The magnificent town hall, a spacious building with high ceilings and large windows, offered a grand view of the river. A female servant took Madeleine to her room and a valet ushered the men to their quarters. Girard collapsed onto one of the down beds, still feeling, but only faintly now, the sway of the boat. As soon as his nausea passed, hunger began gnawing at his stomach. Robert, he knew, faced more than hunger. The woman, no doubt, intended to seduce him. Perhaps she hoped to catch him off guard by slipping into his bed while he slept.
“Dinner is served,” the servant announced at the door of the men’s room.
Peter, who had been reading a small quarto as he sat on his bed, looked up at the man. “Thank your lord for his generosity,” he said to the young man, “but we have our own food. If you could just bring us plates and a little water or wine, we’ll be fine here.”
Moriuht turned from his place by the window. “Surely today we shall have something more to eat beyond roots and herbs, won’t we Brother Peter?”
Suddenly Moriuht seemed a paragon of common sense to Girard.
“Suit yourself, Brother,” Peter replied, looking back at his book. “I’m satisfied with what we have.”
“Very well, we will have water and wine,” Moriuht said, rubbing his palms.
“If you change your mind,” the servant said, “there is food in the kitchen—veal pot pies and wastel bread.”
Girard’s heart dropped. He imagined breaking the crust of the pie open and releasing tender morsels of veal coated in gravy. Yet even as he trembled in anticipation of that first bite, he felt depleted, powerless against his own enormous appetite.
The servant returned with a carafe of wine, a pitcher of water, and three goblets. Peter poured merlot into three cups, diluting each with an equal amount of water. Girard watched with dismay as the hearty red wine blanched an unsubstantial pink. “Ah, I almost forgot!” Peter said. Taking two small pouches form his robe, Peter flavored his portion with dried fennel and a sprinkle of breadcrumbs before passing the pouches to Moriuht, who did the same. When Moriuht passed them to Girard, only tiny fragments of fennel and a dusting of breadcrumbs remained.
“You don’t need as much as we do,” Moriuht said as Girard reached for the goblet. “You have more in reserve.” Moriuht feigned lifting a heavy belly and laughed. Peter, having already downed his dinner, glanced up from his book and frowned.
That night Girard lay in bed consumed by thoughts of the nearby kitchen. Finally, the demons of gluttony took him over, and he rose from his bed.
“Where are you going, brother?” Moriuht whispered in the darkness.
“I… I must relieve myself,” he lied, wondering if Moriuht’s diseased gums kept him awake or if he just naturally slept the light sleep of a wild animal.
Moriuht grunted and rolled onto his side. Girard moved out of the room on tiptoes, trying not to waken Brother Peter, and sought the kitchen. He found the main room, which was bathed in moonlight, and began a methodical search, entering one doorway after another. Finally a swinging door opened unmistakably to his goal. Above a central cutting table, ghostly pots and pans hung in faint moonlight. Girard felt his way around the kitchen, sliding his hand along immaculate sinks and counter tops, until he came to a large pantry. He opened the door slowly, in deference to the squeaking hinges and because he wanted to prolong the exquisite pleasure of anticipation. The sight of four potpies sitting on a shelf filled Girard with contemptible desire. He reached towards one of them, held his arm in mid air and hesitated. But the scent of veal was irresistible. Not bothering to look for a knife or spoon, he tore into the pie with ravenous teeth, immersing his face in its entrails, sucking at the faintly warm veal. He finished one and took another. Looking for the wastel bread, he came upon custard tarts, tiny and tempting with raspberries nestled in their centers. He placed an entire tart in his mouth. Flaky, butter crisp gave way to creamy sweetness. He grabbed another and swallowed it whole, then another, and then one more.
