by Simon Acland
The Master greeted the Modern Languages Tutor with distaste. To a man who was fastidious about every detail of his own appearance, the untidy seediness of the man, the rank smell of stale smoke and the mole-like bloodshot eyes, were a personal affront. When had he last washed his hair? His mission to modernise the college could not succeed unless he did away with superannuated fossils like this one.
So before the Modern Languages Tutor could state his business, the Master went on the attack. Striking first was a tactic which had served him well in Whitehall.
“Thank you so much for coming to see me. I have been meaning to speak to you for a long time. I know this will come as a shock, but the Fellows have decided to terminate your appointment here. As you know, there are very few students who want to study languages any more, and fewer still who have any interest in your medieval specialities. And I am afraid that your long publication drought is not doing anything to push us up the league tables. You know how short we are of space, and we want to appoint a new Fellow in Computer Science. He will need your rooms. Of course, you will have until the end of the academic year…”
To the Modern Languages Tutor it seemed like a very bad dream and he fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette before remembering that in no circumstances would the Master allow anyone to light up in his rooms.
“But, Master, I am planning a publication which will turn the whole world of grail scholarship upside down. It will redound to the great credit of Saint Lazarus. We are sure that the document which furnishes the plot of The Waste Land is Chrétien de Troyes’ original source for the Roman de Perceval. It is the original grail romance. There are just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence. I am sure of it. Think of all the implications. All I ask is access to the manuscript. My Research Assistant has done a lot of the work already. We’ll have a preliminary paper out by, let’s see, the end of the Michaelmas term at the latest.”
“I’m sorry. The decision has been made. It is final. And there is absolutely no question of that manuscript being released before The Waste Land is at the top of the bestseller list.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ROAD WINDING ABOVE
For some days I have not been able to write. The sorrowful memories that came flooding back to me were too strong. Now I have gathered my thoughts once more and have tried to set down the facts of what happened as I remembered them then.
I wandered the cold halls and corridors of Bouillon in a daze, fulfilling my duties for Godfrey like a man whose head was still ringing from a fierce blow on the helm. I found myself making mistakes that before would have cut my pride and made me anxious lest their discovery thwarted my journey East. Now I scarcely cared. I did not even know what she was called. I christened her again and again in my mind but no name that I chose could do her justice. I asked myself how she came to be in the retinue of Walter de Boissy. How could her slender grace be blood-related to his bestial strength? How I wished that I had been dressed like a knight, like a real man, when her gaze swept over me. In my monkish garments I must have been as good as invisible to a girl like her.
Whenever I had the opportunity in between wielding my quill in the Duke’s service, I practiced hard with real weapons. At first I had been driven by eagerness to gain Godfrey’s respect as more than his ‘little monk’ and to win a place as a proper fighting man in his retinue. Now I hoped most that she might somehow come to recognise my prowess. My skills with bow, javelin and spear quickly returned, for they had been well learnt by my father’s side at the hunt. So on the training field I worked mainly with the sword, thrusting and slashing at pillows and padded shields and taking part in practice bouts. The sergeant in charge of weapons training was a grizzled veteran by the name of Stephen. He had a look of my father’s old steward about him, except that a scar cut the right side of his face, dragging down his lower eyelid. In the cold air, the exposed red rim watered constantly, giving him a comically mournful expression. He might have been one of the gargoyles spouting water from the gutters of Cluny’s church. Gruff at first, he seemed to warm to me, perhaps approving my plain enthusiasm for his trade, and appreciating my eagerness to learn. As the weeks passed, my muscles strengthened and I thought my shoulders had noticeably broadened. Certainly the few garments I had brought from the abbey now felt tight across my back and upper arms. I was sure that they had hung loose before.
Late one dark afternoon I had finished all the letters required of me. Freed, I ran down the spiral stairway to the deep courtyard where sword practice took place. I waved at Stephen as I pulled on one of the leather jerkins worn to provide some protection from the training swords. These weapons were blunted to prevent serious injury but could still hurt badly if your guard were penetrated as I knew to my cost from several blows and bruises. Although busy with another fencing partner, Stephen repaid me with a grin that twisted his scarred face more than ever. When his bout was over, he came across. We stood face to face, swords raised, circling warily round, and then set to, cutting and thrusting, blocking and parrying. Perhaps he was treating me kindly, but it seemed to me that I was now a reasonable match for him. I battered at Stephen’s guard, trying to find a way through to his body, and soon, in spite of the cold air which misted my breath, sweat was trickling down under my helmet to add to the stains on my jerkin. Then to my consternation I heard a bellow echoing in the stairwell from which I had entered the court.
“Hugh, damn it, where are you? I have work for you to do. What in the Devil’s name do you think you are doing, shirking your tasks and skulking off?”
An irate Godfrey burst into the yard. Stephen respectfully lowered his sword and inclined his head. The other sparring couples did the same. I fought now to maintain my composure and to conceal my humiliation and distress.
“Why are you wasting your time here? You are a scribe, damn it, not a knight; a weapon of goose feather is more fitted for your feeble hands than one of steel.”
