Adémar drank in the steamy air before speaking to the assembled monks. “Behold this ancient place and secrets long forgotten by men, since before the days of Rome.”
He led them through the curtain of steam. Beneath a canopy of bare branches, dead leaves carpeted the ground, mixed with the boney remains of small animals and birds that had lingered too long. In the center of the grove stood an ancient stone, an altar carved with druidic symbols and stained dark with ancient blood. The two monks holding the brazier set it on the altar and removed its lid. The coals within emitted a ghastly red glow. A third monk set the caged dove at the altar’s base as Gauzlin and the others encircled the altar, leaving Adémar alone in the center. The monks stopped their chanting, and in the silence, Adémar removed his habit and stood naked. Lucien stared breathlessly at his master’s perfectly endowed physique, like that of a statuesque Greek god. Runes painted on Adémar’s bare flesh ran up his back and chest, down his arms, and up his neck, forming ancient words in an ancient tongue.
“Make the circle,” he commanded.
Gauzlin drew his knife and slit the lamb’s throat. Then he handed Adémar the knife.
Carrying the dying lamb, Gauzlin encircled Adémar and the altar. Blood spilled from the lamb’s neck and hissed as it struck the warm ground. Then Adémar sprinkled a handful of wormwood onto the brazier’s coals. The poisonous herb crackled and flashed, and a tendril of smoke curled skyward as Adémar began a guttural chant. Reaching for the cage at the altar’s base, he removed the squirming dove. With a flick of the knife, he slit the bird’s breast, carved out its heart, and threw it on the coals. The brazier sizzled, and the air became electric. Glowing blue flames danced over the treetops, and the circle of lamb’s blood erupted into a wreath of fire. With each word of Adémar’s chant, Lucien could sense the power drawing toward the altar.
Still clutching the knife, Adémar stretched his hands broadly above his head, and his chant became an incantation:
I call you, spirits of the ancient world, Souls of gods and men, Queens of wrath and vengeance. Serve me now as sisters, For murder must be had!
Then Adémar slit the palm of his hand and squeezed his blood into the brazier. With a sudden jolt, the ground trembled. Lucien felt it in the pit of his stomach. Several of the monks backed away as, from the brazier, a column of red smoke hissed up toward the stars. The oaks creaked, as if the tips of their branches were grasping at the smoke.
“With my royal blood I summon thee!” Adémar commanded.
Come, Alecto! Come, Megaera! Come, Tisiphone! Our king, the Dragon, needs your aid!
The earth growled and rumbled beneath their feet. Above the grove, a red tempest swirled, churning with the brazier’s smoke as the circle of flames grew to an inferno. Some monks shielded their eyes; others stared in awe. Lucien’s heart pounded as he watched Adémar calling toward the night sky.
Then a collective voice answered—a ghastly shriek that echoed on the edge of the wind: “We come!”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
THE QUEEN SAINT
Alais strolled through the gardens of her ancestral home for the first time since leaving with Geoffrey for Selles-sur-Cher. Snow dusted the hedges and fruit trees, all the pomegranates, pears, and apples long since picked and stored in the root cellars. Herb bushes lined the gravelly paths, and the rich smell of coriander still lingered on the air. On the curtain wall that framed the garden’s western half, soldiers stood atop battlements, sunlight gleaming off their helms. Alais pulled her ermine-lined cloak tight about her as she spied the stems of a rosebush that she and Adeline had once cherished. Although the stems were winter bare, she well recalled the color of its blossoms: not red but a purplish pink, like the sweet wines of Beaujolais. Each spring, after the roses had bloomed, they would pick a flower and dream of marrying a prince, plucking each petal in games of he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not.
Oh, but how differently from their dreams things had turned out.
A door to the palace opened, and William emerged, attired in a lavish furlined cloak and overlong tunic. He gently embraced her and kissed her cheek. “How blessed am I to have such a beautiful flower returned to my garden!” he murmured.
She smiled. “Wherever did you learn such flattery?”
