The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

  “My kin should not ride with the men-at-arms, even, little monk, if they are a step ahead of you and already wear the Cross.”

  Maybe these words were intended jovially, but they cut me as a harsh jibe. I continued to suffer in mute embarrassment at the Duke’s occasional comments, imagining the sniggers they provoked from the men-at-arms behind.

  We had ridden for half a day and I felt that I had not yet disgraced myself, handling my mare as if I had hardly been out of the saddle. Suddenly I heard loud crashes through the thick undergrowth to the right of the path.

  “Boar,” roared Godfrey, “Let’s have some sport.”

  Grabbing a lance from the man to his right, he set spurs to his black stallion and charged forward. I kicked my heels into my mare’s side in a rush of instinctive exhilaration that I had not felt since hunting with my father and brothers all those years before. For a moment it was as if I was once again following them, anxious to impress, determined not to be outdone. As I twisted between the trees, ducking my head to avoid the rough clutching fingers of low branches, I saw a family of wild boar running in front. Half a dozen striped boarlets, hard to make out against the sun-dappled leaves on the forest floor, scurried after their grey bristling parents. They scattered. Godfrey gained fast. He ignored the sow and her brood and chased the high-backed boar, leaning forward to make the kill. Just as he thrust, his target jinked to one side. His lance caught the ground instead, and the force sprung him from his horse. I remembered a trick I had learnt from my father. Leaning sideways, I twisted to snatch the quivering spear from the ground. Kicking my heels to get the last burst of speed from my mare, I thrust with all my strength at the boar’s high shoulder. To my delight my strike was true, driving right through to the heart so that the pig lurched over onto one side and lay thrashing its legs in its death throes. Panting with hot excitement I turned proudly and trotted my mare back to where the Duke was standing up, winded but otherwise unhurt, and dusting himself off.

  A momentary glare of bad temper shone red in his eyes. Had I done the wrong thing? My excitement drained away, leaving dregs of relief at the return of the Duke’s boisterous good nature.

  “Not bad, little monk, not bad at all. Perhaps after all there is more to you than meets the eye. You certainly wiped mine just then. Good de Bouillon blood will out.”

  He chuckled as he indicated peremptorily to one of the men behind to bring him his horse, which, well-trained, had stopped a short way off, its shiny sweat-flecked flanks heaving.

  “We will all eat well tonight.”

  ‘I have passed one test,’ I thought to myself as I watched the boar’s carcass being slung over the back of one of the packhorses. The horse shied under its gory burden and the men-at-arms fought to control it. For all that, their humour was high, and I felt smiles of praise directed towards me where I had detected sneers before. As we rode on to spend the night in the next town’s inn, I basked in the modest respect that I had won from the men around me.

  The horses were stabled, the boar was given over to be roasted, and wine was called for. I did not know where to go or how to behave in those unfamiliar surroundings, and stood uncomfortably in the shadows, away from the bustle. But I seemed to be in the Duke’s favour, for he beckoned me over.

  “So you can stick pigs as well as speaking Greek, can you, little monk?” he said, “Is there anything that you can’t do?”

  And then he spotted my shy confusion as a young serving woman came forward to place wooden drinking goblets and a large flagon of wine on the table.

  “Ha – I’ll warrant you can’t do much with women.”

  Godfrey’s roar of laughter and the wench’s coy smile flushed my cheeks hotter and redder still.

  The boar was brought on a great grail and we set to with our knives, greedily slicing off the flesh and licking the juices off our fingers. The room was lit by a large fire at one end. It danced with a companionable light and filled with the strong smells of smoke, roasted pig, and spiced wine. Godfrey called for flagon after flagon and downed the lion’s share himself. Even so, I drank far more than I was accustomed to in the abbey, and had to leave the room unsteadily to relieve myself outside.

