The falcons eyes, p.59
The Falcon's Eyes, page 59
I walked toward the chair opposite her as a sleepwalker might—uncertainly, hazily, as if the ground might give way with each step. Then I let the dreadful story tumble forth—what I just learned, and how Arnaut had died. Holding my face in my hands, I began to weep.
“Oh, dear Isabelle,” she lamented, “I know how much you loved your brother, and how painful it must be to think of him dying this way!”
“I am sorry to trouble you with this, Your Majesty,” I murmured. “To burden you with my sadness.”
“It is hardly a burden! Far better to give vent to your feelings, and to your sorrow, than to let those emotions destroy you. It is only the foolish who find courage in masking grief.” She extended her arms to me. “Come, pull your chair closer.”
I did so; she took my hand in her lap and began to stroke it gently. “I promise you, Isabelle, that the pain will eventually subside. Little by little, day by day. I have lost so many loved ones, you know! My mother, my father, and my brother when I was a girl. Later, my beloved uncle Raymond, killed in battle. Then Petronilla, my younger sister, whom I adored, and my eldest child, William, when he was but three.” She smiled forlornly. “I can only tell you that the spirits of loved ones eventually become woven into the warp and woof of one’s life. You will come to see this.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to me. “In the meantime, cry until you can cry no more.”
I continued to weep until at last, looking up wearily, I said, “I have shed all the tears I can.”
She took the handkerchief from me and wiped my cheeks with it. “Perhaps a story of my own would help you,” she said. “Shall I tell it?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Long ago, I was told of the German nun Hildegard, and her way of using plants and even gemstones and music, as agents of healing. Both of the spirit and the body. She was a woman whose learning and intellect greatly intrigued me, and whom I longed to meet. But how? It was not possible then for me to travel to Regensburg, where she resided. Then, at a fateful moment, a moment when I sorely needed guidance, I decided to send her a letter.
“It was during that terrible year when my world was in disarray—the year before the murder of Thomas Becket. The nobles in my lands, in Aquitaine, were in a state of rebellion. Several had already betrayed me—the Lusignans, among them. I had never trusted them, of course, but even so I had not imagined their genius for deceit. Then, in our English realm, Henry refused to heed my advice in his battle with Becket. I had counseled him to exercise restraint. But no—driven by rage, he would not cede ground. It did not help that his knights, all too eager to take the matter into their own hands, goaded him to act. Meanwhile my sons chafed under their father’s iron hand. And as for Henry himself—I had been able to ignore the bastards born of servant girls and wenches. It was harder to endure when the mothers were women of rank. Women I knew, such as the daughter of Roger de Tosny.” She looked down, sighing deeply. “Yes, that year when every aspect of life was thrown into chaos. It was then I wrote Hildegard.”
“Did she reply?” I asked.
“She did, and her words gave me great comfort. They still do. I repeat them to myself at moments of despair. ‘Your mind is like a wall battered by a storm,’ she wrote. ‘You look all around, and you find no rest. Stay calm, and stand firm, relying on God, and God will aid you in all your tribulations.’” She stroked my hand again. “Repeat those words to yourself, Isabelle, whenever you need strength.”
DURING THAT TIME OF MOURNING, I grew even closer to the queen. I began not only to confide in her, but also to recount stories of my past life even more freely. These seemed to captivate her; sometimes, to my delight, they even made her laugh (anecdotes about Amélie’s pretentions and Millicent’s tiresome “piety”). I told her about my family—my beloved grandfather and the lessons he had taught me, and about the secrets I had shared with Arnaut, and our indelible journey to Nîmes. I told her how I loved the lands of my girlhood and the buried treasures of the ancient peoples I had found there—treasures I had kept, secretly, and which gave me a strange sort of solace.
