The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “You have hinted that you were acquainted with Sir Martin while you were discerning your call with the Hospitallers,” she said to Jacques. “You must explain your insinuations. Otherwise, I truly feel that you are calumniating the man, who has done great work here with the sick and poor.”

  “I prefer not to speak of it. Let me just say that I saw him behave in a way that made me question not only my call but even my faith.”

  “Question your faith?” Raphaëlle was shocked. “How could anything Sir Martin do make you question your faith? That is ridiculous. You must come with us and pray the Aves in the new confraternity at the church, if your faith is such that it can be blown away by any gust of wind.” Sir Jacques did not reply, but rode in silence until they reached the church.

  She wondered what she would have done without Esterelle in those winter months. However, the anchoress also had disturbing things to say about Sir Martin. One afternoon she had found Esterelle in the whitewashed chapel of the castle, discussing with Père André how to refurbish it. Père André was a painter, trained in Italy. By chipping away some of the white-wash in the apse, he had discovered frescoes underneath. They rejoiced in the find, and looked forward to purchasing materials for new tapestries, banners and vestments; Jacques had said that only the finest silks could be used, for the chapel as well as for the parish church in the village.

  “Raphaëlle, I must speak to you,” said the hermitess, excusing them from the friar's presence. They stepped out onto the battlements.

  “How are your plans for the hospital progressing?" asked Esterelle, watching her closely.

  “Very well. Sir Martin is full of ideas,” replied Raphaëlle.

  "I am certain that he is. But be on guard. He is a notorious flirt. He loves to dally with women's hearts, and has broken many. Although the inn has been only partially rebuilt, it caters to a crowd every night, what with all the Frankish soldiers. Sir Martin's penchant for revelry has long been notorious, as well as his loose speech and ability to imbibe copious amounts of wine. He is always the center of merriment at the inn.”

  “I thought he had a reputation for chivalry!” gasped Raphaëlle. Esterelle lowered her voice. “It is rumored that he frequents the hut of a certain woman called Mélisande who lives on the slope above the spring. Sir Martin has been seen leaving her dwelling late at night, a hood cast over his face, but he is recognized by his height and gait.” Raphaëlle could not speak. “We must not judge,” continued Esterelle. “I tell you these things not to spread gossip but in order to caution your heart. Perhaps he consoles Mélisande with his counsel, for her husband has abandoned her, and she is alone with a young child to support. Yet it shows great imprudence on his part to visit her as he does.” She took both of Raphaëlle’s hands in her own. “I am telling you, he is reputed to be reckless in his conduct, especially with women. And yet they say he comes from a worthy family, and that his father and his mother are saints.”

  “We must pray for him,” Raphaëlle solemnly declared.

  “Yes,” agreed Esterelle. “And please do not take to heart anything that he says to you. Remember that he has said similar things to a hundred other ladies. There was only one woman that he ever loved, and that was his wife, God rest her soul.”

  Part II: The Desperate Marriage, A.D. 1228

  Chapter 11: A Veil of Scarlet

  It was the time of aurora, and the nuptial hour was almost upon her. At last she was to be a bride. She had watched for the dawning of that day as if her entire life had been an Advent of expectation. Esterelle, who placed the bridal wreath upon Raphaëlle's head, exuded solemnity in every slow, deliberate movement. As the anchoress held up the scarlet veil, it scintillated in the morning sun, like an awakening ray of fire.

  Raphaëlle's wedding attire had been ready before she left Auvergne and due to Jehanette’s foresight, it had been brought with her to Bécède. The gown was red samite and had belonged to her mother. The veil, likewise shot with gold, was as buoyant and delicate as gauze. Her father had bought it at the bazaar in Constantinople, when as a young knight he went crusading in Outremer. Upon his return, although she had been yet a child, he had proudly shown her the floating crimson cloud that was to cover her when she became a bride. It had come from India, a land even further east than Palestine. Over the tightly laced gown was a kirtle of gold and vermilion cord, as well as a surcoat of crimson taffeta, embroidered in a lapis blue pattern of stars and lilies, with slits on the sides. Her hair, washed and pomaded, rippled in a chestnut cascade to her hips. The bridal wreath, token of her virginity, was composed of newly gathered herbs and flowers. Rosemary, lavender, delphiniums, and broom, damp with dew, were bound together with a scarlet ribbon. Over the wreath the veil was draped, covering her in the front to the waist and wafting behind with the train. With the scent of herbs came the recollection of Sir Martin, and the making of garlands on the morn of yesterday.

