by Mary Lide
“By God,” he breathed, “no woman I have ever known challenged me as you do, or treated me with such disdain. ...” An indiscretion she was quick to note.
It was his turn to flush. He held her more closely than before, so that her hair floated against him, releasing its scent of lavender and rose water. Her eyes were dark with something he could not put a name to, and her body bent under his like a reed. He started to say harshly, “Were I in the mood, Lady Olwen,” when he broke off, began instead to curse beneath his breath, oaths such as men use when perplexed, goaded out of their usual ways of thought, the sort of uncertainty men of action seldom feel. “By the holy wounds, by the head of Christ,” the least of them, “by God, is that the Norman faith you brag about? So much for friendship, then. I know what trust to put in you.”
His words in turn goaded her. “Not so,” she cried in her passionate way. “If you were in any sort of danger, if you were wounded, sick, in need, would I fail you then? You would but have to send me your message and I would come. Nothing would stop me if you asked for me.”
“Well.” He pounced on her words, his tone more dry now than angry. “Let us hope not that bad, else would I be of no use to you or anyone. I thank you for your offer, lady, nor would I seem to lack in gratitude, but if you would give so much for friendship, what would you swear for love? You told me I did not know what love was. Do you?”
Cleverly he darted a look at her, his raking look. “What would you do for love, little Olwen of the White Way?”
Confused by him, she said in her quick fashion, “If I loved and were loved, I would follow you to the ends of the earth. There is nothing I would not do for you ...” She stopped, bit her lip, would not continue, aware too late that she had also given herself away. She tugged at her skirts so fiercely that the stitching ripped. “Move, move,” she almost cried, “I cannot free myself.”
“Do you want to?” Prince Taliesin had begun to smile; he moved toward her, and his arm came about her shoulders as at the royal court. “What if,” he whispered, and his mouth was against her cheek, her neckbone, searching along her ear, “when my quest is done, I should come again, what then?” And light as thistledown his lips touched the fine skin, tracing out the curve of chin and cheek, touching the long eyelashes that hid her eyes from him. Caught against him, her mouth like a bird’s, slightly opened, waiting to be fed, her heart beating against his like a trapped bird’s, too, she said what she truly wanted to say, “Do not let me go. Only with you do I feel safe.”
She reached up her arms, the wet and trailing sleeves leaving damp patches on her skirts, and clutched him around the neck, her body arched against his, her fingers twined in his thick curls. “Hold me,” she cried.
Her heart beat like a trapped bird’s, I say; her breasts rose up against the fragile cloth; her delicate mouth felt for his along the sunburned edge of his jaw, where the faint marks of a beard had begun to show. Breathing together they clung each to each, while the city hummed and throbbed and the old river beat its track to the sea.
But when again she began to pant, this time it was he who disentangled himself. “Let be, little Olwen,” he said then, betwixt laugh and groan, “although what I would do would be no hurt, yet hurt it would be. Go you to church and pray for me. Pray that soon the end of my quest be come. Pray for all honest souls—wait for me.”
“Do not leave me,” she cried. “I cannot bear to lose you again.”
His face tightened into lines that made him seem older, resolved. “I must,” he said. “I am not yet free to make a choice, but I will not leave this city without seeing you again.”
And with that promise she had to be content, a promise both made, openly, to all who cared to hear.
When he had mounted his horse and ridden off, after a long while she, too, drew herself upright. “Come,” she said simply to her maid and squire, and she took my arm in her old way. In silence we all went along with her, no need to swear a silence; all knew it must be kept, although still not silence enough. Yet when we came to the queen’s church (in which, since the remaking of Notre Dane, the greatest sermons in the world were preached by men whose fame is universal), where the ladies of the royal court kept state, with their long headdresses of silk, their embroidered robes, their jewels, I was abashed to think of evil amid such graciousness. And seeing how those ladies strolled, by pairs, along the riverbank, swinging their missals bound by thongs, their soft leather shoes swishing through the grass, I realized, for the first time, that my lady shone among them like a jewel herself. I knew then a pang of fear and of regret, as sharp as a spear thrust, that she had gone too far from me, into another world, where I could never save her if I would.