Eventually, and most importantly, I began to tell her about my life with Gerard: how intoxicating the first six months had been; about his passion for his falcons and the unforgettable day I first visited the mews. But gradually, I said, the tenor of my married life had darkened. I recounted my grief in losing little Editha and my baby son, and the pressures I had felt; how scathing Gerard had been about my closeness to Aiglantine. Finally I told her about the last year of my marriage and why, in the end, I had found it unendurable. I even told her the story of Gallien, and how brutally Gerard had punished him for the loss of Vainqueur.
And then, one day in late winter, as we sat in her reading chamber, I finally told her what I had learned from Clementia’s letter—that Gerard had come to the abbey, searching for me. “He is still angry with me, angry for leaving him,” I said. “And I fear that his rage against me will never abate. That he will blame me for any misfortune which befalls him. Above all, I fear his capacity for revenge. That is, of course, in great part why I came here. Why Clementia thought it best I leave Fontevraud for England.”
“Nothing you have said surprises me,” she replied. “It is what I would have surmised.”
“How?” I asked, astonished. “Did you know Gerard?”
“After we met,” she began slowly, “and we took our first walk together, you mentioned your husband’s name, and I told you I had heard of him. I said nothing more at the time, thinking it was neither germane nor appropriate. But now you have almost become another daughter to me. There are things I know about your husband that I can no longer withhold from you.”
“Tell me what you have heard,” I urged uneasily.
“It has to do with my son Richard. He told me that, years ago, Gerard de Meurtaigne had tried to ingratiate himself to him and those in his circle. At first, impressed by his various successes, as well as his valor and resolve, he entrusted him with several important missions. But then he began to see certain traits that greatly troubled him—aspects of his character that made him uneasy.”
I thought of Gerard’s reticence and discomfiture whenever Richard’s name had been mentioned; he did not know him well, he had told me, adding that it was the Young King, rather, with whom he maintained an allegiance. . . .
“This occurred at a time,” continued the queen, “when Richard was charged with quelling the rebellion of the most intransigent Poitevin lords. There was one among them, Lord de Choiseul, who was among the rebels—a man Richard knew well and whose courage and shrewdness he admired, despite his recent acts of disloyalty. He also knew that winning over Choiseul would be key to subduing the other rebels in the region, notably Aimar de Limoges. This Choiseul was a revered leader in the region; Richard knew the others would follow his example.
“The Poitevins were effectively subdued, and your husband was given the responsibility of rounding them up, and then of dealing with those of highest rank. In a misguided attempt to curry favor perhaps, he decided on the terms of the punishment himself. Some rebels were maimed; several were executed in the most hideous way—Choiseul among them. When he learned of this, Richard was furious. With this course of action, your husband had only succeeded in engendering a legacy of hate—a destructive legacy that continues to this day.
“It was then Richard became aware of certain dangerous aspects of Gerard de Meurtaigne’s character—the impetuousness, as well as the arrogance and self-regard that had deluded him into thinking he had no need to consult his superiors. Richard also discerned his quickness to punish, and to punish brutally, even if it would be far from advantageous to do so. It was these qualities that caused Richard to distance himself from your husband.”
“Yes,” I said. “I observed those same traits in my husband—his tendency to be punitive, to rush to judgment. Yet he always prided himself on being a politic man, a man skilled in strategy. Does this not seem contradictory, in light of his actions?”
“Only in one who lacks self-knowledge,” came her unnerving reply. She looked down, her expression pensive. “After that episode, your husband, aware that he had destroyed any chance of allying himself with Richard, focused his energies instead on Henry, the Young King. No doubt it seemed most expedient for your husband to ally himself with the eldest prince—it is Henry, not Richard, who is next in line to the throne. It was not difficult for Gerard de Meurtaigne to win over Young Henry—with money, of course. My eldest son is as profligate as he is impulsive. It is equally true of John, my youngest, alas.” She shook her head in dismay. “These traits are a dangerous combination, but most of all, in a future king!
