Girl In A Red Tunic

Chapter 14

She does not have to wait very long to find out what she thinks of Sir Benedict’s son.

It is one of those uniquely English spring days when April feels like midsummer. Helewise has told her mother that she is going out to collect young nettles for Elena’s hair tonic; she has told Elena that she is expected to exercise her mother’s palfrey. Neither her nurse nor her mother has in fact asked Helewise to do anything but, since she cannot seem to sit still and very much needs some time on her own, she has inferred to each of the two women who order her days that the other has sent her out on an errand. To ease her conscience, she rides out on her mother’s fine-boned bay mare and gets her hands and wrists stung picking a basket of nettles for Elena.

She rides to her favourite spot: a small pebbled beach in the bend of a shallow stream that comes down off a low hill to disappear into woodland. The stream just here runs between a shoulder-high bank on one side and an ancient willow on the other and, once she is under the high bank with the palfrey tethered beneath the willow, Helewise believes herself to be hidden away in her own private place.

For some time she sits on the sun-warmed stones of the little beach, occasionally picking up a stone and flipping it across the water. The stream runs too swiftly to make the stones bounce more than once or twice, but then she spots a place under the bank where the water is deep, dark and apparently motionless. She does better here and makes a stone bounce three times.

She feels … she tries to analyse it. Stirred up, is the best she can come up with. Were she to have asked practical, down-to-earth Elena, the nurse would have said, ‘You’ve turned into a woman, my girl, and your blood’s up! It’s spring and you’re as lusty as every other fertile creature on God’s good earth!’ But, even without Elena’s wise words, Helewise has a fair idea of what is the matter with her. She knows about what men and women do together and, even though she is a virgin, she feels a powerful, mysterious hunger inside her that she does not quite know how she is to assuage.

She picks up another stone. Skims it. It gives one feeble bounce and she mutters a word that she heard the stable boy use.

And from up above her, on the top of the bank, somebody laughs and a male voice says, ‘Very ladylike!’

She turns, horrified but, at the same time, strangely excited. And sees a man on a big horse, silhouetted against the bright spring sky and clearly large and broad in the shoulder. For an instant an image of Benedict Warin flashes into her mind — she has just been thinking about him — then the horseman disappears. But only for as long as it takes him to dismount, tether his horse somewhere out of sight and then return to the bank; he jumps down and stands before her on the little beach.

She has leapt to her feet and is staring at him; she is tall but he is taller, and she has to look up. Again she thinks of Benedict, for this man resembles him a little although he is much better-looking; she thinks she knows who he is.

Her heart is beating faster.

He says, ‘You, I believe, are Helewise of Swansford. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

His eyes are dancing. They are not the same blue as his father’s; as the sun catches them, they appear sometimes green, sometimes grey-blue. ‘My father told me all about you,’ he goes on. ‘I had to come and see for myself.’

‘Oh.’

He laughs again. ‘Are you always this talkative?’

‘I do not know your name!’ she protests, as if the lack of a formal introduction were the reason for her dumbness.

‘Ivo,’ he says softly, his eyes on hers. ‘Ivo, son of Benedict Warin of the Old Manor.’

‘I see.’ Oh, how prim she sounds! With an effort she says, ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I’ve been looking for you these past three days,’ he says with disarming honesty. ‘You did not wander far from home yesterday or the day before, but today I was lucky. I watched you ride out and I followed you.’ Leaning down to whisper in her ear — a highly disconcerting sensation — he adds mysteriously, ‘I’ve been calling to you and finally you came.’

His exciting remark stirs her strangely, even though it is not strictly accurate. Many thoughts battle for her attention. This man is an accomplished seducer. He is probably a womaniser, as they say his father is. He’s been waiting for me for three days! He’s been calling to me and I came. And, most powerful of all, oh, he’s so handsome and when he stares at me like this I feel as if I were melting.

