A look of fear pinched the innkeeper’s features, and he caressed his whittled cross until he regained his composure. “The parish curate agreed with the servants. But whether it was bad faith or bad grain that caused the trouble, you fine folks needn’t worry,” he said with false cheerfulness. “I have heard of Robert of Arbrissel’s sanctity and of the good Christian souls accompanying him on his pilgrimage and, of course, at this Inn we are careful with the preparations of all our meals, serving nothing but the best! Besides, only a fool would fail to recognize the bitter sting of tainted grain. Now then,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron, “if anyone has a change of heart, the suckling is crisp and tender.”
“This,” Peter said, passing his hand over the plank table, “will suffice.”
The innkeeper nodded, poured the wine, and retreated with the empty trays.
Bowing his head, Peter began to sing a sorrowful chant, his deep mournful voice rising to quivering perfection, “captivatis morti datis mater natis dedit gratis vitae bravium…”
Girard quickly translated the Latin in his head: Exiled, captive, given to death, the mother gave the gift of life to the sons… The sorrowful lament about Mary and Jesus seemed an odd choice to sing at table.
Even without knowing the meaning of the Latin verse, Madeleine’s eyes filled with tears at the power and the purity of Peter’s song. After Peter had sung the last note, Moriuht, his parted lips revealing inflamed gums and a scarcity of teeth, slammed his palms against the tabletop with an exuberance that caused the wine to climb the sides of the goblets. “Oh, but you have a fine voice, Brother Peter! Fine as any troubadour!”
Peter’s mouth pinched into a small ascetic smile. “Now let us pray.”
The four bowed their heads and offered up thanks for God’s bounty. Girard swallowed a small draught of wine, the hearty cabernet spreading through his body and filling him with warm resolve. He, like Master Robert, would offer up his hunger as an act of devotion, starving his body and feeding his soul. Robert, recognizing Girard as a man of unusual sanctity, would hail him as a valiant soldier of Christ and together the two men would found the abbey of Robert’s vision!
But, sadly, the needs of the flesh prevailed. His appetite ignited by the first sip, Girard gulped the whole of the tasteless soup, greedily consuming the trencher with such haste that he barely noticed the spicy tang of caraway seeds. His hunger blunted, he wiped his mouth and recited a silent prayer of contrition that was interrupted by a casual glance from Madeleine. She just as quickly looked away.
How dare she judge me! Girard thought. Robert had spoiled her and all the other women in treating them with the same respect afforded men. Righteous anger knotting his belly, Girard turned his hatred to the one who had born witness to his shame. He would hate her long and hard.
“I shall never fit into my wedding gown,” Philippa told her maid, “no matter how tightly wound the binding cloth.”
“Oh, but you must!” Emma said. “Ladies always wear wedding gowns to their post confinement ceremonies! Don’t you worry, my lady. I’ve eased the seams a bit. Here we go,” she said, sliding the gown over Philippa’s head and fastening the plackets. “Perfect! Now all that’s left is the veil.” Emma said, securing the simple but costly netting with a half dozen hairpins and a silver comb. “You look lovely!” she declared, just as the first guests arrived.
Accompanied by William, her aunts, and a handful of family friends, Philippa descended the hill from the palace and walked in silent procession to Saint Radegund Church. The snug gown forced her to take shallow breaths while the veil blurred her view of William’s face. The previous evening, as they sat before the fire, William had scolded Philippa, telling her she spent too much time coddling her child at the expense of her supervision of the household.
Philippa had apologized for her negligence and promised that she would be more attentive to her duties, but she suspected the real source of her husband’s anger lay elsewhere. William wanted many sons to carry on his lineage and assure the continuation of the House of Aquitaine, and the prohibition against having sex with a nursing woman disrupted his plans. Even when Philippa’s mother-in-law’s offered to procure the services of a wet nurse so that Philippa might be more available to her husband, Philippa stood by her decision to nurse her son, at first because Wallada insisted and later because she had grown to love the drowsy intimacy of baby Will against her breast. She reassured herself that a good mother considers what’s best for her child before conceiving another.
