A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  A sad, sweet expression lit Philippa’s face. “How very kind you are, Master Robert. But wouldn’t you rather rest a bit first? You’ve been traveling for days. You must be very tired.”

  “Brother Girard suffers from a stone bruise. I’m sure he would be grateful for a chair. As for the rest of us, let us pay homage to your father first. Then we’ll relax in your hospitality.”

  Accompanied by Peter, Madeleine, and Moriuht, Robert descended the hill to Montierneuf monastery to pray for the soul of Philippa’s father. But at Robert’s insistence, Girard stayed behind in the care of the kind lady.

  Philippa indicated that Girard should rest by the fire. Settling into the satin cushions, he sighed with gratitude.

  Philippa rang for a maid. “Bring our guest sweet bread and honey. And if there’s any soup left from last night’s meal, bring a bowl of soup as well.”

  The soup looked exquisite. Sops of bread bobbed deliciously amidst cumin and clove seasoned chicken broth thick with chickpeas, carrots and potatoes. Girard mumbled a prayer of thanks and consumed the lot without hesitancy or embarrassment before devouring a loaf of bread. Only after he was sated did he speak.

  “I cannot control my hunger,” he said, glancing with distaste at his protruding belly.

  Philippa did not respond, except to look into his eyes and nod encouragement.

  “The night of my father’s funeral feast was the first time I ate to excess,” he said and rested his short arm on his belly, reasoning that if she were to hear it all, she might as well see it all. He had never spoken so freely, never revealed his own fears and frailties, and yet with this woman he could. “That night,” he explained, “I knew for the first time the enormous hunger that would control my life.”

  Girard did not discuss his father’s disgust or his mother’s guilty love or what either had to do with hunger. But even without the messy details, he felt that Philippa understood the emotional truth of his life. Whereas Madeleine agitated his body, Philippa settled his soul and focused his mind on a comfortable place between insight and resolve. Girard felt as though a unity of purpose bound him to her in some inexplicable but permanent way.

  “Your words touch me deeply, Brother Girard,” Philippa said, running her hands the length of her sleeves and leaning closer to the fire. Sighing, she reached out and touched Girard’s crippled arm. He did not flinch or pull away. “To live is a constant struggle, but it helps to know someone else has sorrowed as I have,” she said in hushed tones. Removing her hand, she leaned back into the chair and took a deep breath. “My father was mortally wounded in battle and died before last rites could be administered. In addition to mourning his death,” she said, grasping the arms of the chair, “I mourn the deaths of the men that I, myself, led in battle.” She paused and brought her fingers to play against her throat.

  Girard shifted in his seat. “Even as we speak, Madame, Robert and the others pray for your father’s soul. Rest assured I will pray for all the good men lost in battle. Prayer,” he added, “has saved many an anguished soul. Were it not for my own heartache, I doubt I would have discovered my calling.” As soon as he spoke the words he knew them to be true, for only after his father died did Girard fully realize how much he longed to be part of a religious community. “Perhaps my lady would find a similar comfort in prayerful contemplation of our Lord?”

  Philippa relaxed her grip on the arms of the chair. “I have often taken comfort in the Lord’s words,” she said. “Only lately, I can’t seem to focus on their meaning.”

  “In the midst of mourning, we all feel the same,” he said. “But if the Spirit of God is at home in you, you will once again know peace.” Girard, who had never spoken with such heart-felt fluency, was surprised to discover that in offering comfort he had received some of his own.

  Philippa stood and approached the hearth. Massive andirons smelted to resemble the paired silhouettes of two fierce-looking lions thrust their open-mouthed heads upward as though prepared to pounce into the throat of the smoke chamber. A firebrand split, releasing great fingers of flames that clawed the blackened stone. “Thank you, Brother Girard. You have been most helpful. Sometimes one needs the kind words of another to remember what’s most important to one’s self,” the duchess said, her tall, slim figure dark against the glowing fire.

  Girard, completely at peace in her silent company, felt no need to speak.

  “Would you mind reading aloud the epistle from Abbot Geoffrey?”

  “Of course, my lady,” he said, grateful to be of service.

