Oh, she could bask in his warm approval for eternity. Her instincts had been right.
‘Well, my lady, are you going to award Raimon the prize or not?’
‘Oh, your pardon!’ Just as she took up the silver arrow, the great doors at the end of the hall rattled open and a grave Sir Tibaut strode towards the dais. All laughter hushed as everyone saw dread replace the merriment in their lord’s expression.
‘Cousin,’ he growled, ‘what urgency is this that you disrupt our sport?’
Tibaut’s schoolmaster-serious expression dissolved into boyish mischief as he turned to the throng and raised his palms for silence.
‘Chaplain Arbert has been found—ALIVE!’
Chapter Sixteen
By raising doubts, we are led on to question. By questioning, we perceive the truth.
Peter Abelard to Héloïse
Seeing the joy lighting Richart’s face, Adela wished herself a hundred leagues away.
‘Is Jaufré back, then?’ Richart was asking. ‘Are there more survivors?’
‘No, other travellers found him, my lord cousin. I’ll bring him to you.’
‘Was he harmed?’
Adela stepped between them. ‘Why not greet him in the great chamber, my lord? It will be far more comfortable.’
‘Indeed it will, Alys,’ agreed Lady Blanche, joining them. ‘What’s this, my dear, tears?’ The old lady slid a comforting arm about her.
‘I am so thankful that Father Arbert … lives.’ But … it would mean her death.
‘So four survivors now,’ exclaimed Richart. ‘Come then, my sweet Alys, maybe we shall hear of others. Bring our beloved chaplain to us, cousin!’ He bowed to the comtesses. ‘Forgive us if we leave you for a little while.’
Reaching the great chamber, Adela sat aside beneath the window, leaving the only chair to Lady Blanche. The afternoon sun was an accolade upon her shoulders, lighting the jewels she wore about her neck, turning the fine veiling to dazzling white, but tension gripped her temples and she sat as still as stone, her heart aching. A page served her a mazer of perry and she held it between her palms, tempted to spill the contents on her kirtle so she might excuse herself. Treasure this moment, she thought. Richart was watching her with the loving gaze of a man who protected and cherished those he cared for. She wanted to run across to him, to be enfolded safely in that warm, strong embrace. Be safe.
And then the door opened.
Adela recalled Father Arbert had often stumbled on the journey; now his unsteadiness seemed even more pronounced.
‘My son! God be thanked!’ Creped, veined skin adorned the aged hands that rose to greet Richart. ‘I dreaded never to see you again.’
‘Or I you, good Father.’ Richart embraced his chaplain, marvel and thankfulness glowing in his face.
‘And you are now the vicomte, but is Mirascon fallen on such desperate times, my lord? I have never seen you so ragged nor so—?’
‘Filthy as a lunatic?’ laughed Lady Blanche.
The priest seemed unaware of Richart’s sudden recoil. ‘Ah, my gracious lady …’ He turned to take the vicomtesse’s hands. ‘I was cast into great sadness to hear about my lord your husband, God rest his soul. What hap—’
‘Keep that for later, good chaplain,’ interrupted Richart. ‘Come, here is Lady Alys, saved by God’s blessing, as you shall hear.’
Was this how the early Christians felt beholding the lions? Adela rose, not sure if her legs would bear her. Swallowing her fear, she forced herself to look up at the old man.
Sunshine lit the priest’s tonsure, delved in among the thinning, silvery wreath of hair and fingered the colour imperfections of his new clothing, which still smelled of dye.
‘Good Father,’ she murmured.
He blinked, inclined his head respectfully. ‘My child, I rejoice to see you again. God be praised that he has spared you.’
Trying not to speak further, Adela took him by the hands and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she stepped swiftly back, lifting a hand to her brow and shook her head, smiling as if in wonderment.
‘My bride looks well, despite her suffering, do you not think, Father?’ Richart joined them, clapping his hand fondly upon the old man’s shoulder.