A priest handed Philippa a lit candle on the steps of the church. Entering the vestibule, she knelt just as Abbot Raynaud arrived. Sprinkling her with holy water in the form of a cross, he prayed, “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.” Offering Philippa the left extremity of his stole, he led her into the church. “Enter thou into the temple of God,” he said. “Adore the Son of the Blessed Virgin Mary who has given thee fruitfulness of offspring.”
Philippa and her party followed Raynaud down the nave to a set of narrow stairs descending into the dark crypt. While the others fanned out against the walls, Raynaud directed Philippa to an austere stone sarcophagus set atop a raised foliated platform in the center of the room.
The casket bore the ragged edge of the stone mason’s chisel. Philippa trailed her hand across the granite, admiring the splinters of feldspar, mica flecks and forking veins of quartz. Six monks entered the crypt, surrounded the tomb and, in response to the Abbot’s nod, lifted the stone lid.
“Pray to the holy Saint Radegund,” Raynaud said, “ask her to intercede for you and your child’s benefit.”
Philippa knelt before the Saint, lifted her veil and looked at Radegund’s uncorrupted body, seeing beyond the sunken nose and drawn cheeks of the leathery face to the beauty that had once led holy Fortunatus to sing hymns of praise. “Oh Lady,” she prayed, “thou who hast lived in this world, brought a piece of the Holy Cross to this monastery, pray on my behalf to Christ and Our Father, to the Holy Spirit and the Virgin, for my benefit and my son’s. May he grow to be a good Christian,” she said in the passionate voice of a true believer. Since giving birth, Philippa had grown more calm and reflective. Now that William seldom visited her chambers, she often read the Bible at night. Lulled to sleep by the glory of the Word, she awoke each day feeling renewed and prepared to meet the challenges inherent in raising a son.
At the close of the ceremony, Philippa lowered her veil and exited the church with her eyes focused on her feet, for Sibyl had warned her that should Philippa see anyone of evil character or physical defect, dear Will might thus be afflicted. Climbing the hill to the palace, she recalled Saint Radegund’s exquisite beauty and realized that even a nun could be both fair and powerful.
The following week, a mere seven weeks after Philippa had given birth to his son, William prepared to lead a band of knights and a sea of pilgrims to the Holy Land. Now that he had a male heir, he was eager to travel. Before embarking on his crusade, William requested that Philippa oversee a mid-day banquet, a grand affair attended by two score guests. Six trestle tables set with gilded plates, silver cutlery, and voluptuous bouquets lined the walls of the great hall. Servants poured water from pewter ewers shaped like knights on horseback. The butler carried in carafes of wine and the Duke’s musician plucked his viol and strolled around the tables singing. Boson, Count of Marche, sat across from his enemy Guillaume Taillefer, a mighty man whose powerful arms were legendary. He would later kill Boson during the siege of Confolens. Aimery of Thouars, an effete gourmand, fed candied pork to his pretty wife, of whom he was overly fond. He would one day be murdered under suspicious circumstances. Also present were a smattering of prelates.
While most clergy wore simple black robes, the laymen arrayed themselves in narrow tunics fashioned from sumptuous materials dyed blue, yellow, crimson, and purple. Wide sleeves covered their wrists and exaggerated trains trailed the floor behi
nd feet shod in fashionable pigaches, pointy shoes that curved at the toes. Many of the men were clean-shaven—in the latest Parisian style—and the women wore their long hair twisted and crimped into elaborated styles.
A crisp roast goose, well-seasoned mutton, partridge powdered with rose sugar, and a white wine of exquisite taste and unusual transparency were served. The centerpiece of the feast, a whole glazed boar’s head garnished with purple banners and white day lilies, rested on a gold-rimmed maple platter surrounded by fruit jellies molded into the shapes of lions and eagles.
William stood and proclaimed, “My brother Hugh has agreed to conduct my affairs while I am away.” The guests, many of them Hugh’s comrades, nodded their approval, some clanking tankards as they shouted, “Here! Here!” in thunderous discord.