  Philippa withdrew a rolled parchment from her robe and handed it to Girard, who broke the seal. “‘A most worthy holy man has come to our monastery with a great following of converts who lack a permanent residence. I have told this man that I would intercede on his behalf and ask you who have long been a strong supporter of religious institutions to grant him a tract of land where he and his followers establish a home. Such a donation would be a memorable act, befitting the daughter of the great lord of Toulouse. You may have heard of the man’s name, for his fame has spread wide: Robert of Arbrissel.’” Girard lowered the letter to his lap and looked up at the duchess.

  Staring into the fire, Philippa took a moment to compose her self. “An abbey,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “needs privacy, yet it must also be accessible by water and by land.” She frowned, deep in concentration.

  Girard, completely comfortable for the first time in days, basked in the warmth of the fire and waited patiently.

  “I know such a tract of land,” she said at last, “just south of the Loire, good valley land that is uninhabited!” A smile lit her face. “Would you mind helping me draw up a charter documenting my donation?”

  “Indeed, Madame, I would be most honored to assist you in whatever way I can.”

  “Let me call my maid. She will bring necessary instruments to make this contract.”

  Philippa raised a small silver bell resting on the fireplace mantel and shook it. As they waited, she walked to a small table next to the hearth that held a marble chessboard mounted on golden trestles. Carved ivory pieces stood scattered mid-game. She placed her hand on a white bishop’s miter before settling on the intricately carved crown of the king.

  The parchment and writing tools were brought and laid out on a table beneath a window. Girard lifted his bulk from his comfortable chair before the fire and took a seat on the small stool. The countess paced to and fro as she spoke.

  “And how shall we begin, my new friend?” Philippa asked. Girard saw the pallor beneath the blush of her cheeks, and he sensed a steely strength of will tempered with kindness and grace.

  Unashamed of his withered limb, Girard smoothed the soft lambskin vellum with his crippled hand. “Let’s say that you shall grant this land to Robert and his followers in honor of your father, for whose soul the nuns shall sing perpetual benedictions.”

  Philippa smiled and drew herself up. “Yes!” she said, “what a wonderful suggestion! I, Philippa, Countess of Poitiers, stirred by heavenly love…”

  Taking the quill in his right hand, he dipped the nib into the ink well.

  “Good, my Lady,” Girard mumbled, and then spoke the Latin aloud as he dutifully transcribed her words on the page, Ego, Philippia, comitissa Pictavensis, divini amoris devotione compuncta… His penmanship was precise and swiftly executed, each letter rounded to perfection without ostentation or undue ornamentation.

  “…do hereby bequeath Fontevraud, the tract of land where three diocese, Poitou, Anjou, and Tours, meet…”

  …concedo et dono terram quae Frontem Evraldi vulgare nominatur quaeque in conjunctio tres diocesiarum est, Pictavensii, Angevensii, Torrensi…

  “To Robert of Arbrissel, in honor of my father, Count of Toulouse…”

  Ad Robertum de Arbrisello, in honore patri mei, comiti Tolosani…

  “For whose soul he and his fol
lowers will sing perpetual benedictions.”

  Quoram per animam perpetuam benedictionem supradictus Robertus et religiosi sui cantabunt.

  Girard repeatedly dipped his pen in the ink well and drew characters on parchment, moving his tongue along his upper lip as he did so. Then he turned to Philippa and handed her the quill. “Please make your mark here,” he said, pointing to the bottom of the vellum. She drew an ornate P and crossed it at the stem.

  “Lady Philippa, who is the land named for?” Girard asked.

  “For Evraud, a robber who made his home in the forested area that surrounds the fresh water spring. But you’ve nothing to fear. Rumor has it that he and his brigands moved south last winter, and I’ve heard no mention of their exploits in a long time.”

  Girard nodded. “I will make sure that Master Robert signs as soon as he returns from church.”

  True to his word, the moment Robert returned from mass Girard rushed to meet him, his limp transformed into a self-important shuffle. “Master Robert,” Girard said, “the Duchess Philippa has granted a tract of land where you and your followers can establish a permanent home. You have only to sign here….”