In heavy mood I walked back slowly, not interested in the city gesticulating on every side, to be welcomed by a clout for leaving so many chores undone. But as I sat and polished my master’s boots and straps, trying to comfort myself with heroic thoughts that one day, perhaps, even I would excel before my lady and rescue her from her enemies, so that she would thank me as she had thanked Bernard of Poitou, so that she would cling to me as she did Prince Taliesin, I knew my imaginings in vain. Like Gervaise, I had my little hopes of fame (alas, when they occurred, they were very different in reality from dream). For enemies there were, and danger abroad. And help needed. As now was proved.
Chapter 10
Bernard of Poitou it was who warned us. For although silence was kept in the earl’s household, loyalty to the earl and his daughter being paramount, yet no such silence was kept in the city of Paris itself, rumor running there rampant and unrestrained. Paris was alive and quick in those days. Craving excitement as a drunkard craves wine, its citizens remembered other lovers who had found shelter beneath their roofs, and although not caring which lover a lady might choose, they were not indifferent to the choice: between a man whom all the world would praise and one who, having nothing to offer, perhaps never would have more than that. Such open talk, such gossip, frightened me, too, when I heard it, as it had alarmed the prince. I sensed disaster ahead. It seemed that such a display could only encourage hostility and be useful to an enemy. As now was proved.
I was sitting the next day, or the one following, I forget; time seemed to blend, one day much like the next as we lived in this suspense. My lord and I had come along the riverbank. Soon this day, too, would come to its close, another long day, another long wait. And all day had Lord Robert been quiet. Concern for his sister struggled with concern for Gervaise, with concern for the earl and for Hue—so many cares upon his mind. The nonarrival of the English princes was both blessing and curse. For between my master (and by now I knew his heart like my own) and his father especially a silence had arisen, composed of many things, of which the most important was dislike of disappointing the earl. Neither father nor son would openly discuss his plans, each not trusting the other, fearful of forcing confidence, unwilling to be the one to cause pain. Yet pain there would be, inevitably, and every day the thought must have crossed both their minds that when Prince Richard came, Robert would be lost, not to the rebellion itself but to one of the rebels, at least. Between the earl and his older son was a bond, more strong, I think, than between most men: this son’s birth had almost caused his mother’s death; his vulnerable childhood had been a reflection of the earl’s own vulnerability. Wounded, betrayed, his castle in ruins, a wife and infant to protect, the young Raoul had had a bitter homecoming to Sieux. His son’s rescue from the treachery of a Boissert plot had seemed a miracle. To break the bond, so formed, so strongly made, would tear both men apart. And Robert knew it as well as the earl. So, then, I was playing on my pipe to soothe my lord, to soothe myself, the Lady Olwen gone to church, her prayers not likely to add to our peace, the earl still in council with the king, Gervaise repaired grumbling into the city to sulk, when Bernard of Poitou’s voice hailed me.
Since our first encounter we had met from time to time, he to ask news of our household, particularly of the Lady Olwen, and I to listen avidly t
o his stories of the great world he skirted about. But he had never come openly, and I gestured to where my master lay with his head buried in his arms, supposedly asleep.
“Is that Lord Robert?’’ Bernard said, abruptly rough, more like the man I had first met. I was surprised. In the intervening weeks I had come to know him well. I liked him; his plain face and ill-favored features hid a warm and loyal heart. I did not like to hear him speak so sharp. I looked at him more carefully; he was dressed today in silver-gray, black, and white, colors that did not flatter him; he seemed like a raven in his yellow boots, with a yellow feather in his cap. But my jests were stifled as he said hurriedly, “Dolt. You are a fool to let your master sleep while all the world falls apart. Where is your mistress, where Prince Taliesin?”
I tried to hush him, glancing nervously where Lord Robert lay, and whispered that my lady had gone to Mass, as was her custom, with the queen.
“Fool,” he cried a second time, even louder. “Will the queen be absent from the court today, when her son-in-law is expected? I told you to take care. Surely you have heard of Isobelle de Boissert?”
