They had started toward the church when a voice at their backs hailed them in Latin.
“Brother monks!” cried a man who had emerged from the palace gates. He wore the baggiest trousers Ciarán had ever seen, with one leg red and the other green. A crimson tunic, bulky cloak clasped with a broach, and foppish hat completed the man’s ensemble. “Don’t leave!” He hurried up to the two monks and took a moment to catch his breath. “His grace, Duke William of Aquitaine, invites you to sup with him this afternoon, to reward you for aiding his cousin, the lady of Selles-sur-Cher.”
Dónall winked at Ciarán and then smiled at the man, who introduced himself as Duke William’s steward. “We would be honored,” he replied.
“Excellent!” The steward eyed both monks up and down and crinkled his nose. “Of course, that won’t do.”
“What?” Ciarán asked.
“Your clothes, or whatever you call that undyed sackcloth. You’ll have to change. You both reek of horsehair and—if you don’t mind my saying—look as if you haven’t washed in ages. I’ll try to round up some suitable habits from the Benedictines.”
Ciarán’s jaw clenched. “We’ll never wear—”
“That would do nicely, thank you,” Dónall interjected, placing a calming hand on Ciarán’s forearm.
“Good, then,” the steward said. “Follow me.”
“Relax, lad,” Dónall said in answer to Ciarán’s annoyed glance. The sparkle had returned to his eyes. “There’s an old saying for times like these: ‘When in Rome . . .’”
*
The steward led them across the palace courtyard, through a rabbit warren of passageways beneath the main structure, eventually stopping at a small chamber that contained a privy and washbasin. Judging by the room’s simplicity, it probably belonged to the palace servants. When the steward left, Ciarán and Dónall washed themselves. Ciarán found the cold water refreshing on his wind-bitten face. The steward soon returned to drop off a pair of clean habits and cowls, all dyed Benedictine black. After he left, Ciarán held up the smaller of the habits. “I can’t believe we’ve sunk so low.”
“Actually,” Dónall said, “these will do quite well. If Adémar or Lucien should have men trying to find us, we’d stand out like a cow’s bum in our Irish clothes. I doubt there’s another gray-robed monk in the whole city. But between the Benedictines and the Cluniacs, there’s hundreds in black.”
“Cluniacs?”
“From the Abbey of Cluny. It was founded by one of the first dukes of Aquitaine. They’re like the Benedictines, but far more serious in their devotion and even narrower-minded, if you can picture that.”
“Can’t wait to meet them,” Ciarán said. He pulled the Benedictine habit over his head, followed by the cowl, and tied the cord around his waist.
“Smile, lad,” Dónall said. “Black suits you.”
Ciarán scowled, though he welcomed the old familiar sparkle in place of the melancholy that had lingered in Dónall’s eyes since they left Saint-Bastian’s. When the steward came to fetch them after what seemed like an hour, they had transformed into black-robed Benedictines.
“Much, much better,” the steward said. “Those woolen sacks you rode in with were simply dreadful.” Ciarán wanted to hit the man, but a stern glance from Dónall made him think better of it.
As the steward led them up a stairwell to the palace’s main floor, a bell rang announcing supper. They entered a small foyer that opened into a hall of breathtaking size. The palace hall must be fifty feet wide and nearly three times as long, with a lofty ceiling supported by thick wooden trusses.
“Our whole oratory would fit in here,” Ciarán whispered. Dónall simply nodded, enthralled by the chamber’s grandeur. Arcades and pillars ran along the walls, broken only by narrow windows covered in vellum thin enough to let sunlight spill through. Three massive hearths, each with a crackling fire, dominated the center of the far wall, and a carpet of fresh green rushes scented with basil and cowslip covered the floor. In the center of the hall, a long trestle table was covered with a white cloth and set with silver flagons, pewter cups, and fine wood mazers. Along the table were chairs instead of benches, and an ornately carved high-backed chair stood at the table’s head. Many of the guests were already seated.
“I suspect you’re not used to this,” the steward whispered, “but today you dine with lords and ladies, so act like you’ve been here before.” Ciarán glowered, but Dónall calmed him with a friendly nudge.
