He may have wanted to ask me more about my injuries, but he was forced to answer the question at hand.
“I can see why it might seem like a betrayal to you,” he said with a nod, “but I acted in your best interests and for the benefit of us all.”
I laughed perversely. “And I suppose you gave no thought to what you might achieve by this marriage!”
“That is not why—”
“Yes, why sacrifice your fortune for the woman you claimed to love when you could be perfectly rich and content with someone else, all without losing the love of your king? It makes sense!”
I could see that my words were starting to wound him. His eyes had the glassy look of one who is trying not to cry. His lips were parted slightly, straining for air, as if he had been punched. I was not at all sorry. He deserved it.
He began to speak slowly, as if trying to calm us both. “I cannot say all that I wish to say, but this had nothing to do with gaining a fortune.” When I scoffed, he cried, “It’s true! I was not lying when I said I loved you, but you must see that there was no other way!”
“Oh, spare me your complaints! History is nothing but a long line of men claiming, ‘There was no other way!’ There is always another way for those who are bold enough to take it, but that is not who you are. You are a coward!”
He seemed to wince at the sound of my words, and for a moment, I thought he was going to make some angry reply. Instead, he took another deep breath and responded more calmly—almost tenderly.
“You are upset. You have a right to be. For that, I am sorry. But what did you mean about a beating? Did the king harm you?” He squinted a bit, as if looking for any sign, but I had made sure to hide my wounds as well as possible behind my veil.
I abandoned my perch against the table and stepped toward him. “Please, let’s not pretend that you suddenly care: not when you left me to the wolves! How can you stand there and declare that what you did was noble? God save us from such nobility!”
“But—”
“No!” I cried.
We were standing by this point very near to each other, studying each other’s faces, breathing deeply. That space between us was, after all, an eternal abyss that could never be crossed. I had given my love to him, and he had set it aside for something else. He had acted without informing me, and thus made me his fool. Oh, how it hurt! The longing within myself for something more—something higher—was never to be fulfilled. I feared I would never feast again at the table of joy, and all that was left was to fight for the scraps that fell.
“This is the way it will be,” I said softly. “What’s done is done. We may have to be around one another, but you are only to address me in company, do you understand?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“We will just continue on as if none of this ever happened.”
“Agreed.”
“And you will never speak of this—to anyone!”
His eyes squinted again, as if he was surprised that I would have to command it. “Of course. You will have my silence.”
“Good. Leave me now. I have no desire to speak any longer.”
Brian nodded slowly, his face still tinged with sadness and his shoulders still drooping. He truly looked completely defeated. I remained standing there with my arms folded as he turned and walked toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob, then paused for a moment, turning his head back toward me.
“What now?” I asked. “Are you going to claim that you dream of me when you lie with her?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “There is much that I cannot say, but please know how deeply sorry I am for any pain you have experienced. I hope someday you find it possible to forgive me.”
With that, he took his leave. I stood there for a moment breathing heavily, finally allowing the tears to fall. My eyes wandered over to the fire, which continued to burn with vigor. The anger within me burned with equal force. I had made Brian share some of my pain, but I felt as if I had to do something more to put that part of my life behind me: to destroy any love I still had for him, if such a thing was possible.
Suddenly, I had a thought. I walked back to the table, on which sat the chest that held my most prized objects. I lifted the lid and saw the amber moth sitting there. In anger, I picked it up and made to throw it on the fire. I stood there, the flames dancing before my eyes, my arm held aloft. I wanted to be done with it, but something held me back.
“Do it, Maud!” I said aloud. “Do it or you will never be free!”
I looked again at the amber moth, holding it up and turning it over. The light of the fire made it glow brightly, as if the stone itself was a thing of flame. The moth was eternally trapped within, always burning but never consumed, even as it would never be free. Here was the perfect symbol for myself, yet I could not destroy this thing that meant so much to me. It almost seemed profane to do so. Instead, I dropped it on the floor, even as I began to weep.
“Now who’s the coward?” I said to myself.
XII
A woman must have a purpose or she cannot live. Without meaning, without hope, she drifts aimlessly like a twig in a river, until she is pulled under with the current. Darkness—such darkness I felt, gasping for air, longing for light, but at a loss as to what I should do. I had not recognized until after the fall how high I had climbed above the earth: how far my dreams had reached beyond what was possible.
Having been seized by the harsh grip of the truth, I had no choice but to acknowledge it: I might never know joy in marriage, I might never give birth to children, and my name might never be remembered by anyone. What was my heart feeling? The only thing I was certain I felt was pain. Though I hated it, I cherished that hurt, for it told me that I existed and had thoughts and feelings of my own. I had become numb to much that ought to tempt a human to joy.
Every part of me hurt—yes, every part felt sore, as if the smallest word would undo me, or a single look would bring me back to the darkness in which I had dwelt, or in which I continued to dwell. I knew it should not be. I was a royal and must be ruler of my own heart, forcing it into line. But was that not the very problem? Does a woman need permission to feel pain?
