The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” she replied, not raising her eyes. “It would afford me great pleasure as well, but it will be for my husband to decide.”

  “I will ask him today.” He paused, with a quick intake of breath. “Tell me, Lady Raphaëlle, are you happy?”

  Her tears flowed freely. “I do not think my husband loves me, although he is a good man and a brave knight.”

  “Do you love him?!” he blurted out.

  Raphaëlle quivered and gazed at the curving river sparkling in the distance. She wanted to cry, “No! No! Only you!” Reticence overcame her for she realized he had asked something that a gentleman should never ask a lady who was not his wife.

  “I love my husband in God,” she responded in a tone of calm detachment. “I have affection for Sir Jacques. I do not think I am altogether pleasing to him, however.”

  “Sir Jacques has been under a great deal of duress. It is a feat indeed for a man to subdue this valley and you all in the same year.” He reached over and stroked her arm. She found herself throwing her arms around his neck, and softly kissing his cheek. As she pulled away, she allowed her eyes a taste of his.

  “We will miss you!” she cried, trying to suppress the surge of rapture induced by his glance and his touch.

  “It will soon be midsummer,” he said, turning quickly away, leaving the ramparts. She remained, basking in the lingering aura of his presence, everything else forgotten.

  Jacques had left one of his lieutenants in charge of the château, along with the steward, and a newly-appointed bailiff to watch over the village. As for Sir Jacques himself, he was in high spirits, in spite of the fact that they were going to be seeing Sir Martin. “The Knights Hospitaller are such a worthy order, and have been such a great help to the poor and the sick in the last few years, which is why of course I sought to join them.”

  “I still do not understand what you have against Sir Martin,” said Raphaëlle. “I understand that he comes from a respected family, who hold a great many castles and manors throughout Languedoc, especially near Carcassonne and the Montagne Noire.”

  “Yes,” replied Jacques. “They are related through blood or marriage to all the most prominent noble houses. His mother is known for her piety and charity. His father was once a crusader, the very flower of chivalry, famous for his courtoisie. The eldest son, of course, has surpassed all his forbears by his proven courage and greatness of heart. Why, it is said that in the Outremer he tended the dying in the midst of pestilence, with no thought to his own health. As a youth, he debated with the heretics in Catalonia. I admired him greatly when first we met.”

  “Then what ill do you find in him now? Why can you not tell me?” asked Raphaëlle, genuinely perplexed. “Is it because he is rumored to dally with women? I know you think he has cast his eye upon Bertrande. Esterelle has made similar claims.”

  “If Esterelle has spoken to you then that should suffice. There are some things best left unspoken. I have told you all that you need to be aware of for the present moment. The St. John’s Day festivity will be an important time for us. It is indeed advantageous that we were invited to the feast. It will immensely improve our connections to other noble families of the region.” He went on to forbid her to say anything about Lady Esclarmonde, for it would do no good for people to view Raphaëlle as a relative of such a notorious heretic, but rather to emphasize the fact that she was the daughter of a Catholic noble of Auvergne.

  “It shall be as you say, my lord,” Raphaëlle replied. They entered the gates of Toulouse in the early dusk, spending the night at an inn near the basilica of Saint-Sernin. In the morning they assisted at Mass in the vast cathedral. The pink brick of the octagonal steeple seemed to glow with joy in the morning light, as the bells echoed over the roofs of the city. In front of the polychrome façade knelt men and women, each with a large yellow cross sewn upon their outer tunics. “Are they penitents?” she whispered to her husband as they entered.

  “They are former Cathars doing public penance. According to recent statutes they must wear the yellow cross for the rest of their lives, even as some of our people do at Bécède.” Her soul was pensive at the thought; the finite infinity of the basilica caused her soul to soar in prayer for the poor penitents. The painted statues of the saints, the silken embroidered banners, the nine chapels radiating behind the apse, the billows of incense, all conspired to flood her with the hope of a better world. After Mass, she placed the colored candles she had brought with her before the altar of the Virgin and, lighting them, she prayed for a child. Jacques also prayed and then, upon leaving the church, he met several old acquaintances. They were knights from the north, staying in Toulouse on the King's business. Raphaëlle was discovering what it was like to be married to such an important royal official. As they rode north to Fronton, Jacques told her more about his life than she had known before. He was the youngest of five sons. He had been educated by monks, and had even studied in Paris under the great scholar Robert Sorbon.

