She saw Sir Gaston enter from another doorway. “Sir Jacques, I am glad you are here! We have a patient who has just been brought in, a lad with a bad cut on his foot from a scythe. I recall how you excelled at stitching wounds. Please come!”
Jacques settled the old man and then quickly followed Sir Gaston. Raphaëlle was amazed; she had no idea that Jacques was such a skilled healer, and so meek and gentle with the lowliest. It was a side of him she would never have fathomed; she found herself longing that he would always be as tender with her.
Soon it was time to dress for the feast. She wore her red samite wedding gown and the kirtle of gold and vermilion cord, without the surcoat. Her head was covered with only a white silk veil, augmented by a gold filigree circle. She had Jehanette comb out her hair, so that it rippled down her shoulders and her back.
“Are you pleased, my lord?” she asked her husband, as she emerged from behind the portable screen. His dark eyes ran over her in a somber manner.
“Your eyebrows need plucking, and your nails, buffing. You are not as well-groomed as a lady of your station should be. But it is too late now. Come, let us go.”
The feast was held in the square in front of the Hospitallers’ castle. In a corner, jugglers and acrobats were already entertaining. Youths were filling their cups from the casks of wine that had been rolled into the arcade. Pigs roasted on spits, as well as mutton, venison, capons, pheasants and geese. There were baskets of oranges, grapes, and persimmons and platters of bread and cheeses. On another table were marzipan and bowls of dates, almonds, raisins and figs. Some children were throwing old bones, rags and scraps onto a pile of logs, sticks, and kindling, not far from the fountain. The sun was setting; the Saint John's fire would soon be lit.
Sir Martin, with about sixty Hospitallers and their chaplain, came out onto the front portico of the castle. The villagers cheered. Sir Martin's regard fastened upon Raphaëlle immediately, as if he had known ahead of time where she would be standing. Looking at her, he bade welcome to all, then the chaplain blessed the feast. There were benches set up throughout the square, and all ate heartily, peasants, nobles, and Hospitallers, mingling in the dusk, amid the sparkle of fireflies. Then the great moment came, the moment to light the bonfire. Sir Martin took a burning torch, which the chaplain blessed, then lit the pile of wood and rubbish. Flames leaped up, the youths and children hooted and clapped. Amid such pervasive joy sadness took flight, although the hurt of her husband’s criticism ached in Raphaëlle’s heart. The wine flowed; she lost count of how many cups she herself drank. Young lads set afire old wagon wheels, which they rolled through the streets of the village, as others ran beside them with torches. The entire landscape was illumined like a dream of faery. Music burst forth, and the dancing began. There were fiddles, drums and bells, harp and psaltery, horns and lute, merging together in a boisterous harmony. The village lads leaped in a circle around the bonfire with their torches. The maidens formed another circle around the fountains, joined, twirled and clapped. Entwined with the music were Saint John's carols, led by an older peasant man with a rousing baritone voice. Raphaëlle saw Jehannette dancing with the knave Robert, each smiling broadly into each other’s faces, careless and carefree.
Raphaëlle looked around for Jacques. He was engaged in conversation with a group of knights, of both clerical and lay variety. Across the square, in the flickering of torch and firelight, Sir Martin leaned against a garlanded pillar, sipping a cup of wine, and staring at Raphaëlle. Raphaëlle turned quickly away. There was a voice at her arm.
“How do you enjoy our feast, Madame?” It was Sir Gaston. He was courteous and deferential but modest as a monk; he reminded her of Friar Hound.
“Very much, Sir Gaston, very much.”
“That is good. I saw you standing here alone and feared you were not having a merry time. May I fetch you some food?”
“Oh, no thank you, Monsieur.” Perhaps it was the wine or her husband’s neglect or Sir Gaston’s guileless manner that made her want to open her heart to him, and she found herself almost bursting into tears. “I must tell you, though, that my heart is heavy. I have been hearing terrible rumors about Sir Martin.”
