Madeleine twisted her body from side to side, angling her hips away from Evraud without a sound escaping her pursed lips. Girard marveled at her fierce resistance and the eloquence of her silence, guessing that she did not cry out because she did not want to offer up the pleasure of her voice. The thug with the matted hair leered in anticipation of his own turn and laughed maliciously, a cruel sound that emanated from deep in his chest. “The bigger the fight, the better the fuck,” he said, dragging his palm across his mouth. “She is wanting it, for sure.”
Evraud lifted his tunic and tugged down his undergarments. Girard glimpsed the length and girth of his arousal and felt a sympathetic quiver in his own loins. Straddling Madeleine, bearing the weight of his body on his palms, Evraud separated her legs with one knee and entered her with a powerful thrust of his hips. Madeleine cried out in pain. Girard’s member pressed against the rough serge of his robe.
“No!” Moriuht roared, writhing against the ropes that bound him to the tree.
Only then did Girard grab up a jagged piece of shale and rise to his feet. He did not want to bear witness to rape, yet he did not throw the rock or look away. The high-pitched scream of a bird circled the treetops. Breathless in the penetrating heat, flush with disgust and yearning, Girard watched Evraud thrust, shudder and pull free of the motionless Madeleine.
Too late Girard hoisted the rock above his head and took aim at Evraud’s skull. A brigand knocked him to the ground with a sweeping blow to the belly. Clutching the rock and struggling to breathe, Girard lifted eyes to the sight of Robert riding high on his red roan.
“I command you,” Robert said, “in the name of God Almighty, stop!”
Peter, emerging from the brush a step behind Robert, charged fearlessly into the foray.
Evraud leaped to his feet and drew his knife. Robert threw back his head and opened his arms to the heavens. Then, as Girard would recount again and again until he had memorized the words and the telling took on a truth separate from the details, the sun turned brown as sackcloth and the hillocks shuddered. A funnel of wind lifted pebbles and chestnuts, swirling them into the air.
The shocked robbers released Madeleine just as Peter reached her side. Blinded by air-born debris, Girard rose to his feet, stumbled and dropped the rock. The winds ceased and a fetid miasma of low-slung clouds blanketed the forest. Gasping for breath, the two thugs bolted, their dark figures sliding through mist.
Madeleine whimpered and clutched her belly, crying out as though agonized in the pangs of delivery.
Robert stood in swirling vapor. He pointed his finger at the chestnut tree arching above Madeleine and Peter just as a thunderbolt struck into the very heartwood, splitting the trunk from roots to crown. The tree remained upright long enough for Peter to whisk Madeleine to safety and for four more brigands to flee. Only then did it crash with a force that rocked the ground beneath their feet.
Evraud and the matted-haired one looked from the felled tree to Robert astride his roan. “We have witnessed a miracle!” Evraud whispered, dropping his knife. “This man,” he said, pointing at Robert, “is a saint!” The two robbers fell to their knees and prayed.
Robert dismounted, grabbed his discarded alb and strode to Madeleine. Dropping to his haunches, he handed her his alb. “Put this on,” he said in a soothing voice that silenced the rustling leaves.
Madeleine slipped the silk robe over her head. Girard fingered his beads, disturbed at the sight of a woman wearing the robes of a priest.
“Now your arms,” Robert instructed. She obeyed, as though the softness of his words induced in her a lazy, hypnotic compliance. “Good,” Robert said, nodding as the bell-shaped sleeves slid the length of her arms and extended past her fingertips.
“Now see if you can stand,” Robert said. Even with Peter’s assistance, Madeleine rose with great difficulty, the hem of the alb puddling at her feet. Robert removed his cincture and looped the belt around Madeleine’s waist, gathering the excess material beneath the cord before knotting it. Blood blossomed red against the back of the white vestment. Girard felt a surge of compassion.
“There,” Robert said, in a reassuring voice, “now you can walk without tripping.” He took her arm.
“Can’t you hear, man?” Moriuht bellowed at Girard. “I said, untie me! Over there,” he motioned with a toss of his head, “the knife!”
