“And Louis?”
Garreth hesitated. William, once again, moved swift to the mark.
“Come now.” William incised him with his gaze. “Surely you have not traveled to Normandy solely for relics and courtesies. You might have wished to evade Raoul’s notice as you moved about Francia, but I see no reason for pretense between us now. Besides . . .” William released a breath akin to a sigh. “After spending nigh on to two days in the company of the king’s men, I have had quite enough of parrying with words.” His eyes bore into Garreth. “Shall we be blunt?”
“As you wish.” Garreth felt as though a noose had just been slipped about his neck and tightened.
“Then tell me of the young Carolingian.”
“Louis is fine and strong, grown fourteen years into his manhood and waxing impatient to claim his rightful crown,” he replied with a directness he believed William sought.
William lifted a golden brow at that. “Then ‘tis best Louis exercise prudence and patience a time longer.”
Garreth stiffened. “And how much ‘longer’ might that be, Your Grace?”
“Mayhap months. Mayhap years. Mayhap forever. ‘Tis difficult to augur the future in these turbulent times.” William began to turn away.
“Maybe not so much so if Louis could depend on the loyalty of those who faithfully served his father.”
The duke shot Garreth back a glance. “Charles is dead,” he emphasized sternly. “And much has transpired in Francia since that event. Is the whelp anxious to claim a tottery throne only to promptly lose it again? Would Athelstan, in his wisdom, assist his nephew to such a foredoomed fate?”
“With the collective support of his key barons, Louis’s throne could be shorn up,” Garreth retorted. “‘Twould be no need to see it forfeit again.”
William barked a laugh. “And who do you believe would be so foolish to hasten to his banner at this time? Hugh? Despite what he might have said to you — and, oui, I know you are fresh from Paris and no doubt have spoken with him — nonetheless, Hugh will first and foremost solidify his own holdings, mark my words. Raoul is strong in his power. To whom else may Louis turn? The Lorrainers?” William gave a snort. “They have neither the numbers nor the strength to support him, and the Acquitainians are in Raoul’s palm. You will not soon find them flocking to Louis’s cause.”
“And what of Normandy?” Garreth pressed, his own choler rising. “Or is Normandy’s duke swayed by the richness of Raoul’s gifts?” He caught William’s eye at that. “You wish to be blunt? The English court is well aware of the recent grant of the Contentin and Avranchin at the time you pledged your oath to Raoul.”
William’s face flushed with anger, and he took a quick pace forward.
“Listen well, Garreth of Tamworth, and impress upon your celebrated sovereign — however you Saxons wish to interpret that particular grant, or my motivations for accepting it — Francia is a much splintered kingdom. She needs no green, untried child-king to challenge the likes of Raoul. The barons of Francia recognize this full well, for their energies are occupied securing their own borders. The time is ill-starred for Louis’s return.”
“And when will it be favorable?”
William offered no response.
“Or will it ever?” Garreth dared, his meaning unmistakable.
William scowled blackly. “Naught binds me to Athelstan. Nor to Louis.”
“Not even the oath of fidelity your father pledged Charles and the honor of Normandy?”
“Charles is dead.”
“Louis is not. Have the Normans in their achievements forgotten they hold their lands of the Carolingians, not of the Robertian usurpers?”
William’s mouth thinned. “Those lands granted at St. Clair-sur-Epte were already in my father’s control before the king made his conferral.”
“Rollo might have dominated the land, but he did not create himself duke. That Charles did, ennobling him and raising him to a place within the Frankish aristocracy.”
William did not answer, but turned and directed his gaze out the chamber’s small window. A muscle worked along his jaw. His ire sharpened his features and heightened his color.
“Your father faithfully supported the Carolingians,” Garreth added in a more subdued tone. Once also did you.”
William paused, then turned slowly round, his eyes unreadable. He held Garreth’s gaze for a moment longer. When he spoke he measured out each word.