“I’d been hoping to find you,” he said as the cheeriness vanished from his face. “I want to know what really happened in Selles.”
Alais turned away. “I’d rather not talk of it.”
“You can be candid with me. And as duke of these lands and protector of the Touraine, I must know. Is it true you were to be burned as a witch?” He fixed on her eyes. “Alais, why would they think you guilty of such things?”
She felt a tear threatening. She could not bring herself to tell him what the bishop had done to her. Deep inside, that pain still felt like the cut of a jagged knife. William placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She thought quickly.
“They were hunting for heretics and suspected the monks of the abbey. They needed someone as an example.” Finally, she met his gaze. “Who better than the lady of Selles?”
William frowned. “Do you know if there was heresy at Selles? Monks can delve into many wicked things, you know. Was Geoffrey not vigilant in guarding against this evil?”
“Geoffrey was a good man,” she snapped. “How can you suggest that?”
“He was not the strongest of lords. He never marshaled a suitable force of men—always averse to the demands of nobility and content just to live on his little farm. A man lax toward his duties is often lax toward his subjects.”
“He was strong enough, and fair.”
“There is no room for fairness when it comes to punishing the enemies of God. But no matter. You shall be back there in no time, and then you can clean up the mess and root out this heresy.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “I’m staying in Poitiers.”
“Alais, I need to maintain my strength in the Touraine. And so does our cousin the king. I shall marry you to a more able husband.”
Alais felt as if her legs would buckle. “Who . . . ?”
“Not Raymond, although he would be most eager to receive that honor. But I can’t have him traipsing off to a farming village; I need him at my side. I’ll find someone else: a strong man, God-fearing—with money, of course.”
Her heartbeat quickened. A vision of Renaud exploded in her mind: his lecherous stare and his hoggish jowls dripping with grease.
“I have to go.” She brushed past William, feeling suddenly short of breath.
“Alais?” William called after her. “Surely you expected this!”
She didn’t answer. Her world was spinning, tilting, sliding away from her. How could this be happening again! She felt as if she were once again sixteen, confronted with her first arranged marriage.
“Alais!” William shouted. But she barely heard him as she bolted from the palace. Down the winding streets of Poitiers she fled, to the place that had been her sanctuary: to Saint Radegonde’s tomb.
*
A cluster of flickering candles in red glass jars lit the sanctuary, illuminating the graceful carving of Saint Radegonde on the stone lid of the sarcophagus. There, under the domed roof of the shrine, Alais thought and wept and prayed. She could not subject herself to another arranged marriage, yet William would force upon her a new Renaud, a new Clothaire. After the horrors at Selles—and the bishop’s vile assault—she had dreamed of peace and safety in Poitiers. Not this.
She rested her head against the saint’s face, her tears wetting Radegonde’s stone cheek. When the patter of sandals echoed down the stairwell, Alais looked up as a figure emerged. At first, she feared it was a ghost aglow in the flickering candlelight, hooded and draped in long, wispy robes. But as it came into the light, Alais saw that it was a woman, very old and almost preternaturally frail. The cowled figure spoke with a familiar voice.
“Alais? Is it you, dear?” The figure groped along the walls, with halting movem
ents.
“Abbess?” Alais asked breathlessly.
“Yes, it is I, dear. Can you help an old woman down the stairs? My eyes went some years ago, and my body’s a bit more fragile, but our Savior yet waits to call me from this world—I often wonder why.”
Tears of joy poured from Alais’ eyes. She rose to help the frail woman, who clung to her until her sandaled feet were firmly on the cold stone floor. The abbess patted Alais, feeling for her face and then caressing it as if she were seeing with her hands. “You’ve come back,” she said with a warm, toothless grin.
“To where I saw you last,” Alais replied. She embraced the old woman, and her story spilled along with her tears. She told of Geoffrey’s death and the murder of poor Thadeus, who had been so kind to her, and of the ravaging of Selles, omitting only her rape at the bishop’s hands. Perhaps not speaking of it made it seem less real. Alais described the miracle that saved her from the stake, to which the abbess replied that the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Alais mentioned her abduction by the monks of Saint-Bastian and her rescue at the hands of Lord Raymond and his men. Then she spoke of William and their confrontation, and wept some more in the abbess’s arms.