  Robert’s broad smile fell upon Girard like a blessing.

  To be blessed twice in one day, first by the duchess’s kindness and now by this man’s joyful approval! He vowed to himself to fast that night in recognition of His glory.

  “You and Peter take the vanguard,” Robert told Girard on their second day’s journey from Poitiers. “Moriuht and Madeleine will follow behind with me.”

  Without a word to anyone, Madeleine grabbed hold of the reins of Robert’s roan stallion, a generous gift from Lady Philippa. Robert, looking feverish and fatigued, made no move to stop her. Girard sighed and accepted his fate. Madeleine held the reins, but at least he was in the lead, even if he did have to share the glory with Peter.

  Mid-day they paused for rest beneath a densely shaded stand of chestnut trees. Robert mounted his steed and announced that he would climb a nearby rise to see if he could spot the land Philippa had granted him and his followers.

  “Master,” Girard said, “let me accompany you.”

  “Peter will accompany me,” Robert said. Then, as though an afterthought, he untied his heavy satchel from his saddle horn and handed it to Girard. “Please guard this in my absence.”

  “And what of me, Master? What would you have me do?” Moriuht asked.

  “Stay nearby,” he said. “We’ll not be gone for very long.”

  Madeleine handed the reins to Peter. She appeared unperturbed when Robert disappeared into the underbrush. Moriuht, with a grin of expectation, nodded at Girard before bounding off into the nearby bush. Girard assumed he went in search of another of his filthy treasures—a speckled bird’s egg, perhaps, or the plume of a pheasant. Attracted to bright colors and smooth shapes, Moriuht was child-like, energetic and more than a little strange. Yesterday he had presented Robert with the alabaster skull of a decomposing rabbit, behaving as though animal bones were valuable relics!

  Propping Robert’s satchel against the base of a lone fig tree, Girard noted the unripe fruit and sighed. All morning long he had fantasized an escape into the bush where he might enjoy the remainder of the gift Philippa bestowed upon him before the five departed Poitiers. “I arranged for the cook to prepare a package for your journey,” Philippa explained. “It isn’t much, just a little salted herring and wastel bread.” She pressed the bag into his good right hand and squeezed the other. “Thank you for your kindness,” she whispered. Her touch had filled Girard with hope.

  But when Robert chose Peter instead of Girard to accompany him to the rise, Girard sat down beneath the fig tree. He recalled the many glances of pity and judgment leveled against him over the years. He did not understand why Peter should accompany Robert while he stayed behind to protect a satchel—and from what? Marauding rabbits and squirrels? He longed to take a bite of the herring but he did not want to eat in front of Madeleine who, standing a bit to the side, appeared to be studying the bark of a chestnut tree. Hungry and out of sorts he attempted to distract himself from his various grievances by focusing on his brief encounter with Philippa, the kind and lovely Duchess of Aquitaine. Reconstructing their brief meeting, he assessed and assigned meaning to each of her gestures and words. For he believed that except for faith in God’s goodness and grace, everything else in life demanded a sensible explanation.

  A nearby rustling startled Girard out of his revelries. Perhaps a family of quail, or maybe a pair of cottontails. He was wondering if he would ever again taste the meat of either animal when, quick as sparrow hawks, three men leapt out of the brush and struck him with cudgels, knocking him to the ground with bellowing shouts.

  Girard opened his mouth to cry out, producing no more than a mousy squeak. Curled on his side, gasping for breath, he cowered beneath the blur of angry faces and rising clubs. They would have beaten him senseless had not Moriuht burst through the underbrush. With the growl of an enraged animal, Moriuht wrested one of the clubs away from the attackers and madly struck at them, turning in circles, driving them back.

  Girard raised himself up on his good arm and watched. He felt oddly detached. He knew that he should do something, but what?

  “Give me your best, you demons!” Moriuht roared, weathering blows to his arms and head.

  One of the brigands, a large muscular man with snarls of dark hair and an angry pink scar that cleft his lower lip and slashed his jaw, laughed and lifted his cudgel. With one swift blow to the head, he knocked Moriuht to the ground.

