The falcons eyes, p.49
The Falcon's Eyes, page 49
We began to walk toward the refectory. “When will your brother arrive?” Clementia asked.
“Very soon, I imagine. He mentioned he would be here in mid-May.” The more I had reflected on Guy’s letter, the more irritated and resentful I had become. Indeed, I was tempted to ignore his requests for certain privileges and comforts, and to impose austerity upon him instead—the very austerity he purported to espouse.
“I shall have a chamber prepared for him,” said Clementia. “In the appropriate part of the guest hospice, of course. I assure you he will be most comfortable there.”
“Oh, we need not go through much trouble for him,” I said, increasingly excited about the idea of a ruse. “My brother has become quite abstemious. He told me he was intent on adhering to the rules and the customs here. A room with a pallet and a prie-dieu will suffice—a place for meditation and prayer.”
“In that case, we will give him the simplest room. Even so, he will need someone to wait on him.”
“I doubt it,” I replied, barely able to suppress a smile. “I am sure he will be content to manage on his own.”
“Perhaps, but it is the custom here for a man of his rank to have a servant. Mother Gilles insists upon it. I have already assigned someone to him—Symon, whom you have met.” Symon was a beloved figure at the abbey: an orphan, born with a deformed arm, and now, alas, almost hunchbacked, he had served the sisters devotedly for many years.
“Symon would be most suitable,” I replied at once. Little did Clementia know that Guy harbored an aversion to any sort of deformity or physical defect.
A FEW DAYS LATER, HERALDIS came to tell me that Guy had arrived and awaited me in the chapter house. As I approached, I saw Mother Gilles outside, Caprice perched on her shoulder. “It is only fitting I come with you to greet your brother,” she said, and we entered together.
Guy stood before a bench, gazing intently at the tapestry above—assessing its value, most likely. I was struck, at once, by the severity of his raiment: his dark gray tunic of rough wool had nary a braid or embellishment—what I imagined an anchorite would wear.
Glimpsing Caprice, he visibly flinched but quickly regained his composure as we approached—bowing solemnly before the abbess as she introduced herself, then embracing me with inordinate fervor. “Dear sister,” he intoned, “it is a joy indeed to see you here, at Fontevraud, surrounded by the worthy sisters, and to meet the esteemed abbess.” He lowered his head slightly, as if overwhelmed by emotion.
“Bienvenu à Fontevraud!” Caprice squawked; Guy fairly jumped. “What an unusual”—here a long, searching pause—“and eloquent creature!” he exclaimed, feigning delight as I struggled not to laugh.
“We, like our beloved parrot, are delighted to welcome you,” said Mother Gilles; sensing Guy’s revulsion, she smiled serenely and added, “He, too, is one of God’s creatures.”
“And all the more fortunate to be here, in God’s house!” He made the sign of the cross. “And does this blessed creature have a name?” he asked cloyingly.
“Caprice,” said the abbess. “And he, like everyone here, has grown very fond of your sister. All of us must thank you for permitting her to join us here,” she added, glancing at me warmly. “Lady Isabelle has worked hard and has already contributed a great deal.”
“How heartening to hear this!” he exclaimed in a way that implied that her praise had surprised him. “I might have imagined—”
“Your journey went well?” I interrupted.
“Very well. The weather was temperate, and I encountered no difficulties along the roads. Clearly God, knowing my mission, blessed each step of the way.” He glanced meaningfully at the abbess and made the sign of the cross, as I wondered what he construed as his “mission.”
“You were fortunate indeed to have God’s blessing,” she said with a slight smile. Then, turning to me: “I have sent Heraldis to fetch Sister Clementia. I know she will be delighted to meet your brother. I shall leave you both now, as I am sure you have much to discuss.”
“I am eager to meet Sister Clementia,” interjected Guy. “And of course, the Lady Fastrada as well—”
“Lady Fastrada?” asked the abbess, puzzled.
