The falcons eyes, p.48
The Falcon's Eyes, page 48
One day I found them together in Fastrada’s chamber; Fastrada had taken out her jewelry and was showing the glittering pieces to a wide-eyed Marie. Later that day, when we were alone, Fastrada told me: “What a darling child she is! It makes me realize how much I have missed in never having a daughter. How I longed for one! I adore my sons, of course, but it is not the same as a having a little girl whom one can spoil and chatter with.”
She stopped abruptly, having noticed the sadness that had descended upon me. I was thinking, with despair, of my own little Editha. . . .
“Of course,” she murmured, taking my hand in hers. “How could I have forgotten? Please forgive me. I can only imagine the sadness you must feel when you think of your baby girl. How terrible it must have been!”
“You cannot imagine how hideous that morning was,” I said in a tremulous voice. “Waking up and finding Editha so still, frozen, in her cradle.”
“You must have felt very alone.”
“I did. Only Aiglantine really understood how much I suffered.”
“And Gerard?”
“He had hoped for a son.” Our eyes met. There was nothing more I need say.
“I should hope,” said Fastrada slowly, “that it helps you to have Marie here, almost as a surrogate daughter. Clementia knows that you lost Editha. Perhaps that is why she decided that you become Marie’s teacher—that you would find comfort having her with you.”
“Yes,” I murmured, trying to smile. “I do sometimes fantasize that Marie is my little girl. But still, it is not the same.”
“Of course,” she acknowledged, tenderly embracing me.
As we drew apart, I reflected, “I wonder whether Clementia feels any loss in her own life. In not having a husband or a child. I do not think she does.”
“She places her energy elsewhere. And her emotions.” Fastrada gave a slight laugh as a rare shadow spread across her angular face. “Such as they are. I never think of my sister in terms of emotion. To me she is all reason and logic.”
FASTRADA’S TWO-WEEK SOJOURN AT THE abbey passed all too quickly; I was not alone in dreading the day of her departure. “I wish that Lady Fastrada lived here all the time!” Marie confessed one morning after Fastrada attended her lesson.
“What is it about Lady Fastrada you like most?” I asked.
“She says that one day I must learn to ride. May I, Lady Isabelle?” she implored.
“Yes! I agree you should. I shall discuss it with Sister Clementia.”
“Promise me you will!” Heartened by my nod, she went on, “And she is not as strict as Sister Clementia, and she likes all my questions. She tells me stories about Troyes and the court. About the troubadours and their songs, and about the Countess Marie. She told me the countess is the daughter of Queen Eleanor.”
“Yes, that is true. But the Countess Marie is Eleanor’s daughter with the old king, with Louis. They say Eleanor has not seen Marie for many years. Since she was a little girl.”
“That is sad,” Marie said, casting her eyes down. She looked up with a poignant expression I shall never forget. “But at least the countess knows who her mother is!”
Chapter 62
Marie is very sad to think of your leaving,” I told Fastrada the following evening as we walked together after vespers. “She told me she loved hearing your stories about Troyes and the Countess Marie. She will miss you terribly.”
“And I shall miss her, and all of you, very much.” Then, with a devilish glance, “I have told Clementia the child must learn to ride. Do you not agree, Isabelle?”
“I do,” I replied, smiling.
“And I promised Marie to braid her hair with gold ribbon before I leave. A souvenir of my visit!”
After a moment, I asked, “Have you any idea about the circumstances of Marie’s being left here?” I had never ceased imagining who might have been Marie’s mother; and the story of the wayward Sister Rosceline continued to fascinate me more than I dared admit.
“Only that she was left by the tour as an infant, perhaps a month old. It is not so unusual, alas, for a baby to be abandoned this way. Marie was fortunate that she was left here, at Fontevraud.” She paused. “It was Clementia who found her.”
“Yes, she told me.”
The sudden swoosh of birds in flight arrested our conversation. “How lovely they are!” Fastrada exclaimed as we looked up together.