Sir Gaston’s clear brow furrowed. “Alas, Madame, there are many rumors about Sir Martin. Although he is my brother in the Order, I must tell you, as you have surely found out by now, that his imprudent behavior feeds much of the gossip about himself. In confidence, you must be aware that our superiors are ready to discipline him for his laxity, and for coming very close to ruining his vocation. There are many who think he joined the Hospitallers too soon after his wife’s death, and that he may not have had a genuine vocation to the celibate life. Yes, there are many clerics who fall, but a knight such as Sir Martin, who is so greatly admired, revered, and loved by all, has the potential for giving enormous scandal, more so than a dozen mediocre clerics.”
Raphaëlle trembled but was able to restrain her tears. “Sir Gaston, I hate to repeat such gossip, but I must know the truth. I heard today that some think that Sir Martin is a secret Cathar. I know he has fought on the side of Cathar sympathizers such as my uncle. But has he given himself over to their heresy?”
Sir Gaston’s stern expression was replaced with one of humor. He smiled. “No, Madame, that is utter rubbish. Whatever his foibles and weaknesses, Sir Martin’s theology has been sound. He used to debate with the Cathars as a lad in the square of his hometown and elsewhere. Now how his behavior corresponds to what he believes is another matter altogether. He needs prayers and perhaps to be held more accountable for his actions by those with the proper authority. He is seen as being such a hero that few challenge his indiscretions. But such seemingly petty failings could be his undoing.”
“Well, it is good to know that he is at least not a heretic,” commented Raphaëlle, “for then there is more of a chance for him to reform his ways without having to change his belief structure.”
Sir Gaston surveyed the crowd on merrymakers.
“Where is Lady Béatrice? She is a good sort, although I would bid you not to believe all that she says.” He winked. “Stay at her side this evening and she will make certain you have a pleasant time and are not inconvenienced. I must check on the wine, to see that we have enough. Perhaps we will speak more later, although maybe it is better to put what we have said to rest.” He bowed and departed.
She searched for Lady Béatrice, who was in a corner near the spits, busy wiping her children's greasy and sticky faces and fingers. When Raphaëlle looked across the plaza again Sir Jacques was near the wine cask, deep in talk; Sir Gaston was nowhere to be seen, while Martin's unwavering gaze was still upon her.
“Are you going to dance?” asked Lady Béatrice.
“I do not think so.”
“Oh, come! Let us dance with the villagers! It is Saint John's Eve!” She grabbed Raphaëlle’s hand and led her into the circle, which was joined by other married women, as another song commenced. The dance started in slow steps, and then the leaps began. Raphaëlle laughed as she leaped, heeding only that her hair did not swirl into anyone’s torch. The next dance was more lyrical. The dancers broke into couples, husbands and wives, young sweethearts. Sir Martin danced with a plump matron, obviously a matriarch among the villagers. Raphaëlle could not take her eyes from his graceful movements, so amazingly flowing for a man of his size. Jacques continued to talk with the men. There was no one for Raphaëlle to dance with, so she sat down with Lady Béatrice and her children.
The festivity rollicked along. Raphaëlle rose to get some marzipan for the children. She bumped against someone. It was Sir Martin. He spoke in a tone so soft she barely heard him.
“The garden is a paradise at night. I will be there as the moon rises.” She moved quickly away, in a muddle from the wine. Had she heard him correctly? Béatrice was returning to the hostel, to put her children to bed. Raphaëlle threw herself into another dance. Then she gazed upwards, for the moon was glimmering on high. Sir Martin had vani
shed from the scene. She found herself dodging through the crowd to the castle portico. As she slipped into the hall, there was presented to her mind the illumination from her mother's Book of Hours portraying the Last Judgment, with the devils in Hell torturing the lost, burning souls, writhing among the worms. What if she committed adultery and then died a sudden and unprovided death, unshriven? She would be in danger of eternal damnation. However, she told herself that Sir Martin probably had no interest in her, but was merely flirting to pass the time. There was one thing for her to do. She must tell Sir Martin of her heart's inclinations, and beg him to stop toying with her; to leave her alone if necessary.