Girard stepped clear of the robbers, retrieved Evraud’s bone-handled knife cut the knotted rope that bound Moriuht. Grabbing the knife, Moriuht wiped his bloody head wounds with the hem of his leather tunic and approached the prostrate brigands.
“Moriuht,” Robert said, “the Lord takes no pleasure in the deaths of the wicked; let them transform their ways and live.”
Moriuht held fast to the knife, pacing in fury and indecisiveness.
“My good man,” Robert implored, “Do not repay one bad turn with another. Love your enemies.”
Nudging each of the brigands with his foot, Moriuht spat on the ground between them. “You have been saved by my Master’s grace, not your own,” he said, his obedience to Robert eclipsing his desire for revenge.
“Settle down,” Moriuht said, approaching Robert’s horse, which had been nervously pawing the ground. Securing Evraud’s knife beneath the cord of his tunic, Moriuht took the reins in his left fist and stroked the roan’s mane with his right palm. “There now, there.”
“Moriuht, lead the animal to me,” Robert said. “Peter, help me lift Madeleine onto the saddle.”
“Master, may I do something?” Girard asked.
“Repack my satchel.”
Girard felt intolerably shamed. He moved quickly to transfer the plunder from Evraud’s satchel, abandoned near the felled tree, to Robert’s, turned inside out and tossed some distance away.
Rising to his feet, Evraud reached into his leather scrip and retrieved the money sack. “Father,” Evraud said, proffering the stolen goods with outstretched arms, “Please take this back.”
Intent on hoisting Madeleine into the saddle, Robert did not respond.
Girard ripped the sack of coins from the brigand’s hands and stuffed it into Robert’s satchel.
“Hold onto the saddle horn,” Robert instructed Madeleine. Grabbing hold with both hands, she swayed as though in a faint. “It’s alright,” he said, steadying her. “We shall ride tandem.” He mounted and, encircling her waist with his left arm, took the reins from Moriuht.
“Father,” Evraud said. Thomas rose up and stood beside him. “Please forgive us our sins.”
“You must ask God for forgiveness,” Robert said. A stern look creasing his brow, he prodded the stallion with the heel of his bare foot.
Peter walked by Robert’s side while a subdued Moriuht, fingering the bone hilt of the confiscated knife, kept a careful eye on Evraud and Thomas, who followed at a distance.
Girard folded Robert’s maniple and wedged it between the gilded ciborium and paten. With his good hand, he painstakingly tied the ends of Robert’s satchel before scrambling to catch up. Staggering even with the roan, Girard wished that he were the one sheltering the wounded Madeleine in his arms even as he judged the act profane.
“Thank you, Brother Girard,” Robert said, nodding to the satchel Girard clutched to his chest. Girard’s heart pounded with joy, and he immediately regretted having questioned the priest’s decision to wrap Madeleine in his robes. Madeleine was wounded and Robert was caring for her as he would care for any being—man, woman, or child.
Shortly before the original party of five and the two robbers reached the summit, Robert tugged at his horse’s bridle and paused while the others caught up. Careful not to jostle Madeleine, he used a thumb and forefinger to massage his temples.
Peter stepped forward. “Are you ill, Master? Has the fever returned?”
“I will be fine, my brother,” Robert said, his voice trailing o
ff as he turned his attention to Madeleine, who stirred faintly but remained silent.
Peter cleared his throat. “You know best, Master,” Peter said, “but if we are to reach Vendôme by evening, we will have to hurry.”
“Of course,” Robert said. Leaning forward in his mount, he urged the horse forward. In a matter of minutes he arrived at the summit. As he looked out over the valley below, his haggard expression transformed to one of wonder. “Praise be to the Lord,” he whispered. Stretching out one arm he pointed to a spattering of grass near a bubbling spring. “There lays the fount of my vision.”