Then a wicked glint came into the Duke’s eye.
“Here, I’ll teach you a lesson. Sergeant, give me your weapon.”
Godfrey quickly donned a padded jerkin and helmet and took his place opposite me in the ready position. Hesitantly I too raised my sword. ‘Should I fight to win,’ I wondered, ‘and incur my patron’s greater wrath, or take a battering as bravely as I can before I return in resignation to my inky desk?’ Before I could make up my conscious mind Godfrey came at me with a roar, whirring his weapon down in a vicious arc. The second nature born of my training snapped in, and I parried, blocked and parried again. Godfrey was more than a head taller than Stephen, his reach far greater, so his blows rained down from above where Stephen’s angled in from the side. As I adjusted I came to realise with excitement that I could protect myself from this man’s attacks. I began to relish the challenge. Was there now a hint of surprise in my challenger’s expression, a little more wild violence in each blow as our swords rang together with a harsh metallic clash that re-echoed in its turn around the narrow courtyard?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pale oval of a face peering down from one of the narrow keep windows. With a jolt, I realised who it was. Now if I lost, she would witness my shame and my humiliation. That thought, and the momentary lapse of concentration that it brought, almost cost me the contest. Just in time I saw my foe’s sword arching down. At the last moment I moved sideways far enough for it to miss by a finger. The near miss prompted a bellow of excitement and a charge of renewed vigour. Behind my assailant, I saw Stephen silently mouthing, “Remember your footwork. Move your feet,” and as I centred myself again I began to dodge some of the strokes, saving energy and resting my parry-jarred muscles. Frustrated by this agility, my opponent became wilder, wasting his own vigour and clattering his blade right down against the flagstones, where it scattered sparks into the gloom. Was his breathing now a little strained as he raised the heavy sword again? Was he moving a bit more slowly? I tried a couple of swings myself and enjoyed forcing a backwards step
from my adversary. This provoked another furious swipe. It hammered downwards at me but I side-stepped briskly. Seeing the enemy off balance, I countered with a hard blow into his ribs. Now my rival bent over, grunting with surprised pain. Before he could undouble himself and raise his sword again, Stephen stepped in.
“That is enough, my Lord. By the rules of the training ground that is the end of the bout.”
For a moment I had forgotten whom I was fighting. Instinct and energy, fed by an urgent desire to impress the girl, had blinded me to my opponent’s identity. I looked up at the window which held her and imagined a smile on her face as she turned away. But in that very moment of triumph it flooded back on me with horror that I had struck my patron. It was none other than the Duke of Lower Lorraine standing there in front of me, winded, doubled up, cursing with pain. I realised that my journey was over, my hopes scattered. At best it would be back to the monastery, probably after a period clapped in irons in the damp festering dungeon beneath the keep. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stephen standing rigidly at one side of our master, his drooping lid watering more than ever. The other fencers who had remained to watch, doubtless anticipating my sound thrashing, were now also motionless, gaping too to see what would happen next. For the minutes of the fight, time had flashed past for me, as fast as the blades cutting the air; now it seemed to have stopped as still as the sword I held grounded at my feet. Slowly Godfrey raised his head and straightened himself. The feared red light of anger shone from his eyes but then faded, his face instead splitting in a smile. His roar of laughter now echoed round the courtyard and Stephen and the other onlookers relaxed.
“Well fought. I’ll feel that for at least a week.”
He clapped his arm around my shoulders.
“Come, we have work to do.”
Set free by relief, my thoughts flew after the girl as she turned from the window, and followed her around the castle in my imagination. I constructed unnecessary errands as excuses to wander around in the hope that I might encounter her. And then I hurried along, not daring to tarry in case I met her. Unworthy cause for prayer though I knew it to be, I begged God passionately that I might chance upon her; then, realising that I did not know what words to speak if my supplications were answered, I unsaid them again.
At last I did find her. In one way the encounter was all I might have hoped, for I found her in the room where I was accustomed to write Godfrey’s correspondence. ‘Can she have come here in search of me?’ I thought with the excitement of sudden hope. In another way it was all that I might have feared, for the Duke was there before me. He growled lasciviously as he backed her into a corner.
“Come here, Blanche, my pretty, don’t be shy now.”
And so I learnt her name. Then I remembered the serving wench with painful clarity. I remembered the lecherous looks lavished on sister-in-law Godehilde. Jealous anger began to erupt from somewhere deep down in my body. Blanche’s eyes flashed towards me and I tried to read the message they held – was it fear of Godfrey, annoyance at my arrival, shame, supplication? Later I wondered more, but then I did not stop to think and reacted instinctively with a growl of my own.
“My Lord. Come away from her. I have work to do here.”
The Duke must have noticed Blanche’s gaze flickering over his shoulder because he had already begun to turn angrily towards the unwelcome intruder. When he saw it was me, his irritation subsided to be replaced with roars of laughter.
“I see, Hugh. So that’s how it is! You like her, do you? Well good luck – I’ll wager your need is greater than mine.”