“And how free!” I rejoined.
“You prize freedom, do you not?” asked Fastrada, turning to me. “Marriage to Gerard cannot have been easy for you. He is nothing if not controlling—whether of his wife or his falcons. I remember his anger when his favorite hawk would not perform.”
“Féroce,” I murmured, before adding, “and yet that was nothing compared to his fury when Vainqueur flew away. I only hope that Vainqueur is now free.”
“Like Gallien—”
“Yes! At last Gallien is able to do what he loves most. That is the best kind of freedom, is it not?” As she nodded, I glanced at her: her eyes were fixed intently ahead, her profile, with its long, Byzantine nose, sharp as an arrow in the dusky light.
“I thought of what you said—about Gerard and Gallien,” she reflected. “That Gerard would be furious, perhaps even vengeful, if he learned of Gallien’s whereabouts.”
“You believed I was overly concerned, that my fears were unwarranted—”
“And I still think they may be. But even so, I promise to tell Hugh what you said. That you fear for Gallien, and even for yourself. He will not take this lightly, believe me.” She rubbed her hands together, for it had suddenly grown colder. “You must understand this about Hugh. He may appear jovial, the eternal bon vivant, but he is not someone one would want to cross. We have our differences, but Hugh is also profoundly loyal in his way. He would do anything to keep me safe, to keep his family and those he loves safe.”
We had come to the doorway of the cloister. “You are lucky to feel that way about your husband,” I told her rather wistfully. “And Gallien is lucky to work for him.”
“Remember,” she said, “you promised to give me a letter for Gallien before I leave.”
THE SUN WAS BRIGHT THE next morning when I awoke. For once I did not rise at once but lay in bed for a while, gazing at the bronze falcon and thinking of the letter I must write to Gallien. Hearing of him from Fastrada had awakened many memories of my life with Gerard, and of the life at Ravinour I had left behind.
Finally I rose, and taking up the quill, I wrote:
From the Lady Isabelle to Gallien, cordial greetings.
It was with joy and relief that I heard from Lady Fastrada that you made your way to Troyes, and that you are now engaged as falconer by Lord de Hauteclare. God watched over you, indeed, as He has watched over me. I am now at the abbey of Fontevraud, and intend to make my life here . . .
I paused: Did I really intend to make my life here? Had I found my life’s work, as Gallien clearly had? In my heart, I realized this was far from certain. I scratched out the sentence and closed the letter by writing:
I am now at the Abbey of Fontevraud—content, for the moment, to live among the sisters here, and to contribute what I am able. It has greatly cheered me to know you are not only in the household of Lord and Lady de Hauteclare, but have also been entrusted with work that gives you joy.
May God continue to protect you—
Lady Isabelle
Shortly past sunrise, two days later, came the moment of Fastrada’s departure. Her entourage was assembled: the woman servant who had accompanied her, and a young man who resembled a pallid version of LaFoi. Fastrada herself cut a startlingly flamboyant figure amid the somberly clad gathering—to the familiar traveling costume in peacock blue she had added a tall, matching headdress; a single braid, plaited with vivid blue ribbon, hung to her waist.
Clementia and Mother Gilles, serenely directing the servants, flanked me as we stood together by the stables. Marie clutched my hand as we watched the luggage being loaded.
Fastrada had indeed fulfilled her promise: the little girl’s hair was now plaited with gold ribbon, much to the consternation of Clementia. In this matter, at least, I had succeeded in holding sway: “Let Marie keep the ribbons for a while,” I insisted. “It will take away some of the sadness of Fastrada’s leaving.” Reluctantly Clementia had agreed.
One by one, we embraced Fastrada before she mounted, a tearful Marie last. “When will you return, Lady Fastrada?” she asked, tugging her hand.
“In the autumn, perhaps, before it grows too cold,” she said gently, stroking her cheek. “In the meantime, you must promise to pay attention to your lessons with Lady Isabelle, and to make up more stories to tell me! Do you promise?”
