by Ken Follett
When Jack reflected on his situation he sometimes found it incredible. Is this me? he thought. Is this Jack Jackson, bastard son of a man who was hanged, brought up in the forest, apprentice mason, escaped monk? Am I really being offered the beautiful daughter of a wealthy Arab merchant, plus a guaranteed living as a builder, in this balmy city? It sounds too good to be true. I even like the girl!
The sun was going down, and the courtyard was in shadow. There were only two people left in the arcade--himself and Josef. He was just wondering whether this situation could have been contrived when Raya and Aysha appeared, proving that it had. Despite the theoretical strictness about physical contact between girls and young men, their mother knew exactly what was happening, and Raschid probably did too. They would give the sweethearts a few moments of solitude; then, before they had time to do anything serious, the mother would come out into the courtyard, pretending to be outraged, and order the girls back inside.
On the other side of the courtyard Raya and Josef immediately started kissing. Jack stood up as Aysha approached him. She was wearing a floor-length white dress of Egyptian cotton, a fabric Jack had never seen before he came to Spain. Softer than wool and finer than linen, it clung to Aysha's limbs as she moved, and its white color seemed to glow in the twilight. It made her brown eyes look almost black. She stood close to him, grinning impishly. "What did he say to you?" she said.
Jack guessed she meant her father. "He offered to set me up as a housebuilder."
"What a dowry!" she said scornfully. "I can't believe it! At least he might have offered you money."
She had no patience with traditional Saracen indirection, Jack observed wryly. He found her frankness refreshing. "I don't think I want to build houses," he said.
She suddenly became solemn. "Do you like me?"
"You know I do."
She took a step forward, lifted her face, closed her eyes, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. She smelled of musk and ambergris. She opened her mouth, and her tongue darted between his lips playfully. His arms went around her almost involuntarily. He rested his hands on her waist. The cotton was very light: it was almost like touching her bare skin. She took his hand and raised it to her breast. Her body was lean and taut, and her breast was shallow, like a small, firm mound, with a tiny hard nipple at its tip. Her chest moved up and down as she became aroused. Jack was shocked to feel her hand moving between his legs. He squeezed her nipple between his fingertips. She gasped, and broke away from him, panting. He dropped his hands.
"Did I hurt you?" he whispered.
"No!" she said.
He thought of Aliena, and felt guilty; then he realized how foolish that was. Why should he feel that he was betraying a woman who had married another man?
Aysha looked at him for a moment. It was almost dark, but he could see that her face was suffused with desire. She lifted his hand and put it back on her breast. "Do it again, but harder," she said urgently.
He found her nipple and leaned forward to kiss her, but she pulled her head back and watched his face while he caressed her. He squeezed her nipple gently, then, obediently, pinched it hard. She arched her back so that her flat breasts protruded and her nipples made small hard puckers in the fabric of her dress. Jack bent his head to her breast. His lips closed around her nipple through the cotton. Then, on impulse, he took it between his teeth and bit down. He heard her sharp intake of breath.
He felt a shudder pass through her. She lifted his head from her breast and pressed herself against him. He bent his face to hers. She kissed him frantically, as if she wanted to cover his face with her mouth, and pulled his body to hers, making small panicky sounds in the back of her throat. Jack was aroused, bewildered and even a little scared: he had never known anything like this. He thought she was about to reach a climax. Then they were interrupted.
Her mother's voice came from the doorway. "Raya! Aysha! Come inside at once!"
Aysha looked up at him, panting. After a moment she kissed him again, hard, pressing her lips against his until she bruised him. She broke away. "I love you," she hissed. Then she ran into the house.
Jack watched her go. Raya followed her at a more sedate pace. Their mother flashed a disapproving look at him and Josef and then went in after the girls, shutting the door decisively behind her. Jack stood staring at the closed door, wondering what to make of it all.