A hush fell over the party. Peter and Moriuht walked quickly to the edge of the ridge while Girard, weighted down by the master’s satchel, lagged a step or two behind. The robbers exchanged glances and followed. In an hour, twilight would obscure the view of the valley. But for now its lush expanse was clearly visible. Girard glanced from golden scrub to reedy hemlock, settling on the promised fountain.
“Oh, Master,” Moriuht said, “the land is beautiful and the fountain a most welcome sight.”
Robert nodded. “On the valley land bequeathed to us by Lady Philippa we will build our monastery,” he proclaimed. “Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He crossed himself, gently settled his arm again around Madeleine, and pointed the horse’s head toward Vendôme.
Girard’s heart lifted in exaltation even as he stumbled to keep up with the others. We? We? he repeated silently. Could it be that the Master wanted him to be a part of his plan!
PART TWO
I will not even mention the young girls whom you place in separate cells as soon as they have professed their faith, changing their clothes without thought… The wretched results of this action should be cause for alarm: for some, about to give birth, have broken their flimsy prison walls; others have borne children in those very cells.
Marbod of Rennes, Archbishop of Rennes
Letter to Robert of Arbrissel
c. 1100
The evening before the pilgrims departed from Vendôme, Robert paced the grounds of Holy Trinity. Pausing beneath one of the silver maples that flanked the south door of the transept, he contemplated his next move. Now that the land for the monastery had been secured, the real work of building would begin. “Mother Mary,” he prayed, “grant me patience and the fortitude to continue.” A momentary peace calmed him, and he resumed walking until Girard’s voice interrupted his solitude.
“Robert of Arbrissel cleaved a tree in half with the power of his faith, stunning two robbers into conversion!” the monk proclaimed to a group of women loitering near the entrance to the garden.
Appalled, Robert slipped behind a nearby tree, clinching his hands until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. Despite his guilt, or maybe because of it, Robert said nothing to contradict Girard’s blasphemy. God knew he was a weak, ineffectual man even if Girard did not.
After Girard and the group of women dispersed, Robert dropped to his knees and covered his face with both hands. If he could not keep Madeleine safe, how could he provide protection and guidance to a hundred more? Pounding his fist against his chest, he prayed for forgiveness. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…
While Robert did not question his love of God, a passion that eclipsed all else, he was less certain of his motivations in converting prostitutes than he had been in Rouen. Although he was bothered less and less by lustful thoughts of women in general, he could no longer deny his feelings for Madeleine. But he had never touched her except to bless or anoint her until that horrible day in the grove. Only after they arrived back in Vendôme did Robert acknowledge his far less noble feelings. He fought against these impure thoughts and desire with prayer and frequent penance. And, indeed, during the days, both proved adequate distractions.
But nights were a different matter entirely.
For Satan was clever. He assumed Madeleine’s shape and followed Robert straight into his dreams with the smoldering allure of a Parisian whore. Night after night Robert mounted the same fiery horse, wrapped his arm around the sloe-eyed demon’s middle and remembered the exquisite fit of Madeleine’s body against his own, how nothing had separated their two heartbeats but a silk alb and a worn cassock. In his unholy dreams he called out Madeleine’s name loud enough to wake himself and the men on the pallets beside him.
Now, once again kneeling in contrition, Robert fumbled for his beads and prayed for a way that would strengthen his resolve, help him overcome Satan’s demons and renew his faith. He longed to be enveloped in God’s unblemished grace and pledged to love Him with a love devoid of sexual confusion and full of pure light. Wind blew through the limbs of the trees, waking a pair of sleeping doves. Robert lifted his head to the cooing birds, and felt a warm flutter of fingers brushing his forehead. And though he could not see her, Robert knew the fingers belonged to the woman of his vision. “Have faith, Robert,” she whispered in hushed, soothing tones. “You will be delivered.”
