Listening for the dead, Rachel hears only bright crystal silence mottled with the click of embroidery needles and the voices of the children. Why did the dead sing to me when the poor gathered all around? she asks herself.
And from the world's edge at the brink of her heart, the question comes back: What did the dead sing?
A Jewish song, she answers herself. A hymn of praise.
A servitor approaches, whispers to one of the maids, who hurries to Rachel: "The rabbi calls for you."
Leora looks after Rachel as she leaps to her feet and runs out of the garden. Like a girl. One coppery eyebrow arches. Of course—she is practically a girl! That is the miracle, the enormous wonder of her return, that has made Leora's and her daughters' prayers so much brighter. Even Harold, who used to nap during morning chapel, follows the new canon’s services attentively.
She smiles and lifts a grateful countenance to the furry clouds mulling the blue.
-/
Rachel finds David lying in bed, barely conscious. The physician has finished administering a potion of henbane to treat the melancholic humor causing the old man's chills and lethargy. "He will sleep now," the physician says. "When he wakes, he may be stronger."
"May be?" Rachel whispers. "Why can't you help him?"
The physician's curled eyebrows knit tightly. "He is old and tired in his bones."
Rachel dismisses the physician and the maids and sits at her grandfather's bedside. When she takes his cold hand, his eyes bat open. "We must leave this place," he says in a wispy voice. "The air is cold here even in July. Come back with me to Jerusalem."
Rachel rubs warmth into his hand. "We will, Grandfather. You must get strong first. Rest now and build your strength, for we will return to Jerusalem."
He sinks into sleep, smiling vaguely.
Rachel feels every sense deepen. If she loses him, she will be entirely alone in this strange land. The voices within her thrive on this fear. She senses them turning within her like smoke, needing only her attentiveness to condense into sound.
She focuses instead on her grandfather's slumbering face, and the almost-voices become music inside her body, the joyful hymn she had heard when she stood before the poor.
She is afraid to listen too closely, afraid of what the music is doing inside her head. Though she believes the dead have an answer for how to help her grandfather, she knows that if she loses herself in their depths, pulled away like a leaf down a whirlpool, David will wish he were dead.
-/
"God is an onion," David Tibbon says to the knights in his Torah study group. The henbane has helped him to sleep off the weariness of his ill humors and given him enough strength to teach his students some Hebrew and to review for them the underlying creed, the Covenant between God and Abraham.
He is tired again, but the cold that always stays in his bones feels warmed by this devotional work. Now, for some diversion: "The Hebrew word for onion, which is among the most beautiful of Israel’s flowers, is beh-tsel—which puns with Beth-El, House of God, as well as punning with bets-al-ale', in the shadow of God. And Bezaleel, the name of the craftsman who actually made the first menorah, the candelabra revealed to Moses in Sinai, means Onion of God—all implying how the humble onion symbolizes the supernal, divine immanence of creation."
They meet in David’s room, seated on reed mats on the floor—Gerald, Denis, Harold, Gianni, and Ummu. When Rachel enters, only Gerald recalls the convention of the court of love and stands.
"The poor will build a synagogue!" the baroness announces breathlessly. The idea came to her clearly while listening to Clare prattle about how Madelon's wedding preparations kept Hellene's mind off her worries for Thierry. "We will build a meeting place of God—Psalm 74. The construction will employ the beggars of the area in whatever capacity they can serve." And it will give Grandfather something meaningful to occupy him, to help him regain his strength.
"But the village has a chapel already," Harold protests.
"A rude building," Gianni replies. Each morning after his sparsely attended service in the castle's chapel, he has celebrated Mass in Hebrew to a full house of worshipers in the village. "A wattle hut, really. Even the crucifix is crudely carved."
"There will be no crucifix in the temple," Rachel says. "No idols of any kind. It will be dedicated to no saint but to God Himself and bear no name other than the House of God."
"As Yeshua himself would recognize," Denis grasps slowly, incapable of surprise anymore.
