by A Werner
“Midonia, I cannot and I will not recant my oath.”
“Lord Geoff has expressed his willingness to release you. He’s broke. His former vassals have recanted. What makes you think you are better than them? He doesn’t expect you to carry on like this, no one does.” Midonia’s hands, nearly always gloved in rough white lace, suddenly appeared from out of the boat-sleeves. She touched his shaven face, one hand on each cheek. “Francis, we are alone in this world. Everyone is. Lord Geoff was once a wealthy man but his fortune is gone. Be done with him. You owe him nothing. We have a family to think about and the family must come first. There is no heaven. There are no angels watching over you. There are no gods keeping an account of your promises. It is an illusion. A lie. Try making sense of what you see. Open your eyes. People break promises all the time and they aren’t evil. They are just trying to survive. Even your Bible declares this to you when it says, Behold, and their eyes were opened.”
Francis could only shake his head. “Midonia, when their eyes were opened, that is when they began to sin. Is that the path you would have me walk? Do you want me to sin?”
Midonia was nearly always in a rage. She was tired of him always correcting her. Unthinking, her gloved hands tore down off his clean-shaven face in a hard slapping motion followed by a curse. She had never dared strike him before. This was new.
Being a man of war, Francis acted impulsively. In an instant, his balled up his fist was high above her head. A single blow would crush her, possibly kill her. Temptation warred against commandment. His nostrils flared and his face burned red. His rigid thirty-year-old body began to quake as a great gust of wind suddenly attacked the walls of the tent and forced the typically steadfast poles to crook. Everything in the Whitehall world was bending over now, including Midonia. The infant began to cry. The situation was ripe for sin.
“Midonia! It is over. This violence towards my person can never happen again.” The husband, not the knight, begrudgingly lowered the clenched fist to a non-threatening position near his heart. “My gage to Lord Geoff is irrevocable. No one, not even you and your serpents tongue can poison it. I will not reward an eye for an eye. I will not strike you down though you be the devil himself.”
A spirit of tranquility reentered, restoring everything to its former order. Even the wind outside calmed and the tent poles straightened back up. So did Midonia.
“I never thought I would tire of your opposition, Midonia, but you are indeed the wickedest creature I have ever known. You have a talent the dragons might envy.” Francis sighed, “Today has been a struggle and you nearly prevailed. But I know now that that will never happen. I cannot allow you this victory, not this one. I will not be recalcitrant. I am not like those who are. I am not a perfect man but I have no mind for dishonor and disgrace. As long as I have breath, I will profess the truth of God. His rod and His staff comfort me. They are all that comfort me.”
Chapter 17 – The Yoke
Midonia Whitehall felt peculiar. She had struck her husband and riled him. It was empowering. She was frustrated by all the pointless arguments. ‘I want to hit him again.’ The thought came so effortlessly, it surprised her. ‘I want to hurt him. I need something harder next time, a stick or wooden spoon. Why not? He won’t strike me back. He just proved it. I could steal his power. Offend him where it counts the most - his honor and integrity.’
And then she noticed that their infant daughter was whimpering. Midonia swept Anne up out of the manger and scolded her husband. “Naff your principles, Francis! To heck with your stars, dreams and faith! It is all lies.” She stomped her feet. “I want to yell. I want to cuss. I want to hit you and kick you.” Her eyes flashed red just for an instant. “I want to hurt you.”
Francis was taken aback by his wife’s fury but his countenance never revealed it. He remained composed and attentive without blinking.
Midonia flung the tot out towards Francis with one hand while pointing at it with the other. “Listen to this! A babe in swaddling cloth. This is yours, not mine. I don’t want this thing. I don’t want any part of it. I hate this tent! I hate our marriage bed! I hate this life! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!” Midonia boiled as she drew the child back to her. Her skinny arms cradled Anne as a momentary measure of motherhood emerged. “You know I want a home. I want a roof that doesn’t leak and walls that don’t bend with the wind. I want stewards and servants waiting on my needs. I want to wear clean, soft garments while sitting beside a warm hearth in winter. I want flowers. Oh God, how I want some flowers. I want all the pretty things my mother had and a place to put them.”
