The Night's Dark Shade
Page 16
“Yes, Madame. But Sir Jacques shouted that you should have conceived by now, for he has been doing his part!”
Raphaëlle buried her face in her hands in disbelief. He cared nothing for her, seeing her merely as a brood mare. She hoped she never saw him again. “Very well,” she said at last. “Let him annul the marriage. Then I shall be free.” And she envisioned Sir Martin's Moorish castle on the Golfe du Lion.
Soon it was August, and Raphaëlle went frequently to the village, now completely rebuilt. The hospital, next to the parish church, was finished. It was a simple grey stone structure with a single ward of twenty curtained trestle beds. Wives of local gentry and prosperous peasants volunteered in caring for the sick, under Esterelle's and Friar André’s joint supervision.
“Father Hound,” she said one day to the friar as she was folding the bandages for the hospital, while he was coming from hearing confessions at the hospital. “May I speak with you?” It was amazing how many former Cathars were lining up every Saturday afternoon at the parish church to benefit from the friar’s wisdom and absolution. She had just confessed to him herself and was a bit more peaceful but felt the need of more spiritual guidance.
“Yes, my daughter. Let me help you with the bandages. Or shall we sit by the fountain?” The hospital being next to the Church, it was easy to stroll over and sit at the edge of the pond surrounding the fountain. It was in the shape of St. James of Compostela with water pouring forth from the cockle shells. Friar Hound had repaired the statue after Robert the knave had fixed the pump. They sat and while listening to the water, Raphaëlle covered her face with her hands and wept. “I do not know what to do. My husband has left me. He despises me and I despise him. Should I seek a decree of nullity?”
“No, no,” said Father Hound. “Your husband loves you. You have just gotten off to a rocky start. He will return. Do not make any drastic decisions yet. You already asked for a dispensation to marry your cousin Raymond, then for a nullification of the betrothal to him. To petition so soon for an annulment of your marriage of a few months will be to tax the patience of the marriage tribunal. I beg you to be patient and pray, especially pray your Aves on the rosarium chaplet.”
“Yes, Father Hound, I will.” That night she slept fitfully, alone in her big bed. She dreamed of Raoul de Cambasque with his beard, and his band of masked thieves. She saw among them a shadowy, hooded figure. Her eyes fluttered open, but her spirit remained drifting in dreamland. The shady, hooded form was in her chamber. In the dim glow of the oil lamp which gleamed before the icon of the Angel Raphael which Jehanette had brought from Mirambel, the shadow moved stealthily about the room, shuffling through books and papers, opening chests and looking under cushions. It came to the foot of her bed. Dread penetrated to the marrow of her bones. Perhaps she fainted, or fell back to sleep, for when next she opened her eyes, Bertrande was standing there in her shift. The light of dawn heightened the expression of terror upon her face.
“He was here last night,” she whispered.
“Who? Who was here?” asked Raphaëlle, sitting up.
“Raymond. He was here. In the chamber.”
“Bertrande, you are mad. Raymond is far away.”
“Madame,” she insisted, “he may well be. But I saw him here last night. I was so frightened, I could not move. I did not dare move or speak until the sun began to rise.”
“How did you know it was Raymond? Did you see his face?”
“Yes, I did. Before he left, he leaned over me, placing his finger upon his lips. I recognized him by his long, thin fingers, and the one blue-grey eye that was uncovered.”
“How did he leave?”
“Through the door. He had a key. He must have stolen it from the steward.” Bertrande was shaking; her teeth clattered. Raphaëlle would have thought it was another of Bertrande's odd hallucinations, except for her own waking dream.
“You are shivering, Bertrande. Go back to sleep. The sun is shining, and all the ghouls and ghosts must return to the netherworld.” Within moments, Bertrande was fast asleep on her pallet. Raphaëlle lay there, wondering what to do. It was clear she must have a sentry posted at her door at all times. What did it mean? How could Raymond be so far from his home? Well, the first thing she had to do was consult with Esterelle.
