The falcons eyes, p.5
The Falcon's Eyes, page 5
Sweetmeats eventually followed—sugared pears and the drink known then as “yellow water” and which we now call brandy. Jongleurs had arrived and serenaded us with melodious songs, some of which I knew; some of which, being bawdier, made me blush.
Some guests began to dance; I tapped my foot as I watched them. I longed to join in and hoped that my future husband would ask me, for my sister, who knew such things, had taught me a few of the new dances that had come into vogue. But I waited in vain; it was Guy who finally asked me—a way no doubt, for my brother, overweeningly anxious to please our host, to demonstrate my proficiency in dancing. After we finished our turn and sat down, I took a napkin to my perspiring brow.
“I gather you like to dance,” Lord de Meurtaigne said.
I looked down and bit my lip, wondering if I should have asked his permission. “I do, my lord.” Then, shyly, I ventured: “And you?”
He shook his head. “No,” he replied, his eyes continuing to scan the scene. “It gives me more pleasure to watch.”
WE WERE MARRIED THE FOLLOWING day in the chapel of the castle. Of the marriage ceremony itself I remember little, save for the acrid scent of incense and herbs, the blur of flickering tapers, the tightness of the white bodice of my pearl-encrusted robe, and how, after it had been fastened upon me, I felt the coin that Arnaut had given me—the coin with the crocodile and the serpent—pressed deep against my flesh.
The day was shrouded in the fear of what was to come later—the wedding night itself, which remains lodged in memory as a chaotic succession of images. My fumbling fingers unbuckling the jeweled bridal girdle, Aiglantine of the melancholy eyes coming to help me undress, the pulsing reflection of torchlight against the walls; then the waiting, the terror of waiting, my heart beating in fear as my husband approached, as I tried in vain to hide the flush of shame upon my face. Next, the extinguishing of light, followed by the awkward, hectic fumbling in the dark; the groping of thighs; and then, finally, a burst of pain.
I was alone when I awakened the following morning; my brother had departed after the marriage ceremony, and my husband was nowhere to be seen. I sat up in bed, reflecting on the wedding night with bewilderment, disappointment, and shame. Was this what awaited me in the years ahead? I wondered with despair. I pulled the coverlet away and stood up rather unsteadily: there were spots of red upon the sheet.
Soon afterward, Aiglantine appeared with a basin of water and a cup of milk. She was silent, her eyes cast down—whether out of shyness or embarrassment, I was not certain.
I opened the small casket with my keepsakes and took out the ex-voto, which my mother had given me. I held it in my palm for a moment, my finger tracing the image of a baby boy that was raised in relief on the beaten silver.
Turning to Aiglantine, I asked, “Would you come with me to the chapel this morning? I was told I must place this on the altar today.”
“Of course, my lady.” She smiled shyly. “But now I must help you dress. Your hair, first.”
She led me to a small table near the window; a long, oval mirror edged in blue and gold, and a hairbrush with a carved ivory handle, lay upon it. “How lovely these are!” I murmured. They were among the chamber’s many luxuries to which I was unaccustomed—the sumptuous coverlet, the intricately woven carpets, the splendid wall hangings. I picked up the brush and began to pull it through my hair.
“No, that is for me to do, my lady,” she said gently, taking the brush from me. I smiled awkwardly, then picked up the mirror—this, another unfamiliar luxury. I looked into the glass with wonder, even trepidation, as if unsure that a familiar face would greet me, so changed did I feel by the marriage ceremony and the dark tumbling strangeness of the wedding night.
Finally, my toilette finished, I rose to my feet. “Will you help me choose a dress?” I asked.
She selected one of deep green—my finest dress—and helped me don it. “Yes, that will do very well, my lady,” she said, standing a few steps back.
“Are you sure this is suitable for day?”
She nodded. “Lord de Meurtaigne sets great store by dress.”
“When will I next see my husband?” I had paused almost imperceptibly before uttering those last, still alien, two words.