“My brother was under the impression that Lady Fastrada would be visiting at this time,” I explained. I turned to Guy. “You see, dear brother, Lady Fastrada was here recently but left several weeks ago.”
I saw him blanch, then struggle to contain his disappointment; tempted to laugh, I looked away.
“Perhaps she will be here when I visit again,” he said, after clearing his throat and rearranging his expression. “I greatly enjoyed the time I spent with her and the Lord de Hauteclare, at Troyes—at their celebrated hunt, I should add.”
“I see,” returned the abbess with a patient smile. “And now I am afraid I must leave you, for I have much to attend to today.” She bade us goodbye, and Guy bowed deeply. Once she was out of earshot, I said, “I was distressed to hear what happened with Adelaide de Chabanel.”
“A sorry matter,” he said bitterly. “Though it was better, of course, to learn the truth when I did. Before taking our vows, that is.”
“It all seems quite strange,” I said, “Amélie told me that she and her family were quite distinguished. ‘Faultless in lineage and character’ was the way she described them.”
“The devil works in many ways,” he said, clearly reluctant to pursue the subject.
“How long do you intend to stay, brother?” I asked, after an awkward pause.
“A week or so. Longer, of course, should there be any contributions I might be able to make.”
“What contributions have you in mind?”
“I trust the abbess to guide me. And Sister Clementia, too, of course.”
“I doubt the work available to you here will be to your liking.”
“You know full well that I am willing to do anything to serve God, dear sister.” He gave a self-satisfied smile.
“There is work in the hospice where the lepers are cared for,” I said. “It is not easy work, of course, but—”
I saw a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Ah,” he said mournfully, “that, I am afraid, would not do. You know my constitution—”
The arrival of Clementia, however, prevented him from expatiating. He bowed deeply and rather ostentatiously before her; I knew from his radiant expression that her beauty had surpassed his expectations.
“It is an honor to meet you, Sister Clementia,” he said. “The Lady Fastrada, whom I have met, at the lists in Troyes I should add, has told me much about you. I have long admired your decision to devote yourself to God. It is not many women of title who, having been raised with worldly riches, have decided to reject a life of such vanities, and to create another, more exalted way of living. A life of simplicity, a worthy life, devoid of so much that is corrupt, and ungodly.”
As I listened, cringing, I wondered how long Guy had rehearsed this speech: I suspected the same thought had already occurred to Clementia. “I hardly think I am worthy of such praise, my lord,” she said, raising one brow.
“You see,” I interjected in a somber tone, “my brother is quite pious. Nothing pleases him more than to think he will be living here in great simplicity, among us.” I turned to him and asked brightly, “Is that not so, Guy?”
“My dear sister, I could not have expressed it as well myself!”
“With that in mind,” said Clementia, “we have assigned you a simple room in the part of the hospice reserved for pilgrims. It has everything you should need—a pallet, a few candles, and a prie-dieu.”
“Excellent,” he said, but his eyes looked perplexed and his lackluster tone reflected a lack of enthusiasm. “I suppose, though,” he added gingerly, “that it would not be untoward on my part to ask to be provided with a servant—”
“I was under the impression that you would prefer to manage on your own, brother,” I could not resist interjecting. “As a holy pilgrim might.”
“Ordinarily I would,”—I could see his thoughts racing—“but recently I have had some troubles with my health. I must not exert myself too much.”
“You need have no concern. Naturally, I have arranged someone to wait on you,” said Clementia, with a chiding glance in my direction. “Symon should be here at any moment and will escort you to your chamber.” Guy’s expression visibly brightened.
We continued to converse—Clementia asked about his journey, the condition of the roads—until we heard a knocking at the door. Clementia bade Symon enter, and he shuffled toward us—a squat, crabbed figure whose physical state did not prevent him, touchingly, from smiling and attempting a bow as he stood before us.
I noticed Guy flinch; had Clementia not been with us, I suspect his lip would have curled in revulsion.
