I felt my own pain then, come to take my hand, and I turned toward the chapel. My husband’s strength was just one more thing I would pray for.
When I stepped into the chapel, I found my daughter and Marie Helene there before me. Maisie sat with Marie, their stools drawn close together. They sat surrounded by candles, both with rosaries in their hands.
I went to my daughter first and kissed her, telling her that I had been with her father, that he was sad but that he was well. It was the first and last time I ever lied to her. She met my eyes and drank in the lie like wine. Her need pierced my heart, but I kissed her and left her with Maisie, for Marie Helene needed me more.
Already she was clothed from head to toe in black, her beautiful blonde hair hidden beneath a black wimple and veil. Her rosary of pearls and diamonds was the only thing that was not black, except for her pale face and her wide blue eyes. She knelt by the body, ignoring the prie dieu, choosing instead to kneel on the hard, stone floor. I brought her a cushion, which she ignored. I knelt down beside her.
My son lay still, already wrapped for burial, only his face visible above the clean white linen. His face was drawn and gray, and in it I could see no sign of the little boy he had been. All laughter and light were gone, leaving only pale wax in its place.
I turned from Marie Helene and thought of my son’s soul, lifting prayers to the Holy Mother in Heaven that She might see him safely into Paradise. I felt Her hand on me then, as I had not in many years, since long before I took Jean Pierre as my lover, and longer.
I breathed deeply in the warmth of Her presence, and I felt that She would guard him. I felt then the presence of Rose beside me and saw Rose taking her little brother up into her arms, her hair long now, unbound around her waist, and curly like mine, curly like his. In my thoughts, I saw Jean laugh and kiss her, until my eyes blurred with tears and I could see nothing more. But I had heard the Holy Mother speak. She held both of my children in Her hands.
I thanked God, repeating my rosary in gratitude even as I wept. Tears fell from my eyes for the first time since I had lost him, for the first time since I had washed him, then sent him away to be tended by others.
I knelt by his body and knew that he was no longer there, that his soul was safe in Paradise. Marie Helene had no such comfort. Her lost children did not come to touch her hand, but haunted her, as I have never been haunted by any of my dead. Marie Helene did not believe the truth the Church tells, that life does not end with the last breath, but goes on, into a certain Paradise.
I had learned this simple truth at my father’s knee, before I was strong enough to stand. This truth had sustained me through much loss, but it was not something I could hand to another.
So instead, I took her hand where it lay in her lap, her rosary forgotten. She clung to me, the diamonds of her rosary biting into my fingers. I took it from her as gently as I could, then brought her into my arms, and let her cry.
I thought to shield Marie from Marie Helene’s grief, but grief comes to us all, even as children, and we must learn to bear it. Finally, Maisie rose and led Marie away, but not before my daughter came to kiss my cheek.
“Your brother is with God,” I told her. “Fear nothing. For you will see him again.”
Marie Helene wept harder at these words, but my daughter met my eyes unblinking, her tears already shed. I watched the workings of her mind as she took this in, as she examined my face for the flaws of a lie and came away only with truth.
She kissed me on the cheek then for the first time, as she always kissed me from that day on, gently, softly, with the certainty born from her own mind. She took the truth from me, as I had once taken it from my father. So, I had one more reason to thank God as I knelt on that cold, stone chapel floor beside my young son’s body, watching my daughter walk away.
22
The Valley of the Shadow
We buried Jean the next day under the floor of that chapel, the vault under the altar opened to let him in. I heard the words of the priest, and I cast the first clot of dirt into the grave. I stayed long after the rest of the household went away: Marie Helene to her bed, Marie to the rose garden by the river with Maisie beside her.
I sat until the black dirt was smoothed over my son and the stones set over him. I watched as the servant women cleaned those stones until all hint of dirt had fled. I sat alone above his body, as if his life had never been.
I knelt then and thanked God for his life, and I thanked God for my own mind, that I would remember him. I ordered a sculpture made, not as he would have looked as a young man, but as he had been, a smiling child, his curls falling past his shoulders, his hand on his pet dog.
That sculpture lies over his grave still, and the few that come to worship in that chapel marvel at it, for his image looks at them as if he knows a secret, that life is eternal, and that all is as the Church has said.
The day they buried my son, William did not come. He did not leave his rooms in all that terrible time, not to come to a meal, not to take his daughter’s hand, not to see the sun as it set over the river. So, after two weeks of this, of the family waiting, after even Marie Helene had tried to smile again for Marie’s sake, I decided that this would do no longer, and I went to him.
It was almost time for the meal in the great hall, a meal that had gone on without him, with me presiding over it in his stead. His men-at-arms had begun to look askance at me, and to wonder if their lord had lost his wits. They all knew my son to be another’s, and they could not understand why my husband would take to his bed over someone else’s child.
I heard the rumors, for Maisie brought them to me, grim and gray-faced, not wanting to hurt me but not wanting the tales to go unpunished. She was a simple woman, and sweet, not knowing that punishment for cruelty was impossible. Cruelty was more often rewarded, and even my husband’s house could not keep such evil out.