  The hollow thump of Moriuht’s body brought Girard to his senses. Grasping his cross in his hand, Girard called out. “Wait! We are followers of Robert of Arbrissel!”

  The scarred one laughed. “What do we care?” he bellowed. The man’s shiny black tunic and scarlet leggings reminded Girard of the glossy plumage and red feet of a chough.

  “Unless,” the brigand added, fingering the sheath belted to his waist, “this pilgrim has a stash of offerings.” As the beast strode towards him, Girard released his cross and lifted his withered arm. “Move aside, cripple,” the man said, kicking Girard’s thigh before setting down his cudgel and riffling through Robert’s satchel.

  “O God, to my rescue, “Girard prayed, “O Lord, to my help make haste.”

  The robber tossed Robert’s Bible and ceremonial vestments into a pile near the stricken Girard, but he placed the gilded chalice into his own satchel. Then he loosed the twine that bound a heavy linen sack and plunged his hand into the treasure of coins. Smiling at his good luck, he retied the sack and slid it into the leather scrip strapped across his chest. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he declared, laughing and patting the bulging scrip. Girard cringed. The heathen sniffed a bundle of absinthe and rubbed a small amount of holy oil between his thumb and forefinger before slipping both the medicinal herb and the vial of oil into a pocket of his tunic.

  Moriuht stirred and came to with a roar. Three men tied him to a tree. “This one’s a good fighter, Evraud,” a squat, hungry-looking man yelled to the one with the scar.

  Evraud? My God, it’s the very robber for whom Fontevraud is named! Girard thought.

  The squat one’s grizzled beard, snarled with bits of grass and filth, reached to his lean belly. His short legs bowed like a dwarf’s, but his arms were well formed and the length of a much larger man. “Perhaps he will join us, eh?” he said, nodding his head at the struggling Moriuht who, wriggling free of the ropes that bound his legs, kneed the bearded one in the groin.

  “He doesn’t seem interested in joining us, Thomas!” Evraud said, laughing aloud as Thomas bent at the waist and swayed in breathless agony.

  Groaning, Thomas straightened, slapped Moriuht with the back of his hand and retied the rope, binding him more securely to the tree before turning his attention to Madeleine, who st
ood in an unexpected shaft of sunlight. Only when Thomas approached her with a lecherous grin did she turn to flee.

  But she merely ran into the open arms of another thug, a coarse lumbering man with matted hair, who lifted her and pressed her back against a chestnut tree, laughing as her slender arms and legs began churning the air. When her bare foot connected with her captor’s shin, he slapped her face with the flat of his palm. “Kick me again, bitch, and you’ll wish you hadn’t!” He clasped her wrist with one hand, wrenched her arms above her head and tied her to the tree. Girard heaved himself to a sitting position, bowing his head, he muttered a prayer of courage: The Lord is my helper, I will not fear.

  “This one’s a pretty little thing,” Madeleine’s captor said. “Do you fancy her, Evraud?”

  Girard sat, his fat thighs splayed wide as any whore, his enormous belly resting on the earth between his bent knees until, with a jolt of horror he realized that he too would like to touch Madeleine, or barring that, he would like to watch the robbers touch her. Certain that the furious thrumming in his ears was the sound of his soul unraveling, Girard heaved himself up onto his knees, closed his eyes and resumed praying. The longings of the flesh are contrary to the spirit; those of the spirit are contrary to the flesh.

  Ignoring Girard, Evraud strode deliberately to Madeleine. Setting aside his satchel of stolen goods, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and, turning her head from side to side, studied her features. Without a word, he leaned forward and lapped the wine stain on her neck with his tongue. “A freckled beauty, sure enough,” he said, dropping his hand. “Hold her down, men. You will have your turns soon enough.” The matted-haired wild one threw Madeleine to the packed earth strewn with shale and bristling chestnut pods. He pinioned her wrists above her head while another brigand held her ankles.

  Girard watched transfixed, his mouth opening and closing, as Evraud, dropping to his knees, tore away Madeleine’s robe and linen chemise to reveal her small breasts, the sparse copper hair of her triangle and the delicious cleft of her sex.