by Jack Whyte
Where am I?
And then there came a knocking at a door very close to her, and she knew that was what had awakened her. Still she lay rigid, not knowing what to expect, and felt the fear that filled her settling into the pit of her stomach, icy and heavy as a ball of lead.
“My lady? Are you awake, my lady?”
The questioning voice was soft but urgent, as though its owner feared to make too much noise. It did not sound the least bit threatening. Her hands touched her clothing, exploring, feeling her body’s warmth beneath the garments.
I still have my clothes, and there’s no pain anywhere.
“My lady?” Another knock, louder this time. Jessie drew a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady.
“I am here. What is it?”
“Admiral St. Valéry requests that you join him downstairs. Immediately, my lady, if it pleases you.”
Charles! Of course, I’m in the commandery at La Rochelle.
The knowledge washed over her instantly, banishing all her terror, and she pushed herself upright, swinging her feet over the edge of the cot to the stone floor and thrilling to the shocking coldness of the surface against her soles. So great was her relief from fear that she felt like throwing open the door and kissing the man outside. She was in La Rochelle! Safe!
She felt herself grinning as she imagined the look on the face of the fellow outside if she had thrown open the door and kissed him. He must be a monk. He might have dropped dead at her feet. She tried to swallow her euphoria and to keep her voice calm as she answered, “My thanks. Tell the admiral I shall be there directly.”
“I shall, my lady.” There was a line of light at the bottom of the unseen door, and as the man turned to leave it was blotted out.
“Wait! Please, wait. Stay where you are.” She hurried to the door, watching the line of brightening light for guidance and fumbling for the handle. When she found it she stopped, ran her hands rapidly over her bodice and shook out her skirts, making sure she was decently covered before pulling open the heavy door.
The man outside was young, his tonsured scalp gleaming even in the dimness of the torch-lit passageway. He wore the brown surcoat of a Templar sergeant, and he stood peering at her, clutching a fat wax candle in a sconce. As he saw her, his eyes widened, and she realized her hair must be in disarray. The poor fellow probably saw few women in his life and here he was confronted by one with her hair in what must have seemed like scandalously intimate disrepair. She held out her hand to him.
“Forgive me if I startled you, Brother, but will you leave me that light? There is no light in my chamber and I must make myself presentable before I meet with my brother.”
The earnest young man stepped forward, holding out his candle. “Of course, my lady. Is one light enough? I can bring more if you have need of them.”
“God bless you, Brother. Yes, if it please you. One can never have too much of light. Bring as many as you can, and you will have earned great gratitude.”
The young man bobbed his head and hurried away, and Jessie went back into her chamber, looking about her now that she could see. The room was tiny, containing nothing more than the narrow cot on which she had slept, a wooden crucifix on the wall beneath a tiny slit of a window, and a prie-dieu directly beneath it. She moved to the cot and bent to press her fingers into it. It did not yield, and the pillow at its head was a shaped block of wood covered with sailcloth.
God! I thought I was in a dungeon, but it is a monk’s cell. Of course it is. But there is little difference between the two. Yet I was glad enough of it when I arrived, I remember. These men have no comforts as we ordinary mortals know such things. Their lives consist of prayer and more prayer, hardship and privation and sacrifice. And fighting, from time to time. Oh, dear God, what must I look like? And no mirrors in this place. Not even a table. Where is my bag?
She found it where she had dropped it behind the cot, and soon she was rummaging deep within it, aided only slightly by the single candle’s light. She found the small leather satchel that was her most important possession and pulled it out, then loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents onto the top of the narrow bed: hairbrush, combs, a folded chamois square containing hairnets, another, bulkier, containing small solid articles that knocked against one another, and a soft square of woolen cloth that held a hand-sized rectangular mirror of smoothly polished silver. She used the mirror first, polishing it gently with its cloth before holding it up to examine her face and hair by the light of the candle in her other hand, and her mouth twisted as she saw what several days without her maid could do to her. But then she set the mirror and the candle down on the bed’s hard surface and set to work to repair the ravages she had counted so swiftly.