  When I came back some minutes later and pushed open the door, I saw that the company had left save the Duke of Lower Lorraine, who was leant back in his chair, his hose around his knees, jugjugging the serving wench. Her skirts were pulled up and her bodice was pulled down so that her bare breasts danced up and down in the firelight. Her hands pushed down on Godfrey’s chest while his hands were clenched round her bare buttocks. She shook her head from side to side to flick the sweaty tendrils of hair out of her eyes. My mouth opened and my tongue dried as I saw her large brown nipples bouncing around and heard her whimpering like an animal, her moans punctuated by Godfrey’s deeper grunts as he took his pleasure. He turned his lust-flushed face, which matched the girl’s own expression, and grinned over his shoulder, “You can have her, young Hugh, when I have finished.” Overcome by embarrassment and disgust, but mixed with burning desire, I turned and fled the room, to commit the sin of Onan violently behind the stables. I was unable to shake that image from my mind for many months to come and for all my prayerful efforts I could not resist defiling myself with that sinful act so firmly forbidden at the abbey.

  Godfrey of course was merciless in his mockery.

  “Your stomach not strong enough for a course of wench after all that boar, eh? You are used to different fare in the abbey, are you? A few cups of wine and you cannot perform at all, is that it? Perhaps you have a withered stump, little monk.”

  My discomfort was increased by the sycophantic sniggers of the men-at-arms at their master’s jibes. I feared I had now squandered what respect I had won by spearing the boar.

  It was in early December, just before the snows finally came, that we arrived back at Godfrey’s stronghold of Bouillon. The fortress perched on a rocky outcrop high above the fish-filled River Semois which wound through the rough forested hills of the Ardennes. The water ran deep and black at the base of its cliff and the towers at its top seemed to spring straight from the rock beneath. Four strong well-shaped towers protected each corner of the quarried stone walls, and in the centre soared the tallest tower of all.

  In that stout keep at its heart, the serious work of gathering an army began. I was kept busy writing until my eyes stung and my frozen fingers ached through their numbness. My stamina was fuelled by determination to prove my worth. I would do whatever was needed in order to earn my place at Godfrey’s side on the journey east. How I longed to be more than a mere scribe. My abilities were stretched to their limits, for I had to write in both French and Flamand, as to the South the first was spoken and to the North the second. My master prided himself on his ability to communicate in each.

  “I was born at the frontier of two nations,” he was fond of saying as he strode up and down dictating to me, slapping his baton of office against the palm of his hand, a bearskin robe round his shoulders, “and when I speak and command in the language of either, men listen and obey.”

  I gained some satisfaction from the messengers carrying letters in my hand in all directions, letters seeking to raise money and men. Greater satisfaction still was mine when I was told to ready myself for a trip with Godfrey through three bitterly cold January days to Liege, to agree the sale of Bouillon and its surrounding estates to Bishop Orbert. After some hard negotiation, strengthened by Godfrey’s argument that the money would be used to further God’s will, I drew up a contract which stated that the Bishop would pay one thousand three hundred marks of silver and three marks of gold, and that Godfrey’s three immediate heirs might repurchase the land for the same price.

  “Well, Hugh, that’s something. The good Bishop of Liege has made up for your tight-fisted abbot. That should keep us in funds until we are able to capture some Saracen treasure. And somehow I don’t think I will be returning to buy back this land.”

  Two of the early l
etters that I wrote at Godfrey’s dictation were addressed to the Duke’s brothers, the elder Eustace, Count of Boulogne, and the younger Baldwin. The unmitigated materialism in the tone of Godfrey’s message to them disturbed me. Where now was the fine idealism spoken by Pope Urban in that field at Clermont?

  “Come and join me, my dear brother, and take the Cross. I am tired of answering to the Emperor in Lower Lorraine. His interference has left me duke in little more than name. I plan to sell all my possessions. I will raise as much money as I can by every means at my disposal. I go to seek fame and fortune in the Holy Land. Come with me and we will carve out dominions for ourselves from the territory held by the unbelieving Turks. Adventures and booty await us. How often is it that plunder and pillage are endorsed by the Holy See and even bring with them the promise of eternal salvation?”

  The brothers soon answered Godfrey’s call. Count Eustace was an older, shorter, plumper and altogether more comfortable version of Godfrey. He led only five hundred men-at-arms and no more than fifty knights but he still earned an affable greeting.

  “Well, my old brother, I am pleased to see you, even if you have brought with you but a quarter of the men that I have provided from my own lands of Bouillon. With such a paltry crowd at least you will not be able to challenge your younger brother’s leadership of this army.”

