The falcons eyes, p.38
The Falcon's Eyes, page 38
She picked up a shawl that, earlier, I had tossed upon the bed. “You see, my lady,” she said with a half-smile, deftly folding the silk, “you have taught me well.”
I gave a small laugh. “I doubt God would count that as a laudable achievement—to have taught you how to lie.”
“I would never betray you, my lady! Even if it meant I had to lie.” Her expression clouded over. “Though I do feel I did disappoint you, by suggesting Sigibert for the journey. And he did betray you. Alas!”
“You must never blame yourself. A wise person once told me to expunge all guilt. You would do well to remember those words, whenever you are tempted to turn the cudgel against yourself.”
“I will. Still—” She furrowed her brow, suddenly downcast. “If only Corbus, not Sigibert, had made the journey. Corbus would never have betrayed you!”
“It is useless to dwell on such things.” I stopped, for I had heard some brisk footsteps along the corridor—it was Gerard approaching. I pressed my finger to my mouth and whispered: “He comes.” Then I handed her my hairbrush. “Unplait my hair and begin to brush it.”
NOTHING—NOT EVEN MY OWN IMAGININGS—HAD prepared me for Gerard’s new stance toward me, the chilly politeness that informed his every gesture, his every word. “My lady, the countess,” he would pronounce with scathing emphasis as he took my hand before we proceeded, step by step, into the great hall for dinner. His was a palpable, almost mocking coldness, unmistakable to visitors and everyone in the household. I held my head high, but it was hard, very hard, to withstand his chilly inscrutability. In bed, I had become accustomed to the satisfaction of his wanting me; if I had turned away from him in recent months—inwardly or physically—it had been my decision, and underlying it had remained the lingering pleasure of knowing I was still desired. Now this, too, had ended. At night we lay as two frozen creatures side by side in a catafalque; he never came close, he never touched me.
I felt a stranger amid the household. The servants scurried about, their glances at once curious, blaming, and evasive. They had heard, no doubt, as servants always do, that I had surreptitiously sent Sigibert to the witch in the forest, and that my husband was furious with me. I forced myself not to imagine the gossip in the kitchen, the laundry, the stables. Imagine, I thought, if they were to learn the real purpose of Anthusis’s potions! What would they think of me then—a woman who, in taking these remedies, had committed a mortal sin?
I tried to banish these thoughts from my mind, just as I tried to banish the image of Sigibert, ostracized and humiliated. I avoided Millicent whenever possible, for I could not help but notice an even more pronounced smugness to her demeanor, as if recent events had proved what she had always insinuated—that I was not a “virtuous sort.” I never ventured into the kitchen to speak with Wilbertus, as was my custom. As for Ragnar—whenever I passed him near the mews, he glared at me, his devious watery blue eyes aglow with a triumphant malevolence.
I took some comfort in knowing I had a few stalwart allies, Aiglantine and Raoul chief among them. The latter was in a difficult position: it would be dangerous for Raoul to show me any sympathy. One day I managed to tell him so. “I do not want you to be anything but polite to me,” I cautioned. “Assume a distance, even a coldness toward me. It is better for you that way.” He nodded reluctantly and replied gently, “I would find that very difficult, my lady.” I told him I understood; nevertheless, I wanted him to follow my dictum.
I agonized that Aiglantine’s closeness to me—long acknowledged within the household—would set her apart from the other servants and make her an object of scorn. “Do not stay with me too much,” I advised her several times as she lingered in my chamber. “Best you keep a bit of distance from me, for your own good.” But she was too loyal for my own misdeeds to affect her behavior, and remained my dainty, endearing defender. “I will behave to you as I always have,” she told me more than once. “I cannot change.”
Much of the time I withdrew from the household, sequestered in my chamber with the falcon burning, its eyes alight, while I tried to read or sew. So lonely was I that even the company of the eerie bronze creature now seemed welcome.
Late one such afternoon, with the falcon as my only companion, I decided to write my brother Arnaut: a fruitless plan, quite possibly, as a messenger would likely be denied me. Yet the act of writing itself—even if the letter were never sent—would surely be of solace.