"Perhaps," Gianni suggests, "after the synagogue is built, Maître Pornic may have his chapel back, to worship as the Church decrees."
"Yes," Rachel agrees. "The synagogue will be for those of Yeshua’s faith."
"Then," David says, "it must be built as the Bible prescribes in Daniel, chapters two and six—erected on a high place with numerous windows, for 'light dwells with Him'—and 'He had windows in His upper chamber open.'"
"I know the place for it," Harold offers. "On Merlin’s Knoll, south of the village. There is an ancient stone cirque on that hill, a ring of boulders older than the Romans. The Welsh believe Merlin arranged them."
"Merlin will not object if we build a temple to worship as Yeshua did," Denis says. "Arthur was a Christian."
"In Jerusalem," David says, nodding reflectively, the cold in his bones wisping away with the warmth of his excitement, "I once spoke with a monk who claimed that Yeshua's mother, Miriam, had the family surname Bezalim—which means onion leaves. And so her name already implied the tears she would shed."
-/
Thunder lobs out of the hills. Gianni does not hear it for Madelon's ribald song of the rooster's love for a cow, a lively chanson de geste she learned during the tourney. They sit in a bed of primrose and violets at the wild end of the garden, their laughter hidden from view by dense hedges. With lyrical delirium, she rises to her knees, lifted by the rooster's triumphant cry at discovering that his rival in love is a bull who cannot fly.
Their guffawing topples them backward, and they lie among the flowers smiling into the burning edge of the day, where the orange sun breaks into rays among the treetops. Thunder mumbles again from the hills, and Madelon turns her head toward violet storm clouds budging out of the north. "We must go," she whispers, putting a hand on his chest, "or we'll be soaked."
"Come away with me," Gianni says, taking her hand.
Madelon rolls her eyes. "Where?"
"It matters not—"
She sits up, plucks crushed flowers from her hair. "How will we live?"
"I will serve a noble as a knight."
Madelon stands, brushes off petals, leaves, grass blades. "Become a knight to my husband and you can be my lover."
"If you marry me, I will keep you happy with love and you will need no lovers."
Madelon gives him a discouraging look. "Romance is exquisite sport, Gianni—but it is not enough to keep me happy."
"What more?"
"There is nothing more than love," she answers. "But position is equal to it. I am descended from earls."
"Position!" He snorts. "This castle and whatever position goes with it are in peril. Come with me, and I will devote myself to protecting you."
"Gianni—" She tweaks his beard and stands up. "I could love you—but you have not favored me with your love. You would rather hear me sing silly songs."
Gianni pushes to his elbows. "I have told you the truth, Madelon. The miracle that changed the baroness changed me. If I am to leave the priesthood it will be for love sanctified by marriage and nothing less."
"Then stay a priest," she pouts. "I will not marry for romance. My parents have found a husband for me who matches my position."
"The lad Thierry trampled in the melee?" Gianni sulks.
Madelon wrinkles her nose. "Mercy, no. He was merely someone to sport with because you wouldn't." She wraps a curl about one finger and says with studied indifference, "I am to marry Hubert Macey, the earl of Y Pigwyn's eldest son."
&n
bsp; Thunder mutters louder, and a chill breeze rustles the hedges. "I swear—I am in love with you, Madelon."
"Then show me." She brushes his cheek with her lips. "There is plenty of time left for love," she says nonchalantly. "Marriage need not impede."
-/
Rain dances down from the hills like silver dervishes. Wind tatters the flowers, swatting petals and leaves into the air.
Gianni sits where Madelon left him, alone now that a disappointed Ummu and Ta-Toh have abandoned their places in the hedges to seek shelter in the gardener’s tool shack. Like hooves trampling the garden, the torrent arrives.
The clothes that the dwarf has draped over Gianni darken as they soak up the endless, tiny sorrows of the rain.
-/
Maître Pornic lies naked on the stone floor of the sacristy before the statue of the Virgin Mother. Thomas Chalandon, in the white cassock of an acolyte, kneels beside him. His prayers have been repeated to exhaustion, his knees ache, and he believes the abbot has fallen asleep. Just as he is about to touch the prone monk, Maître Pornic lifts his head.