  With a friendly slap on the back Godfrey drove away the frown that had threatened to cloud the good nature in Count Eustace’s round face.

  “Do I detect some reluctance to abandon your comfortable home for too long? You leave your noble Countess behind and plan to hurry back to her at the earliest opportunity, I’ll wager, when you have had a bit of sport and done just enough to secure the future of your immortal soul.”

  Count Eustace noticed me and treated me with courtesy. Told by Godfrey of our distant kinship, he spoke kindly of my father. Though they had never met face to face, he said, he knew of his reputation. I warmed to his politeness.

  The reception of the younger brother Baldwin was a very different affair. Godfrey’s greeting seemed uncharacteristic to me – guarded, careful, and circumspect.

  “Welcome, brother Baldwin. Thank you for joining me. I know that you share my ambition to carve out a great domain for yourself in the East. You and I…we will stand shoulder to shoulder against the Moor…the black-haired and the blond together will take on all comers. But I trust you will remember who has organised this little trip, and who raised the finance to provision it. Do not worry…we will find you enough rich loot to suit your expensive tastes.”

  Baldwin twisted out a frosty smile that reciprocated the lack of warmth in Godfrey’s words.

  “You will not be the only ex-churchman in our party.” Godfrey gestured in my direction. “That’s my secretary, a cousin of ours. He was formerly a Cluniac novice, and is a useful linguist. What’s more, he can wield a lance as well as a quill – at least against a wild boar. Let’s see his mettle when he is up against Saracens. Their tusks are a little sharper.”

  My heart leapt with excitement, for this was the first time I had heard Godfrey imply that I might be travelling East as a fighter. My imagination raced away, building adventures, cementing the edifices that I had constructed for myself out of hope when lying awake at night. They all tumbled down again at the chilling sneer that I received from Baldwin, which revealed plainly a thin, cruel mouth beneath the sparse cover of his neatly trimmed beard and moustache. I felt too that Baldwin’s scorn was directed at Godfrey, as much as at me, for his kindness in taking me in.

  Baldwin had brought few soldiers with him, for he held little land, and as Godfrey’s words implied, had indeed been originally destined for a career in the Church. This he had abandoned when his schemes had snared an adequate dowry from his match with Godehilde, daughter of Ralph de Conches, a Norman who had won rich lands in the conquest of England. Godfrey greeted Godehilde with more enthusiasm and unfortunately less caution than he had Baldwin.

  “Well, sister, it is so good to see you, more beautiful than ever.”

  The words broke uncontrolled from his lips as soon as he raised them from kissing her hand for a little longer than was seemly.

  “How is it that your radiance is undimmed? Nobody would know that you have already borne my lucky brother three children.”

  Godehilde curtseyed silently and deeply, lowering her eyes with every outward show of modest propriety. But in spite of my inexperience of women, I could detect the pleasure aroused in her by Godfrey’s warm words of welcome. She could not keep a flirtatious smile from dancing along her lips. By lowering her gaze she showed off her long dark eyelashes; with the depth of her curtsey she offered Godfrey a downwards glimpse at her breasts.

  “Come. That’s enough. You don’t have to grovel on the floor. My brother is not some sort of monarch. He is of no higher birth than me.”

  Baldwin’s voice sounded as cold as his eyes looked.

  With reluctance Godfrey tore his attention from the voluptuous figure and golden colouring of his sister-in-law and turned to another exotic member of Baldwin’s company, a dark Armenian, by the name of Bagrat. Godfrey made a great show of welcome.

  “At your service, my friend. We will rely heavily on your knowledge of the foreign lands through which we would pass on our Crusade. And doubtless you speak many tongues, and can interpret for us even better than Cousin Hugh.”

  Again I saw hard eyes full of scorn turning to meet mine. Bagrat’s narrow features were a dark and distorted reflection of his master Baldwin’s. I wondered what circumstances could have driven him so far away from home. A taste for cruelty and intrigue was written across that face; some evil skulduggery must have precipitated his banishment. I felt an instinctive loathing for the man. I was sure that my emotion had roots deeper than a mere concern that the Armenian’s skills in language might render my own services redundant. ‘With whatever tongue he speaks’, I thought, ‘it will be as forked as Satan’s.’

