Casting Samson (3 page)

She turned her attention to the final figure at the table, the one who had spoken to her. He was quietly listening to the others, his dark eyes set beneath black brows that were drawn together now as his intense gaze flicked from one to another of his companions. Olive-skinned and with a small gold earring peeping out from beneath a mass of gleaming dark curls, Deborah was reminded of a gypsy. Even his clothes reinforced the impression: a white shirt, sleeves rolled back, and a waistcoat of soft black leather—Deborah found herself wondering if he had a red-spotted neckerchief tucked away somewhere. It would certainly complete the theatrical effect. She became aware that he was watching her and she blushed, realising she had been staring. Hurriedly she finished wiping the table and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Gammon?” When she put the plates on the table, she screwed up her courage to ask if they were appearing at the country club.

“That’s it, love. Tomorrow night. We had just a day between bookings, not worth splitting and going home, so we thought we’d come along early, have a look at the place, know what I mean? You coming to see us?” The snub-nosed one grinned at her, before she was dazzled by a smile from the Adonis. She had been right; his eyes were a deep blue.

“That’s it, Spike, build up our audience.” He winked at his friend before turning his blinding smile back upon her. “
Will
you be coming?”

“Um—no, probably not. I’m working. Are—are you staying locally?”

The one named Spike nodded. “Yeah. We’re booked into the Dog and Sardine. Is it any good?”

“What? Oh—yes. Very comfortable.”

“And is it far from here?”

“No-o, about half a mile. Over the bridge and through the High Street. It’s on the green.”

Spike was still grinning at her. “Tell you what, love, why don’t you come and turn the beds down for us?”

They all laughed except the gypsy. Deborah smiled back and shook her head. She was not offended and wished she could think of a quick retort. At such times she hated her reserved nature, the shyness that made her tongue-tied in front of strangers.

“We are what God made us,” her father would say. “We can’t all be the life and soul of the party.”

But how she wished that just sometimes she could be—perhaps if she had been more outgoing, Bernard would have been more faithful to her. Shaking off this lowering thought, Deborah went off to set the tables for the evening while the group settled down to their meal.

She was clearing their dessert dishes when idea came to her. It seemed a joke at first, but then, as she picked up the last dish from the table, a quiet voice inside her said
why not?

“I hope you enjoyed your meal. Can I get you anything else, dessert?”

Adonis looked around at his companions and shook his head. “No, thanks. Just four coffees, love, please.”

She stood her ground.
Come on, girl, what have you got to lose? They can only say no.

“I—um, that is—it’s a pity you’re not staying.” She hoped her voice sounded casual, but to her ears the words came out in a squeak.

The thin-faced blond was texting something on his phone but he looked up, flicking back the curtain of hair from his eyes. “Oh?”

“We—we’re having an audition in the village and—um—you’re just the type we’re looking for.” She dashed over to the notice board by the door and tore off the poster she had printed for the committee.

“It’s for our local pageant,” she said, putting the poster on the table. “It’s going to be the biggest event the village has ever held—biggest in the county this year.” Four pairs of eyes looked at her and Deborah’s courage deserted her. “I’ll get the coffee.”

She hurried into the kitchen and shut the door.

“Yes!” She punched the air.

“Well, lass, what are you up to?”

She grinned at her father and turned to peer through the small glass window in the door.

“I’ve given them the poster—you know, the Samson auditions.”

Mr. Kemerton laughed.

“Good for you, lass. But do you really think they’ll be interested in a little local carnival?”

“No, I suppose not, but it was worth a try. The rest of the committee would never forgive me if they found out I’d had a group of male strippers in here and not even mentioned it to them.”

“Is that what they are? That group that’s at the Westhaven tomorrow, is it?” He looked over her shoulder. “Hmm, can’t say I fancy any of ’em myself, but I don’t doubt it’ll give the women a bit of a laugh. Do you want to go?”

“Me?” She was surprised. “No, of course not. That’s not my scene at all. Besides, you need me here.”

She served the coffee, noting that the poster still lay in the centre of the table. She didn’t mention it, neither did she make any attempt to move it. Later, coming back into the restaurant, Deborah saw that the group had gone, leaving their payment in cash and a generous tip along with a coffee stain on the audition poster.