The steward nodded toward a matronly woman seated to the left of the high-backed chair. A broad, pleated wimple covered her head, and a jeweled cross hung from her neck, over a damask dress. “The lady at the head of the table is Emma of Blois, duchess of Aquitaine and mother to our fair duke. Next to her”—the steward indicated a man with a thick mustache and a head of curly black hair—“is Lord Ramiro, ambassador of His Majesty, King Alfonso of León.”
“Who are the Cluniacs?” Dónall nodded toward two black-robed monks seated to the right of the high-backed chair. One was a haughty-looking fellow whose girth suggested he rarely missed a meal, and the other was an old, sallow-faced priest in a canon’s black robe.
“Prior Bernard of the abbey of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand,” the steward replied, “and the older priest is Canon Frézoul of the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne.” The two clerics eyed Ciarán and Dónall critically, but Ciarán’s eyes were on the figure two seats to the Cluniacs’ right. For there she was, sitting beside Lord Raymond, and Ciarán had never seen her so magnificently attired. Instead of the simple dress she had worn since they left Selles, she wore a wine-red gown with a white mantle. A wimple covered her head, and while she certainly looked noble, Ciarán realized he much preferred seeing her long raven hair to the severe cloth wimple. She smiled demurely at them but quickly looked away as Raymond leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Ciarán felt his cheeks turn warm.
“Remember your vows, lad,” Dónall whispered.
The steward looked annoyed at their comments. “You obviously know Lord Raymond and the Lady of Selles-sur-Cher. The other three gentlemen,” he said of the cavaliers sitting at both sides of the table, “are lords of His Grace: Lord Dalmas, Lord Guy, and Lord Trencaval.”
The steward urged Ciarán and Dónall toward two empty chairs beside Lord Trencaval. Dónall glanced again at the two black-robed clerics. “Where’s the abbot?” he whispered to the steward.
“Duke William is lay abbot,” the steward replied, “and here he comes.” The steward bounded toward the far end of the table and announced in a formal voice, “All rise for William, Count of Poitou and Duke of all Aquitaine!”
Everyone at the table stood and turned as a slender man of average height approached through an archway. He had an angular face and a head of wavy, short-cropped hair that made him look like the illuminations of Caesar Augustus that Ciarán had seen in books from Rome. A pleated white cape draped one shoulder and hung to the heel of his calfskin shoe, and a golden medallion hung from his neck against a crimson tunic. He motioned for his guests to be seated as the steward pulled out his chair. Then William of Aquitaine surveyed his guests, stopping with Alais, to whom he cast a warm smile. “How blessed am I to have my dear cousin returned to me safely!” he said in a voice that seemed less commanding and more feminine than Ciarán had expected.
“I am grateful, and thankful to be home,” Alais said, smiling.
“Fulk’s defeat was a sign, Your Grace,” Raymond interjected. “We were in the right; they were in the wrong.”
Prior Bernard nodded his approval. “God favors the righteous.”
“Oh, how right you are, Bernard,” William said. “Without just cause, Fulk invaded the lands of a daughter of Aquitaine and a vassal of the king. God has condemned Fulk for the devil he is. The tide of this conflict is turning.” He raised his cup of wine. “To deliverance!”
Ciarán drank. The wine tasted dark and rich. He followed it with a second, heartier gulp.
�
��I am told that two men of God helped rescue our fair Alais from the villain,” William said to Ciarán and Dónall. “Remind me of your names, brother monks.”
“I am Dónall mac Taidg of Derry,” Dónall answered, “and this is—”
“Ciarán mac Tomás, my lord,” Ciarán interjected, earning a raised brow from Dónall.
William stroked his chin. “Your names sound Irish, yet you appear before me as refined Benedictines.”
Dónall nodded politely. “We are indeed Irish, but we have your steward to thank for these fine robes. And we are most grateful for your hospitality.”
“Tell us how you came to save our fair Alais,” William said.
“We had nothing to do with it, really, “Dónall replied. Alais watched him carefully as he spoke. “It was the wind. It stirred into a tempest, and the count and his men fled like rabbits before the hounds.”
“A tempest, you say?” asked Emma of Blois.