I went to the table where I kept my writing implements and opened the deep, shallow drawer: to my astonishment and distress, the quills, parchment, and ink had disappeared. They must be somewhere here, I thought, frantically searching the back of the drawer, and then the smaller drawer below it.
But my writing implements were nowhere to be found. Someone had taken them away.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, ONE AFTERNOON in late November, I stood by the window in my bedchamber. It had been a rainy autumn—the fields were muddy, and the drenched trees looked as if their soggy branches would break from their weight. Water lapped at the very top of the moat.
I heard a sudden knocking at the door. “It is Raoul,” said the voice. I bade him enter.
“Lord de Meurtaigne requests to see you, my lady,” he told me gravely.
“Where?” I asked, in a nervous, clipped way. “Here, in our chamber?”
“In the anteroom of the great hall, my lady.”
“I see.” Our eyes met; we both knew there was something unusual afoot. “Tell my lord I shall descend in a few minutes.”
Gerard stood between two columns in the anteroom, a narrow, high-ceilinged chamber with a small hearth and, before it, two stately, richly carved chairs with blue silk cushions. The chairs were unfamiliar here; a narrow, homely bench customarily stood in their place. The sight of the empty, expectant seats, each facing the other, unsettled me.
I bowed before him. He was dressed formally, in a braided red tunic; over this was a heavy cape fastened by a formidable enameled brooch in blue and gold. I had a fleeting memory of my first glimpse of him—tall, solemn, dauntingly worldly—that snowy January afternoon long ago; he had awed me then, but he had not frightened me as he did now. . . .
“Come,” he said, in a somber voice as he gestured to one chair. “Take this seat.”
I did so, sitting up very straight, trying not to fidget with my hands, all the while my heart racing. He sat opposite, fixing his gaze on me so intently that I looked away, flustered, embarrassed that he should notice my nervousness.
“I have come to a decision,” he announced. “It is clear, and certainly the events of the past weeks make it even more so, that we can no longer live this way together.”
His words stunned me. Yet had I not wanted this outcome, had I not helped bring about this very decision? My strategy had succeeded, after all! Even so, suddenly I felt petrified; for many moments I sat utterly still, trying to reassure myself that all would be well. Finally, stalwartly, I said: “Then let us part, my lord,” adding, “I have been nothing but a disappointment to you.”
A fleeting look of consternation crossed his face. He glanced down, his long, dark brow furrowed, before he looked up at me anew. “And what have I been to you?” he asked, surprising me by his tone, which suggested genuine curiosity.
“A generous husband,” I replied, choosing my words carefully.
“And a devoted one—”
“Yes.”
“Have I not given you everything you could have wanted?”
“Yes.”
“But still it was not enough.”
In a quavering voice I replied, “I never meant—”
“Of course there was the immense disappointment of losing two children,” he said, as if he had not heard me. “And then your inability to become pregnant again. But no, there was something else as well.” He stood up and took a few paces away, then turned around to face me. “I simply could not make you understand.”
“Understand what, my lord?”
“About life. The way it really is, not the way you imagine it should be. You have your own”—he searched for the right word—“notions of life.” His tone had changed: for the first time there was an intimation of bitterness, though it was imbued with a certain bewilderment.
“Let me go, then!” I cried. “Let us part.”
“Yes. It is best. I have made some inquiries, taken some steps. I shall ask for a divorce.”
“And the reason—what will you give as the reason?” I asked anxiously.
“Have no concern,” he replied with an ironic smile. “I shall not bring your Anthusis plot into this. I shall not mention your duplicity in seeking out her help without my permission. No, I shall cite your barrenness as cause. I shall say that the midwives could not help you. And that even this Anthusis could not help you. There is ample proof of your infertility. I shall issue a petition to the bishop.”
“When do you intend to do this, my lord?”
“As soon as possible. I have already drafted a document. A formal request.”
So this was a fait accompli—how swiftly and efficiently he had acted! “But where will I go—once this is done?” I asked fearfully. “What will happen to me?”
