The Knight And The Rose

by Isolde Martyn

  “Oh yes, there were feasts and entertainment. Perhaps he fell in love with her at first sight and had the courage to write a poem to her and bribe her maidservant to conceal it beneath her pillow and she was so delighted that she spoke with him and . . . Oh, it is so much easier saying this impersonally.” Her self-consciousness returning, she lowered her eyes again modestly. “Your pardon, I ran away with that bone but does it sound reasonable?”

  “It sounds more believable, and so, with a headful of deplorable poetry, he tracked her back like a hunter to her home.” Surely that must have happened to the lady Johanna? She was lovely enough. Had no man made her giddy-headed with a poem?

  Johanna glanced sideways at him. Despite his male arrogance, she appreciated the effort he was making to be constructive. Yes, this man might convince the court of his tenacity. He definitely would hunt down the object of his desire.

  Heartened, she continued. “Ah, I know, he sent her a letter that he was dying of love in the wild wood and only her presence would succour him. She could not resist. It was a mission of mercy. Yes, I like that.” She clapped her hands. “Men can be so foolish in love that they will traverse kingdoms to seek their beloved.” Suddenly remembering her reluctant audience, she coloured and added in a sad whisper, “At least, so the ballads say.”

  She darted another peep at him. For an instant, she had foolishly forgotten her mistrust of him. But he was actually smiling and it looked genuine.

  The temptation was irresistible. “Have you ever been that lovesick, master scholar?”

  There was weight in that catapult, thought Geraint, his good humour with her fast disappearing as he caught her coy glance. Because he did not answer her, she seemed to realise the ground was hazardous. He watched her fingers play nervously with the hem of her veil. “I beg your pardon, sir, but it would help me to know. I mean you no malice.” There was no flirtatiousness in her voice, but he could pay her in equal coin.

  “Yes, I have felt the affliction very badly. Have you?”

  “No!”

  It was wise to urge the story forward since the sudden silence had become as uncomfortable as the wrong-sized saddle. He rose to pluck a dead leaf from one of the chaplain’s pots. “So this rebellious maid met a stranger in the wild wood. Thrice?”

  “He wooed her and declared his love. Being foolish and inexperienced, not to mention rebellious, she believed him.” Talking to this man’s back was far easier than facing that hard, intelligent gaze.

  “How old would you have been, my lady?”

  Discovering her age? A probing question, though valid.

  “Sev . . . about eighteen,” she answered truthfully. “And you?”

  “I suppose, two-and-twenty.” He idly flicked at a cobweb. “So she managed to give him kisses instead of visiting the sick. I would wager he merely desired to lie with her.”

  “No, he loved her,” Johanna insisted, twisting her hands in her lap. “They took their vows.”

  He turned and leaned forward emphatically, his hands gripping the table edge. “But he never came back.”

  “He did! You have!”

  Their eyes locked like hounds’ assessing each other before a brawl. Jesu, his instinct told him weaving this fabric of falsehoods with her was going to become a torment. His breast rose with a sigh as he straightened. “Yes, I have.”

  Her heart beating somewhat faster, Johanna spoke rapidly.

  “They made their solemn vows before Father Benedict. Sir Gervase promised her he would come back one day but he warned her that he would be required to serve his lord when he got back from his pilgrimage.”

  “Pilgrimage, what pilgrimage?” he asked testily. Another of her flights of creativity.

  “Rome? Jerusalem?” she suggested hopefully. “I am trying to think of reasons why he would be away so long.”

  He had his temper bridled again. “I have been to Compostela but no further. Let it simmer for now.” He paced and swung round. “Forgive the indelicacy, lady, but this matter must be aired. Did he lie with her?”

  She would not look up. “Oh no,” she answered too quickly, colour flooding her cheeks.

  “She is lying.” He folded his arms. “Of course, she lay with him. No sane man would let the opportunity past.”

  “He was noble, chivalrous, upholding the virtues of courtly love.”

  “Fie on that, lady, save it for dreamers. The reality is adultery. Chivalry does not exist outside the stories. The real world is Fulk de Enderby.”

