The falcons eyes, p.58
The Falcon's Eyes, page 58
“Ah, those are much too somber,” she said. “Let us begin with the lais.” I read Yonec first, then Laüstic—melancholy tales of women kept in check, and ultimately punished, by their husbands. When I came to the end, the queen asked, “What do you think of the tales?”
“Artfully told, but terribly sad. Stories of women struggling to be free, in one way or another—” But there I stopped, unwilling to admit how deeply the theme had affected me. “I cannot help but wonder—”
“Wonder what?”
I felt my cheeks flush. “It is not my place to say, Your Majesty.”
“I command that you do say. Tell me.”
“I think it odd,” I ventured awkwardly, “that stories of imprisoned women should have been chosen for you.”
“Odd?” She gave a hearty laugh. “It is not ‘odd’ at all! No doubt it is meant to be a message, to remind me of my own situation, and of Henry’s power over me. It is not the first time such a veiled, if poetic, reminder has been sent. And it will not be the last, I assure you. But let us stop now. That is enough for today.” Again, the imperious tilt of her head, which usually signaled a new train of thought. “You are an able reader,” she said, “not a compliment I have given many. You have managed in this short time to transport me to another world.”
“I sense you find great solace in stories, Your Majesty,” I remarked, closing the book.
“Yes, that is quite true. Even the king knows how much literature means to me. As a pleasure, as a comfort. For him to deprive me of books—no, there is a limit to his cruelty, even if that limit is partly motivated by pragmatism. It would not help him if my sons knew I was suffering unnecessarily. It would only spur them on to greater action. And that is the last thing that Henry wants.”
She bent down and drew Paris to her lap. “You may tell Tancred we have finished,” she announced. “We will continue reading tomorrow.”
I glanced at the other objects on the table beside her. “May I ask a question before I leave, Your Majesty?”
“You may.”
“You told me the story about the hourglass. What of the other object—the gold casket? Does it have a story as well?”
“It does. The casket was given to me by my son Richard, when we were together, in France.” She turned it so the front panel, with its scene of slashing swords, was visible. “If you look closely you will see that it depicts the murder of Becket. It, too, has a message: to remind me what the king—my husband, and Richard’s father—is capable of.”
Chapter 77
Thus it was in her library, and through the medium of stories, that I truly came to know the queen. Sometimes, as we sat together, I would close my eyes and recall those cherished afternoons of reading with my grandfather. Yet there was a difference in the nature of the two experiences: my grandfather’s tales had provided an escape from the dreariness of daily life, a respite from the censure of my parents, some solace in the aftermath of punishments. Reading with the queen became a way to excavate her life, her history, her character. Often I would find a way to pose an important question obliquely, through stories. In this fashion I began to glean much about her—whom she liked and whom she detested; whom she admired and whom she scorned; whom she trusted and whom she did not.
As we read of the Trojan War, I learned of the queen’s fascination with the legend of Helen of Troy: as we read of King Arthur and his knights, I recognized her alertness to legacy—her own, and that of her family. A saga featuring fractious children would cause her to stop and reflect upon her sons and their struggles with their father; a tale about a girl wrenched from her family would spark wistful reminiscences of her own daughters’ departures to foreign lands when they were children—Lenora to Spain, Joanna to Sicily, Mathilda to Saxony. The tale of a celebrated knight who had betrayed his wife with another woman prompted her to bitterly recall the king’s flagrantly public liaison, years before, with Rosamund Clifford, a beautiful young Englishwoman.
History, poetry, and philosophy also elicited reactions that provided a window to her inner self. Among the most illuminating in that regard were the letters of Seneca. The titles of a few favorites: “On groundless fears,” “On worldliness and retirement,” “On the futility of halfway measures,” and “On travel as a cure for discontent.” The last included a passage that she asked me to read aloud twice: “Though you may cross vast spaces of sea, your faults will follow you whithersoever you travel. Do you ask why such flight does not help you? It is because you flee along with yourself.”