Francis was not persuaded. “You must remain patient. It is not possible, not right now.”
“It is possible!” Midonia forgot the child again and started swinging her around. “Recant! Recant! Get down on your knees and recant! I am your wife. You owe it to me. I’ve watched you grovel before lords and ladies, kings and queens. Now you can bow before me. Bow or naff off. Go to the field and play your bloody war games.” Midonia’s countenance went stygian black. “And this time, let the other man win. Lower your lance and relax your shield. Let this be the day you meet your Maker. You are getting much too old to play these stupid games anyway. It’s time you lose.”
“You wish to see me lose?” Francis hated the thought of losing. “Will my death solve your problems?”
“I know not what it will solve but I can’t pretend to care. Not anymore. I just want this to end. Something has to change. You are nothing to me, Francis, not even a man.”
Francis shook his head in disbelief. “Midonia, marriage is an alliance. God has yoked us together and the yoke is everlasting. If either of us dares to break it, we both lose.”
“I will not lose.”
“You will lose for there are truths in the universe that no one can ignore. No one wins without the other. That is how God designed it. That is marriage.”
“Well, if that be the telling of it then I pray the devil come and burn it all.” Midonia started drifting away into a dreamlike madness, mesmerized by a thin ray of daylight piercing a seam in the wall. She whispered softly. “You never knew this Francis, but I nearly prayed once. Not to God, no. To the evil one. I wanted him to come and take it all away. I held a candle near that wall, right over there.” She pointed. “I was tempted to try. ‘Go on,’ I said to myself, ‘go on Midonia and set it all on fire. Watch it burn’”
Midonia had unintentionally rocked the infant back to a dead sleep. Francis smoothly detached Anne from her mother’s clutches and placed her back in the crib. Midonia hardly noticed him doing it. She saw herself in another time, in another dimension, holding the candle, cremating their little world. “You, Francis,” she muttered to the light stream, “would have lost everything. I would have destroyed it all and you would come home to nothing.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Midonia blinked, scoffed and shook off her interest in the beam of light as well as the memory. “I am a practical woman, Francis, when I am not mad. I know you. You wouldn’t care. You never care. You could lose everything and not care. I pictured you sitting on the ground, tossing ashes on your head, praying to God for forgiveness and mercy. You are so aggravating Francis, so content and peaceful all the time. How do you manage that, all that self-control? Why can’t you just explode and lose your temper like me, like other people? Why didn’t you hit me when I gave you the chance?”
“I love …”
“Stop!” She wouldn’t let him get the words out of his mouth. “I know all about your love for me and I’m fed up to here with it. I’m talking about something more passionate than love, Francis. I’m talking about rage and anger. I’m talking about hate and loathing. Why can’t you be incensed with life?” Midonia was close to tears. “Don’t you get it yet, Francis? I hate my life. And if I hate life, it is wrong of you to love it.”
Francis was searching for empathy but it was hard to come by. “I don’t hate my life, Midonia. I don’t necessarily love
it. I’m not happy with the way things are but I don’t hate my life. Hate leads to sin and I don’t want to sin.”
“Why? Who cares if you sin? I don’t care. Go ahead and sin. Sin! Sin against me! Sin against someone!” Dropping her right shoulder, she balled up her fist and drew it back, ready to strike.
Francis flashed forward and caught hold of her by the forearm, restraining her fury simply. He was a veteran who had clashed with knights and mercenaries the world over. He was not going to be caught off guard by her again.
Midonia screamed until Francis released her. She skulked off to the other side of the room, knocking over trinkets from the night stand and kicking over bins of clothes. “Why don’t you hit me?” She crossed her arms and stomped in place as more trains of madness ran riotously through her head. “Be a man, Francis! Hit me! Hit me! Show me you’re in charge. I want to see your fury! I want to see what other men see in you! Be angry with me! Your kindness is killing me!”
Francis was at a loss for words. He stared at his wife with genuine concern. He wanted to help her exorcise the demons that plagued her but she didn’t want to be free of them.
