Slipping beneath silk coverlets, Philippa waited patiently for William to finish undressing and climb into bed beside her. A day full of petty annoyances involving feuding servants and a tipsy cook had left her ill tempered and craving sleep. William, home from crusades for less than a week, contributed to her exhaustion. Having grown accustomed to the soft voices of her aunts and the deferential tones of servants, she found her husband’s loud, commanding tone more than a little disquieting.
“Aquitaine thrived in my absence!” William declared, unbuckling his belt and letting his pants drop to the floor with a thud. The candle cast a bronze glow against his naked body. Tingling warmth climbed Philippa’s thighs and settled between her legs.
“Hugh has done a fine job in my stead!” William said.
His words squelched Philippa’s desire and filled her with apprehension. She must tell him the truth.
William climbed into bed and pulled the curtains around them. Gathering Philippa in his arms, he buried his face in her hair.
“Actually,” she said, “Your brother was often… away… or… unavailable… when important decisions had to be made.”
Releasing Philippa from his embrace, William rolled onto his back. “And Herbert of Lusignan? Fulk of Anjou?” he asked.
Philippa could tell by the clipped cadence of words that an angry, officious duke had displaced her playful, affectionate husband. “Herbert and Fulk were gone from their palaces for great stretches of time,” she said.
William turned his head and glared at his wife. “Well then how…”
“It was up to me to conduct your affairs as regent of your state.” She knew she had said enough, but the pride that Sophie cautioned against welled up and she continued, bragging of her stunning successes at Oleron and Saint Macaire. “I could act as your advisor,” she said, balanced on one elbow and playing a tress of her hair against his cheek. “No one need know,” she whispered.
“I would know,” he bellowed. Throwing back the covers, he pushed the bed curtains aside with such force that one panel split at the seam. Without another word, he threw on his clothes and stormed out of the room.
Alone in the dark, Philippa hunched under the covers, and cursed her foolish pride.
The following morning William restricted Philippa’s movements to the palace and surrounding grounds where her days grew monotonous as the blanched winter skies covering Poitiers. While her husband ruled his province and commanded his vassals, Philippa directed servants and, nine moons after William’s return, gave birth to a daughter, Anne. She dearly loved their two children but treating colic and settling squabbles over toys was not as challenging as quelling battles between rebel barons. Though she continued to attend mass, care for William, order food and supplies, and receive guests, she grew more and more despondent. Sometimes she descended to the great hall only once a day for the mid-day meal, and more often than not William was absent, attending to official business.
During one such long and tedious afternoon Sibyl and Sophie asked if they might join Philippa in her chambers. She knew that she could easily dissuade the compassionate Sibyl by complaining of a headache, but Sophie was a different matter.
“You are bored,” she said, studying Philippa’s face before decisively tucking a strand of flyaway hair behind one ear. “We will entertain you with a story.”
They sat in rockers by the hearth. Before taking a chair from near the mullioned window, Philippa placed a rock crystal vase on a table to act as prism to the harsh winter light, gratified when green, blue, and rose diamonds blinked, scattered and climbed the wall.
“In Brittany there was a brave knight named Eliduc,” Sibyl said in her high stilted voice. She removed one of Anne’s chemises from her sewing box and began cross-stitching the bodice. “This knight married Guildelüec, a fair woman descended from a line of high nobility,” she said. “Eliduc served the King of Brittany—in those days a king ruled that region—and was the king’s favorite, hunting at liberty in the royal forests, attending court whenever he wished.” She paused to remove a loose stitch, her frantic fingers pulling at the thread while her tongue whipped across her chapped lips.
“Tell her of the backbiters and gossipers who grew envious of Eliduc,” Sophie said, in her usual melancholic tone. “Tell her how they accused him of treachery to the king, who exiled Eliduc without explanation.”
Sibyl frowned. “True, but first he bid his dear wife farewell. Promising to remain faithful to her, Eliduc left for England with a band of fellow knights.”