“I do not know,” she replied. “Raoul told me that Lord de Meurtaigne has gone out riding. He did not say when he would return.”
I considered this—at once relieved and disappointed—before asking, “And Raoul is—”
“The steward, my lady.”
“The slight man with the face like an ermine’s?”
I saw her suppress a smile. “Yes, that would be Raoul.”
“Has he served here a long time?”
“Yes. Though not as long as others. Millicent has been here the longest. She was here when Lord de Meurtaigne was a child.”
“I do not think I have yet met her.”
“You may not have remembered, since there were so many of us. She is an older woman—tiny, with white hair. She will attend you, as well. Especially when the time comes, God willing.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you are with child, my lady. She has much experience in such things. And she is the only one among us who is allowed to assist the midwives in the birthing chamber.”
I walked to the window; it was snowing gently. “Perhaps we should go to the chapel now. To place the votive.”
“I will gather your cloak. First you must eat something—you must be very hungry. I have brought you some bread and cheese.”
DURING MUCH OF THE MORNING I was occupied, with Aiglantine, as she helped me unpack my clothing and arrange my things. I longed to explore on my own but soon realized this was not possible; given the weather—it was bitter cold and had begun to snow—I had no choice but to remain inside. When, at noon, we descended the long, twisting stairwell to the hall for the midday meal, I felt the eyes of the servants, ever curious, watching me. Raoul hovered about, as did the decidedly talkative Millicent, who seemed quite intent on asking me about my family, my patron saint, whether this was my first journey to this region. . . . At first I welcomed her questions, but as the conversation wore on, I found myself drawing back.
The rest of the time passed in nervous tedium as I awaited the arrival of my husband; trying to sew, I sat alone in my chamber, all the while fighting loneliness and isolation. At one point, searching for the familiar, I opened the casket from my brother and ran my fingers across the words carved upon it—“Courage above all else”—but the dictum only fleetingly comforted me.
I had been alone several hours when, in the middle of the afternoon, came a knocking at the door: Aiglantine, announcing that Lord de Meurtaigne had returned. Moments later, we heard the strident sounds of footsteps approaching. The door opened; it was my husband—his cheeks were ruddy, his dark hair dusted with snow; one hand clenched gloves.
I set the hoop aside and curtseyed before resuming my seat. I felt bashful, uncertain how to behave, and pretended to busy myself with stitching; but I suspect that he discerned my nervousness.
“All is well?” he asked, in a kindly manner.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you have been comfortable, and have been provided with everything you need?”
“Yes—I have never seen such a lovely bedchamber.”
He smiled, as if this gratified him, then glanced at Aiglantine. “Leave us now,” he told her peremptorily, tossing his gloves on the table.
I felt his eyes upon me as we waited for the door to close behind her. “Are you fond of stitching?” he asked, glancing at the hoop in my lap.
“I cannot say it is my very favorite pastime,” I admitted, all too aware that my reply would have appalled my mother.
“An honest answer.” He seemed amused. “What are your favorites, then?”
“I like stories. And I like to ride.”
“So your brother told me. He said you were an able rider, for a woman. Come”—he offered his hand, beckoning me to rise—“and we will go to the stables. I have chosen a mount for you, and I want you to see her.”
Now we stood face-to-face, my hand in his, but only momentarily. “It is very cold,” he said. “You shall need your cloak. Where is it?”
“Over there, on the bench.”
He placed it around my shoulders and then carefully fastened the ties. “It is a rather meager cloak for such weather,” he remarked. “You have no other?”
I shook my head.
“I shall get you one far warmer. Lined with marten, or sable. Something more suitable, and in heavier wool.”
“But I have always found this quite warm enough,” I assured him almost pleadingly. I dared not say that I cherished the cloak because of its associations: my grandfather had given it to me, and I had worn it on adventures with Arnaut, and on the last, momentous journey from my home.
“We shall see,” he said. “But now—to the stables.”