“Lord Guy has had a long journey,” Clementia told Symon. “I am sure he would like to see his chamber. Please escort him there now.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, CLEMENTIA, Guy, and I gathered in the abbess’s dining room before the midday meal. The array of precious objects on the sideboard immediately caught Guy’s eye. “Such artistry perfectly reflects the glory of God!” he exclaimed, examining the splendid crucifix. “I have never seen a cross with such gems—such rubies, sapphires, and rock crystal!” To this he added, in a less lofty tone, “I can only imagine their value—”
“There is another cross, with even more exquisite craftsmanship, that is kept at the altar of our church,” said Clementia, watching him intently. “I shall ask Symon to show it to you.”
“Oh, there is no need, Sister,” he quickly replied—partly, I suspected, to avoid an unnecessary foray with Symon. “I am not one to be impressed by such things. It is solely the spirit of the craftsmen that moves me—the notion of these objects created as tributes to our Lord.” He gave his version of a beatific smile.
“Come, let us sit,” she announced, moving to the table.
“Should we not wait for the abbess?” Guy asked, looking expectantly about. I knew he was eager to become more acquainted with Mother Gilles, who belonged to an illustrious family closely related to the Plantagenets.
“I am afraid Mother Gilles will not be able to join us today,” Clementia said, taking her seat. “She has been called to Saumur to visit a family whose child is quite ill.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” he intoned, though I felt sure it was the abbess’s absence, not the family’s plight, which most concerned him. “No doubt it will cheer them to have the blessings of such an august figure of God’s community.” He paused, knitting his hands together. “May I know the family’s name, Sister?”
“I believe they are called Bonace,” replied Clementia, clearly puzzled that he should ask.
“I intend to remember them in my prayers this evening,” he said reverently. After sitting down, he added, “I do hope it will not be too long before I see the abbess again.”
Clementia smiled noncommittally and proceeded to say grace, after which a servant appeared, bearing the first dish—a platter of cod.
Recalling what Guy had written me—his preference for meat, rather than what he deemed “less digestible” fish—I was curious to see his reaction. His thin mouth pursed as he was served, but even so, he took a generous portion and set to with gusto. “How delicately this is seasoned!” he exclaimed. “Spices that are most unusual must have been used on this excellent fish. Coriander, perhaps, or cumin?”
“I very much doubt either,” said Clementia. “We seldom use expensive spices here.” She took a bite. “I am quite sure it is parsley,” she said, glancing up.
“Ah,” he said, “undoubtedly parsley, cultivated here, in the blessed earth of the abbey, has far more savor than ordinary parsley.”
“A novel idea,” she replied drily. “And one which our cooks would find heartening.”
As the meal proceeded Guy ate with relish, despite his previous claims of a “delicate stomach” and “easily imbalanced humors.” All the while I tried to steer the conversation, not always successfully, for Guy seemed intent on brandishing his scanty knowledge of liturgical matters, for instance, or on making observations of certain famous figures he assumed that Clementia, like himself, disapproved of: Hildegard of Bingen and Héloïse, among them. In most cases, he was able to extricate himself from potentially awkward moments with some adroitness: once he sensed that Clementia did not share his opinions, he adjusted his comments so that they appeared to mirror hers.
And then he broached another subject: the circumstances of my coming to Fontevraud.
“Our family is so grateful to yours, Sister Clementia, for helping my dearly beloved sister to find her way,” he said, gazing at me soulfully. “It was hard for all of us, very hard, when her marriage failed,” he added, in a melodramatic voice.
“Hardest for her, I should think,” Clementia said calmly, but firmly.
“Of course, yes of course!” he said. “But we shared her pain, you see, and her abject sense of failure. We took it very much to heart.”
There was a long, awkward pause. “I have never felt that ascribing blame is particularly helpful,” replied Clementia. “Nor have I—nor has Lady Fastrada—construed Lady Isabelle’s situation as a ‘failure.’” She looked at him coolly.
He delved into his food and then, undaunted, continued. “In light of all this, I do want to thank you, and your sister, Lady Fastrada most especially, for your generosity in allowing my sister to reside here. It was not only your financial largesse that we so appreciated, but your largesse of spirit. It must be admitted that my sister’s situation might have given others pause.”
