* * *
D’ata’s heels pummeled the sides of the gelding, forcing the creature into a thunderous gallop. The quiet country road along the river was earthen and solid, and the hooves of the beast assaulted the clay, sending up furious divots as they galloped blindly on.
The wind whipped tears from D’ata’s eyes and his hair flew behind as he buried his face in the flying mane of the magnificent creature. It was as though he hoped to outrun the torturous and consuming thoughts that plagued his every thought, the vile uncertainty that was now his life.
The animal seemed to sense the disturbed frenzy of its rider and ran as though mad, carrying D’ata recklessly across the countryside. It would have been a striking image to behold, should anyone have seen them, a dangerous and beautiful sight.
Finally, horse and rider turned the bend that would bring them to the hidden meadow. The overlook granted a most spectacular view of the countryside, the river winding quicksilver through it. It was one of D’ata’s favorite places and the horse was also familiar with the stop. He pulled the animal to a skidding halt and leapt from its back.
The gelding was lathered from the long gallop and stood, head against his master, heaving immense lungfuls of air. It snorted froth from its nostrils, the pinks appearing and disappearing with each breath like a crimson butterfly flexing its wings. The animal was winded, and its flank quivered as it blew.
D’ata bent over, his hands on his knees, head hanging, and let the blood rush to his head, allowing rational thought to return.
He noticed the distressed and exhausted breathing of the horse and a pang of heavy guilt stabbed at him for having driven it so hard. He was familiar with the gelding for it was one of his favorites. Henri had taught D’ata from very young about the disposition of a horse, which was a very cautiously and deliberately nurtured relationship of trust. It was difficult to attain, but done properly with precise reinforcement and commitment, a horse would develop with its master a partnership of unfailing trust.
“Your horse, if you succeed in ultimately commanding his respect and trust,” D’ata could hear Henri’s words, “he will run for you until his heart bursts. None other of God’s creatures will do such a thing for you—not even a man.”
D’ata shook his head hard, ‘what had gotten into him? This was ridiculous! Enough of this madness!’ He was glad he’d taken the afternoon to escape and ride. It had brought sense and rationalization to him. Now things could become normal again.
He knew he must walk the animal down. Passing a gloved hand up and down the forehead of the beast, he ran his hands along the flanks of the animal, saw the welts from his careless spurs.
“I’m sorry my friend,” he murmured. He turned and started towards the grove of trees that lined the river, frustrated that he'd allowed his passion to overcome him and that he’d mistreated the horse to such an extent. Patting the animal on the neck, he said out loud, “A slow trip back and a good rubdown. I promise.”
He thought of her again, cautiously, and wondered if his anxiety was directed more at the possibility of not knowing her. It was ridiculous! He didn’t even know her name. Perhaps his fear was more at the thought of being trapped eternally within the confines of the church, a prospect that until now had seemed totally acceptable. Today, this thought only gave him a strong discomfort in the pit in his stomach.
A path wound down to a sandy little beach, a favorite spot of his, where a fallen tree had offered him a wonderful resting place in the past. The river slowed here and arced, creating a large and deep eddy. It murmured like a sleeping giant, hiding its dangerous currents. The sand was brilliant, soft, and warm if you were barefoot. It stretched out straight away from the tree line.
Enormous black walnut trees reclusively lined the tiny bay. It was calm and quiet, a sheltered haven, and utterly private. It was good to be here, and he suspected it would give him great opportunity to sort things out.
He relaxed ever so slightly as he strode purposefully down the path, the animal hugging his heels. Everything would be all right, he told himself. He would figure out this trouble and things would be as they were. It was the sensible thing to do, and a very safe course to take.
Breathing out a deep sigh of consolation, he stepped suddenly from the trees into the openness of the beach, his boots sinking into the fine, velvety sand. He blinked from the bright glare of the sun.
Once, as a child, D’ata had sat upon the second story ledge of an unfinished church in Marseille, peering down at the gentle grassy slope twenty feet below, feeling the thrill of danger at such an incredible height.
He'd crouched there, his toes close to the edge of the eave while his best friend, Belone, squatted slightly behind and near to him. Belone, in a moment of not so rare stupidity, chose to startle his friend from behind, not pushing him really, but grasping him suddenly, as to make him think he might fall from the dangerous height.
What Belone did not anticipate was D’ata’s reaction, that he would startle reflexively and leap, accidentally throwing himself from the already precarious perch he held.
Down, down, down D’ata fell. He was stunned at how almost instantly he struck the soft hillside, flat on his back. The slope of the hill broke his fall and except for a few bruises, he was remarkably unscathed.
There could not have been a greater surprise the very moment that D’ata hurtled from the rooftop, striking the gently sloping hillside, than the shock that confronted him as he stepped onto the beach.
God appreciates comedy. D’ata thought this on occasion. He also thought God even sometimes allowed life to become complicated for humor’s sake alone. Now was one of those times, for there, sitting on his fallen tree, on this afternoon, in his hidden spot, was the amber-haired beauty of this morning.
D’ata’s breath caught in his chest.
