just down the road, on the banks of the river, a number of men were gathered, readying to continue onward. The ferry was being used only for them, travelers pressed to wait in a clearing until all the men had crossed. Will was given an audience with the Duke and once his reasons for coming to London were reported, he was asked to join the party in retrieving Prince Edward and his family. Reports of Edward's behavior had reached London, both his father and John alarmed. The decision to bring Edward back to England had been made and John was going on that task.

Will found himself riding with the man, answering his questions and giving counsel on how to deal with the volatile Edward. He had little time to even think of Kate, Wat and the baby.

~~~~~~~~~~

There was no one time of day that Kate missed Will the most. Thoughts of him were a constant in her mind and she felt her heart would burst completely from the wanting of his arms around her. At times the ache was so intense that all she could do was cry. Unfortunately, her longings weren't improved by the budding romance she saw blossoming between Wat and Anne. A glance at them caused pain anew.

To be fair, they tried to keep from being obvious. Tried. How could Kate miss their whispers in the dark, or their flirting as they rode? Or what of that assumption of the monks they'd made traveling arrangements with? The good monks had decided that Wat and Anne were married and that Kate was a new widow with a baby. She mourned, the monks maintained, so she had to be a widow weathering the loss of a beloved spouse.

I may as well be, she thought, turning her head on the bundle she was using as a pillow.

Anne and Wat were by the fire, sitting side by side on a log, with Christopher snuggled in Anne's arms. As Kate watched, Wat slid his hand along Anne's back in a slow, gentle caress.

Kate closed her eyes and tried not to cry.

~~~~~~~~~~

The household was packed and waiting. Edward strode along corridors that were strangely still and bare to his mind. There was a pall over the house and he could not find Joan. He'd been all over and every person gave him a different destination, no two seeming to know where she was with a certainty.

He found her in the garden, sitting in the cool evening air and looking at the dead flowers. She looked up as he approached, no welcoming smile upon her lips this time. Her hand raised, beckoned him to join her on the bench. Edward went and struggled to find the words to confess his deeds to his lady. He had no idea how to begin, for just looking at her sweet face caused guilt to rise inside him.

Joan turned her head, a reddish blond curl slipping from its place to brush at her temple. She motioned to the garden and sighed. "It all ends, doesn't it, Edward? When the seasons turn, everything changes. The old dies out, goes away and cold descends." Her voice was soft and sad.

"That it does."

Now she smiled, hand patting his thigh. "But then something new grows up and matures out of that cold. It's like that with man. In the darkest times of our lives, there can be such hope that begins." Her expression was frank. "Your illness is more than it first looked, isn't it?"

Edward nodded, emotion clogging his throat so that he had to cough to clear it. "Joan... I've hurt people --" She looked away and he turned on the bench, hands raising to make her look back at him. "Please listen to me. I have to tell you. I have to confess it all."

"No, you don't," she replied, shaking her head. "Whatever you've done, I will forgive you. I'll forgive because you're my husband, the man I love over all else. You're sorry for whatever it was, I can see that on your face. We're leaving, Edward. We go home and start again."

He could leave it there, leave it all unsaid and be forgiven like that. It was cowardly though and he couldn't retreat now. She didn't want to speak of it, but he had to. He couldn't not tell her. "I lied to a good man. I framed another for a crime that was mine and I hurt a woman out of a lustful heart. I had civilians killed who were doing nothing more than defending themselves after the army protecting them was defeated. I have become a loathsome man."

Her hands threaded in his hair and she gently drew his head to her breast. Edward wrapped his arms about her and breathed in that sweet fragrance she adored to wear. He closed his eyes and let the tears come as his wife held him tight to her in a comforting embrace.

His confession might have ended there, if a large group of men bearing both his brother and William Thatcher in their midst had not arrived as they were making final plans for the trip. When Sir Thatcher requested a private audience with him, he couldn't refuse.

"I know what you did," were the first words he heard. There was a weariness, a heaviness, on Will's face that dropped Edward's already low mood another few inches.

He was responsible for it. That pounded home to him, as hard as the striking blow of an opponent's lance. He'd been less than honorable to this man who'd been so honorable to him. Kate was safe, Will had explained, and he'd escort Edward home to London and then be quit of England. He had another destination in mind, one that didn't include English royalty, and he was looking forward to making a life with Kate. His travels had been long, but he'd undertaken them willingly with the thought of helping his Prince.

Edward could not fault Will's conduct. He couldn't say Will had behaved wrongly, because he hadn't. Will had behaved in the manner Edward had expected from him: honorable. That was Will, the very sum of the man. He had more honor than any Edward had ever known and he had to try hard not to weep before him.

"I can only beg your forgiveness, Will. I won't give excuses, for I have none."

Will's eyes were hard, but not so much so that his hurt didn't show. "You encouraged me. You gave me hope in my darkest hour and I can't not do the same. When I was in the stocks, you set me free, and now, it's my turn. I'll help you home and then I'll go."

"Agreed. I won't impede your travels and to show you my intention is true, I'll have Marin draw up a document releasing you from any obligation in my army. My last act as leader of this army."

"Thank you."

He lowered his gaze. "Tell Kate.... Tell her I'm sorry." Edward meant his words. He was sorry. One hand pressed against the pouch tied to his belt. The scrap of cloth from Kate's dress weighed heavily there, a trick of his mind he was certain, but he couldn't find it inside him to admit to keeping that scrap. He couldn't let loose of that last shameful thing. He couldn't watch Will lose the last shred of respect for him.