Blanche, more flushed now than ever, took her chance to run towards the door. As she rushed by I was sure that I felt her fingers brush my right hand. Had it been an accident? After all, the room was small, the passage narrow. But no, I told myself, she moves with such poise, such fluency. That touch could not have been chance.
Godfrey’s chortles subsided and my volcanic fury cooled into pumiced lumps of embarrassment. Spring seemed to be coming early for me. My imagination filled with romantic blooms. But then they were blackened and withered by a sudden frost. No sooner had we settled down to work than the doorway to our chamber was filled by the huge frame of Walter Sans Avoir. The thunder of his rumbling voice shattered my clear sky.
“My Lord Duke, you have shown me great courtesy and consideration. You would have me lend my prowess in war to your expedition. But I and my men grow impatient at your lengthy preparations. We are ready. We are eager to travel east. I am used to command, not to fall in behind others. I have received messengers from Germany, from Peter the Hermit. His fervent preaching has gathered together many common people, a rabble that needs to be shaped into an army. He looks for commanders, and offers me a high place in his council. I intend to accept his overtures. I will leave with my force and my household forthwith.”
Godfrey flushed with annoyance at the news that his assiduous hospitality had been wasted on Sans Avoir. I had no idea what colour my own face had turned.
“But my Lord de Boissy,” I stammered, completely forgetting myself, “Peter the Hermit’s rabble might as well be babes in arms for all the hope they have of reaching Constantinople in one piece. They can have no provisions, for last year’s poor harvest has yielded too little to feed them. They’ll have no discipline, no equipment to speak of. You would do better to stay and wait with us.”
Godfrey looked with surprise at me but instead of scolding my impetuosity he agreed.
“My secretary is right. Peter the Hermit and his men will be the first to test the uncertain mood of our friend the Byzantine Emperor. They may well find him less friendly than they expect when he is confronted by their horde on his borders.”
But none of Godfrey’s arguments could sway the Lord of Boissy. His mind, small in that vast body, was set. I glared with hate after the big man who was taking Blanche away. Godfrey looked at me with amused affection.
“What on earth is the matter? Come, come, it is not so bad. There are plenty of other pretty little fish in the river. And we can make do without Walter Sans Avoir. He and the rabble he goes to lead will prepare the way for us.”
I though was utterly disconsolate. Somehow I had to see Blanche alone before she left. Perhaps I could talk her into staying. Perhaps I could offer her my hand. Then I dismissed such a ludicrous idea before it had taken full form. What would she want with a scribe like me, a poor product of the cloister, utterly ignorant of women, penniless? No sooner had I decided that my cause was hopeless, than a ray of spring sunshine shone through my clouds. Eyes modestly downcast, Blanche entered my writing chamber, causing me to start from my chair, almost jerking over the pot of ink on my desk. I realised that I had not heard her voice before. My heart soared at the gentle melody of her tone.
“Sir, forgive my immodest intrusion. I had to thank you for protecting me before I leave.”
She raised her eyes shyly and then her modesty made them fall again, but not before I had seen a gentle smile crossing her lips. By now I had managed to disentangle myself from my desk and I was about to reach out to touch Blanche’s soft hand when I saw with shame the ink stains on my fingers and thrust their incriminating evidence behind my back. I so wanted her to think me a knight, not a clerk. I was momentarily captivated by the length of her eyelashes but managed to drag my attention back to her words.
“I do not want to go, you know, but my guardian insists. Perhaps you will catch us up in Constantinople. Perhaps we will see each other again there. I do hope so.”
I could now feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. Tongue-tied I muttered something indistinct about how I hoped so too. Then I watched helplessly as Blanche reached out to my writing desk and picked up the knife that I used to sharpen my quills.
“Let me give you something to remember me by.”
In a quick movement she cut a hank of hair from one golden tress and then with a sigh turned the knife towards herself. Unable to move, fearing that she might be about t
o do herself harm, I breathed again as she sliced a small piece of yellow ribbon from her dress. She wound it deftly round the lock of hair, tied it in a neat bow, and held it out to me.
“I’ll carry it next to my skin always,” I murmured and then felt a touch on my cheek as she reached up a light kiss. Before I could come to my senses she had turned and left the room.
Now I felt my need to earn a place with Duke Godfrey on the march more viscerally than ever. Love melded with ambition to create a desire greater than I had ever felt before. I thought I had done the Duke’s work well, but I still trembled in doubtful insecurity, worrying to the point where I lay in bed at night unable to sleep. So I quaked one fine summer morning when the Duke turned to me in the writing chamber.
“Cousin, you have served me well. I am pleased with you.” Were those words the preamble to my final dismissal? Or did I detect some affection in his tone? Perhaps that was just sympathy at the harsh message he was about to deliver?
“Without your help we would have been hard pushed to complete our preparations in time. Really. And I know you’ve put the rest of your time to good use. I know all too well the result of your efforts in the training lists.”
The Duke rubbed his side in rueful memory and I shifted nervously.
“Don’t be concerned; I do know that you have taken up the sword only when your work with the quill has been done. I know too – to my cost – how well you have learned to fight. I have a small gift for you.”