“Dear, dear,” the abbess said, stroking Alais’ hair. “You overcame this once. You can do so again.”
“But last time, I was given a choice,” Alais sobbed.
The abbess cocked her head. “Your father gave you no more choice than Duke William gives you now, yet you persevered.”
“No,” Alais said. “After the wedding, I fled from Geoffrey. In a field of wheat. That’s when I saw her: a woman in white, like an angel. Her feet floated above the ground! I begged her to shield me in the wheat, to hide me like the queen saint. But she wouldn’t. Instead, she told me to choose. Then, like the wind, she was gone. Yet when Geoffrey found me, he offered me a choice. He was willing to annul the marriage and return me here. I saw the goodness in him then, but the choice was mine. William offers no such thing.”
The abbess sat silent for a moment. “You speak of miracles. Where did this happen?”
“About four days east of here, in the Val d’Anglin.”
The abbess placed a frail hand on the saint’s visage. “Some believe that Radegonde’s miracle happened in the Val d’Anglin. Are you sure of what you saw?”
“Yes, Abbess. Do you think it was she?”
“That doesn’t seem possible. But then, nothing about miracles ever does. And now you tell of another miracle: this cyclone that saved you from the count of Anjou.” The old woman’s eyes were foggy and pale, yet the rest of her seemed invigorated. “When Saint Radegonde was saved from Clothaire, she found her calling and did great things for this convent and for Poitiers. She fought injustice and, at times, stood against the minions of the devil himself!”
Alais shook her head. “What are you saying?”
“That your purpose in this life may be greater than you believe,” the abbess replied. “You have already fled and been saved more than once. This time, you may have to stand against injustice and, like our queen saint, fight for what you believe is true.”
Alais breathed a long sigh and clung to the old woman. I don’t know if I can fight this battle, she thought in silence.
“Yes, you can, dear,” the abbess replied as if she could read Alais’ mind. “Yes, you can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE STREET OF THE JEWS
After the last Gregorian chant for the holy office of Nones, Prior Bernard eyed the two Irishmen shrewdly as the monks of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand filed from the dimly lit choir into the pale sunlight of the cloister. The rotund prior had positioned himself like a sentry at the door to the cloister, patting backs and whispering niggling reminders or petty criticisms to each monk who passed. Ciarán and Dónall were among the last to leave. Ciarán kept his head down, hoping to avoid the prior’s meddling, but concluded that it was futile. He had known a few monks like this at Derry, forever lusting to know everyone’s business, and the prior was no different. As the two Irishmen approached the doorway that stood open to the wintry air, a sneering smile spread between the prior’s fat, pink cheeks.
“Brother Dónall,” the prior said with more than a hint of disdain, “I’ve heard you plan to visit the Jewry.”
Dónall gave the prior a curious look. “Apparently, the monk we asked for directions saw fit to report this epic event.”
“The monks of Saint-Hilaire think ill of secrets, Brother Dónall. May I inquire why two Irish monks seek to cavort with Jews?”
Ciarán expected Dónall to lie, and he did. “Young Ciarán here has never seen a Jew,” Dónall explained. “We have none in Ireland, so I thought I’d contribute to his education while we’re in town.”
The prior grunted. “A paltry lesson it will be. You know, Brother Dónall, Canon Frézoul and I have often wondered whether we should rid Poitiers of the Jews.”
Ciarán blanched. Dónall glanced at him, and then a wry smile formed on his lips. “Christ was a Jew,” he pointed out, “and so were his twelve apostles.”
“The Jews murdered Christ,” the prior spat. “How can you think of them kindly? You’re aware, are you not, that the Antichrist will be born of the Jews. Adso of Montier proved as much in his letter to our late queen Gerberga.”