Now, Girard thought, now I am satisfied. Even as he framed the lie, a surge of self-loathing dropped him to his knees on the cold marble. Amidst the dirty dishes, the crumbs of his feast, the smell of berries, veal and grain, Girard bowed his head and mumbled the comforting automatic words of confession: “Bless me Father, for I have sinned…” Before he left the kitchen, he destroyed all evidence of his presence, swept the floor of crumbs and cleaned the pie tins. Turning to leave, he slipped a palm-size custard tart into the pocket of his robe.
No sooner had William departed for the Holy Land than a messenger from the west arrived to inform Philippa that Eblo of Châtelaillon, against the express orders of the Pope, had seized the Mouillepié marsh and half the isle of Oléron, both of which belonged to the monks of Saint Maixent.
“Please wait,” she instructed the messenger, hastily composing a note to her brother-in-law.
Several hours later, the messenger returned to the palace. “Sir Hugh is absent on a hunt,” he announced. “None of his servants know how to locate him.”
Anger welled up inside of Philippa. At the very least Hugh could have told his servants where his party planned to hunt! She frowned and her breath quickened. Will began to cry. As she considered her next move, she crossed her arms and pressed them against her chest to keep her milk from spilling. “Wait here,” she told the messenger. After ringing for a scribe, Philippa instructed him to prepare two missives, one to Herbert of Lusignan and one to Fulk of Angers. They will know what to do, she reassured herself before hurrying to her son. Upstairs she untied her gown and took the squalling Will from the nursemaid’s arms. Sensing his mother’s tension, Will fussed at Philippa’s breast, turning his head from side to side before clamping down hard on nipple.
“Ouch!” Philippa cried.
Startled, Will opened his mouth and howled.
“Shh, my sweet,” she whispered, but some time passed before he calmed enough to nurse.
The following morning, Philippa received word that both Herbert and Fulk were away from their palaces, Herbert in the south preparing to cross into Spain, Fulk in Paris negotiating with the king.
In desperation, she ordered Ponce and Gautier to gather what men they could. Then, Philippa turned her son over to a wet nurse and, in an audacious move that shocked her aunts, announced that she would lead an army to the coast.
Over the next few days twenty knights and dozens of foot soldiers gathered at Pré-le-Roi, a vast plain stretching below the city walls. From the palace window Philippa surveyed their colorful banners. Astounded by their beauty and terrified by the task before her, she laid one hand across her queasy stomach and whispered, “What have I gotten myself in to?”
Sibyl, who had risen early to supervise packing, joined Philippa at the window. “Did you say something, dear?”
Determined to hide her trepidation, Philippa straightened her shoulders and smiled. “See the blue flag with dark horizontal bars? It identifies Aimery of Thouars’ followers.”
“Why there are scores of foot soldiers!” Sibyl said.
Philippa nodded. “The red shield belongs to Hubert the Devil,” she said, pointing to the middle of a sea of shields bearing chevrons, crosses, gauntlets and lions.
“What’s in the two wagons?” Sibyl asked.
“Food, equipment and armament.”
At the mention of armament, Sibyl’s thumbs began nervously brushing her fingertips. “Oh dear! I do hope you’re making the right decision.”
The whinnies of the knight’s horses and the loud banter of the foot soldiers climbed the small mountain and echoed off the walls of the palace. Philippa’s heart pounded with nervous excitement. “It’s time,” she declared. Having said her goodbyes the previous evening, she had only to kiss her aunt’s cheek before descending the palace stairs and stepping aboard her waiting wagon, a covered conveyance similar to the one that transported her from Toulouse
to Poiters.
After Philippa reached the plains, the driver reined the horses while the assembled knights and foot soldiers fell into ranks. The clank of armor and the buffet of wind-whipped banners underscored the contingent’s silence. Rising to her feet, Philippa addressed her soldiers. “I commend you for your prompt response to this crisis and thank you for your loyalty and service to Duke William,” she declared, in a commanding voice pitched loud for the rearguard to hear. The soldiers cheered, lifting their banners and brandishing their shields. Hubert the Devil’s horse reared up on hind legs, pawing the air and agitating the other horses that pulled at their reins. “Onward!” Philippa yelled, her heart pounding. Taking her seat beside the driver, she said a quick prayer for the safety of her troops before telling the driver to proceed.