“A cyclone, actually,” Ciarán said.
Lord Ramiro clapped his hands. “How remarkable!”
“It’s another sign,” William said breathlessly. “God stands with us now.”
“Is it true the bishop of Blois was present?” Prior Bernard asked. Alais turned pale, and Ciarán noticed the fear in her eyes.
“The bishop was there,” Raymond replied, “with Fulk the Black.”
“I heard that the bishop was hunting heretics,” Canon Frézoul added in a raspy voice.
Prior Bernard eyed Alais warily. “There have been many rumors of heresy in the Touraine of late. But in coming to Selles-sur-Cher, the bishop must have been mistaken.”
“Of course,” William said. “Adémar of Blois has always been a faithful man. Surely he tried to temper Fulk’s actions, but I suspect that not even a man of God could reach that black soul.”
Leaning toward Dónall, Ciarán whispered, “Some man of God.”
“Amen to that,” Dónall said under his breath.
When the conversation grew quiet, the duke clapped his hands. “Shall we eat?” he said. “Prior, lead us in the grace.”
Prior Bernard obliged, and when he finished, servants emerged from the archways carrying bowls and platters. The aroma of roast pork and steaming onion stew spilled into the hall. A whole roast pig with an apple in its mouth was set in the center of the table, flanked by platters of pheasant and bowls of peas and nuts. Several of the servers drew long knives and began carving the meat, while others served bowls of stew and refilled the cups with wine. Ciarán heaped several helpings of pheasant on his mazer and topped it with spoonfuls of peas, ignoring the steward’s disapproving gaze.
“Alais informs me that Brother Dónall studied at Reims,” Raymond said with a wry smile once the meal began.
“Is that true?” William asked. “Many great scholars come from Reims.”
“And many controversial ones,” Prior Bernard added. “The rumors of heresy at Reims are legendary. Did you witness any such things while you were there, Brother Dónall?”
Dónall cocked his brow. “If by ‘heresy’ you mean the study of Virgil and Aristotle, then yes, it was rampant.”
Prior Bernard sniffed in disapproval. “Authors of lies, all of them. Rome should have acted more sternly against that den of heresy. I’ve even heard of monks at Reims studying Saracen texts. What will be next: the heretical mysticism of the Jews? Those who sided with the devil in the persecution of our Lord and Savior? You know, Brother Dónall, Saint Peter knew none of these works—only God’s word. And we would all do well to remember the words of our great Pope Gregory: ‘The same mouth shall sing not the praises of Jove and the praises of Christ.’ Don’t you agree, Brother Dónall?”
Ciarán had stopped eating, and the tension around the table had grown palpable. Dónall stroked his beard for a moment, then said, “I actually prefer the words of our Irish saint Columcille: ‘Don’t banish the bards,’ he said. ‘Just make them teach others what they know.’”
Prior Bernard’s lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes narrowed to reproachful slits. Before he could respond, William interjected, “I’ve always found the Irish to be a curious people. Charlemagne always kept the council of an Irish monk. Perhaps it’s because he, too, found them so curious.”
Ciarán whispered to Dónall, “Glad we amuse him.”
Canon Frézoul turned toward them and pointed a crooked finger from his shaking hand. “You know, the time fast approaches, Brother Dónall, when men will be judged by what they believe. The Antichrist stirs. The day of judgment draws nigh!”
Ciarán spoke without thinking. “And you know this for certain?”
“You presume to challenge me?” Canon Frézoul gasped.
Dónall tugged at Ciarán’s sleeve, but Ciarán shook him off. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there are a hundred questions we don’t know the answers to, so it seems a bit presumptuous to think you know when this will happen, or how people will be judged.”
“It is the ignorance and hubris of youth that breeds presumptuousness!” Canon Frézoul growled.
“Who says the world has to end so soon?” Ciarán pressed. “What if mankind can prevent this?”
Canon Frézoul pounded a fist on the table. “Nonsense! You Irish have ruined your minds with pagan tales!”
Ciarán leaned over the table. “And what if there’s truth in those tales?”
Canon Frézoul’s face turned a purplish red, but before he could speak again, William interrupted. “Enough debate. Raymond, why don’t you regale us with the tale of your victory against our ungodly foe?”