“Advise Athelstan — bring back Louis now, or a year from now, and he will not succeed. A Carolingian cannot long hold the throne, with or without my aid. Take a lesson from Hugh. For all the power he wields, he rightly chose to decline the crown. ‘Twould endanger all that he holds to accept it.”
“But if Hugh stands with Louis?”
“Open your eyes and ears, Saxon.” William’s patience burst. “Whatever Hugh might have promised you in secret, he is no fool. Even should he aid Louis’s return, he will guard first what is his, and abet Louis second. Given these times, that support can be only minimal at best.”
Deeming the audience at an end, William crossed the chamber to leave, handing off his goblet to Rurik who yet stood by the portal, having remained there silent and attentive throughout the interview.
“And if the times should change?” Garreth addressed the duke’s retreating back, challenge in his tone.
William halted, then pivoted, fire kindling in the depths of his eyes. Garreth feared he had pressed the duke too far.
“Should the time come for Louis’s return, I shall do what I must — for Francia, to be sure, but foremost for Normandy. When you report our conversation to Athelstan, give him to realize that in the breast of William Longsword beats a heart, neither Carolingian nor Robertian, but Norman. And it beats for Normandy.”
With that, William turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.
Garreth clamped his jaw tight and then quit the room as well. Rurik followed, setting aside the goblet on the small table beside the door.
In silence, Garreth and Rurik descended the stairs to the entrance level of the tower keep, then paused atop the outer flight of steps.
Garreth’s stomach roiled, upset by the encounter, his nerves scraped raw. He had intended only to test William’s bent of mind on the matter of young Louis, not sink into an argument and openly contest him. How had their exchange disintegrated into one of confrontation?
Garreth began to descend the stairs, but Rurik stayed him with a hand to his arm, locking steel-blue eyes with his.
“You might not care for what the duke said just now, but do not discount the validity of his words. My brother Lyting and I fought alongside Charles at Soissons, and I can assure you unseating Raoul will be no easy matter.”
By his words, Lord Rurik revealed himself and his brother as Carolingians, giving Garreth one of the answers he sought. He could only wonder that the baron chose to do so.
Lord Rurik continued. “After the recent turmoil in Normandy, William is most interested in solidifying his position and strengthening the duchy from within.”
Garreth knew he referred to the revolt of William’s barons.
“This colors his view, but his opinion on the matter of the crown is one shared. There is as much upheaval outside of the duchy as within and the other barons must protect their own interests. A Carolingian throne would be too weak to endure.”
“And so you also counsel patience for another day?” Garreth felt his spirit deflate a bit further.
Lord Rurik did not answer immediately but measured Garreth behind steel-blue eyes as he considered his next words.
“Já. But I would add that William is more like his father than many give credence. When the time comes for Louis’s return, I feel certain Duke William Longsword will be at his side and support him fully, all the way to the throne.”
»«
At midday, Garreth stood before the iron gates of the church-monastery of St. Ouen.
He tempered his features, know
ing they must reflect the dour mood that pervaded his bones. Compelling a smile to his lips, he waited as the spindly Brother Ansfrey bent to the gate’s cumbersome lock and worked his key.
With a solid clunk, the mechanism disengaged. Beaming, the monk hauled the gate open against a creaky protest and welcomed Garreth of Tamworth, royal thegn and representative of England’s great monarch and patron, come to procure the precious Psalter of Metz.
Garreth moderated his pace to match that of Brother Ansfrey as they proceeded toward the complex of monastic buildings and exchanged further cordialities. A blunt pain pulsed to life at Garreth’s temples. Try as he might to concentrate on the monk’s conversation, a portion of his brain persistently strayed back to his earlier clash with the duke, striving to recapture and dissect every word, look, and gesture.
He felt his smile slip and lifted it back in place, just as he became aware of the approach of another, more sturdy member of the community. This proved to be Abbot Berengar.
Additional greetings and pleasantries flowed while the ache along the sides of Garreth’s head spread its fingers upward to his crown.