  Eight

  AJOHANNA SPRANG UP like a panicked wild thing and would have bolted, but the stranger caught her arm before she reached the door and furled her hanging sleeve about his other hand.

  It was like taking hold of an unbroken mare, thought Geraint, one that might kick him, but he persisted. “Sir Gervase must have lain with her, my lady. They had the blessing of Holy Church.”

  “Let go of me!” she squealed, flailing out at him. “Do not touch me!”

  “In God’s name, my lady, be silent!” He thrust her down on the bench. Thank the Lord, she subsided, but her breathing was fast and her hands were still clenched into fists in her lap.

  “Whatever—” Father Gilbert burst out of his room and halted as Geraint flung up a hand to stay him.

  “Be calm, Father, there is no harm done.”

  Johanna’s breathing grew slower but she was close to tears as she regained mastery of herself. “I am sorry.” She put her fingers to her temples as if there was pain between them. “This ship will founder. I know it will. Go, sir, before we drown you with us.”

  “May I ask what this is about?” The priest fixed Geraint sternly.

  He answered readily, “Oh, worldliness, a true marriage in the sight of God. If Gervase de Laval married this lady two years ago, they would have lain together to consummate the match. It would lack validity otherwise, yes?”

  Father Gilbert perused Johanna’s averted face. “Ah.”

  With a wary eye on her, Geraint explained. “Let me offer you a hypothesis, Father. If Holy Church has given its blessing to a man and a woman, there is no hindrance to their lying together.”

  “But we are not talking hypothetically, my son. We are referring to your behaviour, are we not? Do you mean now or two years back?”

  Geraint watched Johanna’s green-grey eyes grow large as cart wheels.

  “Either.” He knew the answer but he needed the priest to convince her.

  “There is no hindrance in either situation.”

  “She wouldn’t have!” The lady jumped to her feet. This time he was ready, but careful not to touch her. He barred the way. “I need to think, sir,” she protested. At least she held the reins of her emotions now.

  “Is there time for that, my lady? If you want to outwit Sir Fulk, you have to pretend to yourself that you confirmed your marriage vows de facto, not merely de jure.”

  The priest nodded. “Such is the way of the world, Johanna. My son, perhaps you would like to step outside and ask your servant to fetch us a hot posset from the kitchen? My room is cold and my bones are stiff. It is a small vanity, I fear.”

  Geraint accepted the errand like a drowning man thrown a rope.

  Johanna sank gloomily onto the bench as the door closed. “How very tactful of you, Father. See! He is a dog that cannot wait to be let out.” She slapped the table. “God help me, I do not know if I can proceed with this further. I suppose you overheard most of this through your prayers.”

  Her sarcasm fell off him like raindrops on duck feathers. “You are making headway, daughter. It can work if you are diligent.” He half-sat himself on the table. “Let us be honest with one another. Your mother tells me that anyone who remembers your willful nature as a little maid will not be surprised at this secret marriage.”

  “I would. If I met that maiden again, I would not recognise myself in her.” Johanna trailed a finger down the side of the book’s leather cover. “I have changed, Father. The woman I am now would never hav
e met that man in the wild wood. And even two years ago I was never a harlot. Headstrong perhaps, but never wanton. I have always tried to obey God’s commandments, every one of them.”

  He sat down beside her and took her right hand in his. “But that is not at issue. You must forget how you feel now about marriage. To win your case, you must convince the jurors that you married this man, who was landless then, secretly because you loved him so much that you were willing to risk your father’s wrath. You wanted to bind him to you with holy vows and, in return, you offered him your love, your duty and your body.”

  She tensed. “Yes, I see that. But I do not want to think of this man in those terms. It is hard for you to understand as a priest and I do not think I can even begin to explain what I feel or,” she set his hand free upon the table, “perhaps it is what I have never been able to feel.”