She nodded solemnly.
“And I discussed the idea of your learning to ride, and both Sister Clementia and Lady Isabelle agree that you should.” At this, Marie gave a rapturous smile. “And if you are a very good little girl,” continued Fastrada, “I shall bring you a lovely treat from Troyes the next time.”
“More ribbon for my hair?”
Fastrada smiled. “Of course! And something else as well. A surprise.”
This seemed to assuage Marie, but only for a moment. Once Fastrada mounted, the little girl looked quite dejected: she lowered her head, scuffing the ground with her shoe almost angrily. “Come,” I said, “you must look up now, and we must bid Lady Fastrada goodbye.”
“I do not like goodbyes,” sulked Marie, her eyes still cast down.
“Nor do I. But that does not mean we can ignore them,” I said. “They are important.”
Fastrada had been watching us from a slight distance. “Look!” I said. “Lady Fastrada is waiting for us to wave goodbye.”
We did so. Fastrada responded in kind before she cantered away—a slender, jaunty figure in peacock blue, astride her gleaming dark mount.
DURING THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, I felt as I had after Fastrada’s departure from Gerard’s castle, years before. The same melancholy and loneliness descended upon me—this time even more painfully, for I no longer had Aiglantine. Marie seemed even more affected—so glum and distracted that she could scarcely concentrate on her lessons. I tried various ruses, attempting to engage her.
“Come,” I coaxed her one morning, shortly after Fastrada’s departure. “Let us play the game of the first line. But this time, you must provide the first line.”
“Must I?”
“Yes.”
She gave a sigh. “I cannot think of anything.”
“I do not believe that for a moment. You were thinking of something just now, were you not?”
She nodded.
“Begin with that thought, then.”
She glanced at me almost warily. “There was once a beautiful young girl, who lived with a family in Troyes,” she began slowly. “One night she dreamed that she would finally learn of the mother who had left her long ago—
“Now it is your turn, Lady Isabelle,” she said.
“The next morning, a messenger arrived with a letter for her,” I continued. “A letter with the splendid seal of a noble house. . . .”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, WHEN HERALDIS appeared at my door, she announced that she had a letter for me. Her grim little eyes were alight with curiosity.
She handed the letter to me.
“Ahh, from Guy,” I murmured, noticing the seal. “Thank you, Heraldis,” I said as she lingered. “You may go.”
The moment the door closed, I began to read:
From Guy de la Palisse, greetings to his sister, Lady Isabelle, at the Abbey of Fontevraud
I trust you are well settled, and that you are finding great fulfillment in helping the good sisters, and in doing God’s noble work. Both Amélie and I hope that you find comfort in your new life after the failure of your marriage—a failure that pained us as much as it did you.
Perhaps you recall, before your departure, that I voiced my intention to journey to Fontevraud for a visit with you come springtime—a proposal that seemed to cheer you as you struggled with the sadness of separating from your devoted family. The absence of a letter from you in the intervening months has prompted me to surmise that you have not wanted to burden me by entreating me to embark on the expense and effort of such a visit. One can only admire this new spirit of self-abnegation, dear sister! It is heartening to think that you are learning to emulate the pious ways of the nuns.
I have taken it upon myself, therefore, to divest you of these inordinately considerate feelings: I have decided to venture to Fontevraud. Indeed, by the time you receive this missive, I shall have departed. Assuming all goes well, I should arrive at the abbey in about ten days, by the middle of May.
It is my hope that my visit will coincide with that of the Lady Fastrada. For I learned this winter, from acquaintances in Troyes, that she habitually came to the abbey about this time in May to see her sister, Lady Clementia. I was also told, by those same distinguished acquaintances, that I had favorably impressed Lord and Lady de Hauteclare years ago when I met them at the lists, in Troyes. Modesty inhibits me from divulging more: suffice it to say that what I learned leads me to conclude that my presence at the abbey during Lady Fastrada’s sojourn would be most warmly welcomed.