“I am not certain what you mean,” said Clementia, furrowing her brow.
“That is to say, given the fact that Isabelle is divorced—culpable, therefore, of having broken one of God’s holiest sacraments—Lady Fastrada was exceedingly charitable to support her.”
“I think you should know, Lord Guy, that Lady Fastrada and I had no hesitation in endorsing Lady Isabelle’s desire to reside here. Lady Fastrada is immensely fond of your sister. Indeed, I had heard about Lady Isabelle long before the possibility of her coming to Fontevraud was ever broached. Your sister is not the first woman to become divorced, after all. The queen herself—Queen Eleanor—is divorced.”
“That is true, of course,” he replied, “though, surely, we would not want to place my beloved sister in her company.”
“The queen is much beloved, here, Lord Guy,” she replied in a frosty tone. “She has been immensely generous to Fontevraud. We have always admired her intelligence and spirit, indeed her courage. Perhaps you do not know that her youngest children—John and Joanna—were raised here.”
“Of course, I understand,” he rejoined rather unctuously. “One must never decry one’s patrons.” Then, with an unpleasant, almost conspiratorial look: “You need say no more.”
Clementia looked stonily at him, her hand tight around her goblet as she sipped from it. Trying to assuage the growing tension, I changed the subject. “I do want you to know, brother, that I have no doubt I made the right decision to come here, and to embark on a different kind of life.”
“That cheers me, sister,” he said unconvincingly. “Life must proceed apace, through all its vicissitudes—that is certainly what the Lord instructs us.” He paused, delicately wiping his fingers with his napkin. “As one might expect, your former husband has also continued his own life. You may not know that he has remarried. Naturally I thought it best to wait until we were together to impart this news. I am told he and his wife—a great beauty, they say—are very happy.”
I glanced away, pricked by the hint of triumph in his voice. “I wish them well, brother,” I said. “I hope you know that.”
“Of course, of course,” he replied, his dismissiveness making it clear he did not.
Clementia had remained silent during this exchange. I looked down, feeling her eyes upon me and wondering what she was thinking. A custard was being passed, providing a welcome caesura.
“I know that Sister Clementia asked Symon to show you the grounds and the different wings of the abbey,” I ventured, turning to Guy. “I trust he did?”
“Yes. The good man showed me each part of this splendid establishment. The noble abbatial church, the delightful gardens, the refectory—”
“There is no better guide to the abbey than Symon,” said Clementia. “He has lived here for years and knows each corner intimately.”
“I told the good man that I would remember him in my prayers,” continued Guy. “I also said I considered him truly blessed. God blesses those most whom He afflicts most. Is that not what the scriptures teach us, Sister?” He looked expectantly at Clementia.
“It is indeed,” she replied briskly.
“I offered to place a votive in our chapel, our family chapel, I should add, and told him I would pray for God to bless him. Most of all I assured him that he need never feel any sense of shame or embarrassment for his”—he paused—“affliction. He seemed most grateful for my concern.”
“None of us has ever felt that Symon should be ashamed of his condition,” retorted Clementia so sharply that I drew in my breath. “Nor has it ever been suggested that he should feel embarrassed by the burden God has placed upon him. Quite to the contrary. We respect him all the more for bearing his lot uncomplainingly, and with dignity.”
“I did not mean to imply that I myself should think of him in that way,” replied Guy quickly, for even he had realized he had committed a terrible gaffe. “It is simply that one cannot help but be aware there are others—others in our woefully imperfect world—who are less charitable in their thinking.”
“One can only hope that such ignorant folk will learn by the example of those who follow the precepts of the Lord,” came her stern riposte. “Those who emulate the humility of Christ. Here, at Fontevraud, we aspire to provide such an example.”
For once, Guy had no response: he looked down, twisting his hands together. A knocking at the door mercifully broke the strained silence: it was Symon. Clementia bade him enter.