Ailénor. He must find her, speak with her. Given the troubling outcome of his audience with the duke, Garreth knew he could no longer remain at court. Once he completed the king’s business at St. Ouen, he would need to leave Normandy — and Ailénor — and return to England forthwith.
His heart slumped. His head pounded. How could he expl . . . ?
“Come, my son.” Abbot Berengar motioned to the ponderous limestone building that hunkered on the path before them, directly ahead. “‘Twould be our distinct pleasure to guide you through St. Ouen’s workshops before we attend to our business.”
The churchmen’s shining faces mirrored their enthusiasm. Garreth realized he would grievously offend Abbot Berengar and Brother Ansfrey should he decline such a privileged offer and thus allowed them to usher him into the building that, they explained, housed the scriptorium, bindery, and library.
The back of Garreth’s mind still churned with possibilities of what he might or might not have said to Duke William when he stepped into the scriptorium, an especially large room, tomblike for its hushed quiet and muted rustlings.
“Here, as you can see, our labors are quite diverse,” Brother Ansfrey informed in a voice that was a little above a whisper, gesturing to the workroom with a sweep of his hand.
Crossing to the far end, they watched the brothers finish the preparation of new parchments, pumicing them smooth and chalking them. Garreth gazed on the process attentively, though even as he did, images of Ailénor appeared before his mind’s eye and projected themselves against the creamy sheets.
Ailénor in the pear tree, her legs bare to the hips. Ailénor beneath him on the ground, her fiery hair spilled bewitchingly about her.
Ailénor beside him at dinner, laughter shimmering in her eyes.
Ailénor atop her golden courser, riding to the distance, full of life and passion, her shapely form so tantalizingly profiled.
Ailénor . . .
His thoughts deflected against a wall of reality. They would part by sunrise tomorrow, he sailing for England, she remaining in Francia. But he would return, he swore to himself. And soon.
An inner voice nettled. He had earned the duke’s displeasure this day. Conceivably William would impede his suit for Ailénor’s hand. Would her family dismiss him as well? He had sensed no antagonism from Lord Rurik, but what of Ailénor’s father, Lord Lyting? The man had watched them both like a hawk last night.
“Here you will see how the leaves are cut to size, then pricked and ruled for the copyists.” Abbot Berengar steered them around long worktables, situated in the center of the room where more men bent to their tasks. Finally he brought them to where the scribes, rubricators, and illuminators populated their desks amid scrolls, quills, ink-pots, brushes, and paints.
Garreth watched as one worker scraped an error from the parchment with a small knife and re-inked the letter, but his thoughts continued to flicker back to Ailénor. He must seek her out directly, as soon as he departed the monastery.
Moving on to the bindery, Garreth and his companions made a brief tour and were subsequently greeted in the library by Brother Gilbert. Immediately the monk brought forth a sizable package wrapped in leather. This he placed upon a stand with great care and stepped back, allowing the abbot to uncover the piece.
“Now, my son, gaze for yourself upon the Psalter of Metz.”
As he slipped the book from its wrapper, jewels flashed on a ground of gold.
“The cover is called a ‘treasure’ binding. The plaque, at the center, is of the finest ivory, carved over a century ago at the famed workshops of Metz.” He indicated the large inset, a superb relief, depicting Christ in majesty.
Garreth’s brows rose. Thoroughly impressed, he gave his attention to the exceptional workmanship.
Abbot Berengar opened the heavy cover, explaining its core to be of beech, the edges beveled and cambered beneath its gold overlay. Turning to an exquisitely decorated leaf, he paused for Garreth’s inspection.
“The codex has been painstakingly restored. ‘Twas originally inscribed at Metz, but as is sometimes the custom, the work was forwarded to another abbey so that a particular artist might complete the illuminations. In this instance, ‘twas the Abbey of Liege and the artist a man named Rimpert.
“Alas.” The abbot sighed. “Norsemen ravaged and burnt the abbey some fifty years past. Rimpert fled with the unfinished Psalter and hid it well. Too well, actually. Rimpert died in his flight of the wounds he bore. Only in this last decade has the book been rediscovered. ‘Tis a great prize.”