It also seems appropriate that I thank the Lady Fastrada in person for her role in your new life. I do not only mean her monetary generosity: given your history, it was surely helpful that you reside at Fontevraud under the Lady Fastrada’s distinguished auspices.
Please know that you need make no special arrangements for my stay. When one is among the holy sisters, one must adhere to their regimen and customs, though the reputation of Fontevraud is such that I assume a certain level of comfort and a servant will be provided for me, a man of rank. As for my diet—you know that my stomach tends to be delicate, and therefore hope that meat will be provided for me, rather than fish.
I should add that I very much look forward to making the acquaintance of Sister Clementia, whose noble character is known to many, far and wide. I imagine that she will find some comfort in the company of one like myself who is similarly contemplative, who eschews worldly pleasures, and who always strives to do what is best in God’s eyes.
Father is pleased I shall soon see you and joins me in relaying his greetings. He fares well, though his bodily strength has declined, and there are often moments when he experiences forgetfulness and becomes befuddled. Alas, Hortense seems, increasingly, to dominate him, and I must often reprimand her for overreaching when she presumes to be the mistress of the house. Despite my admonishments, she seems to quickly revert to her inordinately familiar behavior.
From Arnaut we have had no word. The absence of a letter from him distresses Father; Amélie and I have long become accustomed to his errant behavior—behavior which you, dear sister, have always all too readily excused. It was only by chance that we learned of his whereabouts recently, from several knights who had returned from the Holy Land. They had met Arnaut in Aleppo and told us that he has pledged service to a Norman knight in that region.
I have entrusted this letter—at great expense, I should add—to a most reliable messenger, and hope it reaches you in timely fashion. I commend myself to you, dear sister, and look forward to seeing you before long.
Below Guy’s signature came a postscript:
Lastly, I should mention that I am no longer betrothed to Adelaide de Chabanel. Shortly before we were to be wed, I discovered certain shocking things about her life and family that led me to believe she would not be a suitable wife for a man of my position. Please know that I shall not object if you discreetly mention this development to the Lady Fastrada and Sister Clementia.
I put the letter aside and sat down on the bed, my head in my hands, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. I wondered what Guy’s motives really were. To see Fastrada again, of course, with a view to currying her favor and eliciting an invitation to the famed Hauteclare hunt, perhaps. Despite what he had said, I suspected there were other reasons for his fractured betrothal to the much-vaunted Lady de Chabanel: perhaps her dowry had not met his expectations, or her family had decided against the marriage. They may have had reservations about Guy or our own family: it cannot have pleased them to learn that our father now consorted with a servant.
With the change in his circumstances, it was possible Guy thought Fastrada might eventually introduce him to new prospects for a wife—some rich, landed woman from Troyes, or a plain, but wealthy widow. It was well known that many women, particularly in the region of Champagne, of which Troyes was part, had lost their spouses during the perilous expeditions to the Holy Land.
And then another idea even more mortifying, indeed stupefying, occurred to me: Was it possible that he entertained the thought of his courting Clementia? I told myself this was preposterous: Clementia had pledged herself to God, she had taken the veil. There were, of course, instances of women who had forsworn the holy life to marry. But this was very rare, and Clementia, of all people, was an unlikely candidate for such a swerve.
There was only one aspect of Guy’s upcoming visit that made me gleeful: I longed for the moment when I would tell him that Fastrada had left the abbey weeks before—oh, the perverse delight of witnessing his disappointment!
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, WHEN I saw Clementia in the cloister, I bade her good morrow, then told her: “I received a letter yesterday—”
“I hear it was from your brother.”
“Yes,” I said, adding, “he will visit me here soon.”
“I assume, by your expression, that you are not overjoyed at the thought of seeing him.”
“No, I am not.” I gave a sigh, adding rather gloomily, “But you will see for yourself, when Guy arrives.”
“Perhaps his visit will be better than you expect, and you will be pleasantly surprised.”