“But the story does not end there,” she resumed. “It seems that only recently Gerard de Meurtaigne has encouraged the Young King to plot against Richard, as my two sons maneuver against their father. In this, your husband has made a grave mistake. Richard is not someone who countenances this sort of deceit. He, too, remembers the past and those who cross him. Richard is the Duke of Aquitaine, after all: there is a certain passion and also steeliness in his blood that my eldest son, however charming and handsome, however popular”—she pronounced the last word with disdain—“lacks. I am a mother, of course,” she continued, “but even more importantly, I am a queen. It is my responsibility to assess my children, and especially my sons, dispassionately—to recognize their faults as well as their strengths. It is my sons who will inherit the mantle of power, and who will preserve the empire Henry and I have created—his England and Normandy, with my Aquitaine. Therefore I must see them for who they are—not what I hoped they would be. That is one great difference between myself and my own husband. For all his brilliance as an administrator and strategist, Henry is woefully lacking in astuteness with regard to his sons.”
But it was, of course, what she had revealed about Gerard that I fastened on. “I had no idea you knew so much about my husband—”
She smiled in an almost playful way. “Then, clearly, you did not listen to me! Months ago, I told you I know everything.” Her tone resumed its previous gravity. “So now you know that when the time came for your husband to reveal his true self, he did, and in a way that made a profound impression on Richard. It is also through these incidents that I came to understand your husband’s character. He is ruthless. Ruthless, determined, ambitious, and punitive. You have a right to be frightened.” She leaned forward, taking my hand in hers. “Fortunately, you are here, with me, and well protected,” she added reassuringly. “Your husband will never be able to reach you here!”
“But if I should leave England, Your Majesty?” I asked anxiously. “If I should ever return to France, to Fontevraud, if only to see Marie and Clementia?”
“Ah, then, I cannot know for certain. If I resided at Fontevraud as well, it would of course be another matter. Then I could protect you. Even he would not dare to go against the queen. But if I were not there—alas, we know from recent history that even being in a holy place does not necessarily shield one from harm. From plots. From those who seek revenge. Becket’s murder made that all too clear. Indeed, one could almost say his death marked a new era: we now live in a world where a cathedral is no longer sacrosanct. Not even for its archbishop. Why would we think that an abbey, then, would protect a nun?
“And you, Isabelle, you are not a holy sister after all,” she continued. “You have not taken vows. And if I am correct—and I believe I am—you do not intend to do so. You have many wonderful qualities, but I do not envision you taking the veil.” She smiled almost mischievously. “Am I correct?”
“You are. I cannot deny that.”
“Then you must be resigned to remain here, with me. I must admit, selfishly, that this does not displease me. I would miss you if you left.”
“And I would miss you, Your Majesty. But there are other pulls—”
“Of course. Marie. You need say no more. Come, Isabelle,” she said, embracing me. “Do not think of yourself as having been banished from France, but as being safe, and far from Gerard and his vengefulness. Above all you must hold strong,” she exhorted. “You must gird your mind, and your considerable will, as you always have. You must be canny, and you must not cower.” She pressed my hand. “And you must also remember the words Hildegard wrote me: let them sustain you, as they have sustained me. Repeat them to yourself as you might a prayer to the Virgin. Pray to God and ask Him to guide you.”
“I still struggle to achieve that kind of faith. I told Sister Clementia as much,” I said, adding, “there have been too many times when I have felt that God has deserted me.” I glanced away, haunted by the memory of the moment when I had discovered Editha in her cradle, as cold and still as stone; the moment when I had learned that Arnaut had drowned.
“I, too, felt that way when I was younger,” she replied, glancing at the hourglass, which stood on the table by her side. “But the passage of years, and of learning to accept what once seemed unfathomable, changes you. It is only then you reach some sort of peace.” She touched my hand again. “Mark my words. There will come a day when you will realize that I am right.” She ran her finger along the rim of the hourglass. “The passing years have taught me there is a certain grace, even a virtue, in resignation.”