She ran through the hall to the arched portal that opened onto the quadrangle garden. The white jasmine petals gleamed in the moon's radiance. Their heady fragrance and that of the roses emanated a net of intoxication. Sir Martin’s form loomed before her in the shadow of two rose trees. She glided towards him, and then froze.
“Sir Martin?”
“Yes?”
“I have something to say to you.”
“What do you have to say, Lady Raphaëlle?”
“You must stop dallying with me.”
“I dally with all women,” he replied, lightly.
“It is cruel of you.”
“Perhaps,” he spoke, slowly. “I shall try to mend my ways.”
“Yes,” she agreed, haltingly, “but…but I have an inordinate attachment to you.”
“That is not vexatious to me,” he said, gently.
Her arms and legs began to quake. “It is cruel of you to make sport of me with your fond looks and gestures.” He fell silent, taking one step towards her. She could discern the contours of his face; the moonlight shimmered on his glossy black hair. Her mind went blank; with difficulty she remembered what she wanted to say. “I...I struggle to overcome my sentiments towards you, Sir Martin. At times, they seem more powerful than my…my very being. But I do believe in the honor and nobility of a pure love and a restrained passion.” Martin was now close enough to her so that he could have reached out and taken her in his arms.
“I have found,” he said, “that it is exceedingly difficult to be content with smelling the apple, when one wants to bite into it. Be glad that I am a man of virtue.
“What do you want from me?!” she cried, clasping her hands.
“I want nothing from you,” he insisted.
“Then leave me in peace!” she turned to depart.
“Wait!” he called, and she halted. His voice became urgent and intense. “My family holds a castle on the Golfe du Lion. It is very old, having been built by the Moors, and is not far from the Abbey de Font-Froide. I think you would like it. Someday, perhaps, you will go there.”
“I hope very much that my husband and I can travel there and make the acquaintance of your father and your mother,” she replied, with a semi-indifferent toss of the head. “My parents do not dwell at the castle. My father is ill; my mother cares for him at Saissac.”
“I should like to see the Abbey de Font-Froide,” she said, guardedly. “I hope we shall visit it someday.”
“Then Font-Froide shall be our place of rendezvous.” He stepped towards her again. “There is something I want from you.” She could not reply. He fell upon one knee. “I wish to ask the favor of your kirtle as a token to wear beneath my mail.”
She carefully untied the gold and scarlet cord, removing it from her waist. She went to him, placing it in his hands. His fingers caressed hers as he rose to his feet. Clasping the kirtle, he bent towards her, so that she felt his breath upon her face. Her eyes closed, and her lips parted. She stepped backwards, knowing that if she did not leave his presence at that moment, she would be lost. Without looking back or saying another word, Raphaëlle ran from the garden. She sped through the merrymakers to the hostel. Once in her chamber, she quickly climbed into bed but sleep was impossible. When Jacques came at last, she pretended to be asleep. He had bathed since their wedding, and smelled much better. Soon he began to snore, while she drenched her pillow in tears.
Chapter 13: The Shadow
“Silence, woman!” Jacques shouted at her. “Do not raise your voice to me!”
“I was not raising my voice!” she exclaimed. Her every action had elicited criticism from him that day. He had found fault with the garden; it was not being watered enough, he claimed. He had berated her again for her clothes, which she had tried to alter to make them more fashionable. He insisted that there were fleas in their bed. After Jehanette had thoroughly shaken out the bedding for the tenth time in a week, Raphaëlle would not hear another word about the habitation of fleas. Her adamancy incited the bluster of her husband, who took the slightest contradiction as a direct attack upon his authority.
“When is this castle going to be properly maintained?!” he yelled. Raphaëlle fumed. Clenching her fists, she held back a rush of rejoinders. How she detested him! He had become repulsive to her; she flinched away from his touch.