He walked ahead quickly, with the strong, decisive step I would come to recognize so well. We descended the stairwell, and then made our way from the great hall to the outside, across the snow-dusted ground to the stables.
Once inside, he led me to a stall with a splendid pale gray steed. “She is beautiful, is she not?” His eyes shone with a different expression, that of a child seeking approval.
“I have never seen such a beauty!” I exclaimed, stroking her mane.
“I leave it to you to name her. What shall it be?”
I felt his eyes fixed upon me. Having already sensed he was by nature impatient, I did not want to displease him by seeming indecisive. But names were magical things to me, and not to be given casually. I forced myself to think hard, and quickly. “Juno. Yes—Juno!”
“Why ‘Juno’?”
“The queen of the gods. In the story by the Roman poet that I used to read with my brother,” I stammered. “Not Guy—my other brother, Arnaut.” All the while, as he watched, Juno nuzzled my hand. “I cannot really believe she will be mine,” I murmured, turning to him with a smile.
“I am glad she pleases you.”
“How amazed my brothers and sister would be, to see me on such a mount!” I exclaimed. “Have you any brothers, or sisters, my lord?”
“Only one brother. He was killed in the lists years ago. He fell, and his horse trampled him and broke his neck.” He had said this with scarcely any emotion, yet I sensed it was a deep and secret wound.
“How terrible,” I murmured. “Were you there, at the tournament, when he was killed?”
“No. I was far away. In the East. Trying to make my fortune in Outremer.”
I was fascinated by the way he pronounced “Outremer”—by the lulling emphasis he had given it. “Will you tell me, one day, what it was like there—”
“In Outremer? Does it interest you?” He seemed almost surprised.
“Very much!”
“Then one day soon I shall. But now you must say goodbye to Juno. It has grown too cold to stay here.” Darkness was falling. The grooms, who had been standing at attention in the back, had begun to light some lanterns,
“We will go inside and sit awhile by the fire,” he said. “I shall ask Raoul to bring us wine.” He took my hand, and it remained in his until we were inside the great hall.
LITTLE BY LITTLE, DAY BY day, conversation by conversation, I came to know the man who was my husband—Gerard, I now called him, at his insistence. Fearful at first that he would rebuff my questions, I came to realize that he welcomed them; indeed my curiosity, my love of stories—most of all his own story—seemed to amuse, even intrigue, him.
I soon learned more about his family: his adored mother had died when he was a little boy; he had hated his father; and he had always admired his brother, Roger. Roger—handsome, affable, ambitious and daring—had been the eldest, the favorite.
In our family, I told him, it was always Amélie who had been favored. “But unlike you, with Roger,” I added, “I never admired her. I only resented her.” Then—for he had become less intimidating to me by that time—I added, “But you never talk about Roger with resentment. Ever.”
“The thought never occurred to me,” he said so conclusively that I was almost embarrassed for having made the observation.
ONE EVENING, ABOUT TWO WEEKS after my arrival, we sat in the great hall after supper. Wine had made me pleasantly drowsy. The fire blazed, and a minstrel strummed in a distant corner.
“You said you would tell me about Outremer one day.” I leaned forward and stroked his hand; I now not only enjoyed his touch but had even come to seek it out. “Why not now? Tell me,” I said, leaning forward, “where did you go first?”
“Sicily. A land I came to love, and where I first encountered the Arabs. I spent some time there, and then took ship to Cyprus. . . .” As he described his travels—the people he had met, and his experiences—I began to discern that the East was the other great influence in his life, the first being his position as the second son. The East, and the ways of Outremer and the Holy Land, and the encounters with the Arab world had had a profound effect upon him, something akin to a cataclysm. It was Eastern learning and scholarship he admired, Eastern luxury he aspired to, and it was also unspoken, but evident to me, that it was a certain sensuousness that drew him to that other world in a way that our own mores did not. If anything, I sensed his contempt for what he considered our “backwater” customs and the “coarseness” of our daily life. His attitude fascinated me; my own impression of the Infidel’s land—those exotic kingdoms beyond the Middle Sea—was of a dangerous and sordid realm. But that was not at all the way my husband conjured up the Muslim world.