  His face was compassionate. “Daughter, do not let the bruises Sir Fulk has put upon your body remain like scars on your soul as well. Two years ago, you must have believed that love was possible. Two years ago, you would have let this handsome stranger lie with you because you loved him and believed in his fidelity. You must resurrect this belief, child. Cleanse your heart and believe that you could have loved.”

  How could he understand how damaged she was—that marriage to Fulk had been like living with grey embers that any instant could flare into an evil fire that scorched all within its path. “Remember that our beloved Lord said one must be like a child again to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Try to see it in those terms. To free yourself of this marriage, pull down the fences you have set up and begin afresh.”

  She stood up, desiring some solitude to make sense of herself before she faced the stranger again, but the chaplain’s expression disturbed her. Father Gilbert was trustworthy, but there was a smugness now about his mouth.

  “Why are you helping us with these falsehoods?” she asked. “You, a priest, are encouraging this man to perjury and advising me to set aside vows made before God. It does not make any sense. The archbishop would not approve, would he?”

  “Why, child? Because I want to see you free of Sir Fulk before he destroys you completely.” She turned away unsatisfied, knowing that he was completely dependent on her mother for his livelihood. Was it merely to please Lady Constance that he was being pliant? After all, age and its accompanying laziness would make him reluctant to face the labour of seeking a parish benefice.

  “You think to spur the horse in a different direction by asking these things, Johanna. If you do not understand yourself, how can you understand me or any other human being?” He stood up and stepped behind her like Satan in the wilderness. “Since your return I have glimpsed the desperation in you, watched you contemplating an unhallowed grave.” Her head jerked up at that. He had read her so clearly. “You can put your life to better worth. Give yourself to God. Do not baulk at this hedge, my daughter, or else you will be ensnared in a living Hell forever.”

  “Oh surely I am guaranteeing myself a mattress in the real Hell either way,” she countered. “Well, no matter. But will you be there to lead me in when the Devil bids us welcome? My falsehoods tarnish you and Mother. Is that just?”

  His face tightened. Oh, the hammer definitely hit the anvil but still he outmanoeuvred her. “I perceive the hand of God in all things, and I do know this: after your mother and I prayed to save you, Lord Alan was smitten by God and the stranger appeared in the forest.”

  “A miracle and a thunderbolt. How very comforting.” She hated the cynicism in her tone and relented with a sigh, “Yes, perhaps, you are right, Father.”

  “Child, let us return to this issue which dismays you so. You have to admit to having had carnal knowledge of this man Gervase, or the archdeacon’s court will not believe you.” He held up a hand to staunch her protest. “I have been in love. I understand its power, my daughter. Love would have made you risk—will make you risk—anything to be in the arms of this man you met two years ago. And, Johanna, you would not have behaved like a harlot then, you would have behaved like a wife. Look at me, my lady. Trust my judgment.”

  She read the pity in his eyes and knew she lacked healing.

  “What is it like being in love for a man?”

  Pain lanced across his face as if she had thrown cold water at him. “No, please forget I asked that, Father. I had no right to pry.” But he had confirmed her suspicion. Loving hurt. Because she loved her little dog, Fulk’s ill-treatment of it left her vulnerable.

  “My child.” The chaplain put a fatherly arm about her shoulders and sat her down with him again. “I was once the happiest and most unhappy man on earth. If my love smiled at me, I walked on air, but if she scowled, it was as if all delight in the world was gone. I knew carnal lust. I burned for her like a soul in Satan’s fire.”

  “Did you . . .”

  “Lie with her? No, I was green as a new shoot, and she was wife to a young lord. No, I did not dare touch her.”

  “Did she love you?”

  Father Gilbert smiled and Johanna sensed it was a foolish question, but he still answered her. “I doubt it, but I thought of her the whole time until I understood how much I was betraying God. So I prayed for our dear Saviour’s help and He gave me courage to leave that household. And yet I am glad I felt Love’s arrows, for all their pain. You see, it helps me understand why people in love behave so. And you, my daughter, have not yet felt those darts.”