  “How old are you, my lord?” asked Raphaëlle, realizing that she did not even know his age.

  “I am almost thirty. And I must tell you, I am delighted to be no longer a bachelor.” Her heart was lifted by his words, as Jacques went on to say: “I hope someday to present you to the King and his court as my bride and baroness. It would be grand to have a house in Paris. All depends on how well things go for us in the south.” Raphaëlle was pleased, in spite of herself, that he regarded her as an asset.

  The tree-lined road that wound north from the gates of Toulouse led into a dense forest, taking several hours to traverse. It dwindled and merged into a field of sunflowers, surrounding a walled village, in the midst of which towered a château. It was one of the many towns of refuge planned and built by the Knights Hospitaller for the impoverished inhabitants of wilderness areas. The village appeared to be laid out in an orderly fashion, with stone crosses marking its boundaries beyond the walls. They passed one of the crosses as they plunged into the lake of sunflowers. Drawing closer to Fronton, the sight of the castle took her breath away. It had four blue conical towers, and the pale stone gleamed white in the late afternoon sun, the mountains rising in the distance behind it. The towers and ramparts were adorned with carvings and gargoyles, like a cathedral. A thin spire marked the chapel, and another steeple in the village was that of the parish church. The church was near the gates of the village so as to be used as a keep in case the outer fortifications were breached. The main road led to the town square, lined by the vaulted arcade of the marketplace, directly in front of the château. Beneath the arches, peasants with carts and stalls were selling cloth, wine, ropes of sausage, wild mushrooms, roast meats, garlic bulbs, pastries, marzipan, and innumerable crafts, trinkets, pottery, ointments, and candles. The square was teaming with Knights of Saint John and their guests.

  In the center of the square was a fountain with a statue of Saint John the Baptist, encircled by thirsty horses and mules as well as human travelers. The saint's birthday eve on the morrow was to be celebrated in magnificent style. A porter showed them to the guesthouse adjacent to the castle. It was likewise trimmed along the eaves with carvings, the eight-pointed cross of the Order of Saint John being a frequent motif, along with fleur de lys, anchors, antelopes, bulls’ heads, cinquefoils, Catherine wheels, escarbuncles, estoiles, bears and bees, all incorporated into the escutcheons of the founding knights and their benefactors. As Bertrande and Jehanette were helping Raphaëlle to unpack and as Jacques was removing his chain mail, there came a knock at the door.

  “Sir Gaston!” exclaimed Jacques, hastening to greet the tall, lanky knight. “This is a happy meeting!”

  “Indeed, it is. And here is another with whom you are acquainted.” From behind him stepped Sir Martin, in his black Hospitaller’s surcoat. Raphaëlle’s heart fluttered as she went forward to greet them with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “How goes it with you, sir?” asked Jacques of Sir Martin.

  �
��I have had of late great weariness of mind,” replied Martin. “However,” he continued, bowing over Raphaëlle’s hand, “I am feeling better now.” Sir Martin and Sir Gaston brought a jug of wine for their mutual refreshment, and then commenced to show them the beauties of the castle. Raphaëlle resolved to be attentive to her husband. She sensed that Martin was also avoiding making any eye contact with her. He first took them to the hospital with its tiled floors and canopied beds, where the Knights of Saint John were tending the sick, one ward being reserved for women and another for men. At the end of each ward was an altar where daily Mass would be offered in the presence of the sick. The chapel proper was large and ornamental; the rood screen was covered with gold leaf; enameled statues of saints smiled down from the heights. She gasped as they entered the Great Hall, with its mosaic floor and ceiling. The Hall opened onto a quadrangle, in which rose trees blossomed in their terracotta pots alongside bushes of jasmine. Blue clematis climbed the arches while bunches of lavender, rosemary and thyme lined the gravel paths. A heady fragrance overhung the garden like an invisible cloud.