Where was the harm, his mind argued, in keeping a reminder of what should not have occurred? Where was the harm?

One look at Will's face told him there was harm aplenty and still he could not admit to that scrap of fragile cloth.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a strange sight to see Princess Joan sitting among the dead plants in the garden, her body slumped and face buried in her hands. She was crying, her sobs soft and low and Roland stood silently to the entrance of that private area, wondering how to leave without letting her know he'd chanced upon her emotional pain. A step in any direction would make a noise and he was surprised she'd not heard him approach.

He vaguely remembered seeing her up close in London, when she'd joined Edward to watch Will's match with Adhemar. The only reason he'd gotten close enough to see her clearly was of Christiana. He'd gone to Christiana, hugged her and found the Princess watching them with a gentle smile. Roland doubted Princess Joan would remember him or recognize him as that man she'd glimpsed.

She raised her head and it was too late to move away.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I didn't mean to intrude --"

Joan stood, wiping her eyes quickly. "No harm done. We all give in to our grief at one time or another. I'd ask that you not banter my lapse about please."

"I'd not think of it." And he wouldn't. This woman was entitled to any moments of grief she indulged herself in.

She crossed the path to him, noticing the crest sewed onto his jacket with raised brows. "You're with Sir Thatcher." It wasn't a question.

"I am, my lady."

"I see." She crossed her arms over her chest and took a few steps along the path back into the garden. "Walk with me."

Roland glanced about, searching for the presence of others. He was hesitant to be seen alone with her. No sense in adding to their troubles, was there? With no one present, he could be accused of improper conduct with the Princess.

Joan waved a hand to her left. "My ladies are present, scattered behind the walls. I have only an illusion of privacy, not the real thing. Ladies, show yourselves a moment."

From various places, he saw several women peer at them, and Roland's shoulders relaxed. She had adeptly interpreted his reluctance.

"I wish to ask you about my husband. He's written often of Sir Thatcher's integrity and I assume Sir Thatcher keeps men of similar character at his side?"

She wanted to know of Edward? What could he possibly tell her that hadn't been told already? Roland's mind whirled in an attempt to make sense of this beginning to her inquiries. "Yes, my...lord keeps good men with him."

Joan's smile was quick, the evidence of her tears fading from her cheeks, though her eyes still looked red and swollen. "I'm aware that you and the red haired man are his friends, not servants. The three of you work well together I've been told. And so, I come to my reason for this walk. I wish you to answer me honestly on things I've heard since Edward has come home from war. You will be honest...." She glanced at him. "How should I call you?"

"Roland, my lady. I'll be honest with you." As they walked, her ladies began to gather behind them until Roland thought they looked like a trail of ants weaving about the garden.

"Swear it. Swear it on your life."

Her gaze was hard and cool and Roland saw a strength within her that reminded him of Kate's iron will. "I swear," he said simply.

"Questions have come to my mind, Roland, and I don't trust my husband's men to give me straight answers. Their loyalty is only to him. So many of them are dependant upon his good will that they won't tell me what I need for fear of angering him. Your Sir Will has already defied him and I'm fully aware of those plans to leave England for good. You, I feel, will be straight with me. Yes?"

He gave a single nod, wondering if she was ever going to get on with her questions.

"When exactly did he first begin changing? I cannot pinpoint it on my own well enough to my liking."

"There was a battle sometime before the tournament season when he was injured, a head wound."

"I knew of the wound. They thought he was dying for a long while."

"Well, it was after that he began to exhibit changes in behavior. This comes from what others have said. I wasn't there at the time."

"I never noticed anything different about him, although," she paused in her steps, frowning. Her hands twisted in the fabric of her skirts. "I did think him horribly preoccupied in London. It was as though he was trying too hard to be himself. Exuberant behavior when Sir Thatcher won, his ongoing mood at the banquet that night. He was himself and yet he was not, but I didn't see enough of him to notice a full difference. He kept himself closeted with his advisors working on that war."

He waited for what would come next.

"He told me..." She trailed off, paused and began again. "He told me that he hurt a woman, so I assume that means he forced her to his bed. This woman he hurt, who was she? Do I know her?"

Roland ducked his head, closing his eyes briefly. "My lady --"

"You swore. Answer me." When he remained silent, her hand lashed out, gripping his arm, nails digging in, a pain even through the cloth of his shirt and coat. "Tell me."

"You met her, though I don't know if you'd remember her."

"What was her name? Her station?"

The need to know was there in her eyes. Did he tell her, or try to distract her? Roland chose distraction. "He didn't succeed in hurting her in the manner he wanted at the time. She was rescued. Does it matter what her name is, or even if she's noble or no? It's done and he's confessed it to you. He's come home to you. Do you need the details, my lady?"

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she blinked fast. "Why, Roland? Why did my husband do it?" She released him, glanced back at her ladies, who all pretended to be looking elsewhere.

"He's sick, my lady. There is an illness inside him."

"Where did the man I love go?"

Roland shrugged. "Nowhere. He's still there, my lady."

Returning her regard to him, she perused his face for a long moment, then nodded. "I know and that makes this so much more difficult to grasp. Thank you, Roland. Greetings to Sir Thatcher from me."

He watched her walk away, uncertain really what had just occurred. Had he said what she needed to hear, given comfort in some way or given her more to consider? Turning, he left the garden.