  She had been awakened on that dawn by his voice beneath her window. She looked out, and beheld him leaning against the wall, lute in hand, deep into the composition of a song. “What are you doing?” called Raphaëlle, half-asleep.

  Martin was clad in grey hose and a knee-length grey tunic, unlaced about the neck, revealing a medal on a gold chain. His eyes smiled into hers. “I am making a love song,” he replied.

  “That is very well, but you woke me from sleep!”

  “I intended to wake you! There is much to be done for your wedding on the morrow!” She withdrew without a word, annoyed at his temerity. Jehanette brushed her hair and told of how the maids were weaving garlands to adorn the parish church.

  “I suppose I had better help them,” sighed Raphaëlle, trying to hide the surge of eagerness. After breaking her fast, she found a basket and descended into the garden, newly transformed by springtime. Some of the fruit trees were still in blossom and beneath them were blue clouds of flax, forget-me-not, lilac and lavender. The birds sang, the wind danced, all throbbed with viridity and hope. She reached up to break off a branch of lilac.

  “So Eve must have appeared to Adam.” She turned to see Sir Martin lounging carelessly against an apple tree amid a shower of petals. “And from him sprang the primordial cry: ‘Thou art bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh’.”

  “What did he mean, I wonder?” queried Raphaëlle, breaking off the branch. He stepped towards her.

  “I deem that he, Adam, was trying to tell Eve that she was his beloved, she was his passion, she was his other self. In all the cosmos he had found satisfaction in no other created being. He was drawn to her as to a lodestone; he wanted to know everything about her; to drink, if possible, of her soul.”

  “Are you Adam, or are you the serpent?” she asked.

  “I am neither,” he retorted. “Rather, I am the faithful Eleazar, who bade Rebecca prepare for her wedding. I come to offer you my assistance.”

  “Can you make garlands?”

  He leaped to her side. “At the weaving of garlands, I excel. I once helped make garlands to decorate the church of our Order in Jerusalem. A monkish task, but no small feat.”

  “I see,” she replied, crisply. “If you could cut some of those higher branches, I would be much obliged.”

  They tramped through the garden, gathering flowers. In spite of his long legs and broad shoulders, he had a boyish stride. She found herself speaking with ease, as if to an old friend. He told her tales of the Moors, whom he had encountered in the Holy Land, but otherwise spoke of his family, to whom he was obviously devoted. He led her over to an ivy-drenched wall, and began to tear off one of the vines.

  “Ivy signifies humility,” he said, teasingly. “It requires a great deal of humility to be a good wife.”

  “I do not understand why you are not married,” she commented, only to be taken aback by her own impertinence as soon as the words left her mouth. He grinned at her discomfiture.

  “I received an overwhelming call to the service of the Church,” he replied in earnest tones. He
was silent a moment, gazing at the ground. Then he kissed her hand, saying, “It will be a fair bridal.” He slowly left the garden. Raphaëlle shivered with exhilaration, which in moments gave way to desolation.

  It was time to leave for church. The amethyst cross glittered around Raphaëlle's neck; at her ears gleamed earrings of gold filigree and pearl. She wore the gold and pearl bracelet given as a betrothal gift from Sir Jacques. Under the hem of her skirts was the glimpse of the pointed, red Moroccan slippers that she had herself embroidered with seed pearls. As she walked from her chamber to the courtyard, the gauze veil undulated, shimmering from scarlet to crimson to vermilion and back to scarlet again. She rode in a litter borne by four horses from the château to the village. Ivy and wisteria were entwined on the poles of the litter. Frankish knights on horseback escorted her, their pennants fluttering in the breeze. The villagers who lined the route cheered her and called many blessings down upon her. Among them Raphaëlle had made many friends. Furthermore, it was through Jacques’ efforts at making certain that grain was sent from Toulouse that they had all survived the winter.