There were footsteps in the gallery. Someone was pounding on the door. She threw on her dressing gown, and bade a sleepy Jehanette to see who was there. Robert entered. The knave was openly weeping. “Madame! I beg pardon! The Lady Esterelle! She has been murdered!”
“No!” cried Raphaëlle. Bertrande ran into the room. “A hunter found her at dawn, outside the hospital. A knife was in her back!” “Oh, no! No! Oh, God!” wailed Raphaëlle, and she clung to Bertrande, both of them convulsed with tears.
Chapter 14: The Dawn
“In Paradisum,” intoned Friar André, choking with grief. “Deducant te angeli,” responded the village choir. “May the angels lead thee into Paradise.” It was the conclusion of Esterelle’s funeral Mass, and the six robust knights who had vied with each other to be pallbearers were carrying the shrouded bier with Esterelle’s body down the steps of the parish church. The hermitess was to be buried in the churchyard. Raphaëlle as chief mourner walked directly behind the coffin, her face and form swathed in white veils. Bertrande, draped in black, walked beside her, and the two girls gave the appearance of holding each other up. The entire household of the castle, as well as the whole population of the village surrounded them, for Esterelle had been universally loved and venerated. Even the Frankish garrison was present, for her charity had won all hearts.
The peasants pushed close to the shrouded body, trying to touch their paternoster beads to it.
“Chorus angelorum te suscipia.” “May the choir of angels receive thee.”
Raphaëlle’s outward tears were nothing compared to her inward weeping and sense of loss. What would she do without her friend Esterelle? Why did God take from her everyone she loved? Was she expiating a sin, her own or someone else's? She did not know.
“Et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.” “And may thou have eternal rest with Lazarus, who once was poor.” The anthem concluded. People continued to spill out of the church with moaning and lamentation. Then a scream pierced the air. One of the choirboys fell to the ground, an arrow in his shoulder. A shower of arrows followed it. They were being attacked.
“Everyone to the ground!” shouted one of the knights. Raphaëlle and Bertrande threw themselves down. Shrieks and sobs surrounded them. The knights and men-at-arms immediately formed a human barricade around the defenseless villagers. “It is the faydit Raoul de Cambasque, Madame,” called the knave Robert to Raphaëlle. The knights charged into the forest where the brigands were hiding, led by the Frankish lieutenant. The attackers were beaten back, but three villagers had been killed, and about twenty were injured. Raphaëlle’s distress was turning into panic. What was to be done? Could it be possible that her uncle would make use of a faydit to make war upon her? How could Jacques have abandoned her when the region was in a state of unrest? Now he was too far away to be of any assistance. Mercifully, she had sent a messenger to Sir Martin as soon as Esterelle’s body was found, asking for his help. He should be there within the fortnight.
In the meantime, the jewel casket under the bed was missing. The Raymond-ghoul whom both she and Bertrande had seen in the night had probably stolen it. However, she was too saddened by Esterelle’s death to care about the jewel.
Four days later, when the summer sun was high, the watchman announced Sir Martin's approach. He had with him a company of sixteen Hospitallers. Raphaëlle hurried to meet him, her white gown billowing about her. He kissed her hand. “I departed within the hour of receiving your message. I am sorry to hear of Lady Esterelle’s death. May God rest her soul.”
Raphaëlle was so overcome with joy at his presence that she could barely speak. “May God reward you for coming to us, Sir Martin,” she said, huskily.<
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“We will deal with the brigands,” he assured her, gripping her hand, which he did not release for several moments, until she began to move away.
That evening Raphaëlle entertained the Knights Hospitaller with a feast. In spite of her ongoing anxieties, or perhaps because of them, the happiness of having Sir Martin sitting at her right hand, drinking from her cup of wine, rose to the level of delirium. As she spoke congenially to all the Knights, she felt Sir Martin's hand brush her knee. She thought she must have imagined it, until it happened again. She moved her leg away. He turned and looked at her disconsolately. The company fell to discussing the murder of Esterelle. She was so greatly loved for her charities; who would have killed her? However, Sir Martin said it was the work of a single criminal, for according to the knave Robert only one set of fresh footprints, other than Esterelle’s, had been found near the hospital. The dagger, moreover, was recognized as being from the château itself. A woodman had reported seeing a figure in black hastening towards the forest, as did the watchman on the castle walls. Had a local Cathar-in-hiding killed Esterelle? Or had Raymond found his way into their midst?