He described its gardens, its rooms with walls trembling with mosaics, and its inner courtyards lulled by the voluptuous sound of fountains; he told me of banquets served on silken divans and punctuated by goblets of fruit ices transported from distant snowcapped mountains. He had traveled to glorious cities in the desert and to an ancient Roman trading city in Syria where the stone, at sunset, turned to a burnished rose color, and the wind whistled through arcades of marble columns and splendid arches. “You must understand,” he explained in a thrilling, confiding voice, “the desert is their sea.”
“Tell me more,” I implored.
“The women,” he said, “wore tunics of silk so fine, so transparent, that one could almost see the flesh beneath.” I blushed.
“You see, they are not prudish like Frankish women,” he told me. Indeed, he went on to say, many titled Frankish ladies from families who had settled in the Holy Land—those who had been there for generations—had come to adopt these ways, living the life of the quasi-harem with all its refinements, secrecies, and obliqueness. They, too, would rim their eyes in kohl and keep their faces half-covered so that their painted mouths were never revealed to those beyond the inner sanctum.
Then he went on to recount how he had once met an Egyptian sage in the market of Damascus—a withered old man who sat on the ground, his pet cobra coiled beside him. “He fed him milk from a copper jug. I remember that well,” he added. The man told him his fortune: wealth and power would be his, he augured. Heartened by the prophecy, he gave the old man some coins in payment, only to pause the next instant to watch a covey of hooded Muslim women filing past. “You are wondering why the Infidels cover their women,” observed the sage, who had been following the direction of Gerard’s gaze. “It is the eye which leads to Eros.”
“More about Eros,” I rejoined at once with a mischievous smile. It was not the response my husband had anticipated, clearly, for his expression showed that I had taken him by surprise.
BUT I SOON LEARNED THAT the Outremer of his experience was not only the land of fountains, and falconry, and vast, wind-whipped deserts he had conjured up so vividly, but also a place of teeming cities, of fabled markets, of commerce—the place, most importantly, where he had made his early fortune from the trade of silk. “It was in Palermo,” he told me, “where I was first exposed to the possibilities of commerce on a significant level—in silk, and luxury goods.” He described the gossamer fabrics woven by the Jews of Thebes, and how these artisans had been brought by the rulers of Sicily to establish royal workshops in Palermo. “Having seen what they produced—silks finer than anything woven in the West—made me desirous to learn more. And so I journeyed to the East. To Syria first.” To this he added, with a touchingly proud smile, “It did not take me long to be successful.”
From there, intent on expanding his commerce to other luxury goods—gemstones and spices—he had ventured to Antioch. What I knew about Antioch came from stories my parents had told me about the travels of Saint Paul, and the hallowed sites he had visited. Had he been to those holy places? I asked. At this my husband only scoffed. Saint Paul hardly interested him; indeed, for the Church he had nothing but scorn—“A corrupt institution, like any other,” he called it.
My husband’s attitude both shocked and fascinated me, as did much else about him: never had I met anyone with such contempt for what I had been taught to hold dear. But Gerard cared little, in this way at least, for what others thought. I eventually came to tease him, wondering why he bothered to attend Mass in his chapel—not without his prized falcon splendidly appareled on his wrist—or to make the sign of the cross, when he was so skeptical about the ways of our Lord. To this, he merely laughed. Only much later would I realize that, while he did not believe in our Lord and his teachings, he was too superstitious to tempt the fates by refusing to perform the rituals under which his own earthly fortune had flourished.
It was the world of hard bargains, and of commodities that could be shipped from place to place, which consumed him, and which had brought him freedom and riches. With those riches had come power, and access to those at the highest level of the court. Henry, the Young King, Gerard explained, had a “prodigious appetite for costly things”—for tournaments, for treasure. “And he is not averse,” he added, “to consorting with those, like myself, who can help provide them.”