Philippa wondered, not for the first time, if William had been faithful to her during the years he followed the cross to the holy land. It was not something she cared to dwell on. Better to recall his return, his hand drawing aside the damask curtains and dropping sweet oranges into her bed.
“In England, Eliduc learned that an old king was besieged in his castle because he would not allow his young daughter to marry another king’s son. Eliduc put his valor to the test and ambushed the old king’s enemies, causing them to flee. Then he swore allegiance to the king and promised to serve him.
“The king’s daughter, Guilliadun, heard of Eliduc’s bravery and his good looks and wished to meet him. The real story begins now,” Sibyl said, looking up from her needlework and rocking so rapidly that Philippa feared she might tumble backward out of her chair, “for this is both a love story and a story of betrayal!” she said.
“Bah,” Sophie said, waving her hands dismissively, “love, betrayal, they are one and the same, two sides to a single coin!”
Sibyl pursed her lips and shook her head, but otherwise said nothing in response to her sister’s comments. “Eliduc goes to court and meets the princess,” Sophie said, taking up the story in her raspy whisper. “He is polite and courteous and he sits next to her on a couch. She steals glances at him, admires his face, his body…”
“Really, sister!” Sibyl interrupted. “Why must you dwell on the unseemly?” she said, jabbing the needle in and out of the fabric with alarming speed.
“Because life is unseemly!” Sophie said. Removing her hands from the arms of the rocker, she folded them in her lap and directed her gaze at Philippa. “And love especially so!”
Sibyl let out a tiny gasp of exasperation but said nothing. Sophie continued with the story, taking her time, moving at a leisurely pace. “But no sooner do Eliduc and the princess fall wildly in love than the King of Brittany sends messengers asking his retainer back to court, as his lands are under siege. Eliduc tells Guilliadun he must leave. He asks her to accompany him. On the ship to Brittany a storm brews, tosses the ship, throwing men overboard. ‘It’s God’s will!’ some of them say, ‘because Eliduc has a proper wife at home and now takes another woman.’”
“Righteous words!” Sibyl said. “The Lord punishes those who do not follow his law!”
Philippa focused on the diamonds cast against the wall and wondered why her aunts were telling her this story, for their stories always had a purpose beyond entertainment.
“When Guilliadun hears that Eliduc is married, she falls into a swoon. Eliduc takes the helm and guides the boat to shore. But Guilliadun does not awaken—she seems dead.”
Since shortly after William’s return, Philippa had been living in a trance, moving between her duties with little joy and now, hearing her aunt’s story, her skin prickled as though a cold draft had whipped through the room.
“Eliduc places the body of his beloved in a chapel near his home in Brittany. His wife is joyous to see him, but he is cold to her touch. Everyday he visits the chapel, prays to God that He will bring Guilliadun back to the living.
“Now Eliduc’s wife grows suspicious and orders a spy to follow her husband to the chapel. Her servant tells her everything, and while she feels anger towards her husband, she surprises herself by feeling pity for the dead girl. While Eliduc is away at court, she goes to the
chapel with her servant and sees the girl lying inert on a bier.
“Suddenly a weasel enters the chapel, and the servant kills it. Then another weasel enters and circles the dead animal, as if in mourning. It leaves and returns with a red flower and places a petal in the mouth of the dead weasel, which miraculously comes back to life.
“After the weasels leave, Guildelüec picks up what remains of the flower and places a petal in the dead girl’s mouth, and lo! She comes to life!
“Guilliadun, now revived, tells her story about Eliduc’s deception. ‘He was a wicked man,’ she says, ‘to deceive me.’ And Guildelüec replies, ‘Women are foolish to trust in men.’”
“Amen to that!” Sophie chimed in.
Sibyl paused, looked up from her sewing and frowned at her sister. A cloud draped itself across the sun and obliterated the play of colors against the wall.
“And then what happened?” Philippa asked.