Moreton Manor, AD 1173

In the great hall of Moreton Manor the two men faced each other across the wide stone fireplace. Sunlight flooding in from the large windows illuminated the expensive tapestries and glinted on the sweet-smelling rushes that covered the floor, but neither man noticed these luxuries. It was Lord Andrew who broke the tense silence.

“So, you are determined on it.” He stared at his brother, so different from himself. Where my lord was solidly built, Hugo was tall and slim, straight as a reed. There was strength in the young body, hidden now beneath a soft woollen tunic and hose, but he lacked Lord Andrew’s powerful frame that stretched his leather jerkin across his massive chest. Only the hair was the same, a thick thatch the colour of ripe corn. My lord wore his hair cut short at the back in the Norman manner, and his stern gaze caused his serfs and villeins to quail, while his younger brother allowed his fair locks to grow long, brushed back from the clear, open countenance and blue eyes that smiled out upon the world. Yet Lord Andrew had noticed of late that those gentle blue eyes no longer smiled, the ready wit had been replaced with a more sombre, pre-occupied manner. “Well?”

“Aye. I leave at dawn.”

Lord Andrew shook his great head and savagely kicked one of the logs back on to the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the room. “I would have you tell me why you are embarking on such madness.”

“The Lord’s work is never madness, brother.”

Andrew crossed himself. “No, God forgive me. Yet to take Holy Orders! Your wish to go on a crusade I can understand, but to become a
monk—
”

“A Templar.”

“A monk!” Andrew repeated. “Hugo, why must you do this?”

His brother shrugged. He said lightly, “To gain remission for my sins.”

“God’s teeth, I don’t understand you!” Andrew threw himself across the room, muttering under his breath.

Hugo waited patiently for his brother’s sudden anger to abate. His eyes shifted to the tapestries, four great hangings that covered the walls, extolling the virtues of knightly behaviour. One was a hunting scene, another showed the knight in battle, a third depicted the pious soldier at his devotions. The final tapestry showed the victorious knight winning his lady. Hugo turned his eyes away from this last picture.

“Well then, if you must go, so be it.” Andrew went back to his brother, holding out his hands. “God go with you, lad, and grant you will return. You are still my heir, you know. Moreton and all its lands will pass to you.” He enveloped the young man in a tight hug and did not see the shadow that passed across the young man’s fair countenance.

“You and Maude will have children yet.”

“If God wills it. But come. The sun shines for us—there’s light enough yet, let us go hawking until dinner—”

Hugo broke away, shaking his head. “No. I need to check my horses, but be assured I shall be here to eat one last meal with you.”

After visiting the stables, Hugo went into the undercroft, the vaulted stores built beneath the main house, to check that his saddle and harness were ready for the morning. The sun had not yet gone down but the undercroft was dark and cold. A rush lamp provided sufficient light to see that the leather had been cleaned and the buckles burnished until they glowed softly in the flickering light.

A sudden noise from the doorway made him turn. A young woman stood in the opening, her form a black shadow against the evening light, but he did not need to see her features. Every contour of that dear face was etched on his heart.

“Maude! You should not be here.”

“I have come to wish you Godspeed. There will be no chance of private speech later.” Her voice was soft and musical. She moved forward into the glow of the rushlight.

His eyes dwelled on her, feasting on every detail of her delicate face, storing it in his memory. The hazel eyes regarded him steadily. Her mouth, with its short upper lip that he so longed to kiss, drooped slightly. He could see her hair beneath the simple cloth veil that covered her head. It flowed over her shoulders to rest on the soft swell of her breast. When they met again in the hall at dinner, he knew those dark curls would be braided and pinned up, hidden beneath a jewelled headdress as befitted my lady of Moreton.

She spoke again. “My lord does not want you to go, and no more do I.”

Unable to bear the sadness in her face, Hugo turned away, feeding the soft leather of the harness between his fingers to conceal the fact that his hands were shaking.

“I have to go.”

“Because of me.” The words were scarcely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

He felt the touch of her hand upon his sleeve and froze, lest he give in to the desire to turn and take her in his arms.

“Oh, Hugo—”

“No more!” He wrenched his arm from her fingers and stepped aside, only turning to face her once the saddle was between them. A safe, tangible barrier. “Pray, madam. No more. Wish me Godspeed, but do not burden me with your pity.” He saw the hurt darken her eyes. It tore at his heart, and he softened his tone. “You were our father’s ward. It was always known that you would marry one of us. Andrew was the firstborn.”