Garreth nodded, awed and totally consumed as he scanned the pages, all rendered in neat, uncluttered minuscule, the initial letters elaborate and brightly colored.
At his elbow, Abbot Berengar expounded on how the monks of St. Ouen completed the decorations begun by Rimpert, recopied the damaged leaves, and added their own full-page illuminations, lavishly touched with gold.
For the next hour Garreth studied the dazzling work and more fully appreciated Athelstan’s desire to possess it.
“‘Tis magnificent,” he uttered. “A masterpiece,” he pronounced several pages later. “King Athelstan will be highly pleased.”
Smiles broke over the monks’ faces. Removing the Psalter to Abbot Berengar’s office, Garreth settled the king’s account. The abbot then insisted they seal their transaction in the cellar with a sampling of Brother Fiacre’s superb apple brandy. Garreth found the drink potent but smooth, with a distinctive bite. The first small cup fired a trail from his lips to his heels. The second dissolved the remnants of his headache and replaced it with a pleasant glow.
At the tolling of the abbey bell, Abbot Berengar took leave of Garreth and Brother Ansfrey to say his daily office. Brother Ansfrey, in turn, led Garreth from the cellar depths and directed him to the church, assuming he would wish to see its fine improvements under the Norman dukes and spend time before the altar, praying for safe travel to England.
Passing through a series of connected chambers and the vestry, they emerged at the rear of the church in the central nave. Garreth thanked the good brother a final time and, with the precious Psalter in arm, crossed to the altar.
No sooner had he knelt and closed his eyes than voices drifted to his ears from the front of the church. He tucked his head down to better center his thoughts in prayer, but the high-pitched whisperings of children shattered his concentration.
Casting a glance past his shoulder, his gaze fell immediately upon several young children and two women, clustered to one side at the entrance end and partially obscured by a column. The children he recognized at once, as he did their stern nurse, who stood conversing with one of the brothers, a stack of embroidered altar linens in her arms.
The other woman now moved from the column and into full view, robed in a brilliant green-blue mantle. Though her face remained averted, her deep auburn ha
ir glimpsed from along the edges of her snowy veil. The Baronne de Héricourt, Garreth thought. But looking again and marking her height, he realized with a start ‘twas Ailénor.
His heart jarred in place, and he rose to his feet. Outside the open doors, he spotted Brand and Delling waiting for the women and children, obviously their escorts. He brought his gaze back to Ailénor, wondering how he might gain her attention and draw her aside. But in that very moment, she turned and glanced toward the altar.
Ailénor gasped as her gaze collided with his, and he saw her lips form his name.
“Garreth,” Ailénor murmured on a soft breath. Her heart capered. The nave stood empty but an instant ago. From whence did he materialize?
She felt a warm, sweet joy stealing through her as her eyes remained coupled with his. Dear Jesu, but he was a handsome man. She wavered under the intensity of his look, then sent him a smile.
Last evening was one of the happiest she could recall. They had lingered long over their dinner, trading good-humored raillery with her siblings and cousins, then dallied over merles for hours more, rapt with each other’s company and forgetting their “guardians” who dwindled away one by one. Ailénor recognized she must possess a wanton side for she fervently hoped Garreth and she might again share a trencher and the evening hours that lay ahead. Would that they could find a small space of time to themselves, apart from the eyes of so many.
Ailénor collected herself, remembering the children and Felise, who was now debating the best methods for removing stains from altar cloths with Brother Eustache.
Ailénor excused herself on the pretext of going to light a devotional candle before the statue of the Virgin. Traversing the nave to the side chapel, she brushed gazes with Garreth as she went, her pulse accelerating, and prayed he would join her.
Ailénor flamed a candle and waited. Moments later she perceived Garreth’s presence towering behind her. A thrilling, vibrating sensation spangled through her at his closeness and settled low in her abdomen. Her every nerve stood on end, sensually aware of him.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 8