The falcons eyes, p.52
The Falcon's Eyes, page 52
Later that night Sister Philippa and I watched as Aiglantine, now deathly pale, fought for each breath. Her head tossed feverishly, incessantly, upon the pillow; the cough became frightening; she began to spit up blood.
“Perhaps this is her way of expunging the evil elements that make her ill,” I said imploringly to Philippa.
“We can only entreat God to vanquish the ills that have overtaken her,” she replied, making the sign of the cross. “Come, let us kneel and pray for her.”
A few hours past midnight, Aiglantine, struggling to sit up, called my name.
“I am here!” I said, clutching my rosary as I drew closer.
She looked up, her eyes luminous, almost otherworldly. “It is time,” she murmured. “He calls me.” Her head fell gently back upon the pillow.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I turned my face away, unwilling for her to see me weep—an irrational gesture born out of shock and grief. I wiped away the tears and turned back to comfort her.
But Aiglantine was no more.
Chapter 67
It fell to me to tell Marie, and later, Aiglantine’s family, the terrible news. The little girl was stunned and inconsolable, even, at moments, angry. “Why did God take her away from me?” she tearfully protested. It became heartbreakingly clear that dear little Marie had almost felt she could will her mother to health and long life.
Familiar as they were to privation and death, and sustained by faith in God, Aiglantine’s mother, brother, and sister, however disconsolate, were far more accepting. “During her final days, she expressed her love for all of you,” I told them. “Her greatest hope was that she might see you again.”
I never mentioned the existence of Marie. My promises to Aiglantine—that her mother should never know of a granddaughter born in sin, and that Marie should be raised at the abbey—remained engraven on my heart; I was relieved that the abbess and the sisters had agreed to honor Aiglantine’s final request.
The abbess, in her kindness, granted Aiglantine, an unwed mother, all proper funeral rites, and the permission to be buried in the abbey’s cemetery. This touched and gratified me: I knew it was as much a tribute to me and my feelings for Aiglantine as it was out of deference to Marie.
IN THE WAKE OF THE funeral, I replayed Aiglantine’s final days in my mind, anguishing over what we might have done differently.
“We did all we possibly could!” Clementia comforted me one morning as we sat in the cloister. “As did Sister Philippa.”
“But perhaps we did not give the theriac soon enough,” I agonized. “Perhaps it was wrong of me to encourage her to rise from bed, to walk about a little—”
“Nonsense!” interjected Clementia. “You must stop this. And most of all, you must be strong for her daughter. It will not help Marie to see you this way.”
“I have told her she need not have her lessons this week. Let the child rest and play with her doll.”
“That is hardly what I would recommend! It is more important than ever that Marie adhere to her normal regimen. Do you not see? She loves her lessons. They will distract her—and perhaps you as well—from sadness.” Clementia took my hand. “We all wanted Aiglantine to live, but we knew from the beginning there was little chance. The reunion with Marie was joyous, yes, but was it not also tinged with sadness from the start? None of us thought her mother would survive long.”
I nodded numbly. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“God chose to give Marie the joy of meeting her mother. And then, in His wisdom, He chose to take her mother away.”
“Why ‘in His wisdom’?” I asked bitterly.
“Because I believe it is part of God’s design that children not be deprived of suffering.” She added gently, “You see, Isabelle, I trust in Him in a way that you have yet to achieve. Come,” she said, standing up. “Let us take Marie for a walk in the garden. Then, later today, promise you will resume her lessons.”
“What shall I tell her?”
“Tell her to remember how proud her mother was that she could read and write. And that her mother watches over her now, from heaven.”
I soon saw the wisdom of Clementia’s advice. The resumption of lessons and of learning seemed to help assuage not only Marie’s sadness, but also my own. Not once, however, did she mention her mother’s name. This concerned me; I felt it was better for her to voice her grief.
One morning when Marie appeared for her lesson, I ventured, “I see that Radegonde has not been wearing the tunic Aiglantine made.”
“It is too soon for her to wear it. She is in mourning.”
“I see,” I murmured. “And when will mourning end?”
“When I tell her.”
“Quite right,” I said, embracing her. “It must be your decision.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, WHILE I was giving Marie her lesson, Heraldis burst through the door.
“Sister Clementia asks that you come to the tour, my lady,” she said, her ruddy face alight with curiosity.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Someone has just arrived with a letter for you. From your family, I believe.”
“Oh dear,” I murmured, fearing the worst—that my father was ill, or that he had passed away. “I shall come at once.” I stood up and turned to Marie. She looked anxious. “Stay here with Heraldis and continue practicing your letters. If I cannot return shortly, I shall let you know.”
I donned my cape, walking so quickly that I arrived at the tour out of breath. There stood the same messenger whom Guy had dispatched months earlier: a scruffy young fellow on a shriveled mount. As soon as I approached, he handed me a slightly bulky package.
After thanking him, I instructed him to go to the stable for fresh provisions. He managed a clumsy bow and left.
I went into a small antechamber near the tour, settled on the bench, and untied the package. A letter addressed to me in my brother’s hand lay within; it was loosely secured to a small, but slightly weighty packet wrapped in a linen pouch and tied with a silken cord.
