“But this friendship between our friend and a monk is fascinating, Father,” Chacier said with a smile on his lips. “Let us hear something of it.”
Bronwen was still getting used to the family’s habit of mealtime discussion. Chacier, she soon learned, was an eager and intelligent debater. When she declined to describe her experience, the young man gave a detailed history of the monastery. Gildan sat mesmerized, her breakfast untouched and her pink lips open.
“They live like hermits,” Chacier told the women.
“How boring,” Gildan commented.
“But dear lady,” he said, “I understand you are to become a nun…if your sister has her way.”
“Chacier, don’t speak nonsense!” Caresse cried as Gildan blushed a vivid pink. “She is too lively for a nunnery. Perhaps you can think of better employment for her, brother.”
“Indeed, I am certain of it.” Chacier leaned back in his chair. His long blond mustache cut a fine and noble outline on his narrow face. His hazel eyes were full of merriment as he glanced around the table and drew the conversation away from Gildan.
Bronwen drifted in and out of the discussion. She hated it when Gildan was angry with her, and she wanted to be done with this lengthy breakfast. But she did have one mission to accomplish.
“Do you know of Thomas à Becket?” she asked Chacier during a lull.
“But of course,” Chacier said. “He holds a school in his home for the ambitious young nobles of the city. The king may reside in Bermondsey, but it is from the house of Thomas à Becket that emissaries are sent with state secrets to the pope and the kings of Europe.”
“How did he gain such respect and position?” Bronwen inquired, beginning to doubt Martin’s advice about taking her petty mission to such a great man.
“He was born of an Anglo-Saxon mother and a Norman father—citizens of London. Becket takes pride in being a native-born Englishman and Londoner. His father, called Gilbert à Becket, was a merchant but they lived humbly. It was his mother who urged her son to greatness. Indeed, some say she dreams he will one day be called a saint. Mothers always have high hopes for their sons—but Becket has shown what a merchant’s son can do for himself.”
Sir Gregory laughed and proudly clapped his son on the shoulder. But Bronwen was remembering Jacques’s words to her the night before. He had called himself unworthy, lower than she. Yet in Norman England, a merchant’s son could become great and powerful.
“Becket was schooled in Merton, London and Paris,” Sir Gregory told Bronwen. “He learned the merchant trade, the life of a knight, and the duties of a sheriff—all by apprenticeship. And he studied church law and common law in Italy. He has been made the prebendary of the churches of Maryle-Strand, Otford in Kent and St. Paul’s. With that, he has enough money to live in comfort the rest of his life. If Henry becomes king, who can tell to what position he may aspire?”
“Enough of politics,” Lady Mignonette put in as soon as she saw a break in the conversation. She quickly turned the talk to plans and preparations for the coming fall and winter festivities. Bronwen could not bring herself to join in the merriment over events she did not plan to attend. By winter’s start, she planned to be back at Rossall tending to her duties as lady of the holding.
Days slipped by, and Bronwen had no message from Martin regarding an appointment to meet with Thomas à Becket. Gildan, meanwhile, continued to blossom in the bustle of city life. Assisted by the Whittaker sisters, she garbed herself in colorful, fashionable gowns and hats. It seemed to Bronwen that as the days grew more chilly and damp, Gildan’s beauty became all the more brilliant.
She and Chacier became nearly inseparable from morning until night. Gildan confided that they exchanged furtive kisses in the stairwell and tender caresses as they passed in the hall. Forgetting her anger at her sister, she eagerly shared the flowering emotion and the tumult of passion she knew in the man’s embrace. She felt her life reborn as Chacier treated her with the gentleness and affection her husband never had.
No matter how apprehensive these confessions made Bronwen, her heart softened when she saw her sister’s eyes brimming with joy. For her own part, she was certain she had at last driven Jacques away. She and the other young ladies often passed his house as they visited friends, but she saw no sign of the man. He never returned to Sir Gregory’s home or sent her tokens of affection like the ones Gildan received from Chacier several times a day.