Five days later the pilgrims arrived safely at the forested valley of Fontevraud where Robert led his one hundred followers to the bottom of a gentle declivity to a fresh water spring called Fons Ebraldi. Private without being isolated, Fontevraud was but a short distance from the bustling harbor of Candes and the fortresses of Saumur, Chinon, and Loudin. Climbing onto a flat rock, he spread his arms and proclaimed, “Here, at the junction of three diocese, Angers, Tours, and Poiters, we will build our abbey. Let us pray and give thanks to our generous benefactor and to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The fountain spilled over into a sun-lit pond. Those who lifted their eyes saw sooty shearwaters gliding the sky, dipping from side to side on powerful stiff wings. At the close of Robert’s prayer, Moriuht charged through pussy willows and waded into the pond, scooping water into his hands and swallowing with great noisy gulps. “Sweet!” he announced, “and bitter cold!” He shook his head so that beads of water flew from his beard and sprayed the children lining the shore. Their giggles and squeals tangled with the yodeling high-pitched wail of the black-throated divers. Peter began a song of thanks that layered one note on top of another, climbed the branches of the trees, rose up past the canopy of leaves and nudged the clouds.
The next day Girard asked Robert for permission to permanently join his mission. The two of them worked beside the other pilgrims, tearing out briars by their roots, piercing their hands and stripping the shallow valley of its growth. At day’s end, the men carried armfuls of prickly cane to a knoll on the lip of the valley and dropped them in a great sprawling mound, setting a communal fire on the spot where they would build the church. The flames leaped into the darkness and lit the faces of the exhausted pilgrims. Robert looked for Madeleine, but she was not among them.
Near the end of the first week, they began to run low on supplies. Marie, gruff, impatient and filled with purpose, approached Robert by the pond where he stood watching water bugs skitter the surface.
“Your followers are hungry,” she said. “If they are not fed, they will not be able to continue the work.” Hands on hips, Marie cut an imposing figure. “You cannot expect work from starving people,” she said.
“Have patience, Mother Marie. Look what we have accomplished already.” Robert said, pointing in the direction of the newly cleared land.
“Bah! The land is still littered with branches and stumps!”
“True,” Robert said, smiling slightly, for there was something about her directness that delighted him. “But very soon we will level the earth and begin building.”
“You think so?” Marie laughed, a mirthless sound scratchy with fatigue. A shearwater swooped the pond. Its wingtips kissed the surface and a shudder of ripples gilded the water. “The Lord has led us here,” Robert said. And though he knew his knowledge of psalms would not persuade Marie of his holy intent, he hoped that the sound of the words might comfort her. “These waters will revive our bodies a
nd souls,” he said. Heartfelt passion imbued his words, for just looking at the restorative waters lifted his own flagging spirits.
“Hummph!” Marie said. “Our bodies will need more than dry tubers and water from your miraculous fount if you expect us to build a monastery.”
“You must have faith, Marie. Just a bit longer.”
“Will faith cure my aching belly?” Closing her eyes, she stood in silence. Her breathing grew even and relaxed, a soothing sound that gave Robert the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at his soul. “Marie, how is Madeleine?”
“Her body is mending,” Marie said. “As for her mind, I have no idea, for Maddy has not said a word since your… miracle… in the grove.”
“Marie…”
“Save your confessions for God,” she said and turned to begin her ascent to camp. “What’s done is done,” she called over her shoulder. “Now we deal with the consequences.”
That night after the converts trailed out to sleep, Robert walked up the road they had traveled and, raising his robe, knelt bare kneed in the pebbly dirt. Oh Lord, he prayed, be gracious to me and hear my cry. How long shall I keep planning in my soul and experiencing daily sorrow of heart? He prayed until the evening fire burned to embers and the stars disappeared from the skies. He prayed until his knees ached and the muscles in his shoulders burned with the effort of touching palm to palm. He knew that despair was a failure of character, a cowardly surrender to Satan’s powers, and prayed for a sign that the pilgrims would receive what they needed to survive. Only after he toppled in exhaustion to the ground did he make his way slowly to his pallet where he fell into a deep slumber.
Before Moriuht even touched his arm Robert smelled his presence, that peculiar blend of clove oil and unwashed skin. Opening his eyes to Moriuht’s dancing feet, he knew that his prayers had been answered.
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