The letter read:
To the Lady Isabelle, from her brother, Guy de Lapalisse
It is my fervent hope that this missive finds you well, and that you are continuing to thrive in the blessed atmosphere of the abbey. I hope, as well, that you will send my warm regards to Sister Clementia, whom I greatly admire, as you know, and who seemed such an exemplary mentor when I last saw you. No doubt she has been enquiring when I shall return for another visit. Tell her to have no fear! I fully intend to make my way north early next spring, when I venture to the fair at Troyes. When I do, I would like to spend some contemplative time at Fontevraud and also resume the immensely illuminating discussions with Sister Clementia I remember so fondly.
I should tell you about our family before discoursing on other matters. Father has become rather deaf, a condition commensurate with his age, of course, but unfortunate nonetheless. This has allowed Hortense to exert even more influence. She has become increasingly familiar with him as well, despite my attempts to discipline her. Arnaut continues, predictably, to remain irresponsible and elusive. We have had no word from him. There is a rumor he is in Syria.
Amélie, Balduin, and their children, by contrast, remain constant, delightful presences in our lives. Amélie is with child once more: you can imagine how this blessed news has pleased Father, especially in light of your own situation.
Recounting these domestic concerns in extenso, however, is not the purpose of my writing you. I enclose herewith a letter for you—a small package, rather—which was delivered by a messenger from your former husband’s domain only yesterday. Anyone else must have been tempted to open the letter and the package before sending it on to you. But, as you know, I am far too honorable a man to commit such an indiscretion.
I did, naturally, try to inquire what this package might include, and the nature of the contents. But the messenger resolutely would not say: he was instructed to say they were meant for only you. I informed him that you no longer resided with us but had retired to an abbey in the Loire Valley. A very prominent abbey patronized by the Plantagenets, I did add. Once again, discretion forbade me to say anything more, and certainly not to a lowly messenger. Rather, I asked that he remain overnight, so that I might give him a letter to take to the Lord de Meurtaigne the following day acknowledging the receipt of the package, and assuring him that I would forward it to you. To this generous offer, the messenger was most grateful. He also informed me that the Lord de Meurtaigne would be traveling by the time I received this—an urgent trip to Marseilles to resolve a disputed claim to property he recently purchased. Therefore it was doubtful he would read my letter until after his return in a month or so.
I trust you will concur that I felt it only right to send a proper letter to your former husband. It has always seemed to me expedient not to make an enemy of him. In addition, the tenets of courtoisie, of which I am known to be an exemplar, also demand that I address him with the respect due a nobleman of his rank.
Thus, in my letter, I mentioned that I had seen you in the spring, and that you seemed to be thriving at the Abbey of Fontevraud. I thought it prudent—indeed, humane, as a good Christian—to assure him that you were quite recovered from the travails of your divorce. That you were devoting yourself to penitence and the work of Our Lord, even if you had not yet taken the veil. Nota bene that I say “yet,” always hoping that this hovers as a possibility, dear sister.
I also mentioned that you had come to the abbey under the auspices of the Lady Fastrada, and that you were working quite closely with her sister, the good Sister Clementia. Surely you will agree it is best he know that we are no strangers to the exalted noblesse of Troyes.
Lastly, do not trouble yourself with the expense incurred by my sending a messenger such a great distance. Though it might behoove you, on the part of our family, to mention our reputation for largesse to Sister Clementia.
I relay my warmest wishes to you, dear sister, and with them the hope that I shall see you again in the spring.
A postscript followed his signature:
If you feel it would be helpful to discuss the contents of the letter I am forwarding, please do not hesitate to write me. Suffice it to say I am always ready to impart the sage advice that only an older brother can provide.
I set Guy’s letter aside and looked uneasily at the parcel from Gerard. I picked it up and hastily untied the cord: inside lay a letter, and with it, a small, sealed wooden box. I held the box, wondering what it contained—a gift, perhaps? Yet that seemed unlikely.
The letter was stamped with the Meurtaigne crest. The thick, ragged impression appeared to have been done hurriedly, for there were errant drops of red wax scattered over the surface of the heavy parchment.
A sense of foreboding came over me as I broke open the seal and began to read:
From Gerard, Lord de Meurtaigne, to the Lady Isabelle
Several years have passed since we parted, during which time we have exchanged no word. I suspect that the arrival of my letter has surprised, perhaps even unsettled you. Why “unsettled”? one might ask. Did we not part in good faith, and wish each other well? I thought we had. Or so it seemed.
I have remarried: my wife is a noblewoman, like yourself, though of a different character—patient and selfless. Indeed, her patience extended to Aiglantine, whom she continued to employ, despite the latter’s increasing moodiness. Recently, however, when illness made it impossible for Aiglantine to work, my wife was forced to engage a new servant.
The servant approached her duties with refreshing diligence and meticulousness; part of her regimen included a thorough cleaning of our bedchamber. While doing so, she turned over the mattress and discovered something strange, something which had to have been placed there during my marriage to you: an object tucked between the mattress and the bed frame.