“He is a good man,” she said quietly, “and he treats me well.”

“If I thought otherwise—!” Hugo clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw working as he fought to control himself.

Maude watched him, curling a lock of hair about her fingers. When at last she spoke, her voice was not quite steady.

“Thus you are leaving us.”

“I cannot stay. To covet another man’s wife—nay, worse, my brother’s wife!—is a sin, yet while I am near you I cannot help myself. If I am not to dishonour us all, I
must
leave.”

“And will I—will we—never see you again?”

The quiet words cut to his very soul. He turned his gaze to the heart-shaped face and the hazel eyes lifted so trustingly to his.

“If it is God’s will.”

With a little nod she turned to go. At the door she clung to the frame. He could see her shoulders heaving. But she straightened, fighting her anguish. She said quietly, “Would—would it help you to know that I wish your father had given me to you, and not to Andrew?”

A wave of emotion rose up in him. Hugo was silent, unable to trust his voice. He looked away, blinking rapidly. They had never spoken of it, never questioned the right of the old lord to bestow his ward’s hand wherever he wished, but Hugo had always known his own heart, and had guessed at hers. Now he knew the truth, the bittersweet acknowledgement that they shared a love which could never be realised.

“Oh, Maude—” The words were wrenched from him but when he turned, she had gone.

They feasted that night on wild boar and juicy duckling, fish from the river and sweetmeats baked in the manor’s huge kitchens. Lord Andrew ordered the prettiest serving maids to present the wine to his young brother, but although Hugo smiled he would not be drawn by their inviting looks. Twisting in his seat, Andrew raised his brimming cup toward Hugo.

“Wesheil!”

Hugo returned the salute.
“Drincheil.”

Their eyes met as the ancient toast united them. Hugo read the sadness of parting in his brother’s eyes, but beyond that there was something more, a hint of understanding, even of relief.

As the long summer evening drew into night, the banquet continued, Lord Andrew becoming noisy then sentimental as he downed more wine. Hugo, by contrast, remained smiling but subdued at his side. Eventually Lord Andrew rose to his feet and called upon the assembly to salute his brother.

“He goes to uphold God’s cause in the Holy Land!” he cried, his arm about Hugo’s shoulders. “We pray God will protect him and return him to us.”

“Amen to that.”

Keeping his head lowered, Hugo was sure he heard Maude’s voice amongst the replies. Gently freeing himself from Andrew’s embrace, he raised his cup.

“And to you, dear brother, may God bless your household.” He looked towards the Lady Maude. “May He protect your dear lady, and give her strength for her duties.” For a fleeting second she met his eyes. Understanding flashed between them.

Soon after the toasts the ladies retired for the evening, and without their restraining influence the atmosphere in the great hall became ever more raucous. Lewd songs and obscene jests filled the room. Hugo sat and smiled, speaking little. He was the guest of honour, and that honour obliged him to remain in the hall when his sore heart cried out for solitude.

Eventually the noise began to abate as men staggered off to their beds, while others fell asleep at the table amongst the half-eaten pies and syllabubs. The short night faded into another dawn. Hugo picked his way over the snoring guests and out of the hall. By the time the first rays of the sun were creeping over the walls of the manor house, Hugo had crossed the Fleetwater and was on his way.

Deborah was going to get drunk. She knew it even before she accompanied her parents to the Dog and Sardine that evening. It was three weeks since she’d left London and she’d had enough. She was tired of the loneliness and the pain of Bernard’s betrayal, the feeling of embarrassment that had overwhelmed her when she saw Bernard with the towel-wrapped blonde from the accounts department. Her very reaction to the situation annoyed her. Surely it was Bernard who should have been embarrassed, not her. She’d had enough of being shy, retiring little Deborah Kemerton who was scared of her own shadow. When her father asked her what she wanted to drink, she did not hesitate.

“Speckled Trout, please. A pint.”

Stan Kemerton raised his brows but didn’t protest. Deborah took a long draught of the strong, dark brew. It was a long time since she’d enjoyed the local ale—since she’d met Bernard, in fact. He didn’t approve of a woman drinking pints.