  Jacques began to sneeze. “I hope, Sir Martin and Sir Gaston that you can sup with us this evening in our quarters. I have ordered a hearty supper which our own chef is even now preparing.” Raphaëlle suppressed both surprise and anger, for Jacques had not consulted her. Even scullions and varlets were notified when guests were to be invited. But she smiled serenely as if she had known all along. “It would delight me,” accepted Sir Martin. “I shall greatly anticipate it.” And he bowed again to Raphaëlle.

  “Alas, I have some duties to which I must attend,” lamented Sir Gaston. “I am in charge of the hospital this evening. But we shall see each other tomorrow at the feast.”

  “You did not tell me we were having company!” she scolded Jacques as they returned to their chamber in the hostel.

  “Do you object, Madame?” he asked, sternly.

  “No!” she declared. She could not understand how Jacques could invite Sir Martin to dinner when he had such objections to his character. It seems he thought the social advantages overcame the troubles of the past, whatever they had been. Her annoyance rapidly turned into pleasure, and she hastened to change her surcoat, as Jacques had already changed his. At least she did not have to worry with her coiffure. Since her marriage, she habitually wore a stiff, high-crowned wimple, with a barbette that covered her chin almost to her lips. Her hidden hair was braided and wound into a bun at the back of her head.

  Sir Martin appeared at the appointed hour, and a supper of garlic, bean, and bacon soup, a ripe cheese along with bread, fruit, and wine were promptly served by Jacques’ butler and the two pages that he had brought along. The three of them sat at a small table near an open window. Jehanette and Bertrande whispered and ate on a bench along the wall, near the knave Robert. Sir Martin asked the blessing; then Jacques himself poured the knight a cup of wine, while he shared his with Raphaëlle. At first the conversation revolved around politics, but quickly drifted into matters of religion. “We have invited several noble families of Toulouse to our fête,” continued Martin. “Many do not have the means for a festival of their own, not after twenty years of war and destitution.”

  “I am glad that the King and the Queen-Mother refuse to tolerate heresy,” said Jacques. “The filth of Catharism has penetrated everywhere. Even the songs of the troubadours have become quite heavy-handed against marriage. Some of them say that true love cannot exist in marriage, but only outside of it.”

  “I happen to know from experience that that is not the case,” replied Sir Martin. He seemingly ignored Raphaëlle as he ate. She, in turn, focused on her husband and the food. Jacques was sponging up the dregs of his soup with his bread.

  “I believe that only in Heaven, after the general resurrection, will we know the meaning of bliss,” added Sir Martin. “The original unity between Man and Woman will be fully restored.”

  “That is true,” agreed Jacques, wiping his mouth on the tablecloth, and then blowing his nose. He had been sniffling ever since the visit to the rose garden.

  “For man and woman to be one is part of the divine plan,” stated Martin, philosophically. “Even fornication, although it is a sin, is still according to the natural law, and therefore not as sinful as the unnatural vices.”

  “Monsieur, forgive me, but I do not wish my wife to hear of such matters,” interrupted Jacques. Raphaëlle flushed. “He thinks me a fool,” she thought. Sir Martin raised his cup to her.

  “Alas, but here are you and I, my friend, in outposts far from the places of honor,” lamented Jacques. “I would prefer to be in Paris, and you must long to be in Jerusalem.”

  “Not so, Sir Jacques,” replied Martin. “I would prefer to be with my kin near Carcassonne. This region, however, is not without its consolations.” He poured himself more wine and likewise refilled the cup Raphaëlle was sharing with Jacques. As she dipped her bread into the mustard, he did the same; his fingers lingered against hers. When Jacques turned momentarily to give directions to the servants, Martin's eyes were upon her like a lodestone. He gazed with such sweetness and ardor that she felt faint, especially when she realized his knee was pressing against hers. She edged away.

  Afterwards, when in bed with her husband, after the curtains were drawn, she lay staring up at the canopy. How could so much happiness be mixed with so much pain and confusion? What was going to happen? She could not exist without Sir Martin’s love. If only she could be certain that he loved her; she could then be content and live happily even if she could not be with him. Jacques was already beginning to snore. She shook him. “Jacques!”

  “What is it?” he asked, groggily.

  “I wonder… Sir Martin... does he appear to be flirting with me? What say you, my lord?”

  “Zut alors! He would only flirt with a very beautiful woman. Go to sleep.” And he began to snore again. After shedding a few desperate tears, Raphaëlle slept.