Hugh and Philippa were seated on the high dais on either side of William. Behind and above them hung a tapestry depicting the New Jerusalem, which bore an uncanny resemblance to King Philip’s royal residence in the heart of Paris. Crenellated walls, rising towers and steepled turrets surrounded the small golden city. At its center rose a church, hardly larger than a chapel. Below it swirled a turquoise, saffron-striped river. Hugh stood to salute his friends. From the floor it must have appeared as if he were part of the tapestry’s indigo landscape.
Hugh’s face was drawn and coarse-skinned, and he suffered from gout. His dissolute life had aged him prematurely. He devoted his nights to drink, debauchery, and dice, and slept most days until late afternoon. And yet, he captivated men and women alike with his hearty laugh and boyish charm. After Philippa gave birth to Will, he presented Philippa with a single rose and Will with a silver cup inscribed with the family coat of arms. She recalled these kindnesses when, tipsy with wine, Hugh addressed those sitting below.
“It is my honor to rule my brother’s provinces while he follows the cross to the Holy Land. I promise to fulfill my pledge to protect all his possessions, including this fine palace and his pretty wife.” Hugh raised his tankard as though prepared to make a toast, then clumsily brought it to his lips and drank deep. His companions followed his lead, rising to their feet and bringing their drinks to their mouths.
From the beginning the arrangement left Philippa uneasy. Hugh had no experience managing practical matters and none of the personal assets necessary to conduct William’s affairs or protect his holdings. Although to even think it was absurd, she felt in her heart that she would make a better regent than Hugh. She knew much more about William’s concerns than Hugh did. She had sat beside him during tedious official functions and witnessed many an agreement of reconciliation. But as a woman, a nursing mother at that, her knowledge of William’s estate and her ability to manage his affairs were not relevant. In deference to expectations and in the interest of matrimonial harmony, she listened silently to her husband’s words, a mask of obedient concern affixed her face.
After the guests departed, William pulled two chairs before the fire and indicated that he would like to speak with her. While she waited for William to pour himself another glass of wine, Philippa thought about a young prelate she had spoken to at the banquet. After complimenting her on the delicacy of the meal and quality of the wine, he had spoken in glowing terms of Robert of Arbrissel, the very man she had heard preach at the Cathedral of St. Sernin the month of her betrothal. She recalled how the priest’s voice—a magnificent instrument of God—had moved her, and she wondered if William might consent to Robert performing their son’s baptism.
Wine goblet in hand, William took the chair beside Philippa, interrupting her musings by explaining that Herbert of Lusignan and Fulk of Angers would come to Hugh’s aid should he need them. “And, of course, Hugh can always call upon Ponce and Gautier should any emergency arise,” William added.
Philippa bit her tongue and did not say what he must already know, that while Ponce and Gautier were strong, reliable men, well trained and eager to serve, household guards needed the direction of a self-assured Lord. Dear, sweet Hugh was ineffectual. He could not organize a hunting party on his own let along command the attention of soldiers.
“I doubt either of these contingencies is necessary,” William continued, in a hearty voice meant to reassure the both of them. “Most of the troublemakers have left Aquitaine for the Holy land. Why do you think Urban called for this crusade to begin with?”
It did not surprise her that William suddenly shifted his talk to a consideration of papal motivation. He was more comfortable expressing political opinions than he was pondering the messy vagaries of family dynamics.
Their son, abed in the nursery, cried out in hunger, his voice rising and falling in visceral, howling impatience.
Most mornings she loosely bound her breasts, placing linen squares over each nipple before wrapping her chest in a length of thick flannel, but this morning she had foregone such precautions. Now she watched in dismay as her milk let down and stained her bodice.
“The babe is hungry,” she said, quietly interrupting her husband’s discussion of the pope. But William ignored her implicit request and continued speaking. She sensed a nervous energy that had not been present during the banquet.
