Enoch's Device

by Joseph Finley

  In the days leading up to the wedding, Alais had prayed that her sister would summon the courage of Saint Radegonde and flee. But Adeline never did. She married Renaud at the palace in Poitiers and left with him the next morning for Burgundy. Adeline had written letters since then (for their father had insisted early on that his daughters learn to read and write), but Alais found no joy in those letters, and each one troubled her more than the last. For as the years passed, Alais knew that her own time to wed was coming.

  Her time came three years later. The man’s name was Geoffrey, the lord of Selles-sur-Cher, and even though he was not rich, he was a cousin of Emma of Blois, and a supporter of the king. This made him suitable enough in her father’s eyes for the hand of his second daughter in marriage. The Lord of Selles was said to be thirty-four, more than twice her age. In Alais’ mind’s eye, he had already become an ogre—a Clothaire—before he ever arrived in Poitiers. Just the thought of him terrified her. Some days she prayed that when the time came, Saint Radegonde would give her the courage to flee and the miracle she would need to escape. On other days, her hope would fail. She would be better off drowning in the Clain than submitting to a man like Adeline’s Renaud. At times, anger overrode her sadness. Her father and mother had made this decision. They had robbed her of her chance for love, the love of her daydreams at Saint Radegonde’s tomb. True love.

  Alais would never forget the time she first saw Geoffrey. It was a cold day in late September, when the leaves had begun to turn. Geoffrey and three of his men had ridden to the palace gates. He wore a wool riding cloak over his mail vest, a broadsword at his waist, and heavy leather boots—hardly the pretentious clothing of a man like Renaud. And to her surprise, he sat his horse well and did not seem an onerous burden to the spirited roan charger. In fact, Lord Geoffrey looked rather trim, even slight, atop his mount.

  This was not at all what Alais had expected. Nor were his eyes. When he turned to look at her, she saw them: blue like the river beneath a bright sky. But he was old, and his nose was wide and crooked, as if it had been broken more than once. His cheeks were sunken, and his short-cropped beard was heavily flecked with gray. He looked her over, from her face to the toes of her sandaled feet, before opening his mouth to speak. But Alais had nothing to say to him. She wanted nothing to say. And before a word could escape his lips, she turned away and hurried down the narrow streets, back to Saint Radegonde’s tomb, for one last chance to summon the courage to make her own destiny.

  Hours later, the abbess found her, clinging to the relief of Saint Radegonde, her eyes red from sobbing. “You must go now, child,” the abbess had said. “You can pray for the saint’s protection, but you cannot defy your father’s will. He is outside with his men. You must go back.” Alais shook her head vehemently, but she felt worn. Broken. The abbess lifted her off the sarcophagus, and Alais’ dreams of courage evaporated.

  They were married the next day. In the dim and crowded cathedral, the somber rite seemed more funeral than wedding. That night, in one of the palace bedchambers, when he took her as his wife, she trembled and winced at the pain. She fought back the tears when she touched where he had entered her, and her fingers glistened with blood. But through it all, Geoffrey had been gentle, and the experience had been far from the violent ravishment she feared. Still, she felt nothing for this man who was her husband—only contempt for her father. And her mother. And, above all, for herself, for she was not the strong young woman she had hoped to become. She was no better than Adeline.

  Until one day when her courage returned on a muddy road near the Anglin River. The day her miracle happened.

  *

  It was the fourth day after Geoffrey’s party had left Poitiers following the wedding. Geoffrey and his men had stopped to water and rest their horses. The men were fretting about the dark storm clouds filling the sky and turning the bright fall day almost to night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the next village was still a full league away, perhaps more. For her part, Alais did not care if it poured all day and night, even if it should flood the land, as in Noah’s time, and drown these men whom she hardly knew.

  She had barely spoken to her husband, who seemed content to give her room. Maybe he was being kind, or maybe it was because he didn’t care for her at all—at least, until the sun set and he desired to have his way with her again. She knew she had not been a good wife. But why would she be, when she was not in love?

  The wind whipped up, rustling through the wheat fields bordering the road. Alais had no idea who farmed these lands, for there was no cottage or barn in sight. Just her and four foolish men worried about the rain. One of the horses’ shoe had come loose, and the four men gathered around it like young boys fixated on a new toy. She half hoped the horse might kick one of them in the face. But soon she found her gaze and her thoughts drifting over the wheat field, which rippled like waves on the sea. And then Alais saw her: the woman in white.

  Deep within the field, she seemed to float above the wheat like Christ himself on the Sea of Galilee.

  Alais’ first reaction was horror, as if she beheld some terrible apparition. But she stifled the cry that threatened to rip from her throat, and stared in awe at the ethereal figure in the distance. There was something about the figure—not ghostly, but regal. The folds of her white dress billowed, and her hair floated like spun silver on the breeze. She was slender yet tall and strong, like the statues the Romans had built of Diana or Venus. Like a queen.

  Like Radegonde.