  During Mass the next morning she refused to look at Sir Martin, although she could feel his eyes upon her, as she tried to concentrate on her prayers. She then joined a half a dozen other noble ladies on a bench in front of the hostel, where they were making garlands and wreaths, and nibbling raisin tarts. She found herself seated beside a tall, young matron with round, brown eyes and freckled, plump cheeks, partly hidden by her wimple. She was perhaps only a year or two older than Raphaëlle and had four small children playing in front of her in the square. She introduced herself as Béatrice de l'Avreyon and after exchanging pleasantries, she inquired of Raphaëlle how she came to be at the fête. “My husband and I were invited by Sir Martin de Revel-Saissac.”

  “Ah, Sir Martin. We have been friends with him for many, many years, my husband and I,” replied Béatrice, deftly weaving together the roses, foxglove, rosemary, Saint John's wort and other herbs from a basket at her feet. “He is the bravest of the brave, to be sure.”

  “You know him well, then!" exclaimed Raphaëlle, sucking her finger as she pricked it upon a thorn. “Were you acquainted with his wife?”

  “No, not I. But my cousin, who dwells on the Montagne Noire, is very intimate with the House of Revel-Saissac. She often saw the Lady Elena de Rosas, a great beauty from Catalonia. Sir Martin married her when he was sixteen, after being knighted. Alas, she died a year later. Martin was devastated, and spent fourteen months at the shrine of Saint Guilhem-le-Desert. Then he joined the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John.”

  “He must have loved her very much,” murmured Raphaëlle.

  “Indeed, he did,” agreed Lady Bèatrice, lowering her tone. “However, there are many that say he should have married again.”

  Raphaëlle nodded. “He does seem to be very fond of the company of ladies.”

  “Fond! I should say!” Lady Bèatrice took a bite of raisin tart, then continued, her voice falling to a whisper. “Be wary of him! My cousin says that two years ago he was found with a lady who was estranged from her husband, embracing her in her br
other's orchard. The lady was sent to a nunnery; his family managed to keep the tale hushed up, to avoid a scandal. There is also talk of another lady, who took her own life. He was known to be friendly with her family. She was newly married, and most likely he had no involvement with her. Nevertheless, there are rumors wherever he goes.”

  “Why? Is it because he is so handsome?”

  “Partially. I think perchance it is because he likes to play the troubadour, not choosing a lady love, but paying court to all ladies. With the young and innocent, such mischief can cause anguish and turmoil.” In Raphaëlle's inner core, it was as if she had been gutted. Was she just one more inconsequential flirtation? Did he gaze at all ladies with such intensity? Her mouth went dry. She could not speak.

  “Well,” continued Lady Béatrice, “my husband is convinced that someday Sir Martin will seek to be dispensed from his vows, and marry. It would be better for him to be a steady married man than a wayward cleric.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” sighed Raphaëlle.

  Lady Béatrice’s voice lowered itself to a whisper. “It has been said that he has dabbled in heresy, for he has gone as a welcomed guest to many Cather strongholds. They say he has participated in their secret ceremonies. But, here I go, gossiping again. How my confessor will scold me when he hears of it!” They spoke no more of Sir Martin but applied themselves to the decorations. The mood was buoyant; the outbursts of laughter, frequent, yet Raphaëlle passed the day in a trance. How she envied the woman he had been found with in the orchard! She envied Elena de Rosas, so beautiful, so loved by Sir Martin! She even envied Lady Béatrice, who was his friend. She longed to be his friend, his confidante, if she could not be his true love. How wrong of her to have such thoughts! And she should not have been listening to gossip in the first place! As a penance she decided to visit the hospital, to see if there were any chores that she could do. An older matron was in charge of the women’s ward, and she busied Raphaëlle with the task of emptying chamber pots, which Raphaëlle deemed a suitable and soul-cleansing penance under the circumstances. She happened to pass the men’s ward, and paused a moment at the sight of her husband tending to a patient. Jacques must have asked to volunteer as well, and she was amazed to see him cleaning the mess of an incontinent old man, removing the stinking small clothes and linens and wiping the soiled flesh as gently as if the man were a baby. She could not hear what he was saying but she could tell from his tone that his words were gentle and soothing.