  A matter of days after these inauspicious arrivals, another party passed down the wintry Semois valley. This was led by Walter Sans Avoir, Lord of Boissy, another nobleman to whom I had written at Godfrey’s dictation. Godfrey had been especially keen to persuade Sans Avoir to join him, for he had a reputation as a formidable warrior. He and his family were therefore welcomed to Bouillon with particular courtesy, and were offered lodgings in the castle itself, in order to provide them with greater comfort than was available among the field of tents mushrooming down the valley.

  Sans Avoir looked indeed a ferocious individual, a Goliath, with hands that could have strangled a pig. I imagined another similarity to the Philistine champion, for the blank of his brutish face signalled that his excess of brawn was balanced by a deficit in guile.

  But I paid little regard to Sans Avoir, or to his bizarre bodyguard, armed outlandishly with great axes hanging from leather thongs round their necks. My attention was drawn elsewhere in his retinue. With him was a girl – I knew she could not be a daughter, nor scarcely even a distant relation, so utterly different from him was she. She was of similar age to me, and more graceful than a singing bird. Her hair glowed so clear and bright it seemed to be spun of the finest gold. Her forehead was high, white and smooth as if polished by the careful hand of a man who had carved her face from stone or ivory. Her eyebrows were well-shaped, set well apart, and her eyes, brilliant, laughing, were clear and bright. Her nose was straight and long, and tints of crimson and white showed better across her face than scarlet cloth on silver. I felt admiration that dwarfed Godfrey’s for Godehilde. And I tried hard to hope that, like the sister-in-law’s response to my master, this girl had noted my attraction towards her with a tiny measure of reciprocity. Beside this girl’s pure beauty though, Godehilde was already blown and blowzy.

  SAINT LAZARUS’S COLLEGE

  The Modern Languages Tutor now wished fervently that he had not sought this interview with the Master. It had taken an unexpected and most unpleasant turn.

 
He had not enjoyed the unusually early start demanded by the Master’s tiresome habit of clearing internal College business by ten o’clock in the morning. Normally he did not rise before then and would not leave his chambers until he had been fortified by a couple of stiff preprandial martinis. Nevertheless, he had managed to drag himself blinking mole-like into the early morning light, after masking the sour taste of last night’s gin with his first two cigarettes of the day. He had brushed most of the ash off the sleeve of his jacket, before noticing with irritation that the edge of the tweed was frayed. That was the sort of detail that did not escape the Master’s hard stare. He knew that it would not help to create a good impression; but anyway he could not do anything about his thinning lank hair, or the cheeks wizened by years of excessive alcohol and tobacco. But, damn it, he was a scholar, and that was what he wanted to talk to the Master about.

  Reading the latest chapter of The Waste Land – why had the Professor of English been allowed to get away with that title? – in the Common Room the night before, he had come to the shocked realisation that his Research Assistant must be right. The little details that brought the book to life – lifted from the ancient manuscript of course, not created by the self-satisfied Best-Selling Author – definitely contained uncanny echoes of Chrétien de Troyes. The description of the castle at Bouillon matched that of Goornement de Goort, where Perceval learned to fight, far too precisely to be a coincidence. And the first description of Blanche – well the Research Assistant had certainly not been mistaken there. He might be an ugly specimen but he was not completely ignorant. ‘Scarlet cloth on silver – le sinoples sor argent’, and the rest of the description – it was lifted almost word for word from Chrétien’s verse; the Best-Selling Author could not possibly have conjured such an identical description by chance.

  It had been a very long time since the Modern Languages Tutor’s name had appeared on any publication. But once he had been a promising academic. Then he had secured his fellowship, his comfortable rooms, and he had sunk into the laziness borne of his little vices. The possibility of publishing, editing and annotating the manuscript – or having his Research Assistant do the work and taking most of the glory from him – had reawakened his academic ambitions. So he had to get the original manuscript back from the Master, who doubtless kept it locked somewhere, jealously protecting its story.