We flee from it. Yes, we shun it. But is pain not a gift of God: the very thing that assures us we are alive? I knew not. Indeed, I know not. All I knew for certain was that I had been utterly consumed by that pain, and though it had dulled from its original sharpness, the memory of it remained.
At such times, a young woman needs her mother, or at least a faithful friend of her own sex. I had none. Any consolation from my father was certainly out of the question, and having hidden the whole affair from Drogo, I could not even discuss it with him. No, there was only one person who knew it all and was on my side—one soul to whom I might disclose the secrets of my heart. In that hour, I needed my brother. I needed Robert.
The month of December arrived and brought with it an unusually bitter cold. All the ponds around London froze, and even the Thames began to fill with pieces of ice, though its constant flow prevented it from freezing over completely. Such things did not usually take place until well into January, but it did not seem out of place to me. After all, the warmth and light had long since departed my own world.
I had taken to remaining in my room certain evenings while the rest of the king’s court was feasting in the hall. I would complain of a cough and then spend the night in my mother’s old audience chamber, reading a book by the hearth and trying not to think of what was taking place below: the king enjoying a life without judgment and Lord Brian dancing with his lovely wife, who might already be with child for all I knew.
On one such eve, I was sitting in my chair near the fire as usual, reading the prophet Jeremiah or something else appropriately mournful and clutching a fur around my shoulders to keep out the cold that came in around the windows. Suddenly, I heard someone beating on the door and the sound of my brother’s voice.
“Maud, are you in there? Open up! I have
an offer to make you.”
I set my book on the floor but did not rise. “I have no intention of coming down, if that’s what you’re asking. I am far too ill.” I forced a cough to make my point.
“You’re no more ill than I am. Now get over here and open this door!”
I was at a loss as to what he could possibly want, and it perturbed me that he would not accept my lie. Nevertheless, I rose and made my way to the portal slowly, still holding the fur around me for warmth. I placed my hand on the bolt and pulled it free, then opened the door to see my brother standing there, a smile on his face, holding a glass in each hand.
“If that’s beer, I’m not interested,” I told him.
“No, mine is beer, but this is wine—the king’s best, from Burgundy.”
He held out the goblet in his left hand and lifted it upward a few times as if to say, “Take it! Take it!” Well, I was not one to refuse spirits when my own spirit was positively gloomy. I took it from him straight away and had a draft. It slipped down my throat with a slight burn, then ran into my insides, lending my body a bit of warmth.
“This is very good. Where in Burgundy do they make it?” I asked, looking down at the liquid as if I might discern the answer in its depths.
“Cluny Abbey.”
“Oh, of course. That explains why it is so rich.” The monks of Cluny were, after all, the lords of the monastic world, with no lack of provision.
“Actually, I did not come here to talk wine.”
I took another drink and exhaled. “That is very well, because I know too little about it for a woman of my standing. I thank you for the drink, brother.” Here I lifted the goblet as if to toast him.
“Have you ever been skating?” he suddenly asked.
I looked at him in confusion. He might as well have been speaking Greek. However, the look on my face did not provoke a reply. He simply stood there leaning against the door frame, sipping his beer and staring at me.
“What on earth is skating?” I finally inquired, not sure if he was having me on.
“It is sort of like sliding on ice, but upright. You wear shoes with pieces of bones on the bottom. They allow you to move about.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“Oh, it’s quite enjoyable! The Londoners do it every winter on the moor just north of the wall. I wondered if you might like to try it.”
“You don’t think I will fall straight away?”
He laughed. “Yes, probably. Indeed, I dare say assuredly, but I will be there to catch you, or if necessary to pull you back up.”
“And what happens when you fall down as well? Or do you think yourself immune to the forces of nature?”
His goblet was empty by this point, and he dropped it to the floor rather carelessly. I looked down and watched it roll for a good three feet before stopping, then lifted my gaze to meet his face again.
“What on earth was that for?” I asked. “This is not the king’s hall! You can’t just throw things wherever you wish.”
“Ah! But look—it didn’t break!”
I was beginning to wonder if he might be drunk, so odd were his words. “It’s made of firm metal. Of course it didn’t break.”
He leaned toward me slightly. “And you are made of stronger stuff than that! Now, are you coming with me, or are you a coward?”
“What, now?!” I asked, convinced he had taken leave of his senses. “It’s December—December in England. The sun has been down since mid-afternoon. It is cold enough to freeze the moor, and it is a long way out there.”
“Which means no one else will be there! There will be no one to see us falling on our arses.”
I gave him a very stern look, as if he was a young child who had been caught with his fingers in the pudding. “Robert—”
“Honestly, sister, are you going to sit in here moping until kingdom come, or are you going to come and hazard your life for a few minutes’ entertainment?” Here he leaned in still further and whispered, “I’m sure the king would hate it if he knew what we were doing.”