After I had read this aloud, she reflected, “Earlier in my life, I would never have appreciated the wisdom of such an idea. It is only after being shut in here that I am able to understand it.”
Such conversations also helped me to discern the shifting landscapes of the queen’s mind—her moods, pleasures, and foibles. I quickly discerned that there was not one self, but several: the private woman—wife and mother—and the imperial persona, the Queen of England and fabled Duchess of Aquitaine (the latter employed, to great effect, depending on her purpose).
Only very occasionally were there glimpses of the impulsive young woman she professed once to have been. It was clear, as time passed, that she had, with her formidable will, learned to accept with grace what the Fates had decreed for her. “As one who has always been accustomed to acting in media res, and who is now a bystander, I have had to learn a different set of skills. A different kind of discipline. I have learned to wait and be patient.” I came to realize that captivity had not only chastened her, but also had forged her into a wiser and more responsible woman. It was her stalwartness, discipline, and courage I came to admire above all; I daresay it was those very qualities that had also won the respect of the men guarding her.
But even my absorption in my new life, and my growing friendship with the queen, could not erase my longing for word of the world I had left behind. When, on occasion, I received letters from Clementia, I fell upon them hungrily (albeit not without a first anxious glance to ascertain if there were more ominous news of Gerard). No matter that their language was guarded, and that their contents had, without doubt, already been perused by Tancred: they were a connection to the world of the abbey, and, most of all, to Marie.
Clementia had warned me, before my departure, about the constrained nature of any letters we would exchange. “All correspondence is reviewed by the king’s men,” she had told me. “Do not be surprised if you find seals broken before my letters are given to you.” The lack of privacy was most vexing, at first, when I would respond to Clementia: I found scant pleasure in writing when I was obligated to measure each word. Gradually, however, I grew accustomed even to this, and found satisfying, if indirect ways, to express myself. Soon, in what became something of a ritual, I began to share Clementia’s letters with the queen. As I read them aloud, I was struck by her attentiveness to even the most prosaic details—word of a new land grant to the abbey, for instance, or repairs to a mill. To my delight, descriptions of Marie—her love of stories, her progress with Latin—also seemed to intrigue her.
It quickly became clear, however, that these necessarily measured descriptions of abbey life were never quite enough to satisfy the queen’s lively mind. Thus I began to augment Clementia’s anecdotes with my own recollections of life at Fontevraud. It amused the queen to hear of priggish Guy’s visit and his clumsy attempts to win over Clementia, for instance, or of Fastrada descending upon the abbey like an “avenging angel.” I told the queen more about Marie, as well—her fascination with the bronze falcon, and how I had left it with her “almost as a talisman.”
Occasionally, after I had recounted these stories of my past, a certain melancholy would engulf me. I would begin to wonder when I would see Marie and Clementia again; when, if ever, I would see Fastrada, or my father, or beloved Arnaut, whose absence and silence filled me with despair.
What would life hold for me in the years to come? Would I ever marry again, or have a child? Sometimes, as I observed Jeannette’s coquetry with Tancred, I would feel uncomfortable, almost envious: not of her actual liaison with Tancred, but of the idea of it. I was a young woman, after all, and far from immune to romantic longings. At such moments, I would think of the bronze falcon I had left behind, and how, in the past, I would gaze into his enameled eyes, seeking guidance. But here, faraway from France in my solitary chamber, the rough English wind buffeting the stone walls, I had no such oracle.
ONE MORNING, JEANNETTE ARRIVED AT my chamber in a notably merry mood. Her eyes had a certain gleam, which I knew by now meant one of two things: she had been consorting with Tancred, or a letter had arrived from France.
“My lady,” she said. “This”—she brandished a roll of parchment—“has arrived for you. From Fontevraud!”
“Go and inform the queen that I have just received a letter from Sister Clementia,” I told her. “You know how precise she is about time. Explain that I shall be a bit late, and that I ask her understanding.”