  Alais trembled, and her heart began to race. She glanced back at the men. Not one of them noticed her. She felt the breeze calling her. She searched for the courage that until now had eluded her, but this time it was different. The woman in white beckoned her. Radegonde . . . This time, the courage was there, and summoning every ounce of it, Alais stepped off the road. She entered the field, brushing back the wheat stalks, each as high as her waist, and started toward the woman, who held Alais firmly in her gaze. Trepid steps hastened to a trot, then to a run. The wheat parted. Whether it was the wind or something else, she did not know. The woman stood just a few paces ahead. There was something about her—not only an unearthly beauty, but an agelessness.

  “Saint Radegonde?” Alais stammered.

  The woman said nothing but gazed at Alais as if she were measuring the worth of this scrawny girl who stood before her.

  “Have you answered my prayers?” Alais asked breathlessly.

  But the woman looked past her. Hooves pounded over the field.

  Alais glanced over her shoulder to see Geoffrey’s roan charger galloping through the wheat. Gripping its reins, he leaned forward in the saddle, like Clothaire himself.

  “Cover me with the wheat!” Alais shrieked. “Take me from here!”

  “Not now,” the woman said in a voice like the wind.

  “Please!” Alais sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

  The woman responded with a single word. “Choose.”

  Bewildered, Alais looked up, but the woman was gone as if, with her last word, she had vanished in the wind.

  Alais gasped. Geoffrey was nearly upon her. Her only instinct was to run. She bolted deeper into the field, yet the wheat stalks in her path no longer parted. Rather, their bristly beards caught at her clothing so that she must fight her way through.

  Behind her, hoofbeats thumped louder.

  She stumbled to the ground, certain that he would strike her or ride her down beneath his mount.

  The charger burst through a wall of wheat and was almost on her when Geoffrey reined it back. He dismounted, his face as stormy as the sky behind it.

  “Am I so terrifying to you that you would run off in the middle of nowhere?”

  Alais could not find the words to answer. Had he not seen the woman in white?

  “I am your husband!” he growled. “Your father gave me your hand in marriage. It is what he decided.”

  Sobbing, Alais shook her head. “It is not what I decided.”
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  “Perhaps, but in time . . . who knows? I will be faithful to my vows, Alais, and will always protect you.”

  “Should not marriage be for love?”

  “You may grow to love me.” Geoffrey reached out his hand to help her off the ground, but Alais recoiled.

  “I cannot love you.”

  “How do you know, when you have not tried?”

  The sky rumbled, and the rain came—a few wet drops at first, growing quickly into a seething torrent. It drenched Alais’ hair and dress and streamed down her face.

  “Come,” he said, forcing a smile, “before we both drown.”

  “I might prefer that,” she spat.

  Geoffrey sighed. “Alais, I will not take a wife by force. So if you cannot stand me, then so be it. I can take you back to your father. We could have our marriage annulled. I will swear the union was never consummated.”

  She looked at him in sheer bafflement. She could see in his eyes that he meant his words. But would the next time be any different? Indeed, might her father’s next prospect be a brute like Renaud, who would have beaten her in this field, rather than the man who offered her this humane choice? For that was what it was, she realized: a choice.

  Choose. The word echoed in her mind.

  She found herself struggling with this newfound freedom. Had Geoffrey been anything but kind to her? She looked into his eyes and saw the blue of a summer sky, not the darkness of the storm. Cautiously she took his hand and let him help her to her feet.

  Geoffrey lifted her into the saddle and began leading the horse back to the road. “When we reach the road,” he said, “just tell me which direction to turn.”

  One last time, Alais searched the wheat field for any sign of the woman in white, yet she saw nothing but sheets of rain. She rode in silence, deep in thought, until they reached the road, where Geoffrey’s three men-at-arms waited.

  She turned to her husband, whose face looked pained with anticipation.

  “Turn east,” she said. “Take me to Selles.”

  *

  As Alais followed Brother Thadeus up the broken path to the abbey, she realized how far things had come. Yet it still seemed like only yesterday when she awoke one April morning and found herself in a state she had never been: in love. Not the love of her girlish dreams, but a mature love—a realization that Geoffrey of Selles had become the most precious thing in her life. A man who adored her, honored her, who had lived up to the promise he made in that wheat field by the Anglin River—the place where she made the choice that changed her life. At the time, she had not known what brought her to that decision. A feeling, perhaps? Yet it was a decision she would never regret, even though her love for him now brought such sorrow.

  They passed through the open gateway in the abbey’s earthen wall and headed to the infirmary, a small stone structure set off from the cloister and surrounding buildings. When Geoffrey first became ill, he insisted the monks move him here. Alais had begged him to stay at their manor, where she could care for him, but Geoffrey refused to contaminate their marital bed, even though Alais had shown no symptoms of the terrible disease. Thadeus had suspected the disease was Saint Anthony’s fire, but he didn’t know for certain. Alais did not care about its name, only that it was killing the man she loved.

  Thadeus opened the infirmary’s narrow wooden door and led her inside. Gagging at the stench, she brought her hands to her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. “It’s getting worse, I know,” Thadeus whispered to her. “But it will pass in a moment.”