Thrust out at me like that, suddenly, unexpectedly, a name I had heard but once before, it surprised me out of memory. Yet there are those who have told me since that the very sound of that name sets the senses flaring awake, a hint, a taste, of evil, like ashes cold from a peat fire, smoldering in the damp.
Bernard could scarce contain his impatience. “Who save you has not heard of her?” he cried. His fingers twitched to shake the knowledge into me. “Isobelle de Boissert, who once was betrothed to Raoul of Sieux and broke her troth when his fortunes fell, who tried to woo him back when her father planned a rebellion in Geoffrey Plantagenet’s name. She played for high stakes then, did Isobelle, hoping to become Geoffrey’s wife when he took the title of Count of Anjou from the king. Countess of Anjou would have suited her. And when Raoul refused his help, she plotted to kill him at the tourneys of Boissert Field. She had already tried to kill the Lady Ann when Raoul’s son was born. As one last revenge, from the nunnery where she was imprisoned, she tried to capture the child. When your master wakes, who sleeps disaster away, ask him what he remembers of De Boissert, what of the Lady Isobelle whose plan it was to poison him.”
As if this bitter litany finally reached my master, he started up, his hand already reaching for his sword. “Who speaks that name,” he cried. “Who dares?”
“I do.” For once Bernard of Poitou had lost all pretense of calm. I think he meant to make his presence known. He ignored my protestations and advanced toward Robert. “My lord,” he said without preamble, “get you hence to find your sister. I tell you that Isobelle de Boissert is here, sent ahead by Queen Eleanor to pave the way, let out from the prison of her nunnery, God knows why. Ask not how I know. But so I do. And I know that she-witch has made a rendezvous with the Lady Olwen after Nones. What she will do then I give you leave to guess. But she knows of the lady’s promise to meet with Prince Taliesin if he has need of her. And she knows of Prince Taliesin’s promise to see your sister again.”
Since I did not know most of this, I could but gape, while Robert, rising in full wrath, seized Bernard by the scruff of his new clothes and threatened him. “By the living cross,” he roared, “I’ll cut off your ears if you speak false. Who are you to have news of such filth as that she-wolf, that bitch?” I had never heard such loathing in his voice, and with his free hand he jerked at his sword as if to make good his word.
Bernard said steadily, “My lord, you may fight me if you want. I warn you I shall defend myself. No doubt you will win in the end, but my death may not be so quick as you could wish. I have been well trained as a swordsman, and in seeking to kill me, you delay yourself. Rather, listen to me.”
A brave man was Bernard of Poitou to outface my lord, who, seeing the sense of his words, let him go and bid him speak. As best he could, he did, in hurried tones, what he said enough to dismay anyone, that uneasiness now become a fact.
“My lord,” he said, “who I am is not important. But my father, Sir Renier, who came here on behalf of Queen Eleanor, has heard this very morn that she will never enter Paris again, anathema to the French queen, distrusted by King Louis himself. Ask me not how or why, but so it is, and we, as consequence, must leave forthwith, withdraw back to our southern lands, which I for one wish we had never left. But I am come to warn you. Since the Yuletide, when first the prince’s rebellion was planned, has your family’s old enemy, Isobelle de Boissert, been here, too. She came in secret, of course, under assumed name; but she is housed and equipped with revenues from Queen Eleanor to act as spy. A hanger-on at the fringes of the French court has she been, seeking news and sensing change, waiting to see if the wind blows fair or foul.
“Beneath pretext of piety, which her sojourn in a holy place enhanced, she has tried to ingratiate herself with Queen Adela and the other ladies and has often met your sister in such guise.
Realizing today, at last, that any hope of success can never be achieved, Isobelle has let her disappointment spill anew to hate. And ever between her and your house has been death.”
Robert sheathed his sword. “Aye, no one knows that better than I. Death is her second name; she would have killed me, father, mother, all. Ask me sometime where hell is. She is writ therein. So, what shall she do?”