“There are no fleas in that bed!” she exclaimed. Ever since the feast on Saint John's Eve, Raphaëlle’s interaction with Jacques had crumbled. His ungracious attitude towards everything she tried to do was suddenly beyond enduring. His faults and the unpleasant habits tortured her. She would have preferred sleeping in the hayloft to sleeping at his side. Her life with Jacques was a rude charade. It had been a month since they left Fronton. Every moment away was an agony. The air was sweltering, the castle humid. Her nerves were taut. Watching Jehanette and Robert constantly flirt with one another added to her agony and outbursts of temper.
Jacques raised his hand as if to strike her. The blow never fell, but it was the fourth time in the last three days that he appeared to be on the brink of doing her violence. She did not care. It did not matter. If she could not be with Martin, then she was as good as dead anyway.
“If I say there are fleas in the bed, then there are fleas in the bed!” he raged, waving his hands in the air. “You have a crooked and shiftless spirit! If I had any sense, I would take a stick to you!”
“Go ahead! Nothing could make me loathe you anymore than I already do!” she exclaimed.
“Ah! Sacré bleu!” he swore, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I can bear no more! I am leaving! I depart within the hour!” He marched from the chamber.
“Good! Begone!” she exclaimed, wondering where he was going. She remembered the jewel she had found in the cave; she had never told her husband about it. The jewel now rested in a casket under her bed. She had cleaned and polished it, and enjoyed gazing at it when she felt depressed. What was its mystery? She often wondered in her waking moments. Did it incarnate the desire to be a god? Did it reflect within its facets the pride of the fallen angel who cried, “I will not serve!” before being cast down from the stars? She decided to look at it again.
“It is as if it has captured within itself a green fire,” she thought. “There is a something here beyond fathoming. I wonder what its secrets are? Why do the Cathars want it so? Perhaps it is not really bad in itself, but merely coveted for its value.” Raphaëlle was startled by Esterelle’s voice. Esterelle was in the doorway, staring at her.
“I knocked but you did not answer. I must speak with you,” said Esterelle, her tone as faint as her face was pale.
“I need to visit the mews,” said Raphaëlle, closing the jewel casket. Esterelle came in and shut the door.
“Oh, Raphaëlle!” cried the hermitess. “I begged you to tell no one! Why did you not leave the Grail stone where it was? Did I not explain that it is a thing of evil?! It should not be here! Only death will come of this!”
“Oh, forgive me!” said Raphaëlle, beginning to cry. “Bertrande dug it up and brought it along. She thought the jewel would replace my dowry.”
“I cannot stay here!” exclaimed Esterelle. “I will not stay under the same roof with the thing! God save us all! I will live at the hospital, but I will not set foot in this place again. Farewell!” And she was gone.
�
�Esterelle!” Raphaëlle called after her. “Do you not think you are being superstitious?” There was no reply. Raphaëlle tried to follow Esterelle, but she had vanished, so instead she went to the castle chapel to pray. There was the sound of a flurry of packing coming from her quarters, and sure enough, two hours later Jacques and his entourage trotted through the castle gates. The knave Robert stayed behind; he was sweet on Jehanette, and a betrothal was to be announced soon. Bertrande brought Raphaëlle some soup and wine for supper.
“Sir Jacques is going to Auvergne to visit your lands there,” she said. Raphaëlle's heart ached at the thought of a stranger occupying her castle and ordering around her people. How cruel of him! He knew how homesick she was for the Château de Miramande! Bertrande put her hand on Raphaëlle's shoulder. “Madame, there is something you should know. Robert overheard Sir Jacques speaking with his lieutenant. He said he might go to the bishop and have your marriage annulled, and send you to a nunnery. He said that the betrothal occurred in such haste that some point of canon law might have been breached, which could be used as grounds. He also accuses you of being barren.”
“Barren! We have been married only three months!” exclaimed Raphaëlle in disbelief.
The Night's Dark Shade Page 15
