by Karen Ranney
“Is that necessary, my lord?” Her cheeks warmed as comprehension dawned.
“There must not be any question of the validity of our marriage, Juliana.”
She had no response to that. Only too many questions, none of which he seemed disposed to answer.
Chapter 5
By the second week at Langlinais, Juliana’s routine was established. Her days began at dawn, when she was roused, not by the clamor of a bell, but by gentle stirrings as the castle began to awake.
Grazide drew the water for her morning wash, and was then banished from the room while she dressed. She had accomplished Grazide’s removal only after days of being suffused in blushes. Her true embarrassment had done what her words could not. After she dressed, Grazide entered the room again to braid her hair. This morning she was as voluble as ever.
“Oh, how very pretty you look, my lady,” she gushed. “Just like the lady should appear. Will you and the lord be joining us at dinner this eve?” Her look was comprised of a measure of hope and what passed for subtlety with Grazide.
Juliana never knew how to respond to such pointed questions, one of which she received each morning. Most times she found refuge in silence.
“Well, perhaps he is too busy being a bridegroom, my lady.” Grazide tilted her head and smiled at her, a look of speculation on her face.
“I would not be surprised if he was a rogue, my lady. As a child, he was ever so. One time he and Gregory went hand over hand across the river bridge. He and Gregory nearly drowned when they both fell into the rushing water. Why, I remember how upset Magdalene was when she learned. She boxed their ears and sent them to bed without their dinner.”
“Magdalene?”
“His father’s concubine. A lovely woman, she was. And why she turned down the old lord’s offer of marriage, I’ll never know.”
Grazide tucked in the braids at the top of her head like a coronet. “After he died, poor thing, she left for her own homeland.” Grazide bent her head around until she could see Juliana’s face. “She was French, you know.”
“Who is Gregory?”
Grazide laughed. “Well, I can tell you two haven’t had time to talk much. Gregory is the lord’s only brother. Not that there weren’t plenty of children at first, bless all their little souls. And his mother’s of course. Poor thing died giving birth to another son. But they were all lost for one reason or another.” She patted Juliana reassuringly on the shoulder. “But we’ve no reason to think that will happen to you, my lady.”
Another statement Juliana had no comment for, but as usual, Grazide didn’t seem to expect one. It was doubtful if she could have remained silent long enough to hear it.
“He and Gregory were always trying to defeat the other at some game or some such. Where one was, the other could be found. In fact it was because of that the lord broke his leg.”
“Why do you never speak of Sebastian as an adult, Grazide? Even at the convent we’d heard tales of all the tourneys he’d won.” Indeed, it had been the single bright spot in her life. A paradox that the man she did not know could bring her such fame. The other girls at the convent had whispered about him, had asked her questions about her husband, and had acted oddly disappointed when she refused to speak of him. What could she have told them? That the man they spoke of with such girlish awe was also a stranger to her?
“Indeed, my lady, he is a great warrior. But those days of his tourneys were sad days, too. With his father so ill and him away and Gregory having left home to find his fortune, there are more sad memories than there are happy ones.” Grazide’s hands stilled on the crown of her hair as if she stared off into the past. “Perhaps it is just that I like to remember the good times, my lady, when he was young and so, too, my little Ned. Both grown to men now.” She patted Juliana’s shoulder again. “But what am I saying? The good times are here again, are they not? And you and the lord will fill the castle with children.” She smiled brightly.
The truth, however, was that there would never be children at Langlinais. Not hers, at least. Juliana stood and dismissed Grazide, the pleasant moments of the morning having abruptly dissipated like fog.
She entered the oriel and closed the door behind her. This tiny space provided the only comfort from the questions that ate at her.
Juliana discovered that it was no great feat to pretend herself blissfully wed. There was no one, after all, she needed to convince. Everyone assumed she was pleased to be the wife of Sebastian of Langlinais, to be living in such a beautiful place. There were no duties she was expected to perform, no acts as chatelaine. There was nothing about the castle that was lacking, nothing that required her presence or her participation.