  “Why does God curse us so?” She rose and waved her hands as if the explanation might fall into her fingers like a ball. “Oh forgive me.” She paced away and then spun round on him. “Why are we such a mess of emotions? Sometimes I wish myself a simple woodland creature that feeds and ruts according to the seasons.” She slammed her fist into her palm. “I need to find some other way out of this.”

  “It is too late for that. You are in the saddle and so must ride.” A new proverb! The canny churchman—tactfully avoiding the adage about making a bed and lying in it.

  The latch rattled. “Ah, daughter, here is refreshment.”

  Geraint returned with a scullion at his heels. They were interrupting too soon to judge by the priest’s expression but the possets had already cooled crossing the yard and he had glimpsed Lady Edyth prowling. There was little time to waste. He closed the door when the servant left and took up his beaker, setting a booted foot upon the bench. Father Gilbert scowled at him and he removed it.

  “So, does our story progress, Father?”

  The chaplain did not appear happy. “I will catechise you before mass, so back to your labour.”

  Geraint handed Johanna the posset and watched her savour each mouthful.

  Cradling the drink, she raised an amused eyebrow at him as if reading his face for weather signs. “Do you want to put your armour on again? It might make you feel safer until I have finished drinking.”

  He regarded her unsmiling, although she could have sworn a very faint muscle twitched slightly at the side of his mouth. “Perhaps I will keep mine until you have emptied yours. So let us recommence, my lady. We have the reasons, we have the priest, although that will need further colour—”

  “The vows are important,” Father Gilbert interrupted, setting his empty cup down. He ran a hand through his narrow waves of greying hair as he warmed to his argument. “Every word is crucial. You see, Sir Gervase, if you had said to Lady Johanna, ‘I will take you’ instead of ‘I will have you’ or ‘I will espouse you,’ the court could argue the intent was there but not the deed, and that you merely meant to cajole the lady into sin.”

  “So tell us the rightful wording, Father,” Johanna said brusquely. The talk of ifs and buts—especially as to whether or not she would have lain with this man—was wearying her.

  “ ‘Ego volo habere te pro uxore mea quantum vita mea durare poterit’: I, Gervase, will have thee, Johanna, as my wife for the rest of my life.”

  Her supposed husband repeated the Latin softly, his presence, huge and real, somehow relieving
Johanna’s painful memory of the same vow Fulk had made beside her at the chapel door.

  “And I suppose I would have said the same?” she asked.

  “In Latin?” the scholar queried sceptically, looking to Father Gilbert.

  “Do you think because I am a woman that I am totally ignorant?” Johanna countered.

  Gervase de Laval’s indifferent blue gaze did not falter. “Yes.”

  Johanna swirled to the door snarling a Latin curse at him.

  The priest rose. “Where in God’s Name did you learn that, child?”

  She read the astonishment in both their faces. It was terrible of her to shock poor Father Gilbert but her mother’s poor scholar was wearing a grin as wide as the west portal of a cathedral.

  “Do you know what you just said, lady?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she lied stoutly. The stranger folded his lips trying not to burst out laughing and failed. “Oh, very well, master scholar, what did I say then?” Hands on her hips, she faced him like a market wife.

  He eventually wiped the tears from his eyes: “The translation is: ‘A thousand demons take me, I have forgotten to pack my dinner in my saddlebag.’”

  “Oh!” Her disappointment seemed to please him.

  “Wherever did you learn such a wondrously foul oath, lady?”

  “From Father Benedict,” she answered huffily. “I once heard him say that when I was a child. He crossed himself most vigorously afterwards so I always thought it was something very profane.”

  His disarming grin somewhat settled her ruffled feathers even though it was at the cost of her pride. And the smile seemed kind, not merely skin-deep.

  She sat down again and grabbed the bridle of the conversation. “I thought maybe Sir Gervase could have written his love a letter to meet her at Father Benedict’s house, but—”

  “You cannot read, can you?” Gervase interrupted. She shook her head regretfully. “Then, mayhap, I shall have to teach you.”

  “It pleases you to mock me,” she snapped and instantly regretted it, for he was a scholar and must value learning, but it was rare for any man to make such an offer.