It was before dawn when Sir Martin and his knights, along with part of the Frankish garrison, rode to do battle with the robbers. They were gone for three days. On the evening of the third day, Sir Martin returned alone. He found her in the garden, watering the herbs and flowers in the summer dusk. She was bare-headed; her chestnut hair fell like a rippling mantle over her white linen gown. Martin's black surcoat was bloodstained and his chain mail torn. He removed his helm; his sooty hair was tousled and matted. His blue eyes, childlike and soft, penetrated her with their fervor. He staggered forward and kissed her hand.
“Madame, we routed the brigand and his men. My Hospitallers are pursuing them. The Franks have captured some to be tried by Imbert de Beaujeu.”
“Were there any Perfecti among them?” asked Raphaëlle.
“A man in black robes was seen fleeing with them into the hills.”
“How odd.” She told him of the intruder, whom Bertrande had insisted was Master Raymond.
Martin's dark brows creased. “Bertrande is a fey girl. This is a strange story.” He paused as if in thought. “Do you still sleep alone?”
“No, my maids sleep with me,” she said, continuing to water the lavender. “Are you wounded, Monsieur?”
“No.”
“Have you supped?”
“I have not eaten today. There was much to do,” he replied.
“I admire your restraint," she said, her heart pounding, as she moved over to a tub of rosemary.
“I am tired of being restrained!” he cried.
There was an intense pause. “I will send food to your quarters at once, and a knave to attend you,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She did not dare look at him again, for she would then be lost.
“How long has your husband been gone?” he asked. She almost dropped the pitcher she was using for watering the plants. The quavering of her voice could no longer be disguised.
“For almost a month,” she gasped. “He wants to have the marriage annulled.” She could not fathom why she was telling him of such an intimate matter. There was a tense and heavy silence. Then he spoke.
“What would you do?”
“I will retire to a nunnery,” she stated, tersely.
“No,” he commanded. “I have no other choice,” she sighed. “Raphaëlle,” he said. “Raphaëlle, you were meant to have a family. You will have children and build a household.” She tried not to weep. She bent so low, practically burying her face in the lemon balm. He continued, his tone light and nonchalant. “You would like my home at Saissac. It has stained-glass windows and tiled floors. It is not far from Carcassonne, which has a market such as I have not seen west of Outremer.”
“Perhaps someday I shall visit it.” She emptied the remainder of the water upon the rose tree.
He gazed upward. “Tonight will be a fine night. I think I will walk in the orchard once I have refreshed myself.” “Our orchard is at your disposal,” was her quavering reply. She looked up, but he had turned and was clanking away.
She dropped the pitcher and almost ran to her chamber. She gave directions to Jehanette to see that supper was sent up to Sir Martin and that the varlets drew a bath for him. Then she gripped the windowsill waiting for darkness to descend. A faint half-moon was growing brighter, even as the desire of being alone, completely, entirely alone, with Martin, under the bows of the orchard, heavy with ripening fruit, encompassed her like invisible flames. Then she sat at her table and taking up a quill, scratched out a few lines on a piece of parchment. She was startled from her agony by Bertrande, entering with Raphaëlle’s breviary in hand. It was the hour of Compline. Père André would be awaiting them in the chapel. Bertrande handed the book to Raphaëlle. While the younger girl could not read, she loved Compline; she knew the psalms, hymns and antiphons of the night prayer by heart. Jehanette usually joined them, and would participate by quietly telling her beads. Raphaëlle gave Bertrande the folded piece of parchment, sealed with a lump of wax.