All the same, Bronwen longed for the touch of Jacques’s hands, and she ached to be near him again. As she sat in the window of her chamber and peered out at the changing leaves, she stroked her fingers along the silken lining of his mantle. The three gold balls of his crest glimmered in the dim light of the afternoon sun.
A knock at her door one afternoon brought Sir Gregory into the room. “Madam, I have been on my almsgiving rounds today. Your monk has sent you a message.”
The merchant held out a scrolled parchment. Bronwen took it and broke the seal. Unrolling the paper, she saw that a short note had been inscribed. “Please, sir,” she said. “Will you tell me what it says?”
“To Bronwen of Rossall,” Sir Gregory read. “From Martin of Charter House, London, 13 October, 1153. The interview with Thomas of London, called Thomas à Becket, is scheduled one week from this date upon the bells of None at his home. I have kept your confidences to me. Now I make one request in return. Please treat my friend with grace and fairness. He means well in all things.”
Bronwen took the note from Sir Gregory and pored over the unfamiliar script. If only she could read and write. Then she would be able to explain her thoughts to the monk. She would be able to send messages of her own. And she would be able to read her father’s will.
“Madam.” Sir Gregory broke into her thoughts. “You do well to speak with Thomas à Becket. He gives wise counsel. But more important, pray about these matters. Follow the leadings of God, and you cannot go wrong.”
The night before Bronwen was to meet with Thomas à Becket, Gildan woke her with a rough shake. “What is it, sister?” Bronwen whispered. “Why are you not abed?”
“I must speak with you, Bronwen. Tomorrow I want you to ask Becket to annul my marriage to Aeschby. Please! Surely he can do it—everyone says he has great influence in the church court.”
“But he’s only a deacon and a prebendary. He has no power to do what you ask.”
Gildan’s face fell. “Then, I must tell you what Chacier plans. He will ask his father to see me converted and to pay the court fees that I may have the marriage ended.”
“And then what?”
“And then he plans to wed me.”
Bronwen stiffened at her sister’s words. “Wed you? Sir Gregory will never allow it.”
“I know I have nothing to offer. But I care for Chacier so much and he for me. Oh Bronwen, you cannot imagine how I feel when he holds and kisses me! Aeschby was so cruel, so vicious. Chacier makes me feel like a woman again. He says he loves me. And I love him, too.”
As Bronwen listened to her sister’s words, she considered scolding Gildan for even considering the notion of a marriage based on the fleeting emotion of amour—nothing but a French whim. But recalling the genuine joy she had seen on her sister’s face in the past weeks, she decided she must give a more considered response.
“Gildan, let us think carefully. If Sir Gregory agrees to pay for the court, and if you are granted your annulment, and if Sir Gregory consents to allow his son to marry you, what then? Gildan, one day Chacier may need the fortune that a wealthy wife could have brought him. Can you live, knowing he may regret his decision?”
Wiping tears, Gildan shook her head. “What shall I do, sister? I love him so much that I would give him up rather than see him disgraced. But I long to be his wife. I want to manage a fine household like this, and I want to bear his children. Oh Bronwen, I feel that my body will give him children. Fine, beautiful English children.”
Bronwen had to smile. “So you are English no
w, and no longer Briton?”
“I don’t care what I am. When you’re in love, it cannot matter. I just want to be Chacier’s wife.”
“Then let us wait to see how Sir Gregory acts. If he does what Chacier asks, then you’ll know that he has pondered the situation carefully and feels you will not harm his son’s reputation or future. Chacier’s father is a wise man to have built so prosperous a business. He is not likely to make a mistake in the choice of his son’s bride.”
“Oh, dear! When you put it that way, I can see there is little chance of him allowing it. But I would rather die than be forced to submit to Aeschby again.”
Bronwen hugged her sister gently. “Stop your tears, now. It is not as dire as that. You’ll never belong to Aeschby again, and Sir Gregory has allowed your amour with Chacier to continue. He must not be so set against it as we fear.”