Josef crossed the courtyard and interrupted his reverie. "Such beautiful girls--both of them!" he said with a conspiratorial wink.
Jack nodded absently and moved toward the gate. Josef went with him. As they passed under the arch, a servant materialized out of the shadows and closed the gate behind them.
Josef said: "The trouble with being engaged is that it leaves you with an ache between the legs." Jack made no reply. Josef said: "I might go down to Fatima's to get it eased." Fatima's was the whorehouse. Despite its Saracen name, nearly all the girls were light-skinned, and the few Arab whores were very high-priced. "Do you want to come?" Josef said.
"No," Jack replied. "I've got a different kind of ache. Good night." He walked quickly away. Josef was not his favorite companion at the best of times and tonight Jack found himself in an unforgiving mood.
The night air cooled as he headed back toward the college where he had a hard bed in the dormitory. He felt he was at a turning point. He was being offered a life of ease and prosperity, and all he had to do was forget Aliena and abandon his aspiration to build the most beautiful cathedral in the world.
That night he dreamed that Aysha came to him, her naked body slippery with scented oil, and she rubbed herself against him but would not let him make love to her.
When he woke up in the morning he had made his decision.
The servants would not let Aliena into the house of Raschid Alharoun. She probably looked like a beggar, she thought as she stood outside the gate, in her dusty tunic and worn boots, with her baby in her arms. "Tell Raschid Alharoun that I am seeking his friend Jack Fitzjack from England," she said in French, wondering if the dark-skinned servants could understand a single word. After a muttered consultation in some Saracen tongue, one of the servants, a tall man with coaly skin and hair like the fleece of a black sheep, went into the house.
Aliena fidgeted restlessly while the other servants stared at her openly. She had not learned patience, even on this interminable pilgrimage. After her disappointment at Compostela she had followed the road into the interior of Spain, to Salamanca. No one there remembered a redhaired young man interested in cathedrals and jongleurs, but a kindly monk told her that there was a community of English scholars at Toledo. It seemed a faint hope, but Toledo was not much farther down the dusty road, so she pressed on.
Another tantalizing disappointment had been waiting for her here. Yes, Jack had been here--what a stroke of luck! --but alas, he had already left. She was catching up with him: she was now only a month behind him. But, once again, nobody knew where he had gone.
In Compostela she had been able to guess that he must have gone south, because she had come from the east, and there was sea to the north and west. Here, unfortunately, there were more possibilities. He might have gone northeast, back toward France; west to Portugal; or south to Granada; and from the Spanish coast he might have taken ship for Rome, Tunis, Alexandria or Beirut.
Aliena had decided to give up the search if she did not get a strong indication of which way he had gone when he left here. She was bone-weary and a long way from home. She had very little energy or determination left, and she could not face going farther with no more than a faint hope of success. She was ready to turn around and go back to England, and try to forget about Jack forever.
Another servant came out of the white house. This one was dressed in more costly clothes and spoke French. He looked at Aliena warily but addressed her politely. "You are a friend of Mr. Jack?"
"Yes, an old friend from England. I would like to speak with Raschid Alharoun."
The servant glanced at the baby.
Aliena said: "I'm a relative of Jack's." It was not untrue: she was the estranged wife of Jack's stepbrother, and that was a relationship.
The servant opened the gate wider and said: "Please come with me."
Aliena stepped inside gratefully. If she had been turned away here it would have been the end of the road.
She followed the servant across a pleasant courtyard, past a splashing fountain. She wondered what had drawn Jack to the home of this wealthy merchant. It seemed an unlikely friendship. Had Jack recited verse narratives in these shady arcades?
They went into the house. It was a palatial home, with high, cool rooms, floors of stone and marble, and elaborately carved furniture with rich upholstery. They went through two archways and a wooden door, and then Aliena had the feeling they might have entered the women's quarters. The servant held up his hand for her to wait, then coughed gently.