Her head was bent down, a book in her lap as she sat boy-style, cross-legged on the tree. Her simple dress was bunched up in her lap, allowing the warm sun onto her bare legs, her stockings and shoes tossed carelessly into the sand.
Her legs were tan, as though she had done this before, and her skin was beautifully warm against the gray of the dead, fallen tree trunk where she perched. She sat as still as stone, the only indication of life was the way her hair lifted and fell in the breeze; she was that absorbed in her reading.
D’ata stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open. He could not take his eyes from her. The sight of her sitting, so uninhibited, upon his favorite perch was such agony. His primary instinct was to flee, to turn around quickly before she saw them, and quietly escape. He was certain he’d been betrayed by God, or trapped by Satan, whatever the difference, if there was one. Recently, he had begun to have doubts, and such an awful trick this was. D’ata was at extreme odds with himself.
She hadn’t seemed to notice them at all. Her hair fell in such a way as to provide a drape from the sun and anything else that might bother her.
The gelding, perhaps surprised at the sudden halt, perhaps as part of the divine comedy, planted its sweaty head firmly between D’ata’s shoulder blades and shoved hard.
Lunging forward, D’ata lost his footing and stumbled, awkwardly flailing about as he attempted to regain his balance in the shifting sand. He fell instead to his knees.
The horse tossed his head up, the whites of its eyes rolling as it startled from its master’s clumsy behavior.
* * *
Julianne, catching movement from the corner of her eye, looked up suddenly from her reading. Seeing someone ridiculously flailing about with a horse, she jerked her skirts down to cover her bare legs. Jumping up from where she sat, she took a step back from the intruder.
Holding a hand up and squinting into the sun, she noticed it was the young priest, the same priest who had so horribly embarrassed her this morning. In fact, his behavior had caused her to be chastised by several of the senior parishioners after the encounter, as though she had caused the transgression herself—as though she had don
e something to prompt attention from the blathering idiot! This had been her first visit to a new church, and they’d travelled further than usual to worship in the beautiful cathedral. She and Yvette had looked forward to it for some time, but it had gone horribly wrong.
For the rest of the morning, she’d been outwardly angry with him and anyone else who dared approach her about the event. It had made things difficult with her father. She was the one who’d suggested they visit the other parish.
How dare he put her in this position! Who in the devil’s name did he think he was, approaching her as he had, and why, in God’s name, had a holy man done such a thing anyway? And, that pathetic congregation, as if he were God’s holy gift to them! They had blamed her for his ignorance!
She’d brooded most of the day on it—and fantasized the rest. Most irritating was the notion that, on some level, she was pleased. There was no denying it, he was stunning, with his dark features and striking eyes. It had thoroughly surprised her when she’d first knelt for communion and looked up to see the most lovely priest gazing down at her. How unfair it was for God to call such a man to the clergy.
It had become a serious object of contention for her, that she hadn’t been able to shake him from her thoughts. This only added to her consternation, and seeing him all of a sudden on the beach only served to bring back her anger.
Julianne was not one to be easily befuddled by the attractiveness of the opposite sex. She was fiercely independent and strongly devoted to her father and younger brothers and sister. She was also deeply grounded in her religious convictions and knew this morning’s events to be a dangerous path on which to stumble. She was not as easily confused about such things as some of the other young women of the congregation were, stupid cows.
She had finally escaped this afternoon to read poetry at her favorite, secret place along the river. It was a wonderful book of women’s poems a friend had given to her, and she fled the farmhouse with it tucked under her arm. The poems were scandalous, forbidden and adventuresome. The women were pioneers and Julianne idolized her fictitious heroines.
'And look at him, stumbling into her haven, stumbling into her mind again. Standing there, looking all ridiculous and—and, anyway, how dare he indeed!'
* * *
The horse foiled D’ata’s plans to turn and flee by thrusting him more into the open. He inadvertently yanked hard on the reins, which only served to make the situation worse as the horse threw its nose in the air and flailed its head back and forth. D’ata was yanked back to his feet abruptly and shushed the animal too loudly in an effort to calm it. It was too late. He was discovered.
Now that she'd seen him, it would be entirely unacceptable to simply turn and leave without begging off. He turned and struggled awkwardly to hold the fidgeting animal still as it circled around him. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m sorry. I—it seems I have disturbed you. I didn’t realize...” He stumbled over what to say.
Her gray eyes darkened as she squinted to peer at him, her hair cascading carelessly around her face and down her back. Without hesitation, she pulled it roughly behind her ear, then clutching her book with both hands to her chest, she asked, “Did you follow me here?”
This startled and silenced him at once. He was again immediately overcome with her beauty and could not bring his eyes from her face. He thought he'd imagined how breathtaking she was to be at the church, the extent of it. He realized that, in fact, he had not. He reached forward and stepped towards her, then stopped himself, not sure what to say. He was enraptured again and could not believe they were having a conversation.
“Well? Did you?” she demanded an answer.
“No, I wouldn’t—do such a thing. It’s just that I frequently come here to think about things,” he paused, realizing that he was sounding very much the liar as he carried on. He tried again. “I see I’m not the only one who finds this place particularly inviting.” He smiled awkwardly, trying to lighten the situation.