At this, Gildan’s face lit up. “Dear Bronwen, you are my strength and my wisdom. I do love you so much.”
“Enough of love for one night, please.” Bronwen laughed. “Now go to sleep at once, you silly goose.”
Gildan giggled and slipped beneath the thick fur blankets of their bed. Nestling against Bronwen, she heaved a deep sigh. Before long the two of them were fast asleep.
As she set out in the carriage, Bronwen seemed to see before her—not the street to Becket’s house—but the road to Rossall. Still wearing her mourning garb, she walked through the ornately carved doors of the man’s magnificent home and realized she was viewing a way of life she had never imagined. A servitor led her down marble hallways into a great arched chamber lined with tables. Though it was well past the luncheon hour, the tables were crowded with knights, merchants and scholars who leaned to converse across platters piled with food.
A second servitor led her to a vacant chair, and a third presented her with an array of exotic fruits, most of which she had never seen before, and a selection of cheeses. She was lifting a slice of fruit to her plate when a hand reached out to steady her.
“Take care, Bronwen the Briton. You have chosen a rare delicacy.” Jacques Le Brun drew out a chair and seated himself beside her.
At the sight of him so near, she quaked and the piece of fruit tumbled into her lap. Pinning it between her knees, she felt it burst against the fabric of her tunic.
“Well caught!” he said with a laugh.
“You startled me,” she retorted. Cheeks afire, she retrieved the fruit and dabbed at her gown with a napkin.
“I came to observe you among the intellectuals of London, dear lady. When Martin told me he had directed you here, I could not resist joining you. Your keen wit can only be sharpened in the presence of these minds.”
Bronwen bristled. “Why did Martin tell you of our conversation? I asked him to keep my confidence.”
“As he did. He refused to utter a word of your conversation. His only confession was his advice to send you here. You see, he needed my help to arrange the interview.”
The Norman smiled and bit into a piece of the same fruit. In contrast to their last meeting, his mood was light and friendly. Bronwen recalled Martin’s message asking her to treat his friend with grace and fairness. Though Jacques’s presence at the house only added to her anxiety, she was determined to honor the monk’s request.
“This is called an orange,” Jacques told her as he handed her a freshly cut slice. “From the Holy Land.”
Expecting the bitterness of a lemon, Bronwen slipped the fruit into her mouth, bit down, and instead discovered a sweet, tangy treat. “How lovely it is! Do they grow near your home in Antioch—these oranges?”
“Everywhere. We pluck and eat them just as you might eat a raspberry.”
“I cannot imagine such a place.” She chewed a moment in silence as she studied the busy chamber. “Please, sir, can you tell me which man is Thomas à Becket?”
Jacques settled back in his chair. “He is in another chamber speaking with some priests. He’ll see you in time. Today perhaps, or tomorrow—certainly this week.”
“But I was told to come at the bells of None.”
The scholar at Bronwen’s other elbow leaned over and patted her arm. “You cannot expect a man as busy as Thomas à Becket to keep every appointment he makes with widows and beggars. He has been known to keep kings waiting.”
Bronwen stiffened at the implication. “I am a noblewoman, sir. I came at his invitation.”
“Madam,” the scholar said. “Where Thomas à Becket is concerned, we are all beggars. We are supplicants for his favor, his advice, his money or his power. Everyone here has come to plead for something. Do not take offense.”
Bronwen let out a breath and tried to calm her nerves. Animated banter among the scholars at her table drew her attention. They were discussing whether the earth was flat or round. Most believed it as round as the sun and stars.
“But if so,” Bronwen could not help but interrupt, “might a man not set sail from England journeying westward, and continuing westward arrive back at England?”
“Precisely,” Jacques confirmed. “But here is the dilemma—who will undertake such a journey?”
The men began to discuss this question as Bronwen found her ears drawn to the exchange at her left.
“If, as we all believe,” one man was saying, “matter is made of various combinations of the four elements—earth, air, fire and water—then can one type of matter be completely re-created from another?”