So, I went to my husband’s rooms on the second week after my son’s death. Below, I could hear my husband’s men carousing and drinking, for without my husband’s presence to subdue them, they all but ran wild when I was not in the great hall. The serving girls were still safe, but only barely.
When I came to my husband’s door, I found it locked against me. Thanks to Maisie, I had the key. I found the lock well-oiled, and it turned without a creak. I pushed the heavy wooden door open to find the room shrouded in darkness, as if it were a tomb itself. Only one lamp was lit, and that one smoked, so that I had to stand very still in the doorway and let my eyes adjust to the darkness before I stepped inside.
At first, I thought William was not there at all, that he had left rooms for parts unknown, locking the door behind him. But after I stood still for a long while, I saw a huddled figure bent low in a sway-backed chair. I would have thought that shadow a pile of cloth, the light was so dim, but then it moved, and I saw that the shadow was my husband.
I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. William did not look toward me but bent double, his face in his hands.
I went to him but knew enough not to touch him. I drew a chair up to sit beside him. When he still did not look at me, I knelt at his feet. William himself had told me never to kneel to anyone but God. I broke our agreement and knelt before him.
His hair hung in lank strands, unwashed and uncombed. I saw beneath his tunic that he wore a hair shirt, and that his fair skin was scarred with red welts. I recoiled at this, for I knew that my husband did not believe in the solace of repentance. I knew that he wore the hair shirt, not as it was intended, as an impermanent penance to ask the forgiveness of God, but as a gesture of futility, of punishment merely – punishment for a sin that would not be redeemed.
He ignored my presence and did not turn to me, but I spoke to him as if he had. “You must come down to the great hall and sit among your men,” I said. “I have kept order for as long as I am able. They grow more fractious every day.”
He did not look at me, but something in his face changed. I could see
that he was listening.
“Your daughter misses you,” I said. “And I have need of you.”
To mention Marie was perhaps a mistake, for his face clouded even darker, until I thought he might be lost to me completely in self-loathing, loss and guilt. But at the mention of my need, I watched him fight his pain to stay with me. William turned his head then, and met my eyes, though I saw what it cost him.
His blue eyes were shot through with red. He had slept little since Jean’s death. Old bread turning with mold sat on his table with no bite taken from it, and the flagon of watered wine was full.
I touched his arm, and he flinched under my hand as if I had struck him. I wondered if he thought that I came to chastise him, if he thought I blamed him for the loss of my son.
It was God’s will, the accident that had let Jean slip from William’s grasp and fall to his death on the stones of the bailey. I knew better than to walk the road of blame, for I was far from blameless.
William must have seen something of this in my face, for he reached out to me of his own accord and touched me. He was careful, as if the skin of my face might burn his fingertips, but my cheek did not raise welts on his hand. After a long moment, I turned my head and laid my lips along his palm.
I did not kiss him, but the warmth of my lips seemed to soothe him. We sat like that for a long while, until I thought that we might stay that way an hour. But then the door opened behind me, and I turned from him to see who among his household had the courage to face him.
My little girl stood in that doorway, the only one of my three children still living. I rose to my feet to meet her. She did not look at me, but only at him.
I saw for the first time that my daughter was brave. She had slipped her leash, as I once had done, long ago, and had come to find me, even in the darkness of her father’s room. I saw in her face that she was afraid, but her face held a hint of my father’s stubbornness, the stubborn certainty that whatever fear took hold of us, duty always came first.
Marie was only six years old by this time, and small for her age, but I saw my father in her as she stood in the threshold of that darkness, her little face set in the determination that she was not going to leave us to it.
She stepped through that door and came first to me and took my hand. I squeezed her hand in mine, but she did not stay by me. Marie stepped deeper into the darkness, taking in the sight of her father’s ruined face, ravaged with pain and weeping.
William could not hide his pain from her, his bitterness and sorrow had left no defenses. He could only sit and be as she saw him, a man who had seen the worst and had not yet turned from it.
It was in that moment that he turned back toward the light. William looked at the little girl who had crossed the hall alone to find him, the girl who had abandoned her nurse and Marie Helene, those who raised her and cared for her and coddled her without ceasing. She came and found him in the depths of his despair, and when she saw the pain in his face, she did not turn from him.
Marie went to her father and put her arm around his shoulders. She wiggled closer, so that he picked her up and placed her on his lap, as he had done so often before, in happier times, when our house had known no sorrow or death.
William seemed to come alive at this small gesture. He seemed more himself again with his child on his knee. He sat up straighter, and held her close, his only desire to keep her comfortable and safe, as it had always been.
Marie did not wince at the sour smell of his clothes and hair but looked into his eyes for a long time without speaking. She drew him close and placed her other hand along his cheek, where his light blond beard had begun to grow, for he had not shaved in many days.
“Papa,” she said very solemnly, as if telling him a secret. “You know that Jean is in Heaven.”