Setting her book on the tree trunk, Julianne reached down to gather up her stockings and shoes from the sand. She stood up, shaking the sand from them, her head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed and frowning at him. As he continued to just stand there, staring at her, she glared at him. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, begging your pardon.” He hastily turned away, stroking the horse on the nose, so it would not circle him again, forcing him to turn and see her—putting on her—he swallowed thickly. He succeeded in keeping his back to her, acutely aware of the rustle of her gowns. He did not succeed in blocking the mental vision of her pulling the stockings up those lovely, slender legs. It was a sin that he had seen those long, bare legs and he closed his eyes.
He pictured her with less than her stockings on and was suddenly hot. D’ata had only once ever seen a woman's body naked. He'd accidentally walked in on a handmaid as she was changing in Raphael’s quarters, an event which had burned itself into his mind. Only later had he summed up the purpose of the young woman’s visit.
His face flushed and he swiftly opened his eyes as arousal crept up his loins into the pit of his belly. Loosening the catch on the collar of his linen shirt, he allowed the breeze to cool him and cleared his throat. “I wish to apologize. I don’t know what came over me, it’s just that it seemed you were—I had never,” he paused, awkwardly trying to create a meaningful and honest explanation. Finally, he just hung his head and said, honestly, “I just wish to say I’m sorry. I hope that the incident didn’t cause you any embarrassment. Please forgive me.” He stared down at his hands, twisting the reins about in them. “I’m sorry that I disturbed you, and I’ll go.”
“Wait!” Julianne said abruptly as though she was afraid he might leave. “Wait—I want to ask you something. You don’t have to go.” She'd replaced her garments and walked up softly behind him.
By the time he realized she was behind him, he turned to find her mere inches from him, gazing up into his eyes.
“In fact, I’ve been meaning to speak to you, about this morning,” she said, as though serious about wishing to put right the transgressions which occurred, the opportunity having presented itself so nicely for both of them.
Urgency threatened to overcome him and he could hardly bear to be so close to her. Her scent drifted delicately up to his nostrils, and her large, smoky eyes sparkled clear and bright.
That unfamiliar pull in his belly returned and his chest ached. He couldn’t breathe, ‘Was he ill?’ He started to panic, fearing that he might awaken from this dream.
The look on her face was one of confusion. She scanned his face and came to rest on his eyes, as if trying to determine his sincerity. Her brow furrowed, her fairy eyebrows arching. “Of which are you most sorry? That you have disturbed me here, or that you defiled me in mass this morning?” She peered at him, eyes narrowed, obviously suspicious of his intentions.
She very slowly allowed her eyes to travel the distance of him, although she appeared completely unaware of the effect she had on him. Then she glanced at the gelding. “You shouldn’t ride him so hard when he’s not used to it,” she said and turned, gently stroking the horse’s shoulder. “We should walk him or he may be ill.” She gave D’ata no option to walk him alone.
“You’re—right,” he stammered, “we should,” He hurriedly added, “I don’t usually ride him this hard. I was just...” His voice trailed off.
She looked over her shoulder at him again, her eyes inquisitive but cautious. She seemed unprepared to leave, almost drawn to D’ata. “You don’t exactly fit the mold of a man of the cloth.”
Fidgeting with the bridle, D’ata pretended to adjust it, not sure how to answer. His story was too complicated.
She looked him up and down again. “My name is Julianne. I live close to here with my father, two brothers, and sister.” She reached for the reins and pulled them from his grasp. “I come here often when the weather permits. It’s so private—a secret getaway, I suppose, and not so far from where I live.” Before he
could assemble a response, she continued, “So what brings you here today, Monsieur Le Priest, since you say you weren’t following me?”
He let her pull the reins from his hands as she guided the big bay around and headed back to the path, up towards the meadow. D’ata concentrated very hard to answer her question. “This probably sounds contrived, but I come here often too. It’s very beautiful, as you say.”
Julianne's expression remained one of doubtful intrigue, as though he was not yet to be trusted. “So you come here to pray?” Suddenly, it appeared that she enjoyed provoking him a bit. Then, she did what appeared to be a very calculating thing. She passed her book to him, allowing her hand to momentarily brush his. She turned as though she wanted to see the reaction on his face, her own expression dead serious, although her eyes danced.
“I pray in the church, I come here to hear the voice of God,” D’ata answered.
She seemed surprised and pleased at his response. “And what does God tell you today?” she quipped as they topped the little ridge and turned to lead the horse across the meadow. She walked easily beside him, as her stride was almost the same as his, though she was not nearly as tall.
“He told me to come here—rather he didn’t. I felt compelled to,” he paused, then started impatiently, “Julianne...” He reached out, abruptly taking her by the arm, turning her to face him and forcing her to stop.
This seemed to startle her. He continued, hurriedly, before she could stop him, “Julianne, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never seen you before this morning, and all I know is that since I first saw you, I can think of nothing else. I’m not sure of anything!” He pulled his eyes from hers, looking instead over her shoulder to the meadow beyond. “I can’t seem to think of anything but you! And I don’t mean that as some strange sort of flattery, just the awful truth.”