“Oh, my dear,” Sibyl said, “the poor wife entered the nunnery!” Taking one final stitch in the hem of little Anne’s chemise, she tied a knot and broke the thread with her teeth.
That evening, as Philippa descended the stairs to the stone keep to review provisions—they were preparing for many guests due to arrive in Poitiers for a great council—she heard Alice, the cook, speaking with the steward who supplied the household with fish. Guiscard mentioned Philippa’s name, and she froze.
“They say he’s abandoned her bed for the Viscountess of Châtellerault, Dangerosa.”
“Ha! That is a fine name for a viscountess!” Alice replied.
“Especially one who has hooked the duke like a fish!”
Phillipa lifted a foot, intending to retreat up the stairs, then paused, to see if there was more.
“He has engraved her image on his shield,” Guiscard said in a loud whisper, “and vows to carry her on the battlefield as she has carried him in bed!”
“Hush,” Alice said. Her laugher was muffled, as though she had covered her mouth with the skirt of her apron, “someone may hear!”
Philippa tiptoed up the stairs to her chambers. Her heart raced with this terrible knowledge. Suddenly she understood the purpose of her aunts’ story of Eliduc. They meant to warn her. Remembering Guildeluec’s words—“Women are foolish to trust in men”—she wondered at her own foolish nature. William was absent for long stretches of time—settling disputes, he told her, and tending to his estates. But might he be using his duties as subterfuge? Might he be in his mistress’s bed this very moment? She imagined William trailing a lock of some other woman’s hair across his cheek, recalled the throaty gasp of pleasure he made entering her (a sound as satisfying to her ears as any she had ever heard) and felt her stomach cramp in despair. Was some woman even now turning her head to catch the sweet urgency of William’s sound?
Philippa moved from wretchedness to anger in what seemed a matter of breaths. He was, she understood, no different than any other man—a creature ruled by lust, incapable of lasting love. She would leave Poitiers, escape the cold white palace with her children and return home to Toulouse for an extended visit. Her mother and father were dead and her brother was absent, fighting Saracens in the Holy Land, but even an empty palace seemed preferable to her life with William.
She walked to the window, flung open the casement and looked to the heavens for answers. The only time Poitiers appealed to her was twilight when swallows soared the roseate sky, climbed until they could go no further, then plummeted towards earth, spent and exhausted. But that night as she watched the birds intertwine in their ascent and tumble down separately, she took no joy in their glorious flight.
The women came to Madeleine with flower seeds—poppies tucked into a cloak pocket, four o’clocks knotted in cheese cloth, sweet William hemmed into the skirt of a chemise. They came with garlic cloves, valerian, and aromatic sage. They handed over mother bulbs in burlap sacks, spilled seeds into her cupped palm, and offered up hope in the form of advice—
“Valerian makes a fine border, but take care it doesn’t crowd the other plants.”
“If you prune back salvia in the winter, come spring it’ll blossom lavender spikes that’ll take your breath away.”
“Plant marigolds in full sun.”
“…bearded iris and reticulata in well-drained soil.”
Madeleine rolled the slippery seeds against her palm, fingering the fleshy scales of the root tubers and the grooved nodes of the bulbs before placing them carefully into a basket. Only then did Madeleine thank the women for their contributions to the abbey garden, whispering her gratitude while cupping each pair of hands in her own.
The following day, with Moriuht’s help, Madeleine set about creating a garden what would be both beautiful and useful. Together they built raised flower boxes, a cone trellis, and an elaborate arbor. In her mind’s eye Madeleine envisioned a mature garden. She imagined pansies separating herbs from root vegetables and sweet alyssum blossoming a fragrant line between trailing beans and scrambling vetch. Moriuht smiled and nodded so vigorously at her suggestion that they plant yarrow beside downy lamb ears that she felt certain he shared her vision, a deep desire to achieve the perfect balance of shape, color and texture.