She reached into her piled hair with both hands, finding and removing the pins placed there to hold her thick locks in check, and then, when her questing fingers told her there were no more to be found, she bent her head and shook out her heavy tresses, combing them with her fingers and fluffing them, searching for knots and tangles. She found none that were not swiftly manageable and she immediately took up her hairbrush, drawing it in long, smooth sweeps to straighten her hair from her crown to her waist, holding individual hanks in one hand while she tugged the bristles through the rebellious end clumps, grinding her teeth impatiently and attacking remorselessly whenever she encountered a stubborn knot.
She had eradicated all the tangles and was brushing smoothly by the time the young monk knocked again. She opened the door quickly and beckoned for him to enter, aware of the automatic way his eyes fastened on her unbound hair. He was carrying an armload of short, fat candles in the crook of his elbow and a freshly lit one in his free hand. He stepped inside the chamber door and stopped, his eyes roaming around the tiny room, looking for someplace to deposit his burden. Jessie waved an arm to indicate the space in which they stood.
“There is no room for anything in here. Is there by chance a larger room nearby? One with a table?”
The young guard blinked at her, his eyes vacant in thought, and then he nodded. “Brother Preceptor’s cell is larger, my lady, and it has a table. And a chair.”
She waited, but he said no more, so she prompted him. “And is it nearby? Do you think I might use it for a short time?”
He frowned slightly, clearly not knowing what to make of her request, and so she prodded him again.
“I will not take long. And you did say my good-brother asked that I join him quickly, did you not?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Well then, the quicker I can make myself presentable, the quicker I can meet him. Where is the Brother Preceptor’s cell?”
“This way, my lady.” He stepped out into the passageway and waited while she bundled up the contents of her little satchel and replaced them to take with her. When she was ready, he led her along the passageway to the left, where he stopped outside a door that stood ajar. “This is it, my lady.”
She held her candle high, peering around the preceptor’s cell. It was just as Spartan as the one she had left, and barely larger, no more than one third again as long, but it had two small tables ranged against the end wall, opposite the foot of the narrow bed. One of them was only large enough to hold the wash bowl and tall ewer that stood on it, but the other was larger, with an elaborate little ink horn and a matching horn cup containing several goose quills placed neatly on one side, and a plain wooden chair set in front of it.
“Perfect,” Jessie said, crossing quickly to the table with the wash bowl. “Oh, it’s empty.” She turned back to the monk, who had set down his own candle and was carefully placing the six fresh ones he had brought side by side, upright, on the table’s surface. “Would it be possible for you to find me some water, Brother, and a towel? I would dearly love to wash my face.”
The man was evidently growing accustomed to her requests, for he simply nodded this time and reached over to pick up the ewer. He hesitated.
“I will have to go to the k
itchens for the water, my lady. Would you like me to have it heated for you?”
“I would mention your name in my prayers for a month if you could do that for me.”
“Thank you, my lady. It is Giles. I will return directly.” As the door closed behind him, Jessie used her candle to light the others he had brought, and when they were all burning she ranged them along the back of the table before sitting down and spreading the contents of her little bag across the tabletop. She peered at herself again in the small mirror, tilting its shining surface this way and that to take full advantage of the increased brightness, and then she propped it against one of the candles and used her brush to part her hair carefully down the center of her scalp and pull it forward to hang in front of her. That done, she began to braid, her fingers moving quickly and with the confidence of years of practice. When she had completed the second braid, she checked them with the aid of the mirror and then rolled each one up in a flat coil, fastening it in place with long hairpins she thrust through the coiled braids, and she finally secured the entire mass to the sides of her head with long, curved, and intricately carved combs of tortoiseshell. She shook her head tentatively, watching in the small mirror, and then again more firmly. Satisfied when nothing moved, she then covered the entire mass with a delicate net of gold wire studded with tiny beads of amber, and pinned the net into place with four more small hairpins. Her next examination in the mirror was highly critical, but she could find nothing wrong. Not a single stray wisp of hair marred her work.