‘She does, my lord.’ Arbert concurred, obligingly poking his head forward. Adela remembered now; his left eye was blue-grey within its sheath, the dark centre utterly vanished. There was a flaw in his right eye as well. She tried not to flinch beneath the narrowed, striving stare. ‘I dislike it when old Arbert peers so close,’ she remembered Lady Alys complaining to Sir William. ‘I feel as though every blemish is on display and his breath is worse than a dog’s.’
‘Hale and as beautiful as ever.’ Father Arbert nodded and Adela froze, waiting for the words that would destroy her. ‘Forgive my presumption,’ the old man began.
Here it comes.
‘But you—ah, it’s a different perfume you are wearing.’
He has realised, thought Adela. The hammer was about to smite the anvil.
However, there was no clang of polite confusion. No raised finger pointing like a signpost to an imposter. Lady Blanche was saying something behind the old man and he turned to answer her.
Adela sat down again. Richart was watching her with concern and she gave him a tired smile, which brought him to her in an instant.
‘Go and rest for a while,’ he murmured, stroking a playful finger down her cheek. The gleam in his eyes promised there would be no sleeping later. Yes, she longed to escape, but ‘Lady Alys’ would stay to hear the priest’s tale, so Adela thanked him and reluctantly remained.
Arbert’s account of his escape was told with humility. He had been with the wounded men after supper and then gone to pray beside the stream. Hearing the attack, he had been terrified and had flung himself on his belly in the rushes. After the écorcheurs had gone and the flames had diminished to embers, he had stumbled around, trying to find if anyone had been left alive, but with the darkness and his poor eyesight, it seemed that all were slain. In misery, he had fled into the wood, guilty at being spared. God had eventually led him to a hermit’s dwelling. There, he had received sustenance until he had the strength to journey on. One of the hermit’s benefactors had guided him to the nearest track and found a carter willing to take him to Mirascon.
Yet when the chaplain was done, it seemed to Richart as though there were holes and snags in the mesh of the telling. Were the omissions deliberate? Calculated not to disturb the women? The determination to find out the truth gnawed at him through the midday repast with his guests; when all the noble ladies had retired to rest, he sent for Père Arbert to attend him in the great chamber.
As the old man took his usual seat on the stool by the priedieu, Richart hid a smile, wondering what the penance would be for consummating his marriage before Holy Church had heard his vows.
‘You wish to make confession, my son? I daresay you have managed to sin successfully in deed as well as thought since your last penance.’
‘Yes, good Father, I think you may safely draw that conclusion.’
‘Has Father Martin been satisfactory in my absence, my lord?’ A sudden puff of vanity? That was new.
‘More gusty with the penances.’ Richart sat down in the lord’s chair. ‘But let’s leave my confession for tomorrow morning. It’s yours that I want.’
The old priest rose painfully; he was past sixty and clearly the winter in England had not been good for his joints. ‘I am so thankful to have returned in time for your wedding, my son. It promises to be a fair day tomorrow.’ Was the old man being evasive?
‘Yes, God willing.’
‘You still have your grandsire’s battle sword upon the wall, I see.’
‘And pray Heaven it will stay there. Much has happened while you were in England, but we can talk about that later.’
‘Ah, so much … for later.’ Father Arbert sighed as though recognising he was cornered.
‘Yes, but for now …’
‘… you are very pleased with your wife-to-be, I think?’ It was spoken amiably.
Richart’s fingers played with the stem of the goblet on the small table beside him. He remembered the way to deal with Arbert: provoke his indignation. ‘I presumed she would have a better grasp of Occitan by now.’
Arbert looked round in surprise. ‘I gave her daily lessons as you requested, my lord.’ He turned fully, warming to his defence. ‘On occasion, Lady Alys was not always as attentive as I could have wished. However, for most people learning another tongue, listening is easier than speaking. I observed this afternoon that she spoke little so perhaps she is still fearful of making mistakes, although …’
‘Although …’
‘Although I did not observe that reticence was part of the lady’s nature when I was in her household. To be honest, she did make a genuine effort with the language, satisfactorily, I thought, although …’
‘Too many “althoughs”, Arbert, and that bothers me. I have always relied on your frankness. If there is something I should know, in God’s name, tell me.’