Intent on lingering, she nodded somewhat reluctantly; then, more brightly, “And then should I return to fetch you, my lady?”
“Yes.” Always aware of her nibbling curiosity, I added, with a patient smile, “And then I promise to tell you if there is any news.”
The moment she left, I broke open the seal and cast my eyes upon Clementia’s letter. My delight in seeing her signature—tall, elegant, controlled—was tempered when I discovered another letter contained within hers: a letter in my brother’s hand. I set his aside uneasily and began to read hers. It began auspiciously enough—life at the abbey was peaceful, the abbess had been tending to another unfortunate family in Saumur, the crops looked promising, etc. I came to the final page:
You will find another letter enclosed here, and which arrived only yesterday. It is from your brother Guy. I told the bearer that you had left in a great hurry with the intention of helping a friend, and that I was uncertain of your whereabouts. I instructed him to tell Guy that, should I discover where you had settled, I would do my utmost to ensure that his message made its way to you.
The abbess and I have no doubt you continue to be a pleasant and able companion to the queen. And we trust that our sisters at Amesbury also continue to provide you with books to enrich and edify your life, and that of the queen.
We savored your last letter and your descriptions of life in the English realm, and do hope you will write us soon. Until then, I send my God’s blessings, dear Isabelle, as I do my affectionate thoughts—
Clementia
After finishing her letter, I reluctantly picked up Guy’s, which was penned in the crabbed hand I knew all too well:
To the Countess Isabelle, greetings from her brother, Guy de Lapalisse
Let me not tarry in conveying the details of the misfortune that has befallen our family; to expend unnecessary words, and to indulge in the elaborate locutions which some would employ in imparting such somber developments is not, as you know, my modus operandi. Therefore, I shall be brief. Word reached us yesterday that our brother, Arnaut, has passed from this world—drowned, yes drowned, on his return from the Holy Land. Those fortunate few whom God elected to survive apprised us of this tragedy upon their return home. They told us they had taken ship at Tyre, and that the vessel was unable to withstand a storm that raged along the coast of the Adriatic.
While struggling to recover from distress, I forced myself to inquire what, if anything, the men knew of our brother’s state of affairs on his departure. (Even you, dear sister, cannot deny that Arnaut had been appallingly negligent in informing his family of his circumstances, material or otherwise.) They informed me that our brother had acquired a considerable land grant from the wealthy Norman knight he had served in the region of Tripoli, and that it had been Arnaut’s intention to make a new life in Apulia. Again, and despite my great sadness, I forced myself to inquire if they knew whether the land bequeathed to him would pass to our family, in the event of his demise. The men, who seemed familiar with the tenets of the grant, did not think it would. (I hesitate to mention, in the light of his plight, what seems all too evident: Arnaut’s considerable, though admittedly woefully characteristic, lack of judgment in forging the statutes of this agreement.)
It has required all my strength, as you can well imagine, to shepherd our family through this tragedy. Father is distraught and has hardly been able to eat or speak. Even Hortense cannot coax him to consume a single morsel. I, as the eldest, and the de facto head of the family, do not have the luxury of indulging in such behavior. I must conduct myself as is my wont—by summoning the strength of Hercules, and the faith of Abraham, in my efforts to ease our family’s pain. In this I have been ably aided by Amélie, who has displayed the dignity and composure one has long come to expect of her. I should add that wise, steadfast Balduin has been a source of great support to us: how fortunate your sister is to have made such a marriage, and to have a husband who exemplifies such devotion and compassion! I realize, of course, that you have not had the good fortune of your sister’s marital situation—still, it is my fervent hope that you will at least emulate her worthy example in this regard, as you grieve, and that you will comport yourself in a manner befitting our family and rank.
My sole consolation amid this sadness is the knowledge that you will receive my letter while you are in the holy community of Fontevraud. It comforts me to know that while you are in mourning, the prayers of the good sisters will reinforce your own.