Now she stood up and began the almost impossible task of checking the appearance of her clothing. She had slept in her gown and accepted that there was nothing she could do about the wrinkles in the fabric, so she set about looking for stains and marks, scrubbing at the material with her hairbrush whenever she found anything she thought might be improved, and while she was doing that Brother Giles reappeared, carrying a pitcher of steaming water wrapped in a towel. He was accompanied this time by a second brother, this one wearing a cook’s apron and carrying a second, similar burden, the rolled towel held under one arm.
“I brought both hot and cold, my lady, which will permit you to mix the waters to your pleasure.”
“God bless you, Brother Giles, and you, Brother Cook. And two towels. And even soap! You have saved my life and my sanity between you.”
Both men beamed with pleasure, but neither one made any move to leave, and Jessie smiled at them. “Now I require but two more things of you, Brother Giles: a few moments of privacy in which to bathe my hands and face, and then the pleasure of your company as I go to find my husband’s noble brother, for I confess I have no slightest notion of where to find the admiral. Will you wait for me and attend me?”
“Most certainly, my lady.” Brother Giles looked at his companion and jerked his head towards the door, and both men left the room, closing the door behind them.
Jessie poured hot water into the bowl and then splashed in a little of the cold. She soaked one of the towels and rubbed some of the harsh, lye-scented soap into it, and wrung it out again before washing her face, hands, and arms with it, reveling in the clean, tingling sensation produced by the hot, astringently soapy water and the feel of the heated cloth against her skin. She dried herself with the second towel, then hesitated, and quickly undid the bindings of her bodice, pulling the laces wide and shrugging out of the garment so that it hung about her waist. The tips of her breasts tingled pleasurably as she wiped them with the hot, soapy towel, and a rash of goose bumps sprang up along her arms as the cloth brushed her nipples. She reminded herself where she was then, and that her brother-in-law was waiting for her. She wrung out the soap and wrapped the hot towel about her neck, sighing as she reached up to knead her nape beneath the tightly bound mass of her hair. She stood there for a few seconds, her head tilted back and her eyes closed in pleasure.
But then she reminded herself a second time of where she was, half smiling at the impropriety of being half-naked in a monk’s cell, and quickly dried herself and shrugged into her clothes, tightening the laces carefully and decorously. From her satchel she selected a small round, flat black box, and removed a short, thick piece of twig with frayed and shredded ends that lay on a bed of whitish-gray powder. She sucked on the frayed end, wetting it with saliva, then dipped it into the powder and used it to scrub her teeth and gums. She rinsed her mouth with a cupped palm of water from the cold jug and spat into the bowl, then rubbed her tongue over her teeth, dislodging the gritty residue before rinsing and spitting again. That done, she sat down one last time to peer into the mirror.
I look like death. No color at all. God, Marie, where are you when I need your skills? You’re safe, I pray, but you’re not here, so I must serve myself. Quickly now, but sparingly. It would not do to look the harlot in this place.
She opened the last of her packages and took out a number of small decorated wooden boxes with tight-fitting lids. She opened each one and arranged the differently colored pastes in front of her. Holding the mirror in one hand, she worked swiftly and deftly with the other, rubbing the pad of her middle finger lightly against the surface of one paste and then applying the merest trace of bluish color to her eyelids, smoothing the substance in until the only noticeable effect was a heightening of the color and light reflected in her eyes. She wiped her fingertip quickly on the damp towel and selected another box, applying a reddish paste to the skin over her cheekbones and blending it into her skin until there was no sign of it apart from the faintest hint of a flush on her cheeks. From a third box she added a tinge of deeper redness to her full, wide lips, then pressed them together, biting them gently. Lastly she reached for the tiny glass bottle that contained her single greatest assurance of self-respect. Working carefully, she extracted the tiny wooden stopper from the precious vial and upended the container until a single drop of viscous liquid dripped onto the pad of her middle finger. She raised it to her nostrils, inhaling the essence eagerly and fully aware that, once she had applied it, she would not be able to smell it again. That was a sacrifice she could live with, however, for she knew everyone else around her would be aware of it. She dabbed two tiny spots of the liquid beneath each of her ears and then smeared what was left into the hollow at the base of her neck, smoothing it into the soft skin there.