A moment later a tall Saracen woman in a black robe glided into the room, holding a corner of her garment up in front of her mouth in a pose that was insulting in any language. She looked at Aliena and said in French: "Who are you?"
Aliena drew herself up to her full height. "I am the Lady Aliena, daughter of the late earl of Shiring," she said as haughtily as she could. "I take it I have the pleasure of addressing the wife of Raschid the pepper seller." She could play this game as well as anyone.
"What do you want here?"
"I came to see Raschid."
"He doesn't receive women."
Aliena realized she had no hope of gaining this woman's cooperation. However, she had nowhere else to go, so she kept trying. "He may receive a friend of Jack's," she persisted.
"Is Jack your husband?"
"No." Aliena hesitated. "He's my brother-in-law."
The woman looked skeptical. Like most people, she probably assumed that Jack had impregnated Aliena, then abandoned her, and Aliena was pursuing him with the object of forcing him to marry her and support the child.
The woman half turned and called out something in a language Aliena did not understand. A moment later three young women came into the room. It was obvious from their looks that they were her daughters. She spoke to them in the same language, and they all stared at Aliena. There followed a rapid conversation in which the syllable Jack recurred often.
Aliena felt humiliated. She was tempted to turn on her heel and walk out; but that would mean giving up her search altogether. These awful people were her last hope. She raised her voice, interrupting their conversation, and said: "Where is Jack?" She intended to be forceful but to her dismay her voice just sounded plaintive.
The daughters fell silent.
The mother said: "We don't know where he is."
"When did you see him last?"
She hesitated. She did not want to answer, but she could hardly pretend not to know when she had seen him last. "He left Toledo the day after Christmas," she said reluctantly.
Aliena forced a friendly smile. "Do you recall his saying anything about where he might be going?"
"I told you, we don't know where he is."
"Perhaps he said something to your husband."
"No, he did not."
Aliena despaired. She had an intuitive feeling that the woman did know something. However, it was clear that she was not going to reveal it. Aliena felt suddenly weak and weary. With tears in her eyes she said: "Jack is the father of my child. Don't you think he would like to see his son?"
The youngest of the three daughters started to say something, but the mother interrupted her. There was a short, fierce exchange: mother and daughter had the same fiery temperament. But in the end the daughter shut up.
Aliena waited, but no more was said. The four of them just stared at her. They were unquestionably hostile, but they were so curious that they were in no hurry to see her go. However, there was no point in staying. She might as well get out, go back to her lodgings, and make preparations for the long journey back to Kingsbridge. She took a deep breath and made her voice cool and steady. "I thank you for your hospitality," she said.
The mother had the grace to look slightly ashamed.
Aliena left the room.
The servant was hovering outside. He fell into step beside her and escorted her through the house. She blinked back tears. It was unbearably frustrating to know that her whole journey had failed because of the malice of one woman.
The servant led her across the courtyard. As they reached the gate, Aliena heard running footsteps. She looked back to see the youngest daughter coming after her. She stopped and waited. The servant looked uneasy.
The girl was short and slender, and very pretty, with golden skin and eyes so dark they were nearly black. She wore a white dress and made Aliena feel dusty and unwashed. She spoke broken French. "Do you love him?" she blurted.
Aliena hesitated. She realized she had no more dignity left to lose. "Yes, I love him," she confessed.
"Does he love you?"
Aliena was about to say yes; then she realized she had not seen him for more than a year. "He used to," she said.
"I think he loves you," the girl said.
"What makes you say that?"
The girl's eyes filled with tears. "I wanted him for myself. And I nearly got him." She looked at the baby. "Red hair and blue eyes." The tears ran down her smooth brown cheeks.
Aliena stared at her. This explained her hostile reception. The mother had wanted Jack to marry this girl. She could not have been more than sixteen, but she had a sensual look that made her seem older. Aliena wondered exactly what had happened between them. She said: "You 'nearly' got him?"