She was starting on her second pint when the pub’s landlord, Graham Tring, switched on the sound system and announced the drawing of the raffle.

Alan Thorpe stepped up to the microphone. “First prize, dinner for two at the Towers…”

Stan Kemerton grinned at his daughter. “Trust him to put that first, since he owns the hotel.”

“…goes to Mr. and Mrs. Mayflower!”

There were cheers and applause as the postmistress and her husband pushed through the crowd to collect their winning voucher.

The second prize of a two-hour beauty treatment or tanning session at Yvonne’s Unisex Salon was claimed by a thin, spotty youth from the next village. Yvonne Willetts’s relief was evident when he told her he’d be giving the prize to his mother for her birthday.

Alan rattled on. His no-nonsense approach rapidly disposed of the prizes. He was no showman and did not prolong the ceremony with jokes and anecdotes. He was announcing the winner of the Scouts’ free car-wash when Stan Kemerton turned to Deborah.

“We’re going back to the Yew Tree,” he murmured. “I promised Susie I’d be back by nine, and besides, your mother’s getting tired.”

Molly Kemerton smiled but didn’t contradict him. “You coming with us, Debs?”

Deborah looked round the crowded room. She shook her head. “I think I’ll stay a bit longer. Don’t worry about me, I know practically everyone here, and besides,” she added recklessly, “I think I might have another pint.”

“Well then, you’d better look after these.” Stan pushed a wad of raffle tickets into her hand. “I’ll be having words with Alan Thorpe if I don’t win something, with all this lot!”

Deborah bought herself another pint of Speckled Trout and made her way back to her seat. She was beginning to feel a little light-headed but it didn’t worry her. After all, it was only a short walk back to the Yew Tree, and if the beer made her forget the aching emptiness for a while, she would not complain.

She watched as the remaining prizes were given out. She didn’t think her dad would be too unhappy not to win the basket of fruit or set of coasters, and the lime-green embroidered cushion would definitely clash with the décor at the restaurant. Despite Alan’s rather business-like approach, everyone seemed to be enjoying the proceedings, clapping and cheering the winners and keeping the barmaid busy with their orders.

“Well, that about wraps it up. Our thanks to all of you for being so generous, and we hope that you’ll all turn out to support us during our weekend of celebrations for the seven hundredth anniversary of St. John’s.”

Alan trailed off as Graham Tring stepped up beside him. After a brief whispered conversation the landlord took the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” His hearty voice boomed out across the room. “We have one more prize to announce. This is a little late, I know, but it was a last-minute donation.” A cheer went up from the audience.

“Now this is a special one-off prize and it will have to be taken this evening, so we’ll have to keep drawing tickets until we find a winner—and I think it will have to be a lady—and one who’s present here tonight!” Graham Tring grinned and put up his hand as the muttering grew louder around the room; he enjoyed playing with his audience. “As all you ladies will know, there’s a very special act appearing at the Westhaven tomorrow night, the spectacular Four Front! And I am pleased to announce that the Dog and Sardine has been playing host to the group members—if you’ll excuse the expression.” Deborah cringed, but a rowdy cheer greeted the joke. “Ladies and gentlemen, Four Front are sitting right here in this very room…Give them a big round of applause!”

The audience complied, many straining to see the group of young men sitting in one corner of the lounge bar, trying to look inconspicuous.

“Well, the group has decided to contribute a very special prize for our raffle.”

Behind the bar, Graham’s daughter Kylie hunched one bare shoulder. “Huh, I hope it’s not tickets for their show. I’ve already bought mine.”

“So, ladies and gentlemen, the very last prize to be drawn this evening is…a date with Four Front, or at least one of them!”

A good-natured cheer rang out, and the men began joking that they would sell their tickets to the highest bidder. A momentary break in the crowd gave Deborah a clear view of the four young men setting in the corner, the same group that had lunched at the Yew Tree that afternoon. She smiled to herself. Poor lads, they looked almost embarrassed at all this attention.

“Right then, Alan, if you’d like to draw again…thank you.” Graham Tring took the last ticket and held it up, prolonging the suspense. “Let’s see, is there a name on the back? Yes. Kemerton. Stan and Molly, have they gone? Well, then, young Deborah, it looks like you are the lucky winner!”