Her mouth suddenly dry, she says, ‘I have brought my mother’s palfrey out for some exercise.’ She points to the bay mare under the willow tree, calmly swishing away flies with her long tail. ‘My mother has not enough time in her day to give her horse sufficient attention.’

He nods sagely. ‘And you have taken a tumble in the nettles, I see.’ Her takes her hands in his, very gently, and slowly inspects the backs of them and her strong wrists, then turning them over to look at the palms.

She sees the line of nettle stings that looks like a pink bracelet. ‘I was gathering the young nettle tops for my nurse,’ she says with what she hopes is dignity. ‘Elena — that’s my nurse — makes a tonic for the hair.’

‘Does she, indeed.’ Now he has dropped one of her hands. With his free hand he carefully takes up a strand of her long hair, pulling it so that the curl straightens out and then letting go, allowing it to spring back. Then he takes out a small knife and, without so much as a raised eyebrow to ask her permission, cuts off the curl and stows it away inside his silver-grey tunic.

She is aware that her mouth has dropped open and hurriedly she closes it.

They stand staring at each other. She senses something in the air and wonders vaguely if a storm is approaching. Almost unthinkingly — she is a child of the country — she looks up quickly to see if clouds are gathering, being blown up against the wind. But the sky is clear, perfect blue and there is scarcely a breeze. She looks back at him; to her surprise, he too seems puzzled.

He holds her eyes a moment longer, then says, ‘I can skim stones better than you can.’

His cheerful, everyday remark breaks the tension. ‘Go on, then,’ she invites. He picks up a handful of stones and skims a couple of them expertly over the still waters under the far bank. Five, six. ‘Very good,’ she says, in the tone she uses when her little sister manages to do her needlework without pricking her finger and spotting the cloth with blood.

He is instantly aware of it and he turns to her, dropping the remaining stones. Very quietly he says, ‘Do not play with me, girl. I am not your puppy or your baby brother.’

The tension is back and now it crackles between them, all but visible. He has taken a step and now is very close. ‘How old are you?’

‘I shall be fifteen in three months’ time,’ she declares proudly. ‘My birthday is on the last day of July.’

‘I see.’ He frowns slightly. ‘I am twenty-seven and shall be twenty-eight on the first day of December.’

‘You do not look as old as that,’ she says, eager, she does not quite know why, to lessen this gap between them.

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.’

Ralf mutters a reply; it sounds like, ‘Aye, I know you will.’

Helewise and Ivo stroll off. She can feel the tension in him echoing her own. Now that the correct procedures have been performed and they are together with their fathers’ knowledge and consent, they do not need to be furtive but may stroll among the stalls and the entertainments quite openly. Many people watch them; some give them an indulgent glance. Husbands, wives and lovers recognise the look that the pair have. Older and wiser heads know full well what is going to happen before the day is out.

Ivo and Helewise eat their meal on the grass with their families. They watch the dancers circling the May Pole; they dance on the grass to the squeaky fluting and rhythmic tabor beat of the rustic band. Ivo squeezes her as they dance. He holds her hand every moment that he can.

In the end, hand-holding is not enough.

The long day draws to its close. Dusk is falling fast and torches are lit, their flaring, dancing light making swift-moving shadows as people continue with the celebrations. The cooking fire is stoked up and blasts heat and light out into the deep black of the night-time woods and fields. In the happy, disorganised crowds and the kindly darkness it is easy to slip away. Ivo and Helewise hurry to Helewise’s secret place and, in the springy grass beneath the willow tree, she sits down and he kneels before her, gazing in adoration.

‘Helewise,’ he murmurs. He touches the garland of flowers on her hair. ‘My Flora. My Queen of the May.’

Tenderly they remove each other’s clothes. Staring at his mature male body as she helps him strip off tunic, undershirt and hose, she is aware at the same time of his hands on her, pulling at the laces of her gown, dragging at her under-gown with an impatience that all but tears it from her. Then, in the cool and fragrant stillness of a May night, naked and un ashamed, at long, long last they make love.