“Isn’t it curious,” Dónall said, “that the term ‘Antichrist’ appears nowhere in the book of Revelation. In fact, John of Patmos wrote only of the Beasts of the Apocalypse and the Whore of Babylon, but no Antichrist born of the Jews. And certainly you know that the early church fathers, who lived much closer in time to Christ than our good Adso of Montier, viewed the symbolism of Revelation as pertaining to the persecutions of the first century. Babylon was a symbol for Rome. The first beast was the Roman Empire, led by seven emperors, the likes of Caligula, Nero, and Domitian. And the second beast represented apostate Christians, who sought to turn true Christians to the heathen ways of Caesar. In other words, there was not a Jew among them.”
The prior’s lips pinched and his eyes narrowed, as if his brain was struggling mightily for a retort. After a moment, he growled, “Your views of scripture are very troubling.”
Dónall smiled. “We Irish have always had an irreverent point of view. Now, Prior, if you’ll excuse us, we have business in town.”
Prior Bernard fumed. And as Ciarán and Dónall started down the cloister, he called out behind them, “Young Ciarán, remember to look for the little horns atop the Jews’ heads.”
Ciarán barely glanced back. “They have horns?” he asked Dónall.
Dónall rolled his eyes. “Thomas and I knew a rather pretty Jewess back in Reims. Trust me: they don’t bite, and they don’t have horns.”
They found the exit to the cloister and walked briskly through the courtyard toward the abbey’s gatehouse. Now only a scattering of snowflakes drifted through the air, carried from tree limbs by the scarce breeze. Around them, monks attended to the inhabitants of the nearby animal pens, rousing a cacophony of squealing and bleating from the hogs and sheep. The courtyard stank of dung. “Was it true what you said about the early church fathers?” Ciarán asked hopefully as they neared the open gate. “If they were right, then maybe there is nothing to the prophecy.”
Dónall’s expression turned grim. “I fear that in less than twelve weeks, we’ll have the chance to test that theory ourselves.”
*
They climbed the hilly streets, looking every bit as ordinary as the other black-robed monks moving through the city of Poitiers. The streets’ labyrinthine arrangement reminded Ciarán of yesterday, but this time without horses to do all the work. The sludge-lined streets still gave off their stench of dung and refuse, which Ciarán had begun to see as the one common trait of every town in France. Traveling on foot did provide a slightly different perspective, however. For one thing, he noticed a mix of architecture, including some newer structures with slate roofs and wooden trim, and a few with jutting posts from which colorfully pai
nted signs hung. Other structures were decidedly older, such as the block-shaped Baptistry of Saint-Jean, with its narthex surmounted by a triangular Roman roof and supported by thick rectangular columns built of hundreds of stacked stones. Along many streets stood churches with lofty bell towers and high-arched vestibules. The hum of Gregorian chants echoed at times from the religious buildings, only to blend with the cluck of an occasional chicken pecking in the grimy sludge, the bark of stray dogs, and the music of daily life provided by hollering merchants, creaking wagon wheels, and clopping horses.
A myriad of Christmas wreaths hung from the doors of shops, houses, and churches—a reminder that the holiday honoring Christ’s birth was but four days away. It would be the first Christmas Ciarán had ever spent away from Derry, and the thought naturally resurrected memories of Niall and Murchad, and Fintan and his other friends. But Ciarán tried to force them from his mind and shut away the sorrow that followed those thoughts. Instead, he thought of Irish Christmas feasts: tables crammed with platters of steaming capon, bowls of rich Irish stew, baskets of honey-topped bannocks, plates of apples and nuts tossed with cinnamon, and cups of spiced Christmas mead. His stomach was almost growling for that feast by the time Dónall announced their arrival at the Jewry of Poitiers, which, as best Ciarán could tell, was no larger than a single narrow street crossed by a few even narrower alleyways.
The first thing he noticed about the Jewry was the absence of Christmas wreaths. But second was the sludge. It was more the color of snow than of refuse, and instead of the whiff of excrement in the air, he detected the aroma of chicken stew. The buildings were no different from most of the newer structures along the way. Many had wooden frames and thatched roofs, although a few had roofs of slate.
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