“That is up to me to decide.”
“I suppose you will send me to an abbey,” I ventured.
“Assuming an abbey would have you!” he retorted.
“Why would an abbey not have me?” I asked, disconcerted.
“You are not virtuous,” he replied, in the voice one would use while addressing a naughty child. “You lie. You disobey. You are deceitful.” He resumed his seat in the chair opposite, leaning forward with folded arms as he dug the heels of his boots into the stone floor. “You will return to your home,” he finally said.
“To my home?” I asked, startled.
He raised one brow. “Yes, to your home. Your brother Guy is there, is he not? And your father?”
“Yes,” I murmured. This was not what I had anticipated: I had always felt sure he would send me to an abbey. “I thought perhaps I might reside at Fontevraud—”
“Why Fontevraud?”
“I remember Lady Fastrada speaking of the abbey when she was here. Her sister Clementia resides there.” Then, rapidly, nervously, “And I remember Hugh saying that the abbey is patronized by the Plantagenets—by King Henry’s family, and by Queen Eleanor herself.” I realized at once I had made a mistake—the mention of Queen Eleanor invariably prompted a contemptuous reaction from him, as it always had my mother.
“Eleanor? That hardly commends it! No,” he said, “I shall simply write your family and explain what has happened. You will go home.”
“Let me write them first, I beg you—”
“No. It is my place to do so, not yours.”
“I only ask that you let me know what you will tell them.”
“The truth—what else is there to say? That I am intent on having children, and that it is clear you are barren. That I have grounds for divorce and intend to implement them.”
“You will not mention the”—I hesitated—“incident with Anthusis?”
“No. There is no reason to. I do not act out of vengeance—not with a woman, certainly. There is no reason for others, especially your family, to learn of your wayward behavior. Nor would it give me any satisfaction to embarrass you.” He gave a thin smile, asserting, “As I have told you before, I am not a vengeful man. Proud, perhaps, but not vengeful.”
I fell silent, all the while thinking of the humiliation of returning home. A spurned wife, a failed wife, a young woman who no longer had a husband. . . .
“Never did I imagine this turn of events,” he said. “Never did I imagine our marriage coming to this.”
The sadness in his voice touched me. I began to cry. “Never did I either, my lord! Never did I think our marriage would come to this!” Memories assailed me—our rides together, my first visit to the mews, his tender concern about my being in pain, when I was in childbirth . . . I was seized by a sudden terror: Was I wrong, had I been reckless, in forcing the end of our marriage?
“And my name?” I asked. “Shall I retain my married name?”
“You will revert to your maiden name. It will make things”—he paused—“simpler. For the future. For both of us.”
“I see,” I murmured.
“I have begun to plan your journey home,” he continued. “It is only a question of when you depart. Though, of course, it must be before Christmas. There are the roads to consider, the ease of travel. I shall send several of my men with you. They will look after you well.”
“It will be a long journey,” I murmured, unable to focus on the logistics he spoke of with such calm and clarity. I had imagined another life, not this journey backward, not the specter of a shameful confrontation with my brother and father.
I looked skittishly about, clutched my hands, then pulled a loose thread from my sleeve—nervous gestures that were not lost on him. “I hope you will consider what I say,” he told me. “And that you will go quietly back to your home, so that we may put this all behind us.”
I brushed an errant tear from my cheek. “I am prepared to follow your will, my lord.”
Chapter 49
What I had contrived to bring about—the end of my marriage—began to frighten me with new intensity. There were moments when I wondered whether Gerard might have spoken the truth: Were my notions of life misguided, and had these notions deluded me?
I had imagined a future of a certain freedom, a lofty life, a life devoted to reading and writing and good works—like Héloïse, like Clementia at Fontevraud, or at another such enlightened abbey. Instead I was to return home, to the very place, as a girl, I had yearned to escape. Where were my dreams now of emulating the independence of Saint Radegonde, of Queen Eleanor? The future seemed grim and confined. Even my holding up Clementia as a mentor seemed foolish, not to say ludicrous: I had never even met Clementia, and what I knew of her came only from her doting sister Fastrada’s stories!