  She stepped into the cramped room. Prior Ragno was there, standing beside the bed. In it lay her husband, covered to his chest in blankets. Stained bandages wrapped his arms and hands, and the sores had spotted more of his face, around his cheeks and neck. Alais choked back a sob. It was spreading. Her eyes caught his, those beautiful blue eyes that were the windows to her husband’s soul.

  A tear ran down Alais’ cheek. He was wrapped in so many bandages that she could no longer see the tips of his fingers, but she took his hand nonetheless. Weakly he squeezed back.

  “My day is already brighter,” he said. His voice was thin and strained.

  “As is mine.” She smiled as warmly as she could bear.

  Geoffrey hesitated for a moment, as if choking on his next words. Finally, he said, “I may not be here much longer.”

  “Geoffrey,” she insisted, “don’t. The salves could work. You could get well.”

  He shook his head. “But if I don’t . . .” He coughed. “If I don’t, you must stay here, in Selles. I’ve sent word to King Robert. He knows of my condition. He will send men to protect you until you can take a new husband.”

  “Never,” she said. “I want no one else.”

  “But you deserve someone else. I was never able to give you a child. And you will need one, a son who can inherit these lands. They have belonged to my family since the days of Charlemagne. They are my legacy. I want them for you.”

  Alais felt the tears welling in her eyes. She nodded, then leaned forward to kiss the corner of his lips.

  Geoffrey closed his eyes for a moment. “There is one more thing,” he finally said, glancing at the two monks in the room. “Let us be alone.”

  “Of course, milord,” Thadeus said. Prior Ragno nodded reluctantly.

  When they were gone, Geoffrey reached for Alais with his other hand. To her surprise, he placed something in her palm: a chain with a pendant—one she had seen before.

  “I need you to keep this,” he said. “Like every lay abbot before me, I have protected it.”

  She let the pendant dangle from the chain. It was of dark metal but outlined with gold and strangely shaped, like a cross with a handle. And she knew that it was more than a mere bauble, for it was hollow at the bottom, with metal teeth.

  “This is your key,” she said.

  “You remember what it unlocks? It is the secret that I was sworn to protect since I came to rule these lands—part of a sacred oath taken from my father, and he from his, back to the early days of the Carolingian kings. Do you recall where it is hidden?”

  She nodded.

  “Then keep it safe, and let no one know about it unless you see this symbol again.”

  “I’ll keep it next to my heart,” she said, though she did not fully understand what he had meant. She placed the necklace around her neck and tucked the strange symbol beneath the neckline of her dress.

  Geoffrey lay there, his eyes smiling up at her from his ravaged face. “I will always love you.”

  “And I you, my love. And I you.” She embraced her husband and let the tears loose. As he wrapped his arms around her, she found herself uttering words under her breath. A prayer to Saint Radegonde, for Geoffrey.

  Because Thadeus was right: prayers were all she had left.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE MYSTERIES OF MAUGIS D’AYGREMONT

  From the stern of the Irish curach, Ciarán peered west, searching for any sign of the bishop and his ship. To the south, waves crashed against the cliffs of Antrim, which rose from the sea like the green-encrusted fortress of some ancient giant. For more than a day since fleeing Derry, Ciarán had seen no sign of the Frankish vessel, but fear of pursuit kept him on edge.

  “They likely sailed west, lad,” Merchant mac Fadden said, chewing on a rind of salt-cured pork. “Once the Foyle meets the sea, you can go east or west to head back to the continent. We went east, but let’s pray the Northmen don’t give us any trouble around Dublin. And while we’re at it, let’s ask that we not bump into those Franks when we reach the channel between Britain and France.”

  “I’ll feel better once we reach the Irish Sea,” Ciarán said.

  Merchant mac Fadden gave a slight nod. “Won’t we all.”

  Beneath the ox-hide hull covering the curach’s wooden frame, Ciarán could feel the undulation of the sea, and the knock of the oars in their locks. His habit seemed constantly damp and permeated with the smell of brine, though the morning sun pro
vided a hint of warmth. Ever since mac Fadden and his crew met Ciarán and Dónall a half league north of Derry, the six rugged oarsmen had rowed hard, resting only when the wind filled the curach’s sail and carried the light little craft like a leaf on a rushing river. Dónall sat alone in the curach’s bow, as he often had since their flight from Derry, staring at the sea and the sky as if beseeching the Heavenly Father for guidance.

  When not searching the horizon for the bishop’s ship, Ciarán sank into spells of melancholy, filled with sadness and guilt over his friends’ deaths. “It wasn’t your fault, lad,” Merchant mac Fadden had said. But Ciarán knew that it was. For none of this would have happened had he embraced his friends’ cause instead of lingering in the grove—the act that alerted Father Gauzlin to his presence. That act of indecision had also led to Dónall’s capture and the battle that ensued, all because Ciarán had defied his friends and doubted his mentor.

  But even in these restless moments, he wondered whether he could trust Dónall. For hadn’t his lies brought this about, too? Without that accursed tome, none of this would have happened. That book was the reason the bishop came to Derry, looking for whatever secrets it held—secrets that Dónall still kept to himself.