The object in question was an amulet of jet. But this should come as no surprise, for it was you, no doubt, who secretly placed it there. About your intent there can be no question. Everyone knows this insidious black stone is meant to prevent a woman from conception.
And so, Isabelle, I have concluded this: during a great part of our marriage, and with remarkable cunning, you deceived me. You pretended to take measures to encourage pregnancy, whereas, all the while, you were doing the opposite. No doubt Anthusis played her part in this monstrous scheme. Who, then, was the greater witch? That hideous creature you frequented in the forest, or you?
Had your ruse merely affected the years we were married, I might have a more measured reaction. But in leaving the talisman behind, you perpetuated its spell. My wife has been unable to conceive. Now I know why.
I wonder how you will greet this news: whether you will repent your twisted actions. It matters not a whit. Your intent was clear.
Know this above all: I will have retribution. It is merely a question of how, and when.
His signature followed: a phalanx of tall, jagged letters, the first and last penned with such force the nib had perforated the page. The bold vertical strokes, and the thick blotches of ink, only seemed to invest the final menacing salvo—“I will have retribution. It is merely a question of how, and when”—with even more brutality. Trembling, I set the letter down; then I bent over, my arms clutched around me.
Moments passed before I realized, with still more apprehension, that one unopened item remained: the little box, which lay on my lap. But each time my fingers ventured to break the seal, I found myself drawing back. Finally, I forced myself to open it. There, within, lay the jet amulet—black, insidious, and glimmering, it stared at me as if it contained all the evidence of my sins and guilt.
At that moment, terror transmuted itself into self-loathing; I began to berate myself. How could I have been so careless? I had been scrupulous about everything else around my leave-taking—the parceling out of my clothes, the packing up of my secret objects—and had neglected to address the most crucial element of all: the object I had hidden beneath the mattress.
How long I remained on the bench I am not certain. Eventually I placed the smooth, oval stone back into its box, and the box into the linen pouch, together with Gerard’s letter. I knew I must discard the jet and burn the letter; that no one must ever, ever see what Gerard had disclosed, no one must ever discover the sins against God I had committed—not Clementia, not Marie. I forced myself to think clearly, to decide what, in fact, to reveal to Clementia. She was due to arrive at any moment, and I would need her help, if I was to survive.
I heard a knocking at the door; as Clementia entered, I stood up, unsteadily. “I have been concerned,” she said, hastening toward me. “Did you receive bad news? You are deathly pale. What is wrong?”
“Come,” I said, taking her arm. “Let us go to my chamber. I shall tell you what has happened.”
Chapter 68
When we arrived at my chamber, I drew up a small bench for her by the hearth and took a seat opposite. Then, slowly and carefully, I described the essence of the letter—its menacing tone, its final threat. “Gerard rages that I have ruined his life,” I told her. “That my barrenness, somehow, has cast a spell upon him and his new wife, and her ability to conceive. He is a vengeful man, as you know, and quick to punish when things do not go his way. He will never rest until he finds retribution.”
All the while Clementia sat utterly still, her hands folded in her lap, her calm azure eyes never wavering from my face. “‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’” she murmured, slowly shaking her head. She stood up and began to walk silently back and forth before the window. “One thing is certain,” she announced, stopping to face me. “You must leave at once. It is only a matter of time before he finds you here. And I am not sure even we could protect you. Even abbeys are not always safe places—not when they are confronted by a man like Gerard. No, you must go far away. You must leave the country.” Then, decisively: “You will go to England.”
“To England?” I asked, stupefied.
“You will go to the queen at Salisbury,” she replied. “Only recently, she requested a companion—someone to read to her, to converse with her, to take her dictation, and to play chess. It must be a young woman connected with Fontevraud. Queen Eleanor insists upon it, and the king, whose family also has connections with the abbey, has agreed to it.” She added wryly, “That in itself is a triumph.”
“But are you quite sure, Clementia?” I stammered. For a moment I thought I had misunderstood the import of her words. I could not believe this thrilling idea to be true—that I should actually meet Queen Eleanor. “Are you quite sure that I would be suitable? As companion to the queen? After all—”
“I have no doubt whatsoever. Even you—who do not trust in God as fully as I do—can only conclude that He must have had a part in this plan. Is it not strange that we should need someone to go to England, just when it is necessary for you to leave the country? And at the root of this”—she shook her head slowly, reflectively—“another coincidence of sorts: two women punished, each in a different way, by a vengeful husband!”
“Yes, it is almost uncanny,” I replied with a rueful laugh, only to be assailed the next moment by the danger and enormity of the undertaking. It would be immeasurably exciting to meet the queen, and to journey to England; but once again I would be forced to abandon all that was familiar for life with strangers in a foreign place. I would leave the abbey, I would leave France, and I would leave Marie.
“You look rather somber,” she remarked. “What are you thinking, Isabelle?”
“How wrenching it will be to leave the abbey. To leave all of you. Most of all, to leave Marie!” My eyes filled with tears. “She has just lost her mother, and now she will also lose me.”
“That is true, but you must also remember you are very fortunate,” she replied in a firm, almost reprimanding tone. “You have a means to escape. Most women do not. And I have seen firsthand the terrible things such women have endured.”