“Next November,” Madeleine said, “we’ll plant hyacinth!” She smiled, imagining how they would stagger the planting, pressing some of the bulbs into shallow holes, burying others deep in the earth so that a colorful assortment of pink, purple, red, cream and salmon-colored flowers would bloom one after the other all through the month of March.
“And a dense mat of ground cover to comfort our feet,” Moriuht said, wriggling his toes into the soil.
“Perhaps Scotch moss,” Madeleine said, “since it is both soft and fragrant.” The sun had bleached her hair platinum and scattered freckles the length of her arms. Work had calloused her hands and made her back strong. And while she did not welcome the birth of her child, she slowly came to accept the inevitability.
Girard passed by the garden, fingering his cincture and smiling a strained, thin-lipped affair that pinched his features. “The vegetables will be bountiful,” he said.
Moriuht, who could hold anger for just so long, waved a friendly greeting and smiled broadly. Madeleine, who was on her knees thinning a mound of squash seedlings, remained silent.
“You do not like Girard?” Moriuht asked, the blade of his hoe uprooting cocklebur and crabgrass with swift incisive blows.
Madeleine lifted her head. “He saw what that monster did to me, and he did nothing,” she said, remembering Girard’s bloated incendiary colors scorching the air.
Moriuht frowned, shifting his weight from one soiled foot to the other. A faint whisper of wind rustled the hemlock leaves. The sun slipped behind a tangle of clouds and turned the drowsy sky murky green.
“The man’s weak,” Moriuht said, “but he’s a man of God.” He paused at the end of a row and turned his face to the fluting call of a plover, his body assuming a momentary stillness that reminded Madeleine of Robert.
Even as she avoided Robert, she missed his calm presence and his mesmerizing voice. Suddenly she felt hollowed out with longing she could not put a name to.
“Girard is not a wicked man,” Moriuht said. “He constantly struggles against his demons, and when he falls, as we all fall, he is sincerely repentant.” Leaning his hoe against the sturdy trellis, he looked deeply into Madeleine’s eyes. “What else can a poor sinner do?” he asked. Reaching into a pocket of his robe, he removed a vial of clove oil, and used one dirt-smeared finger to rub the ointment onto his gums.
“He could have helped,” she said. “You did.”
Moriuht laughed, an embarrassed sound, and squatted to pull a weed. “Girard tried—he raised a rock—but remember he’s fat and crippled.”
“He watched,” she said. “He watched what that man did to me.”
The muscles in Madeleine’s shoulders tightened and her stomach spun into knots. She stood and, looking down into the valley, spotted a ribbon of smoke rising from a tight copse of trees. Evraud was somewhere down there digging trenches or lifting stones. “Why?” she asked. “Why is he allowed to live his life as though nothing has happened, but I…” She cupped the thrust of her belly, a reflex that caused Moriuht to drop his eyes. Clutching the hoe in one hand, he worried his beard with the other.
“You should talk to Robert. He explains things better than I can.”
She shook her head. Moriuht surprised her by dropping the hoe and taking her hands in his own. “Madeleine, you must forgive for the sake of your soul.”
“I cannot,” she whispered.
“But the Master is not to blame for your… troubles. No,” he said, vigorously shaking his head, “not anymore than Girard nor I.” Moriuht’s voice nudged the air between them, the tone as softly coaxing as when he spoke to wild animals.
Madeleine knew blame never healed anybody’s pain, yet she could not temper the righteous anger that jabbed at her whenever she thought of that terrible day in the grove. “Robert promised that I would be safe,” she said. “Then he left my safety in the hands of a cripple.”
“And me!” Moriuht said. “I was there as well! Have you forgotten that the brigands outnumbered us? We would have needed a dozen more men to fend off their attack!” The pain in Moriuht’s face was so bright, so personal that Madeleine looked away.
“All right,” she said, her eyes settling on a skein of birds unraveling against the sky. “If it will make you happy, I’ll speak with Robert.”
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