Thomas helps the abbot to his feet and places the black cassock over his head. "You must go back," Maître Pornic says. "The Holy Mother agrees with me. These are your people."
"Father, I don't understand." Thomas had been woken in the middle of the night by one of the brothers and instructed to meet the abbot in the sacristy, where he found him on his face before the Virgin.
"Word has reached me this night from a sojourner," Maître Pornic explains, his graven countenance gaunt in the glow of the votive candles. "The baroness is erecting a Jewish temple—a synagogue! No altar. No saints. No crucifix. And the poor are building it! This is truly the Devil's work, Thomas."
"But the villagers—" Thomas shakes his head in disbelief. "They are devout. They would not tolerate the heretical changes that the gentry have accepted in the castle. Their simple faith is too strong."
"The baroness is more devious than you know," the abbot moans. "Since she has bequeathed them the droves of hogs from the castle, the villagers adore her. Their stomachs are full, their coffers are no longer empty. Their hearts have been won. To them, the baroness is a Grail-saint. But, remember, Jesus drove demons into swine. This woman is a witch who mocks the Bible. You must return to your people and make them see that."
Thomas, alarmed at the prospect of returning to the castle, wants to blurt out his fear of the baroness, of the unnatural feelings she stirs in him. Is this because she is not my grandmother, but a witch? He says instead, "This is a matter for the bishop. We can assume his censure will put an end to this travesty.
Maître Pornic presses a stick finger to his furrowed brow and closes his eyes to calm his intemperate fears. "I have written to the bishop of Talgarth. I have even written to the pope. But Trinity Abbey and Epynt Castle are far-flung outposts in the frontier. Far more pressing matters concern our holy fathers. This is a problem we must solve ourselves."
"Please, Father, send one of the brothers," Thomas pleads, "an ordained priest, who can represent the Church with the authority of Christ."
"No, Thomas, the people are too ignorant to be saved by ecclesiastical reasoning." In the holy man's stare, Thomas reads such divine longing that he sees no use in arguing the point further.
"I will make my grandmother understand," he swears resignedly.
-/
Clare leads the applause as her granddaughter displays the wedding gown designed by the castle's couturier. Madelon strolls gracefully down an aisle of potted quince in the inner ward's garden, curtsying to the ladies watching from the shade of the arbor. She fans the hem of her pelisson and twirls.
It is a flouncy garment made of two cloths sewed together, the inner of fine wool, for the wedding will be late in the autumn, and the outer of sheer white bendal. Above this shimmers a nearly transparent bliaut of green silk with billowy sleeves and a long train. Finest of all is the girdle, a mesh of gold set with agates and sardonyx to protect against fever from the heat of the conjugal union.
Hellene steps up behind her daughter and places the mantle on her shoulders, again of silk daedally embroidered with gold thread and dyed royal purple. As she strolls, pointed shoes of vermilion velvet wink from under her gown. Leora approaches her goddaughter and presents her gift, a small saffron-colored veil held in place by a golden circlet studded with emeralds.
Rachel sighs with admiration and joins with the others in feeling the fabric and adjusting the folds. Then one of the maids whispers in her ear and, after complimenting her great-granddaughter, the baroness steps out of the bright garden and into the gloom of the palais.
His ash-blond hair luculent in the aquatic light from the tall windows, Denis Hezetre bows. "The sergeant we sent to Caermathon has returned, lady. The moneylenders have refused our request. They will lend us not a silver penny."
Rachel's heart drops into her stomach. She thanks Denis and turns away before he can question what she will do now. She does not know herself. With David's eloquent request written to the brethren of Caermathon's Jewish community, she had been confident that they would help her, and, though there are only days left, she has not given any serious thought to the marquess or to Erec.