More men joined the small band in Niort, and by the time they reached the coast a fortnight later, Philippa’s army had swelled to one hundred knights and over a thousand foot soldiers.
Eblo’s main force occupied the island while a smaller contingent remained in the marshes to the north. She knew her own men could not take Oléron without suffering heavy casualties crossing the channel, and the marsh of Mouillepié was equally dangerous, especially for the knights weighed down with heavy armor. So she made a decision that was later considered ingenious: She struck at Eblo’s home, Châtelaillon itself, whose castle lay between the marsh and the island. Thinking Philippa would attempt to retake the island, Eblo had foolishly left it unguarded—only a few ill-equipped household servants put up a feeble struggle. After taking the stronghold, Philippa and her army took Eblo’s wife and small children hostage, leading them back to Poitiers.
Eblo immediately agreed to terms: he would return the island and the marsh to Saint Maixent, and he would make annual donations of 500 sous in reparation for his destruction of the church of Saint George, located on Oléron. Once the compact was signed, Philippa returned his family to him.
Having heard news of his sister-in-law’s success at Oléron, Hugh returned to Poitiers. He was not angry at her preemptive move but, rather, childishly relieved that he had not been called upon to make a decision or issue a command.
Philippa, on the other hand, was exhilarated with her success. Lords and ladies praised her exploits, especially since she had brought the proud Eblo to his knees without sacrificing the life of a single man.
But her joy was short lived, for soon after she was called upon to settle another dispute, this time between two brothers, Ebbon and Gelduin of Parthenay. Before William left for the Holy Land, he had helped Gelduin take the fortress of Germond from his brother, but Ebbon now was threatening to retake the citadel. So again, with the assistance of Ponce and Gautier, Philippa mustered an army and marched west. Some of her men managed to enter the castle and fortify it against Ebbon, who had laid siege to it, but when Ebbon grew weary with the prolonged standoff, he ordered his men to mine the towers and set them on fire. After the towers fell, Ebbon’s army stormed the citadel, and many men were killed, including Ebbon’s brother. Fearing more carnage, Philippa commanded her men to retreat.
This defeat was sobering. She now understood more fully the meaning of power, the ability to shed blood, inflict pain, and end life. Gelduin’s wife was now a widow, his children orphans. If she had managed the situation differently, might Gelduin still be alive? William, she realized, did not simply revel in power. He also faced hard decisions, life-and-death choices, with consequences that affected an entire province and the men and women in it, from serfs to aristocrats.
Whereas previously she had envied her husband’s position, now she respected and admired his skills. She continued to rule, but cautiously, striving to emulate William’s grave and officious manner whenever she was called upon to ratify a contract or confirm a donation.
Philippa and her small son and aunts often spent weeks traveling from one dependency to another, moving their entire household, tapestries, tables, even William’s favorite bloodhound, for lengthy stays at the residences of various vassals, who were obliged to feed, house, and entertain the lady and her party. That first winter, Philippa successfully managed both household and estate.
Of course, sometimes Philippa’s heart would not cooperate with her mind. In the midst of business she would get waylaid by a desire to hold Will. Many a day ended with a headache and a queasy stomach. And yet, she persisted, for she saw no other choice.
Then, following a small success in quelling a rebellion in Saint Macaire, she grew more confident of her ability to rule. Instead of destroying the city and its castle, as she may have easily done with her superior forces, she offered the rebel barons generous terms, which they accepted. She discovered that whereas William ruled by fear, she could be just as effective by using subtle negotiation. This skill, she realized, she had gleaned from watching her father, who always preferred conciliation over confrontation, and to this style she added a feminine touch, cajoling men into harmonious interaction which, more often than not, resulted in a settlement of interests and restoration of trust and goodwill.
Sibyl and Sophie, however proud they may have been of their niece’s successes, cautioned Philippa to rein in her masculine tendencies.