I saw William blink, his face a studied blank. I knew that he did not believe in God or the hereafter. I knew that religion was a fiction that held no hope or light for him. But as he looked at his little girl, he could not turn from her as he turned from God. “I know, Marie.”
His voice was hoarse from weeping and from disuse. I poured him some water and wine from the jug on his table, and he drank it to please me, never taking his eyes from Marie’s face.
“Then, Papa, you know you must not be sad. You will see him again.” Marie spoke these words with the simple faith that only a child can know, a faith that even I barely remembered.
I knelt by her side, placing my palm on her knee. She did not look at me but drew her father closer with one arm around his shoulders as she took my hand. As we sat together, my daughter prayed that God would bless us and keep us safe from sorrow.
William’s blue eyes were full of tears. I had to blink to see this through the tears in my own. He leaned down and kissed her, then me, his lips warm and dry, as if he had a fever. He stood then, still holding her, and I was glad to see that his strength had not deserted him, though he had not eaten in days.
Marie Helene was at the door then, and came through it, her face full of fear to find the only child left to her care braving the lion’s den. I saw the relief on her face that not only was Marie well, but that we were all together, with William once more standing among the living.
Marie kissed her father once more before he set her on her feet. When she stood on her own, Marie Helene’s hand in hers, she met her father’s eyes unblinking. “Come down to supper, Papa.” With that she left, leading Marie Helene out.
I watched her go, marveling that I had known my daughter all her life, but only that day had I seen the depths within her.
Marie Helene left the door open behind her, and I called for hot water and a razor before closing it again. I opened the shutters along one wall so that the late afternoon light could filter in from beyond the river.
William stood where my daughter had left him, watching me as I moved about his room. I picked up the old bread, and he took it from me just as quickly. “You do not serve here, lady. Leave it, and I will have it taken away.”
I let him take it from me. I stood facing him, at a loss for words since my daughter had spoken.
William and I stared at each other and time seemed to stand still with us. I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand and covered my lips. His fingertips were warm and dry. “Thank you for coming after me.”
I took his hand in mine and kissed his palm without thinking, then froze, for such gestures of affection were not allowed between us. He stood staring at me. I did not move or blink until finally he stepped away from me.
When I spoke, my voice was rough, and I had to clear my throat to be understood. “Is there anyone I can send? Some friend that might come to you?”
I did not want to name a lover, for fear of offending him. In the last year, he had been so discreet as to appear a monk, and I would cut out my own tongue rather than to pry into his affairs.
William understood me, as he always did, with no explanation between us. “No, Alais. There is no one to send for.”
I thought he would say more, but the door opened then, and Maisie came in clucking, with servants in her wake bringing hot bath water. His squire came in, with a grateful bow to me for braving the darkness behind the locked door. He went straight to the clothes press to find a decent gown and hose for my husband to wear to dinner. By now all the house had heard that the lord would sit in his own hall that night. Already the noise from the hall was calmer beyond the open bedroom door.
I turned to leave then, my work done, but William caught my hand and held me there, the blue of his eyes asking a question I could not understand. “Will you walk down into the hall with me, my lady?”
The formality of his address belied the desperation I felt in his touch. I smiled at him before I pulled my hand away. “It will be my pleasure, husband.”
I left him then, for Maisie had begun to watch us from beneath her lashes, and I had never been one to make idle talk before servants, no matter how beloved. I moved to the door, but when I turn
ed to draw it closed behind me, I saw him still standing where I had left him, his servants hovering around him, grateful that he was on his feet, if not fully himself again. He met my eyes across that room, and I could see him clearly, for Maisie had ordered trimmed lamps brought and the old smoking lamp taken away.
William met my eyes across his rooms, and it seemed to me that I was seeing him for the first time, that we were in a new land, with new thoughts between us. I did not ask myself what those thoughts were but went to change my gown into something suitable to wear when I sat in the high table at my husband’s side.
23
Freedom
William had lost weight during his time of grief. I felt his arm beneath his silk gown and found only muscle and sinew. Any cushion of fat was gone. He was still quite young, so he did not yet look gaunt. Two weeks without food could not do that to him, only his cheeks were hollowed out, showing the fine bones of his face.
I met him on the staircase that led down to the main hall. He met my eyes and smiled wryly, a little of his old light returned to his eyes. I knew that we would speak later, for the hall was full and waiting for our entrance. All his men had heard that he would dine that night at the high table, where all his vassals could see him.
They were all waiting for him as we came in, my hand placed formally on his arm. We walked in together as if stepping into my brother’s court in Paris and some of his men rose to their feet in homage when he entered.
When William took his accustomed place at the high table, I stood beside him, in case he needed to lean on me. He had drunk a posset, but he was still weak, for he had still not taken any solid food. I would not have known this, if I had not found him myself, bowed down under the weight of his grief and cares so that he could barely lift his head an hour before. Now he stood before his people as if he were a king himself, and they watched him, always ready to take in high drama, especially when it cost them nothing.
Princess Of France (The Queen's Pawn Book 2) Page 21