Another man spoke up. “For example, could gold be produced from some mixture of other base metals?”
“In Europe,” Jacques said in his deep voice, “I learned that in order to transmute one substance into another, a special ingredient must be present. This is called the lapis philosophorum—the philosopher’s stone. No one has yet discovered it.”
“But where do they look for it?” Bronwen asked.
“It is believed to be found in water. Anyone drinking this liquid gold will obtain eternal youth.”
As the hours passed, Bronwen found herself absorbed in one discussion after another. Often Jacques asked for her opinion or listened to her questions. Her mind reeled with ideas, thoughts she had never before entertained, words she had never heard spoken, theories she could not have imagined. Seated on the edge of her chair, she leaned forward, enthralled at the debates before her. So intent was she that she hardly noticed when a servitor touched her shoulder.
“Bronwen of Rossall? Sir Thomas will see you now. Please follow me.”
“I see your request has a speedy response,” Jacques said, rising to help her from her seat. As he took her hand, their eyes met. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon. You have proven what I suspected—that you have a quick mind and an able tongue. It pleases me that there has been no strife between us on this day.”
Bronwen smiled up at him. “Indeed it has been pleasant. I regret that life cannot be filled with such days as this. Thank you for your assistance in procuring my interview. Perhaps it will help to ease my path ahead.”
“I hope so, Bronwen.”
With a nod, she drew away from him and followed the servitor out of the bustling chamber and down the long hall to a tall wooden door. The man announced her presence.
“Bronwen of Rossall in Amounderness. Referred by Jacques Le Brun of Warbreck and Martin of Charter House.”
Bronwen stepped into the dim room. For a moment she was breathless at the opulence around her. On every wall hung vivid tapestries depicting scenes of the hunt, or moments in the life of Christ. Expensive beeswax candles burned in each corner and sent a sweet aroma into the room. The floors, like the walls, were covered with cloths. Bronwen feared to walk lest she tread on some sacred scene. Most astonishing of all was a great window constructed of bits of colored glass fitted together to form an intricate picture. The late sun shone through the glass and cast colored shadows that danced like jewels on the carpets.
“Good afternoon, madam,” a quiet voice said.
Bronwen scanned the room until she located
a solitary shadowed figure standing beside a wooden chair. She dropped a deep curtsy and bowed her head.
“Please be seated.” The man extended his arm toward another large chair. “I am Thomas of London, and I see you have two fine references—good, honorable men. How may I serve you, dear lady?”
Bronwen studied the pallid face and deep frank eyes of the churchman. His dark hair framed a wide forehead and a long narrow nose. For all his power and wealth, Thomas à Becket looked young indeed.
She swallowed. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“At the moment, fortunately, I am free of kings, kings-to-be and holy men. And in my own home, I may choose to see whom I wish.”
“I seek your advice in a personal and legal matter,” she said. “But I must ask for your oath of confidence.”
“You have it. Speak plainly.”
“Before my father died, he engaged a scribe to write out his will concerning his possessions. The will is unusual—no one in our country has ever known of such a thing. Our spoken word is our oath. In this document, all my father’s lands and half of his treasure were endowed to me. Though he arranged for my marriage, he stipulated that nothing of his would ever belong to my husband. Rather, it must go to our firstborn son. If my husband were to die, I should remarry at once, especially if I had no son. My sister was to receive the other half of my father’s treasure, and it would belong to her husband—as is the normal custom.”
The man’s face registered nothing. “And what has happened?”
“I married at the end of last year. Soon my father died, but before I could claim the land, my new husband’s holding was attacked. He was slain and his property taken. During this time of chaos, my brother-in-law usurped my father’s lands. Now I have no husband or son to avenge me, yet I feel it is my duty to do my father’s will.”
As she spoke, Becket rose and walked around his chair. Standing in the gloom, he paused with his head bent and his brow creased. After a short time, he returned to his seat.
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