Back in the garden, Clare catches her eye. The matronly woman's joyful expression falters a moment when she sees the dark look in her mother’s face. Rachel pretends she is adjusting to the noon glare, and the next instant she is smiling and fussing over Madelon's elegant attire. Clare beams with appreciation, and all suspicion flies with the thrushes that are flitting like a rumor from shrub to shrub.
-/
Thomas rides down from the hills slowly. Instead of his white cassock, he wears a plain brown riding tunic, gray leggings, and boots. Since dawn, when he began his journey, he has been praying to the Holy Spirit for counsel. How can he convince his grandmother to dissolve this heretical Yeshua cult? And, more to the point, how can he constrain his own stray impulses?
His only recourse is to convince himself, as have Guy and Maître Pornic, that this woman is truly not Ailena Valaise, that the miracle did not happen. Yet, did not God answer his prayer in the tilt yard, when he invoked His help in the name of his grandmother? That assures him that she must be who she claims to be.
As for his unholy attraction to her, that may be a further affirmation: Her beauty is of another time, from long before he was born. And his desire for her is but a recognition, a remembrance of the beauty that inspired the carnal love that brought his mother, and then him, into the world.
Thomas' feeble ruminations fall away as he enters the village. A handful of villeins in their fields, who previously ignored him unless directly addressed, wave at him amicably. Where are the usual idlers and beggars who lurk on the outskirts? He stops before the hut of the blind woman, as he habitually does on his way through the village, and she is not home. Legless Owain, who spends his days sitting listlessly under the large oak in the village square, cannot be found, too. And the village idiot, usually leering from one of the alleys, is nowhere in sight.
The pen of each cottage bursts with swine, and each villein seems to sport new pig leather garments.
Atop Merlin's Knoll, silhouettes traipse in and out of view. Thomas rides through the switching grass and a haze of midges, following a sparse goat trail past a thorn hedge and a twisted apple tree that has tasted lightning. Outcropped rocks crown the hill, a wreath of mighty stones, each one erect but bent like old women.
At the crest labors Aber, the village idiot, lugging away stone debris in a barrow. Behind him, leaning against one of the ancient ritual stones, Sian the blind woman polishes a boulder, working by feel and accompanying her effort with a spritely tune. Legless Owain sits beside her, chipping away at the stone. In fact, all the village's idlers are here, hammering at the stray boulders and digging ditches under the supervision of the old rabbi. He presides from a high-backed chair wrapped in a blanket though the summer sun swelters.
Thomas con
siders for a moment if some spell has been cast. Then, he notices on the gorse rough below, Harold Almquist and Denis Hezetre riding off to the hunt—with the hair of their temples braided like Jews! Stunned, he mutters a hasty prayer under his breath, pulls his steed around, and rides toward the castle.
He dismounts at the toll bridge and tethers his horse. Across the road, in the expansive garden, he spots his young nieces picking flowers while, farther off, meandering through the maze of herbs, two troubadours sing gaily.
A couple sits up from under the ancient elms and waves languidly. With some shock, he recognizes his parents, lying voluptuously in the shade like lovers.
Thomas enters the garden in a trance. He has not seen his family use this part of the castle since his childhood—not since Grand-mère came here with her troubadours.
Ummu flits among the cherry trees—and is that a woman's chemise fluttering under that hedge? For an instant, he believes he has just spied a woman's bright hair drawing quickly out of sight. Before he can explore further, his mother calls to him.
The troubadours' music swells closer, and Clare and Gerald greet their son with burbling laughs. They lure him into a giddy dance-of-the-chaplet and inquire what has brought him back from the abbey. Too perplexed by their antic behavior to respond, he asks after Grand-mère, and they take him through the green shade of the elms to a field where the baroness swirls about in a spirited game of blindman's buff.
When Rachel spots him, she stops, and laughter falls away from her face. Tense, conflicting feelings knot in her: Hopeless desire twines with the fear of discovery and, thinly overlaying it all, the petulance she felt when Thomas left the castle without saying goodbye to her.
She calls him over, and Hellene and Leora try to get him to play. He demurs. "The abbot sent me. I must talk with Grand-mère."
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