  The previous afternoon, she had visited the parish to supervise the decorations. She had made her confession to Friar André while she was there. “My father, am I doing the right thing?” she asked.

  “You were sent to us,” he replied. “You are needed here.”

  In the portal of the humble church of Saint-Pierre stood the bridegroom, flanked by Friar André. Sir Martin stood behind them in a white surplice over a black cassock. He was to assist as acolyte during the marriage service and the Mass. The friar was vested in a silk chasuble embroidered in gold lilies. Jacques d'Orly was arrayed in polished mail beneath a surcoat of red taffeta embroidered with gold falcons. A young page in matching raiment carried his helm. The unsmiling bridegroom paled as his glance fell upon the bride. Friar André joined their right hands at the doors of the church. They exchanged vows; then Jacques handed the ring to Martin, who placed it upon a paten for the priest to bless. Jacques then slipped the ring upon her finger, in the Name of the Blessed Trinity. The ring was a plain gold band, originally intended for her espousals to Raymond, but Jacques had it engraved with his family motto: Fortis et Fides (“Strong and Faithful”). Jacques then took her right hand in his left, holding it aloft. In her other hand she carried a prayer book and chaplet. Jehanette and Bertrande in cornflower blue carried her train. They followed the clergy in procession down the aisle, led by an altar boy holding a brass crucifix. Behind them were eight Frankish knights, trailed by various retainers of the household. The peasants crowded into the back of the church and packed the doorway. The village was too poor to possess an organ, but one of the shepherds piped a tune, ethereal in its solitude. Raphaëlle and Jacques knelt before the altar, where the friar bound their hands with a stole, and gave them the nuptial blessing.

  Bertrande came forward to raise Raphaëlle’s veil for the Mass. Raphaëlle’s eyelids fluttered as she found herself looking at Sir Martin. In the fraction of an instant it was as if he seized her soul. Every ounce of energy was required to bring herself to her senses, to remember that she was in church, that Mass was about to begin and she had just married another man. The friar intoned the Introit of the Missa pro sponso et sponsa. Sir Martin, as acolyte, turned with him to face the high altar, echoing the responses. At the offertory, she and Jacques were incensed, along with the gifts of bread and wine. She tried with her whole mind and her whole heart to offer every fiber of her being. She wondered if she was possessed by a demon, and if she should receive Holy Communion. She decided it was only a temptation, for her senses were turbulent, not her will. Furthermore, she needed all the help that Heaven could give. During the final blessing, Jacques and Raphaëlle were momentarily draped with a white cloth, then the bells began to peel, and they processed from the church. An ovation rose from the peasants for their new master and his bride. Jacques threw a handful of coins into the crowd, although there was not much to buy in the village. After helping her into the litter he rode beside her on his great blue roan to the château, where a banquet had been prepared. Providentially, the Franks had recently received fresh provisions from the Queen. There was now plenty of food for the army, which feasted in the camp in the meadow, and enough for the peasants, who reveled in the courtyard, those who could not fit into the hall. From her canopied chair on the dais it pleased Raphaëlle to see everyone eating so well after the hardships of winter and war. It made the offering of herself to a foreigner in marriage seem worthwhile. She shared a trencher and a cup of wine with him at the feast, where they dined on partridge, swan, venison and goose. Out of respect for all who had died last fall, there was no dancing. A lone lute player strummed in the musicians’ gallery.

  When the feast was half-spent, Sir Martin left his seat on the dais and stood directly in front of them, bowing gracefully. He was clad in the black surcoat of his order.

  “I beg leave of the new Lord and Lady of Bécède to sing a song in their honor,” he said. Raphaëlle smiled agreeably but tried not to meet his gaze.

  Jacques nodded. “We would be honored to be entertained by one as famed as a troubadour, as he is skilled as a warrior.” Sir Martin gave a signal to the lute player, and the song commenced. It was a popular “dawn song,” especially suited to his melodious tenor.

  In the orchard where the leaves of hawthorn hide,

  The lady holds a lover to her side

  Until the watcher in the dawning cried,

  "Oh God, oh God, the dawn! it comes so soon.

  She raised her eyes to his. She was caught in a snare; the more she flailed, the more tangled she became. He continued to sing.