Raymond responded eagerly to William’s request with a much-embellished account of the battle by the falls. Despite the exaggerations, Ciarán felt relieved, for at least it took the focus away from him and Dónall, leaving only the hateful stares of Prior Bernard and Canon Frézoul.
When the meal ended, servants cleared the table, and a troupe of musicians filed into the hall. Dónall seized the moment to thank the duke for his hospitality and politely requested his leave. “I fear we’ve been away from a church for far too long,” Dónall said, “and we are starved for the humility of prayer.”
“Naturally,” William responded.
Dónall asked the duke for directions to a nearby abbey, but William insisted they stay at Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand, even though it was outside the city walls. Ciarán wished the duke had offered some other accommodations, for the last thing they wanted was to be under the roof of an abbey controlled by Prior Bernard, but Dónall graciously accepted the duke’s invitation. As the steward escorted them away, Ciarán glanced back at Alais. To his surprise, she was gazing back at him. Lost within those storm-gray eyes, he found himself unable to turn away, hoping their gaze would hold. But then she quickly looked away and laughed at something Raymond had said.
“Let’s go,” Dónall told Ciarán.
“I can’t wait to leave,” Ciarán said bitterly.
They followed the steward from the hall, through another foyer and outside into the biting air. The sun had set, and a light snowfall wafted down, gathering on the rooftops of Poitiers. At the palace gates, the steward told them how to find the abbey of Saint-Hilaire-le-Grand. They would have to leave through the south gate and travel down the old Roman road alongside the Boivre, the second of two rivers bordering Poitiers.
They bade the steward farewell, gathered the belongings they had left behind in the servants’ quarters, and left the palace for the city’s narrow maze of streets. Dónall drew his cowl over his head before turning to Ciarán. “So when did you decide that we hadn’t enough enemies and needed two more?”
“They didn’t like us anyway,” Ciarán said. “And I fear we’ve more enemies than those two, including the supposedly faithful bishop.”
“And let’s not forget Lucien,” Dónall said with contempt. “But we may owe something to Prior Bernard. His comment about the Jewish mystics reminded me what Remi said just before Lucien tried to kill us: the notion
about Abraham and a stone, a testament from a lost civilization.”
“I don’t remember that part in Genesis,” Ciarán replied.
“It’s not there. But that doesn’t mean anything—there are many other Hebrew sources.”
“And how do you suppose we find those?”
“I can think of only one way,” Dónall said with a sparkle in his eyes. “We’ll find ourselves a Jew.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BLACK GROVE
Twenty-three black-robed monks filed through the woods not far from Saint-Bastian’s, humming a somber chant. Flecks of snow drifted through the bare trees and settled on their black cowls. Many of the monks clasped glowing candles, while two bore a large iron brazier from which tendrils of smoke snaked skyward through the spidery branches. A third man held a caged white dove, and a fourth carried a lamb, bound at the hocks and bleating faintly.
Lucien led the procession, his face hidden beneath the broad black cowl that he wore on his missions to Blois, in the guise of the shadowy Benedictine who would visit the bishop in the dark of night. The crucifix that Lucien wore as prior of Saint-Bastian’s had no purpose here, for he had long ago forsaken any hope of Christ’s salvation.
Next to Lucien strode the priest Gauzlin, and beside him, the man they called simply “my lord.” Taller than the others and wearing only a monk’s habit, Adémar walked barefoot to this ritual on the midnight of midwinter—a sabbat of great power.
“Tonight,” Adémar told Lucien and Gauzlin as they approached the grove, “we shall ensure that these Irishmen do not live to find Enoch’s device.”
Ahead, twisted oaks stretched toward the night sky, their branches clawing like greedy skeletal hands at the stars. Steam rose from between the trees, creating an opaque veil around the sanctum of the grove. The ground within was unnaturally warm, devouring the snowflakes as they landed. At one time, Lucien knew, the grove had belonged to a sect of druids who sacrificed humans to their horned god. And over time, the horror of so many deaths had changed this place, for it held a power unlike anywhere else in the Touraine, as if the roots of the trees here burrowed deep enough to touch the underworld.
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