And finally she was done. She tucked all her devices into her small bag before blowing out the six candles, and then, clutching the bag beneath her arm, she went and opened the door.
Young Brother Giles raised his candle reflexively to throw more light on her, his jaw dropping as his eyes went wide. “My lady …” He gulped audibly. “You look—Are you … are you prepared now?”
She favored him with her sweetest smile. “I am, Brother Giles, and I have kept you waiting for an unforgivably long time. But I feel new born now, thanks to your kindness. I do not know what I would have done had you not been here to aid me. We women, as you must know, are notoriously different from men. We place much importance on appearances, most particularly our own, and thus I thank you again for being so considerate of my needs. I have but one more question: should we leave the six new candles here?”
The young monk smiled, but then his face quickly sobered again. “I see no need for that, my lady. Brother Preceptor would be most unsettled to find such a profusion of luxury in his cell. He might think he had been visited by supernatural agencies. But—” He looked down the passageway towards the stairs, and then continued in a firmer voice. “I shall take you down to the admiral now, if you are ready.”
As they began to walk side by side along the passageway, Jessie noticed the profound silence all around them.
“What hour of night is it, Brother? It seems like the very middle of it.”
“It is, my lady. Nigh on midnight.”
“And will you stay on duty all night long?”
“Oh no, my lady. I am due to be relieved at any moment. I may even have been relieved by now. The guard changes at midnight.”
Jessie sto
pped walking, right at the top of the stairs, and looked at him, her face full of concern. “Oh! Then I must beg your pardon for delaying you. Will you be punished for not being at your post?”
He half smiled again and shook his head. “Not tonight, my lady. The admiral himself sent me to see to you. It has been a most pleasant task.”
“Thank you once again, Brother Giles, that is a lovely compliment. But I wonder still about those candles. Could you leave them in the other room for me, and one of them alight? I fear I may have to return at some point, before the day breaks.”
A look of concern flickered on the young monk’s face. “There really is no need of that, my lady. No one will disturb them.” He started down the stairs ahead of her, speaking back over his shoulder as she followed him. “The preceptor will not be seeking rest tonight. Too many untoward things are happening. Do you know that we missed Vespers tonight? That has never happened before.”
“All of you, the entire fraternity? That is most unusual. What is going on, do you know?”
“No, my lady. I am a simple brother, privy to nothing of import. There is talk, and I have heard some of it, but nothing that is believable or worthy of repeating.” They had reached the bottom of the stairs. “Here we are. I will ask you to wait here, if it pleases you, while I announce you.”
He left Jessie standing at the foot of the long flight of stairs, in a high and narrow hallway that stretched off on both sides of her, lit with flickering wall-mounted torches. He knocked at a set of high double doors in the opposite wall and stepped inside.
Jessie stood very straight and tugged at her clothing, making sure once more that she was decently arrayed, and then raised her hands to pat her hair beneath its golden net. She felt nervous, for some inexplicable reason, and attributed it to the concern stirred in her by Brother Giles’s tale of missing Vespers. This was a monastic order, and the lives of its members were governed absolutely by the Templars’ Rule, which specified prayers at regular and immutable hours, except in times of war. Nothing but war and the need to fight could ever disrupt the schedule of daily prayers, and yet tonight they had missed Vespers. Something grave must be afoot.