The Griffin knew a thing or two about wrestling demons. In his youth, he battled them. His father, William Whitehall, had been taken from him by demons. The man had been a knight, serving King Baldwin III in Jerusalem. He would entertain his son with a hysterically theatric recounting of their glorious ride into the orchards of Damascus only to retreat at the moment of victory. He found war to be a vain and wasteful enterprise and embraced the opportunity to retire. He bought a farm in Warwick, wed Constance and finally had a son in Francis.
All was good until an unexpected fever struck the elder Whitehall in the spring of 1161. William lost his wits, sliding back in time, his mind filled with morose images of the evils he committed while soldiering. Guilt drove him mad. He hid in bed beneath his sheets, mumbling to himself, rambling on about demons and devils, dragons and imps, spirits living in the rocks, trees and water. He suddenly saw things, vast armies of invisible creatures ruining souls. ‘The hate,’ he would say. ‘The hate has us all.’ And then one day, he awoke. The elder Whitehall donned his rusty armor, unsheathed his longsword and went on a murderous rampage through town. He killed a dozen people. It wasn’t much of a trial. William Whitehall was stark raving mad, barmy, talking to himself in the stocks, engaging in conversations with bodiless specters, foaming at the mouth, cursing and spitting at people who reproached him, especially churchmen.
Only seven-years-old, Francis Whitehall watched in disbelief as they led his mad father up to the gallows and executed him by rope, the Exchequer confiscating the Whitehall’s farm to pay for the damages.
Francis could still see his father’s swollen face, bruised and bloodied, staring down at him from the gallows with the noose already laid about his neck. William peered deeply into his young son’s soul and for a brief moment of clarity, pronounced in a whispery tone, “You are not possessed, my son. You are holy and separate. Be blessed.” And then the demon in him roared back to life causing his body to convulse. Wickedness ate him. A banshee hollered in his lungs. The clergyman read the final words and the neck was snapped.
Constance Whitehall was ruined. The widow solicited aid from an old family friend, Lord Geoffrey Clayton Wolfe. Lord Geoff was a philanthropic Templar who had never wed. His was a lifetime of service to the poor and needy. When times were good and his investments prospered, his caravans of tin and iron were traded as far as Palestine. All of Britain celebrated his magnanimity. He was iconic. But then came the losses and the icon fell.
Francis Whitehall was humbled by the experience. He would have never restored the honor of the Griffin without the charity shown to him and his mother in their greatest time of need. He had to reciprocate. He could not abandon his Lord in his greatest time of need. They were connected now and forever. No matter how many times the cock crowed during his watch, the Griffin would never forsake Lord Geoffrey Clayton Wolfe.
Chapter 18 – Found It
Midonia Whitehall transformed once again. Her voice was composed and conniving. “You are special, Francis. You are not like other men, pious and holy; a saint.” Her eyes sparkled, her awkward body language hinting at seduction. “You are such a noble fool, Sir Francis. An invisible God is all you have. How do you think that makes a real woman feel? How do you think that makes me feel? You don’t need me, do you? You don’t need anyone. You love God and He loves you. The whole world could burn in fire and you wouldn’t care. It is all so orderly.” Her head tilted down towards the manger as her eyes lit upon Anne. “You probably love God more than you love your daughter.”
Those last words were meant to sting and sting they did.
“Midonia, I never want to imagine losing you and Anne. I hate that you have given this thought such a light. But I cannot resist the light. You and Anne weaken me. I know this. If I focus on my weaknesses, I can never rise up out of darkness. Like you, I will become desperate and surrender all hope. I cannot and I will not do that. The loss of one dream, no matter how essential that dream may seem, cannot destroy the entire sphere of dreams we have as human beings. We are a galaxy of possibilities and one day in heaven, as if staring into a mirror, our true self will be revealed.”