Bernard said, “Since every day she walks with the ladies of the court, after Mass, there today she awaits your sister, whose very beauty rouses jealousy. She will lure the lady Olwen to meet with Prince Taliesin. But the means, the place of rendezvous between your sister and this prince, what skill has been used to get them there, I do not know. Nor what she plans for them when she has them in her grasp. Those are things you must find yourself. But quickly now.”
He had scarcely finished speaking before Robert was striding back, shouting for his horse, the household guard, calling upon his own men to arm. Before following him at a run, I snatched a moment to bid Bernard adieu, suspecting we would never meet again. He clasped my hand in both of his. “Farewell, Urien the Bard,” he cried. “Do not think ill of me.” There was a sudden misery in his voice, of regret and shame. “The way of courtier is hard, and I am not hardened to it. I had not thought to sell myself as whore to bring you such evil news. I had not thought to serve a lady of that ilk, nor find such wickedness condoned by my father’s queen.” Well, long it was indeed before I saw him again, Bernard of Poitou. Back he went to his vineyards and crops, better country life of simple country lord than this dark and dangerous underworld of spies and courtiers. But without him hope would have been lost.
In the yard all was haste, yet calm. Urgency ran like a forest fire beneath a peat bog. The captain of the guard, four men, myself, my lord, we mounted in haste, thundered out of the courtyard, taking the paths along the riverbanks toward the abbey church, the startled cries of the rest of our own men, of the honest citizens we scattered from our path, following us. Now again I saw what discipline means, to knights who mount and ride when so bid. “Ride,” said their lord, and so they did, their swords bared, their shields unslung, their helmets locked in place. Lost in the saddle, stirrups gone, I bumped helplessly along in their dust, by some instinct long-drilled into me by Dylan, looping my finger through the mane while my free hand fumbled for the hilt of my own sword. And when we came to a more crowded thoroughfare, Lord Robert still did not give the signal to slacken speed, instead wheeled down an alleyway that led to those small strips of vines and garden plots with which the city still was laced, like green silks threaded among dirt and stones. And always on our left we kept the riverbank. The river flowed on as it has done these thousand years; the city spilled about us with its fair towers and green trees and mighty church steeples, smiling in the late afternoon. Beneath that water, where the sun sparkled low on the horizon, beneath that smiling face, death and treachery waited for us. And fear rose and knotted in my throat.
The ride to the queen’s church was not far, the rout
e faster than the one we had walked that spring day. I recognized its spires even before it came into sight. It stood beside a huddle of houses, set apart, quiet at this hour, never filled as it used to be in the days of Abelard and Saint Bernard, and empty now of the court—the ladies all gone to watch for more interesting sights with the arrival of the English prince. Robert did not pause to dismount. Up the wide stone steps he urged his horse, and hammered on the huge wooden doors with the hilt of his sword, until two of our men beat their horses forward and thrust with all their weight to break the doors apart. Together we clattered down the dim-lit aisles, where a great rose window of stained glass caught the western sun, sending splashes of yellow and crimson across the uneven stones. The aisles were empty, only a few monks praying in their hoods, who started up at our impiety; a lone priest with a pax dropped it in alarm. Up one aisle we cantered, scattering mud and dirt, knocking underfoot the tapers that stood in the oratories, startling an altar boy to screams so that the censer he held spilled its hot scent into the air. In front of the altar we turned to gallop out again, down the steps by bounds toward the grassy walks where I had seen Queen Adela take my lady’s hand and embrace her. Nothing, no one, emptiness, the river running deep. Only underneath a distant stand of trees a few serfs closing the leather curtains of a litter resting on the grass. Even as we wheeled to ride back, these men heaved the poles into the horses’ traces and prepared to whip up the beasts. Beyond them an expanse of meadow and empty paths. In a short while the sun would set, already low, time for feast and merriment, time for ambush and intrigue.
Again we wheeled, passing closer to that group of serfs. There were not many, their gear old, their coats worn. But it was the color that struck me—gray, tarnished silver, rusty black, the colors Bernard of Poitou had worn, the colors I had mocked him for. So I knew he had spoken truth, how he had come to learn it and from whom.