"Yes," the girl said defiantly. "I knew he liked me. It broke my heart when he went away. But now I understand." She lost her composure, and her face crumpled in grief.
Aliena could feel for a woman who had loved Jack and lost him. She touched the girl's shoulder in a comforting gesture. But there was something more important than compassion. "Listen," she said urgently. "Do you know where he went?"
The girl looked up and nodded, sobbing.
"Tell me!"
"Paris," she said.
Paris!
Aliena was jubilant. She was back on the trail. Paris was a long way, but the journey would be mostly over familiar ground. And Jack was only a month ahead of her. She felt rejuvenated. I'll find him, in the end, she thought; I know I will!
"Are you going to Paris now?" the girl said.
"Oh, yes," Aliena said. "I've come this far--I won't stop now. Thank you for telling me--thank you."
"I want him to be happy," she said simply.
The servant fidgeted discontentedly. He looked as if he thought he might get into trouble over this. Aliena said to the girl: "Did he say anything else? Which road he would take, or anything that might help me?"
"He wants to go to Paris because someone told him they are building beautiful churches there."
Aliena nodded. She could have guessed that.
"And he took the weeping lady."
Aliena did not know what she meant. "The weeping lady?"
"My father gave him the weeping lady."
"A lady?"
The girl shook her head. "I don't know the right words. A lady. She weeps. From the eyes."
"You mean a picture? A painted lady?"
"I don't understand," the girl said. She looked over her shoulder anxiously. "I have to go."
Whatever the weeping lady was, it did not sound very important. "Thank you for helping me," Aliena said.
The girl bent down and kissed the baby's forehead. Her tears fell on his plump cheeks. She looked up at Aliena. "I wish I were you," she said. Then she turned away and ran back into the house.
Jack's lodgings were in the rue de la Boucherie, in a suburb of Paris on the left bank of the Seine. He saddled his horse at daybreak. At the end of the street he turned right and passed through the tower gate that guarded the Petit Pont, the bridge that led to the island city in the middle of the river.
&n
bsp; The wooden houses on either side projected over the edges of the bridge. In the gaps between the houses were stone benches where, later in the morning, famous teachers would hold open-air classes. The bridge took Jack into the Juiverie, the island's main street. The bakeries along the street were packed with students buying their breakfast. Jack got a pastry filled with cooked eel.
He turned left opposite the synagogue, then right at the king's palace, and crossed the Grand Pont, the bridge that led to the right bank. The small, well-built shops of the moneychangers and goldsmiths on either side were beginning to open for business. At the end of the bridge he passed through another gatehouse and entered the fish market, where business was already brisk. He pushed through the crowds and started along the muddy road that led to the town of Saint-Denis.
When he was still in Spain he had heard, from a traveling mason, about Abbot Suger and the new church he was building at Saint-Denis. As he made his way northward through France that spring, working for a few days whenever he needed money, he heard Saint-Denis mentioned often. It seemed the builders were using both of the new techniques, rib-vaulting and pointed arches, and the combination was rather striking.
He rode for more than an hour through fields and vineyards. The road was not paved but it had milestones. It passed the hill of Montmartre, with a ruined Roman temple at its summit, and went through the village of Clignancourt. Three miles after Clignancourt he reached the small walled town of Saint-Denis.
Denis had been the first bishop of Paris. He had been decapitated at Montmartre and then had walked, carrying his severed head in his hands, out into the countryside to this spot, where at last he fell. A pious woman had buried him and a monastery had been erected over his grave. The church had become the burying place for the kings of France. The current abbot, Suger, was a powerful and ambitious man who had reformed the monastery and was now modernizing the church.
Jack entered the town and reined in his horse in the middle of the marketplace to look up at the west front of the church. There was nothing revolutionary here. It was a straightforward old-fashioned facade with twin towers and three round-arched doorways. He rather liked the aggressive way the piers thrust out from the wall, but he would not have ridden five miles to see that.