“Take this to Sir Martin after Compline,” she whispered. Bertrande nodded.
They went to the chapel. Père André had been hard at work. The frescoes that had been covered by whitewash in the walls and ceiling of the apse were now partially revealed. Over the altar, looming out of the chipped whitewash, was the Virgin and Child surrounded by a myriad of angels. Usually, the expression of the Virgin appeared to be serene and detached but, as they chanted the office, it seemed to Raphaëlle that the Blessed Mother was smiling. At the end of the service, they sang the Salve Regina. Bertrande's soprano, as clear and sweet as an angel’s, rose above the rest. Raphaëlle felt as if her heart was being pierced. She knew in the depths of her soul that she could not go to Sir Martin in the orchard. She could never belong to him, or be a part of his life in this world.
“Did you see her?” whispered Bertrande to Raphaëlle after the asperges. “Our Lady was smiling at us!”
She waited until the others had withdrawn, and then gave vent to the storm of tears, kneeling before the makeshift altar. She did not dare to move. If she looked down into the orchard, and saw Sir Martin walking there, she would not have the strength to keep from joining him. And then she did not know how she would act, or how he would respond. She remembered the song he had sung at her wedding feast.
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 was overwhelmed with the excruciating longing for death. To be so close to him and yet so divided by divine and human law was an unspeakable pain. She knelt in the chapel, keeping her eyes upon the Virgin, and the mysterious smile. She brought out her paternoster beads and began to murmur her Aves, although she was too weary to genuflect over and over again. Instead, she prostrated herself flat upon the floor of the chapel. If she could only make it through that one night…Hour after hour she prayed out her anguish. She did not know if she slept or not or if she fell into a dream or not. She was only aware that in her mind’s eye she saw the Queen of Heaven with the Divine Child, both smiling upon her, as the angels sang hymns too fair for the human mind to grasp.
Eventually, a pale gleam began illuminating the milky-green glass windows. She could hear the call of the lark, and the distant chorus of birds. Exhausted and shaking, Raphaëlle stumbled through the half-light of dawn to her chamber, still clinging to her beads. There were noises from the courtyard. She went to her window, and saw Sir Martin mounting his dappled destrier. The eight-pointed cross on his surcoat appeared brighter in the glimmering aurora. In a moment, he was clattering towards the gates and then he was gone from her sight. A tortured moan escaped her lips, as she recalled the message she had written to him in the evening that was now passed.
Monsieur,
Raphaëlle de Miramande
Chapter 15: Capture
Raphaëlle sat in the sloping apple orchard, on the west side of the castle, between the lower walls of defense. Bertrande and Jehanette gathered apples nearby. Canopied by the heavily laden bows, fragrant with fruit, the waxy leaves shimmering in the sun, she relished there a last vestige of Eden. She had spent many hours in that spot since Martin’s departure a month ago. She often leaned her head back against the gnarled trunk, as the memory of everything that had happened wrenched her being. She was an adulteress, or at least she was being branded as one. Martin’s solitary arrival and swift departure had set tongues wagging, not only at the Château de la Bécède, but also throughout the region. Lady Béatrice de l'Avreyon and her family had stopped by on their way to Compostela. What she had to tell cut Raphaëlle to the heart.
“People are talking about you and Sir Martin,” Lady Béatrice whispered to her when they strolled in the garden after dinner, as the children ran about and played. “They say the two of you have been seen speaking intimately together any number of times, and that he spent the night here when your husband was away. Is it true?” Raphaëlle blushed at such bluntness. Had someone been spying on her?
“He stayed the night here,” she replied, “but not in my company. As for our conversations, yes, Sir Martin has been a friend to me, and has guided me with his counsel.”
“Ah, Sir Martin says differently. We met him at an inn near the gates of Toulouse. He is furious at the gossip. He claims you are a mere acquaintance, and that he hardly knows you, although you flung yourself at him. He said that he plans in the future to avoid you and he hopes that you avoid him.” Raphaëlle’s throat constricted. She could barely reply.