  Ah, would to God that never night end,

  Nor this my lover far from me should wend,

  Nor watcher day nor dawning ever send!

  Everyone joined in the chorus:

  Oh God, oh God, the dawn! it comes so soon!

  There were other verses, but Raphaëlle scarcely heard them.

  Sweet lover come, renew our lovemaking

  Within the garden, where the light birds sing.…

  She thought of the tale of Tristan and Iseult. She finally understood what it meant to desire against one's own desire, as did the doomed lovers of old after drinking from the perilous cup.

  Gracious the lady is, and débonnaire

  For her beauty many look at her,

  And in her heart is loyal love astir

  Oh God, oh God, the dawn! it comes so soon!

  Her husband grasped her hand and kissed it, to the applause of the company. His lips were alien, and she could not wait to quickly pull her hand away. The actuality of being married to Jacques d'Orly caused misery to strive with the exultation of her feeling for Martin. All the while, the Frankish knights told bawdy jokes. She could not understand the colloquial expressions, and so missed the point of them, to her relief. The feast continued the entire afternoon. At last, the moment arrived for her to retire to her chamber, decorated as a bridal bower. Everyone else would continue feasting into the night. She could not bear to look at Sir Martin or anyone else, and wished she could veil her face again. Jehanette giggled as she helped her out of her scarlet raiment and into a loose dressing gown of blue and silver gauze, trimmed with rabbit fur. Her hair was combed out once more, and she climbed into bed. The fresh bed linens had been lavishly sprinkled with lavender essence and attar of roses. Escorted by several of his knights, Jacques entered, wearing a scarlet dressing gown, edged with squirrel. The scar on his cheek was blazing red, as his entire visage glowed with discomfiture. Friar André, blessed them with a generous dousing of holy water. Then the curtains were closed, and they were alone. As Jacques reached over and took her in his arms, she began to weep. She closed her eyes and silently prayed the Miserere. She tried to think of the martyrs, but what filled her mind was the memory of Martin's cerulean eyes, and so she sank into a pool of blue.

  Chapter 12: The Rose Garden

  Midsummer gl
istened upon the sloping meadows of the hills of Aude. The scent of honeysuckle wafted on the breeze from the wooded glen, while the road itself was fringed with yellow Turk's cap lilies, columbines, and bright-eyed marguerites. Raphaëlle and Jacques rode side by side, followed by mounted knights, attendants on mule back, and men-at-arms on foot. Bertrande and Jehanette sat astride mules, ambling directly behind Raphaëlle.

  “You are too thin,” Jacques said to her one morning as she was rising from bed. “I like my women to be more substantial. Also, your clothes are outdated, and better suited to an aged grandmother than to a young châtelaine.”

  “My clothes are nearly new,” she retorted. “It would be a sinful waste of funds to procure others, especially when the village needs to be rebuilt, the chapel restored, and sets of vestments and sacred linens made. The house of God and our people’s needs must come first.”

  “Do not lecture me!” Jacques ordered. He seemed incapable of brooking the slightest opposition. “Why must you be so difficult, so recalcitrant?!” Raphaëlle was confused as well as angry. No one had ever before told her she was difficult. At home, she had rarely disobeyed her parents, or given them any cause of anxiety, at least not that she had been aware of.

  Raphaëlle had been disconsolate a month or so ago when she heard that Sir Martin was to leave Bécède. She went to her favorite spot on the battlements to weep in private. How refreshing the wind would be on her face! “Oh, I am sorry!” she gasped, for there was Martin standing against the stone merlons, gazing into the majestic valley, almost as if he had been waiting for her. “I thought no one else would be here!”

  “Do not go,” he pleaded. “I have something to tell you.” She tried to keep her eyes downcast, for when she looked into his face it was as if a radiant glow surrounded both of them, and they were alone in some singular dimension.

  “I must leave tomorrow for our commandery at Fronton, north of Toulouse. A messenger arrived this morning. I am appointed lieutenant there. We Hospitallers founded a sanctuary for the poor at Fronton about one hundred years ago. The village has grown, and the castle is quite magnificent. We will host a great feast on Saint John's Eve, a month hence. It would please me if you and Sir Jacques could come as my guests.”