“Urban,” he said, answering his own question, “encouraged the holy crusades because he wanted to rid the West of landless knights with too much time on their hands.” He lifted his wine glass, as though toasting his own insight. “I,” William said, in a boastful voice, “have been asked by several such knights to act as their leader.” After he drained the goblet, he noticed Philippa’s wet bodice.
“Take care of yourself,” William said. His face registered the same distaste as when he instructed a servant to clean up dog vomit.
Philippa rose from her chair and walked demurely past William. Once she cleared his sight, she took the nursery stairs two at a time. As she hurried towards her son, she prayed that her fears were unfounded and Hugh would prove worthy of his brother’s trust.
After spending the night slumbering on straw pallets, the five travelers took a skiff down the Loire as far as Candes-St-Martin. They sat closely together—Madeleine, Robert and Peter on the windward side, Girard and Moriuht on the leeward. The boatman steered from the stern using his oar as a rudder. Almost immediately Girard grew nauseous. Holding tight to the gunnel, he looked up at a milky blue sky swimming to and fro.
“I feel a change in the weather,” Moriuht said to no one in particular. He rubbed clove oil onto his gums and placed the medicinal vial into a deep pocket sewn into his animal skin robe. “Enjoy the sunshine while you may.”
“Are you a prophet then?” Girard hissed. Queasy in both body and soul, he felt an unholy desire to offend.
“I see no clouds or other signs of inclemency,” Peter said.
“Oh well, perhaps you are right,” Moriuht conceded in a cheerful voice. Leaning precariously over the side, he cupped his hands and scooped up river water. The man drinks, Girard thought, with the snuffling sounds of a rooting boar.
After a while, Moriuht and Peter fell asleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the skiff, and Girard turned his attention to Robert and Madeleine.
“The Loire is as clear and calm as a font of holy water,” Robert said to Madeleine.
Girard marveled at Robert’s ability to see the best in all things, for while the water was clear and calm, it also carried the bracken stench of dying willows and dead fish.
The slumbering Moriuht’s shoulder brushed Girard’s. He winced and slid sideways on the seat. Moriuht sighed and immediately took ownership of the newly created space, his muscled thigh settling snugly against Girard’s. Attempting to distract himself from the loathsome creature’s touch, Girard focused on the deep echoing croak of a distant chough, the whoop of a shorebird, the whisper of wind rustling the hollow-stemmed rush lining the riverbank. Knowing that Robert must hear this same music filled him with the bliss of shared intimacy. His breathing slowed, the
warmth of the sun settled against his shoulders and he grew suddenly calm. Just before drifting off to sleep, Girard blessed Robert and struggled to relinquish all jealousy.
They reached Candes-St-Martin in the late afternoon. The land rocked like the river as the five tried to walk. Having received news that Robert of Arbrissel was passing through their territory on his way to see the Duchess of Aquitaine, a group of men and women awaited their arrival. As Madeleine and the three men gathered their belongings from the boat, Robert approached the crowd.
One of them, a pockmarked woman with berry-tinted lips, stepped forward with a sway of her hips. “Please, Master Robert, won’t you spend the night at my house?” She smiled, and a dimple appeared on her right cheek.
“I would be honored,” he replied.
The mayor, a portly man of rigid bearing, moved toward Robert. “Master Robert, you do not wish to stay with this woman. She is… not fit for the company of a man such as yourself. Come now, you and your friends must stay at my quarters in the town hall, where there is plenty of room and good food.”
Girard prayed that Master would accept the man’s generous offer.
“But the young woman offered me lodgings first,” Robert replied kindly to the man, “and I have accepted.”
A cleric with a sputtering lisp and hunched shoulders, spoke up. “Surely a holy man should not sleep under the same roof as a whore. Think of the danger to your soul.”
“She is in greater danger than I,” Robert said, “for she will suffer eternal damnation unless she repents and is saved.”
Robert turned to the town mayor. “But my companions here would be most grateful, I am sure, of your hospitality.”
Girard felt a wave of gratitude, not toward the pompous mayor, but toward Robert for allowing them to spend the night in the comforts of the town hall.
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