The priest left the hearth, and stood, fingers clasped behind him like a witness making a deposition. ‘I observed her to be, well, of a restless disposition.’
‘Did you now. Restless?’
‘Restless.’
Richart left the chair and strode to the window seat where Alys had been sitting. The upright cushions were untouched by her body. The lady had sat with a straight spine. Leaning his hand against the wall beside the window light, he uneasily toed the footstool. ‘And would you care to elaborate?’ he asked and raised his face for an answer.
‘No, I am not sure I do.’ His chaplain clearly recognised the dangerous tilt of eyebrow. ‘My son, I beg you to have a care with her. The Lady Alys is not the bride I would have wished for you.’
The gauntlet of calumny was at his feet again. His choice to pick it up or walk away. He stayed.
‘And why is that?’
‘There was talk.’
‘Talk? Then talk, pray you!’
The chaplain shook his head, stubborn corners to his mouth.
‘Curse it, Father, I’ve already heard the slander from Lady Leonor, some nonsense that Alys bore King John a child. Well, I’ve asked Alys and she swore to me that was not true.’ He folded his arms resolutely. ‘To me she seems virtuous.’
His confessor gave a contrary sniff. ‘That was not my observation, my lord.’
Observation? Arbert couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose and a grey star was blinding his left eye.
‘Oh, Lady Alys attended mass and said her prayers, my son, but on the journey she was somewhat free in her manner.’
‘Free?’ Per Crist, why was he doing this? He didn’t want flagellation; he wanted to ride to the cathedral tomorrow with Trust at his elbow and a truthful woman as his bride.
‘Forgive me, my son, I feel I would be ill-advised to speak further.’
‘A murrain on that, Arbert,’ Richart exclaimed. ‘Spit it out. Let’s get it fully out into the air, shall we?’
The priest swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Well, I suspected, only suspected, mark you, my son, that she granted Sir William de Hereford favours during the journey.’
Richart stared at him and then with a snarl, he turned and smashed his fist down on the table. The goblet crashed onto its side, the glass stem broken.
‘As I say, my lord, she is not the bride that I would wish for you.’
‘I feel as though that shrew, Fortune, has just kicked a bloody boot into my ribcage.’
‘My lord, you are making this marriage because of your agreement with King John.’
‘Yes.’ He clawed a hand through his hair. ‘Do I believe her or you? There is something amiss here. Alys isn’t, can’t be, like the woman you describe. There is a goodness about her, Arbert. You’ll see for yourself.’
‘My lord, I saw her every day.’
‘But it’s like we are talking about two different women.’
Two women.
‘Nom de Dieu!’ He collapsed back on his chair.
‘Richart, are you ill?’ The old man gripped his shoulders. ‘Tell me!’
‘I keep seeing another woman in her, in Alys.’ He looked for assurance in the priest’s face but found confusion.
‘Someone you loved? Is that what you mean, dear son?’
‘No, someone I—oh damnation! It’s driving me to madness. I … I don’t know if it’s Alys that I am drawn to or … or her likeness to another. See, you are looking at me as though I’m possessed. Maybe I am.’ Had he been gradually fed some poison that would drive him insane? It seemed that every one of his fears was pressing in on him now, like hideous wraiths anxious to suck away his life. ‘O Crist!’ he whispered.
‘Look at me, my son!’ Father Arbert lifted the new cross that Richart wore and held it in his sight. ‘God will help you. Trust Him. Now from the beginning, tell me when this started.’
Corfe. It began with Corfe.
‘You were there. Of course! You were there.’ Relief flooded through him. Arbert would make sense of this. Oh, surely to God, he would, he must.
It was like a blooding to speak at last about the girl’s death at Corfe and all the coincidences since. ‘I’ve even told Alys about Adela,’ he confessed finally. ‘She didn’t mind. She understood.’