WHAT AWAITED ME, RATHER, WAS this: a return to my home not in triumph and prosperity, but as a woman spurned by her husband—a useless creature, with no role in life, with no real reason for existing. My grandfather would not be there to comfort me. My brother and father would hardly be able to mask their disappointment. My sister, Amélie, trailed by her flock of children, would gloat. The one comfort in this journey home—if a comfort existed—was that my mother was dead and would not be there to belittle or castigate me.
It was the beginning of December. I would set off in ten days; the preparations for my departure had begun. Two of Gerard’s men would accompany me. One morning I passed him in the courtyard while he meticulously supervised the preparations—the wagons, mounts, and provisions. I watched with a certain detached fascination as he directed his minions: nowhere in his briskness or in the commands he uttered with such decisiveness did I sense a moment of regret or hesitation.
Elsewhere in the household, the preparations for the Christmas feast had begun. The kitchen and bakehouse bustled with activity; spicy scents wafted through the noonday air. But I would not be there to partake of the glorious results: I would not taste the delicious savories, the fattened goose, the cakes of marzipan and honey.
As for the servants: with what speed they seemed to have learned of the demise of my marriage! Many—Millicent among them—had already begun to treat me like a stranger. I studiously avoided the mews, dreading an encounter with a smug, triumphant Ragnar. Indeed, more than once my sleep was rent by nightmares in which I was pursued by a gigantic hawk whose plumage resembled Vainqueur’s, but whose fierce, triumphant eyes were the same blue as Ragnar’s.
There were others in our household I would greatly miss—Raoul, Wilbertus, and Corbus among them. But it was Aiglantine, naturally, whom I dreaded leaving. A piercing sadness came over me whenever I thought of the moment when we would utter our final goodbyes. Do not think of it now, I would tell myself at such moments, staving off a despair so wrenching it came upon me physically at times.
For her sake, I tried to be strong. During the first days I avoided speaking of my departure altogether, proceeding as if my leave-taking would occur in a dim, distant future. As the day grew nearer, however, I steeled myself and told her gently but firmly that it had come time to pack up my belongings.
“I want to give you some of my clothes,” I said. “I have so many lovely things! At least you will have them to remember me by.”
“They are much too fine for me. I cannot accept them, my lady—”
“But you must! And I insist you do. They will fit you, for we are not so different in size. I am only a little bit taller.” To this I added wistfully: “I feel that you are the sister I always dreamed of having.”
“Oh, my lady!” she cried, in a voice heavy with emotion.
“Besides, I shall have little need for these things in my”—I paused—“in my new life.” I realized she was on the verge of crying. Trying to distract her, I glanced about the room and said briskly: “But I do not see my trunk anywhere. I asked you a few days ago to have the men fetch it, did I not?”
“I forgot to ask them,” she murmured.
“I see,” I replied, knowing full well that avoidance, rather than forgetfulness, had prompted this lapse. “Go downstairs now and ask the men to bring it here,” I told her. “And then tomorrow, when it is light, we will begin packing together.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING WE WENT to the anteroom where my wardrobe and personal belongings were stored. “Come,” I said to Aiglantine, “we will go through the armoire first, then the cupboard.” Before us, the immense trunk yawned open, like a hungry creature demanding silk and linen for nourishment.
I held up each robe, tunic, or cape, handing them to her to place inside the trunk, lingering over those I had worn on special occasions, for these were imbued with memories—some painful, some joyful, some bittersweet. Finally we came to the clothes I used for riding or travel—among them the robe, cape, and head cover I had worn the day I first ventured with Corbus to find Anthusis. I held up the dark green cape now, fingering its luxurious fur lining, then the lovely red passementerie around the collar and sleeves. These were the sumptuous clothes of a rich woman—the sort of clothes which, in my diminished new life, might appear almost ludicrous. Still, I felt a strange affection for this outfit, for it was associated with quests and journeys. “Set these aside,” I instructed Aiglantine. “I shall wear them on the day I depart.”