“You may be mistaken for a witch, or worse,” Sibyl admonished in her high stilted voice.
“What could be worse?” Philippa laughed, for she had learned that Sibyl’s alarmist comments were best handled with humor. “Except perhaps to lose my husband’s estate.”
She did not intend to be rude. Her aunts were kind, compassionate women she loved dearly but not beyond reason. She had begun to suspect that wealth of experience and not age alone contributed to wisdom, and because her aunts led constricted, parochial lives dependent upon male relatives and parish law, Philippa questioned whether or not their opinions were any more valuable than her own. For while Sophie and Sibyl were loyal and loving companions, neither had given birth or known the exquisite intimacy and daily challenges of raising a child. Nor had they managed a household as large as Philippa’s.
Sophie, her fierce composure as compelling as ever, cautioned, “Power is addictive.”
“But,” Philippa explained, “I have no interest in attaining power! I am only acting as William’s regent in his absence.”
Sophie frowned, a lock of runaway hair crossing her forehead.
“Women are held to a higher standard than men. To pretend otherwise is to dabble in self deception,” she admonished. Then, looking looked deep into Philippa’s eyes, she stated flatly, “Do not forget, little one, that pride goeth before a fall.”
Despite the distraction of a growling belly, Girard felt drawn to the stark beauty of Poitiers. The towers and steeples of the white city rising on a hill formed a perfect backdrop for the flock of skylarks darting the pale sky. The narrow cobbled streets were immaculate and empty except for the occasional shopkeeper raising shutters or maidservant heaving slop into the central gutter. Philippa’s palace, a stone structure with four powerful towers, was situated on a hill in the center of the city.
Girard surprised himself by keeping pace with the others in the party of five as they trudged up the steep incline. Although breathless, hungry, and limping in pain, he ignored his physical discomfort, focusing his attention on the stunning grandeur of the building. Atop the east tower a flag bore William’s coat of arms, a gold lion rampant on a sea of red. A porter appeared to direct them to a warm parlor next to the foyer.
A great tapestry of horsemen riding to battle, spears and banners erect, covered the wall above the hearth. The horses had the faces of strange beasts, and riding behind was an ecclesiast, a bishop perhaps, wearing a precious miter and carrying a crosier in his hand. A slender young woman with hair the color of churned butter entered the room and greeted the exhausted pilgrims with gracious, if reserved, hospitality. She wore an amber-colored silk gown and an embroidered pelisse fastened at the neck with a broach.
Moriuht, reeking of clove oil and wrestling to keep his enormous energy in check, shifted his weight from foot to foot. Peter, an ascetic’s inward glance smoothing his face, swayed slightly in silent, self-contained prayer while the perpetually distracted Madeleine lifted her hand to a scatter of dust motes riding a beam of light.
“Thank you, Master,” she said. Her eyes teared, but she remained composed and cordial. “Some time ago I heard you preach a sermon at the Cathedral of St. Sernin, and have wanted to meet you ever since,” she said. And though she smiled, she appeared stunned with grief.
For the first time in his life, Girard felt compelled to console another. He examined the other pilgrims and found them oddly unmoved. “I’m humbled by your kind words,” Robert said.
“My maid tells me you have brought a missive with you from my cousin,” Philippa said.
Girard’s joints ached and his right heel throbbed painfully. He longed to sit somewhere quietly with his feet up, and yet he needed even more to hear the lady’s words.
“Yes, my lady,” Robert said, withdrawing the letter from his pocket and placing it in Philippa’s hand.
“Thank you. I shall read this after I attend to your needs,” Philippa said. “You must be tired from your journey. Please sit,” she said, indicating an arrangement of chairs and stools before the fireplace. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat and drink?”
Girard’s stomach growled in response. He cleared his throat and shushed his feet against the tile, a move that sent a stab of pain from his heel to his groin.
“We thank you for your hospitality, but I would first like to offer my prayers for the soul of your father,” Robert said.
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