‘Adela! I know that name.’ The old man frowned. ‘Why, yes, there was an Adela with us on the journey. An English servant girl from the convent in Bordeaux. Dead now, I suppose, God rest her soul. I hope the brigands didn’t abuse her before they killed her. Helpful young woman, fair hair, blue eyes. Much like Lady Alys.’ He looked straight at Richart, his forehead creasing. ‘A strange coincidence, though. You don’t suppose it could be the same girl?’
‘The servant at Corfe was killed by the king’s hunting dogs, remember? You were there when the king told me.’
Drawing his lips together as he searched his mind, Arbert stared into the hearth, and then he drew a deep breath. ‘Well, my son, I wouldn’t say King John was the most honest man, I’ve ever met. Would you?’
Chapter Seventeen
Was ever any being so wretched? The higher you exalted me above other women, who envied me your affection, the more aware I am now of the loss of your heart. I was lifted to the peak of happiness only that I might have the more terrible fall.
Héloïse to Peter Abelard
Richart was standing alone in the chapel, waiting for her before the altar. The air was ripe with foreboding and something else she could not put a name to, as though the very walls were pressing to play confessor. She latched the door behind her.
He knew. By the stiff set of his shoulders, it was obvious. He grabbed the gold-plated cross from the altar and thrust it at her.
‘Swear upon the blessed cross that you are Alys FitzPoyntz.’
The metal was cold, the edges sharp against her fingertips. Now was the reckoning. This wonderful lover would become a heartless avenger. ‘Swear, madame!’
‘I cannot.’ She clutched the cross to her heart. Her eyes beseeched him. ‘My name is Adela de Handley and I served the queen at Corfe.’
The fear slowly left his face. Only the pain remained, pain impassioned with self-judgement for being beguiled by her.
‘Adela?’ His assessment swept her from head to foot as though he was seeing her for the first time. ‘Non! Non! The king said you had been killed by his dogs.’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord, it would have been better that way.’
Oh, she desperately desired his forgiveness. Instead, there was only incredulity in the eyes of the man she loved. ‘The huntsmen must have told a lie to hide their failure.’ She waited, but he gave no answer. His silence made her even more frightened. ‘The long and short of it is that I hid on a ship in Wareham harbour,’ she blurted out. ‘It … well, it set sail for Bordeaux before I could get ashore.’
‘So it was you I saw in Bordeaux?’
&
nbsp; She nodded unhappily. ‘In the marketplace, yes. I remember you staring at me.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Well, how gratifying that I am not sliding into lunacy.’ Then his anger exploded. ‘What am I, girl? A peasant’s daydream? The crock of gold at the end of your poxy rainbow?’
‘No, my lord!’ Her anguished protest hung in the air between them.
‘No, my lord?’ he mimicked. His mocking bow insulted her further. ‘Oh, forgive me, Adela! I forget I am speaking with a noble heiress.’
Dignity was all that was left to her. And her truth—even if he might not listen.
Still clasping the golden cross, she answered, ‘I tried to explain to Sir Tibaut the day you sent him to find us, my lord, but he would not listen. I was given fresh garments and invited to take a seat in the chariot with the other women. Before I knew it, I was being brought into Mirascon as Lady Alys. The people were cheering because you had ordered them to welcome me as your bride. You never asked who I was, either.’
‘What, you had no time in the chariot to say who you were?’
‘I thought they considered me one of Lady Alys’s tiring women.’
‘But you behaved as though you were Alys, asking after her dowry, speaking in Norman French.’
‘I am not an illiterate peasant, my lord Vicomte. I can both speak and write French and English as well as Latin.’ She was using her vanity as a buckler, but it was true.
‘Oh, an education bestows nobility, does it?’ he retorted. ‘Gives you a right to set yourself up as better than you are? Come, you cannot tell me there was no chink of opportunity since your arrival to tell us who you were. Devil take it, you have spent enough time with me to let me know the truth.’
‘I admit that, but … but you told me that unless you married Alys, the alliance would not protect Mirascon and hundreds of your people would die.’
‘But I would not have been marrying Alys, would I? Next instant you’ll be telling me you did not want to make a fool of me.’
‘I didn’t. You said that I was your only joy in a world that was descending into chaos.’
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