Midonia just shook her head in disbelief. “That’s exactly what I am talking about. What the heck did you just say? You try to make sense out of all that garbage. Francis, no one does that. No one has faith like that. People may say they believe in God and speak of spirits and angels but they don’t really mean it. It’s crazy. A person lost in darkness just wants to get out of the dark and they don’t care who helps them. They’ll take the hand of a god or devil, it doesn’t matter. People just want to live. They want to be happy and prosper without fear and pain. They want to own nice things without any guilt. Now that is a kind of faith I can understand.”
Midonia hesitated and pointed around the room, at the tent itself. “But this, this worshipping a god that leaves us stumbling like beggars, I just don’t get. It makes no sense to me. You’re a zealot, Francis. You belong in a monastery with hermits and monks. Those naïve fools pray all day for a glorious crucifixion.” Midonia’s white face froze, turning a tad whiter. “Hey, that is it, is it not? Is that what you really want from life Francis?”
Francis was curious. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
“You want a hero’s death and Christ is your hero.”
Francis was dumbstruck. Had Midonia finally struck gold? Did her conclusion make sense? Looking at the thin walls of the blue tent, the messed up piles of clothes on the floor, at Anne asleep in her cheap knotty-pine crib, Francis saw his life through his eyes, his human eyes, and felt miserable. ‘What am I doing out here on a tourney field in Germany, playing games to make a living? What am I trying to prove? Why all the rigor and worry?’ Francis lowered his head, his thoughts conceding an inconvenient truth. ‘Lord Geoff would not be cross with me if I recant.’
“Alright Midonia,” Francis boldly stated, his back and neck straightening up. “You may yet win this contest for I must admit, I have no answer. I am no hermit. There is far too much fight in these old bones to become a martyr. I am still a knight and a grisly one at that.” He smiled. “Perhaps there is yet time for some harmony in my marriage.”
There was a curious silence between them.
“Yes,” Francis grinned even larger, even wider. “You, Midonia, will have the opportunity to usher in a glorious new day. I am placing the weight of the yoke squarely on your shoulders. Let us see how you manage.”
Midonia braced herself for the worst.
Francis opened his arms. “This is how it will begin. Embrace me. Place your cool lips against mine and kiss me straight and hard. Wish me Godspeed before I go into battle today. Be urgent and honest about this. Do not lie to me for I will know if you do. Grant me a sincere moment of gratitude for all the things I have tried to do for us thus far and I will give you my undyi
ng devotion. If and when I return from today’s games, I will bow before you. I will worship you. I will deny God’s wishes and recant my oath to Lord Geoff. We will return to England and I will seek out a new lord. I will become a household steward. You will have a home, an estate, a castle if you wish. You shall have flowers, countless flowers of every sort all the days of your life, I swear it.”
Midonia was in shock and had to think this thing through. It was all too good to be true. It hardly seemed possible that Francis would willingly recant his sacred oath and turn his back on God, but Francis never lied, never. It was one of the few comforts on which Midonia could always put her faith. Francis Whitehall was many things but never a liar.
Astonishment was replaced by revelation. This magnificent prize was not free. It was going to cost her. She was going to have to compromise. ‘Why should I compromise anything? I have already conceded everything to him. I followed him out here, living in a tent for months on end, hungry and isolated, traveling around the world like a circus sideshow. There’s just no way I’m going to thank him for the shame and humiliation he has put me through. This is just another twist to his saintly character, no one winning, everyone yielding; another victory for the yoke, that bloody yoke.’ Midonia didn’t know which she hated more now, Francis or the yoke. ‘Naff them both.’
Midonia never blinked. She snarled. “I won’t Francis, even for all you promise, you ask too much of me.”
Francis was wholly prepared to honor any reply she gave him. He no longer viewed this fork in the road as a moral dilemma. It really was over.
Francis kindly kissed his wife on the cheek. “I still believe in us even if you don’t. The destination is not clear. That is true. But the journey, yes, the journey is set. Faith will get us there. Christ will reveal the way.” And then Francis busted out laughing. His merriment bordered on madness. He reached down into a pile of unwashed garments that had spilled out of a bin during Midonia’s kicking rampage. “Look wife, you found my surcoat.” He waved the white embroidered cloth with a dozen orange griffins in her general direction and then shook it violently to cast out the wrinkles.