Oh, you know just how to play me, I thought. I was not sure how much my father would truly hate it, but the gleam in my brother’s eyes was simply too much for me to withstand. “Fine then, you devil! I’ll be dead or delighted.”
“That’s the spirit!” he cried.
Within the half hour, we had collected two horses from the king’s stables and crossed the bridge toward London town, our bodies covered in so many layers of cloth and fur that even if we did hit the ice, our bones would likely be safe. The isle of Westminster itself was well lit by torches, as were the city walls of London, but as we made our way down the Strand between the two, we entered a portion that was very dark indeed, with only the soft glow of the moon to light our way. The hot breath of the horses could barely be seen lingering in the air, but the sound of their hoofs in the snow was clear enough. I was riding along just behind Robert, and my brother’s horse would occasionally send snow flying so high that it caught me in the face. Even under all those layers, I was very cold. I cried to my brother, “God curse you for bringing me out here! We will both die, and then England will be ruined!”
“No, I shall do the honorable thing and die first. You can eat me to survive the night,” he called back.
How could one respond to such a comment? I saw only one way.
“Exactly how many times has someone hit you on the head in battle?” I asked.
He paid no heed to my question. “We turn to the left here, up to Watling Street. We’ll use it to cross the Fleet.”
Within a few minutes, we were close to the city walls on our right, and thus enjoyed a bit more light. Sadly, this did nothing to warm my toes. I could see a few of the watchmen upon the battlements, keeping to their nightly labor. There were gatherings of huts by each of the gates that likely belonged to either merchants hoping to sell wares to travelers or hermits hoping to collect tolls. Some still sat outside around fires, singing and drinking. They made an odd sort of choir, gathered not under the vault of a cathedral but the greatest ceiling of all: the night sky filled with stars.
We had made our way round to the northern side of the city, and Robert led me further from the wall toward a dark, open field. Up until this point, we had been passing either trees or farmers’ fields on our left, but here the grass grew taller, and there was no sign that the earth had ever been worked.
“This is the place,” Robert announced. He alighted from his horse, then still holding on to the reins, he lifted his free hand to help me down.
“It looks like a bog,” I said, though in truth I could see little for lack of light, so this was mostly my bad mood talking.
“Just wait here,” he instructed.
I gathered that he was tying the horses to a shrub, or perhaps a small tree. Again, the darkness obscured everything. I could hear him rustling around in his saddle bag. I turned and looked back at the city glowing in the distance. What time was it? It must have been two hours since Robert had first come to my room—perhaps more. Could it be midnight already? I looked up and tried to judge the position of the moon, but it was of little use to me. I was never able to tell time by it as well as I could by the sun.
Suddenly, I saw a glow coming from the other direction, its light touching the ground. I turned back and saw that Robert had been able to start a small fire.
“Come help me!” he called.
I moved as quickly as I could across the snowy ground toward the flame. We both crouched down and began to blow on it in turn and fan it with our hands, but not so hard as to snuff it out. How fortunate that there was little wind that night! When the flames had increased in size, Robert handed me a few sticks with wax on the end that he had brought from the palace. I held two in each hand as he lighted them each in turn. I then helped him to light four of his own.
“Follow me,” he instructed.
We walked a few paces and then Robert stopped so suddenly that I was lucky not to run into him with those fi
ery torches. By the light of the fires, I could see him take one step forward with his right foot, resting it carefully upon the ground. He then took another step with his left in the same manner and I heard the clear sound of ice straining under weight: something between a crack and a groan.
He turned his head back toward me. “I will test it. Stay where you are. If I should be pulled under, then find a branch and hold it out to me. Do not walk on the ice yourself.”
I held my breath as he took two more steps forward, placing his full weight on the ice. He hopped up and down slightly, but it did not break. He then walked around on it a bit. It continued to hold his weight.
“It’s good and solid,” he concluded, walking back in my direction.
We then spent the next few minutes carefully planting the torches around the edge of the frozen pond. It was quite large, so we did not circle the entire thing: just enough to provide room to skate. Next came the difficult task of placing the special shoes on our feet, which I had brought along in my saddle bag. They were not at all comfortable, and I wondered once again why anyone had thought this sport a good idea. Nevertheless, I pressed on, for we had come so far, and happily the cold and my general fear of what I was about to do distracted me from my sorrows.
Robert was a good bit steadier on his feet than me, having walked in skates before. I had to cling to him as we made our way to the ice. How afraid I was as I took my first step on to it! You must remember, I was not a good swimmer. I took a second step just as carefully, but again I remained upright.
“See! You’re doing fine!” my brother said. “Now, take a few steps on your own.”
“No, Robert, I—”
“Just do it.”
Before I could protest further, he let go of my hand and I was standing there alone on pieces of bone, on top of ice, with the watery depths below. I wobbled a bit and moved my left foot to the side to recover my balance. When I felt stable again, I slid my right foot forward, then my left. Actually, I was not truly sliding, but stepping. Even so, I felt the slightest bit of confidence.
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