Chapter 78
One morning, in late spring, I noticed that the queen seemed unusually distracted. “Is there something wrong, Your Majesty?” I asked before we commenced reading.
She glanced at the doorway, which was only partly covered by the portière. “Draw the portière,” she said.
I walked to the doorway and pulled the heavy curtain closed. “Come nearer,” she instructed me, after I returned to her.
“There is chaos in France,” she began in a low, urgent voice. “The king and Richard fighting my son Henry. There are rumors of depredations, of the looting of holy places. I do not know exactly where, and by whom. If only I could find out!” She looked down, wringing her hands.
“Perhaps I can find out,” I murmured.
“How?”
“I am sure that Tancred and the men have heard. Recently I have seen them huddling together, speaking with great urgency. When I came near, they abruptly ceased. Is it not likely that they were discussing the situation in France?”
“Even if they were, they would hardly tell you.”
“True,” I replied, with a conspiratorial smile. “But it is not unlikely that Tancred would tell Jeannette.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, AS JEANNETTE was brushing my hair, I told her: “I have seen the men talking together in quite an urgent way recently. They look so intent, as if something quite serious had happened.”
“Is that so, my lady?” she asked.
“Yes. I could not help but wonder what they might be discussing.” I yawned, then sighed. “Life is so tedious here, is it not, Jeannette? The ennui of being so confined. How I dream of returning to France!”
“To France?” She looked alarmed. “Oh, you must not, my lady! The queen would miss you. We would all miss you. But the queen especially. She has been in much better spirits since your arrival. You have made life here much easier for us. I know you have for me! I have more freedom now because you occupy the queen so well.”
“That gladdens me to hear,” I replied; then, almost petulantly, “I only wish I might occasionally have word of what is happening beyond these walls. What is happening across the Channel. I assume that Tancred and the men must hear news quite regularly.”
“Oh yes,” she replied, with surprising matter-of-factness as she grasped my hair and began to plait it.
“I suppose it may simply be my imagination,” I continued, “but I cannot help but think that something important must have happened. The way the men have been convening.”
“Well,” she said rather coyly, “I have heard a few things.”
“Do tell me, Jeannette! Otherwise I shall die of boredom here, and I shall ask Ralph FitzStephen to allow me to return home!”
I held my breath, watching as she deliberated. “But you cannot tell the queen!” she said at last. “Tancred would be angry. And I would be in great trouble. Not only with him, but with the others, should they ever find out.”
“I feel rather insulted that you should ever think I would do such a thing!” I exclaimed. “The abbey has entrusted me with responsibilities and a code of honor. You yourself said I was trustworthy.”
“Oh no, my lady, I did not mean to suggest otherwise.” She hesitated, and then, leaning forward, began to speak softly. “The men say there is much fighting in France. King Henry and Prince Richard have reconciled and are in league together. But the Young King, Prince Henry, has somehow allied himself with the King of France.”
“With Philippe?”
“Yes! The men here call Philippe ‘crafty.’ That was the word they used. And it also seems that the Young King, in desperation—they say he always needs money—has done some terrible things.” She shook her head in dismay. “Yes—terrible!”
“What has he done?”
“Best I not say, my lady,” she replied, tying the plait. “I have already told you too much.”
I refrained from replying and merely stood up, trying to think of a way to spur her on. My eyes alighted on a red shawl of Alexandrian silk, which lay on the bed; Jeannette had long admired it.
“Ah—I forgot to put this back into the cupboard!” I said, picking it up. Then I draped it around my shoulders, parading before her as an elegant court lady might.
“Oh, how lovely you look in that, my lady!” she said admiringly.
“It is a splendid color, is it not? Here.” I took it off and placed it around her shoulders. “Look how well it suits you!” The shawl did indeed enhance her coloring, for it made her eyes look very green.
I held the mirror up, watching as she gazed at her reflection, and said, “It would make me happy to give the shawl to you—”
“Oh, my lady!” she cried with delight, turning to me.