I would not be surprised should Sister Clementia, in her effort to assuage your sadness, also suggest that I return to visit you at the abbey. After all, who other than myself, your devoted brother, would be able to provide you comfort at such a time? I give you my leave to inform her that I would readily consider making the journey north, if only to be at your side. In addition, I must confess that prayers presided over by the nuns in that hallowed setting would provide me great solace as I, too, grieve; so, too, would the wise counsel and serene presence of the noble Sister Clementia. I shall await word from you in this regard. If she deems it expedient, I could set forth to Fontevraud within the month.
Lastly, I counsel you to withstand the temptation to indulge yourself in sorrow so inordinate that it verges on unseemliness. God wills when we are born; God wills when we will die. Let me remind you that the reserve of human grief, unlike that of His love, is not infinite. In my own sorrow I have found it helpful to recall a passage from Virgil often cited by our grandfather: Dabit deus his quoque finem.
I shall await your response. Until then, fare you well, sister.
Guy
I stood in stunned silence; then I began to sob. After the deaths of my babies, I had feared the death of my brother more than anything else. Now that, too, had happened—and it had happened far away, in a churning foreign sea, without my ever being able to say goodbye. He had not even known a good death, with family around him and a priest to administer holy rites. No prayers, no solace of human touch, no loving goodbyes! I held my head in my hands, trying to annihilate my horrifying imaginings of his final moments—the moments when, submerged by relentless waves and choking in black, fathomless water, he knew he had expended his last breath, and that the sea would devour him.
I thought of our games, our merriment, and our secrets, and all they had meant to me. With Arnaut gone, my last connection to all I had cherished in my childhood had vanished. It seemed yet another cruel trick that God had played upon me: He had taken away the brother I adored and left me with two siblings I neither loved nor trusted.
Finally, exhausted from sobbing, I wiped my hot, swollen face. Then I closed my eyes and began taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself—alas, to no avail.
I heard a knocking at the door, and Jeannette entered. I wiped my face once more and struggled to gain my composure.
“My lady!” she said, hurrying toward me. “What has happened?”
“My brother has died. Arnaut. He has drowned in a shipwreck. Drowned—” I repeated the word again, as if still trying to comprehend its meaning.
“Oh, my lady, how sad I am for you!” She stood close by, awkwardly extending her hand, as if she did not quite know the proper way to console me. “I shall tell the queen you are indisposed,” she said. “Should I also tell her about your loss?”
“I must tell her myself. It is only right.” I took a handkerchief from my pocket, wiped my eyes, and hastened to the queen’s reading chamber.
The guards tried to bar me from entering—she and Tancred were conferring, they gruffly informed me—but that did not deter me. “I must speak with the queen now,” I announced so fiercely that even the blond brute reluctantly drew aside his lance and let me pass. Deep in conversation, the queen and Tancred looked up, startled, as I burst into the room. After performing a hasty curtsey, I said, “I must have a private word with you, Your Majesty.”
“At this very moment?” She looked puzzled, then almost alarmed, by my sense of urgency, as Tancred, at her side, scowled at me.
“It is not proper that you should disrupt the queen this way, Lady Isabelle,” he reprimanded. He had become rather wary of my increasing closeness to the queen—indeed, there were moments when he seemed suspicious of the increasing time I spent with her.
“I cannot wait,” I told him as he tried to hold me back. “It concerns the letter I have just received.”
“You have gone quite pale,” interjected the queen, beckoning to me. “What can it possibly be? Not bad news concerning Marie—”
“No. Something else. Something I must tell you in private.”
“I see,” said the queen. She turned to Tancred: “Best you leave me now to speak with Lady Isabelle. We shall resume our conversation later. I shall call for you.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” At that he bowed, and after a curt, even furious, nod in my direction, departed.
“Something terrible has happened,” she said, beckoning to come close. “Tell me, Isabelle—”