For hours she was allowed to do what she loved, existing not as the ultimate barter by her father, for the glory of the convent, or the use of a husband she did not know.
She had been told by the abbess that she was a good student. To please her, Juliana had studied even harder. The abbess was a woman of great talent, who believed that knowledge was to be shared; therefore, Juliana was allowed to read any of the manuscripts in the convent’s possession. Consequently, her education had strengths and weaknesses. She was well versed in the Latin poets and philosophers, but less so in contemporary thought and not at all in Greek.
The great thinkers wrote of ignorance and knowledge, love, and morality. But they rarely dwelled upon happiness. None of the writings she’d read had spoken of joy, so intense that it could alter the mind and make pure the soul.
Juliana, for all her youth and seclusion, had known moments of pure happiness. The seasons gave her pleasure. The perfect song of the first robin of spring, the sound of a frog croaking on a summer night. A flurry of wind breathing through the leaves of a shedding tree. The first snow. All these moments of bliss had been encapsulated in her mind, to be extracted on those days of punishment when she knelt before the altar or was forbidden the scriptorium. She became adept at isolating those moments that pleased her the most. She could place a perfect moment into her memory simply by closing her eyes and pressing her fists to her chest and saying to herself, “This, this I will remember.”
Her days in the oriel were like that, memories she would never forget.
The parchment lay blank before her, the sun illuminating the fine grain. She’d prepared it herself, scraping the hide, then liming, and then scraping it again. There were to be no hairs present on her writing surface, no signs that it had not been prepared correctly or that she accepted less than the best effort from herself.
There was something about the blankness of a parchment not yet touched, the emptiness of it that stirred her imagination. The words had not been copied, no illumination colored the page or attracted the eye.
One day, perhaps, she would work with gold. She imagined what it would be like to lay the gold leaf upon a blank page, pressing it into the fibers of the parchment. Then, slowly, the part that would need to be colored would be scraped away. She’d never had the opportunity to work with gold leaf, it being as expensive as the vermilion ink only the abbess was allowed to use.
In a moment, her own ink would be cured enough to start, the color changing from clear to a pale blue. It would be coaxed three letters at a time from the quills she’d prepared from duck feathers. On the parchment, it would first show blue, then gradually darken to black. Then, the words she transcribed would be set to permanence.
On each initial letter of a new chapter, she left her mark, a small drawing of herself. She was not blond and delicate, but the girl in her glyph was. Her own hair was as black as a sinner’s heart, her eyes such an odd shade she’d been teased about the color since she was a child. Each time she drew the small girl, hanging from the tail of a Q or sitting upon the crossbeam of an A a smile accompanied her work. Perhaps leaving her glyph upon such important pages was a vain thing to do, but it was the only signature allowed her. In such a way scribes had, over the centuries, left a vestige of themselves in the work they did. This way, i
f her marginal notes were obliterated, there would be a trace of her remaining in the books she’d laboriously copied.
A sound interrupted her reverie, the soft stroke that comprised the capital B. She halted, quill suspended, not over the parchment in case a drop of ink marred the surface and made her erase all her day’s work, but over the shallow earthenware dish set aside for such a purpose.
How long had she been working? She stared straight ahead, noticing the view before her for the first time. Rolling hills and a hazed valley. From her perch in the oriel, the height did not look as frightening. But it was evident the day was well advanced.
She blinked, just now aware of the ache between her shoulders. Thanks to Jerard she did not feel an answering twinge in her lower back. The stool on which she sat had been trimmed to the exact height. She stood and stretched, flexing her fingers.
Then, as she did every day, she took measure of her supplies, noting that her reed quills would need to be replaced soon; two of them were becoming frayed. One of her parchments curled on the corner, either from dampness or improper scraping She would rectify that tomorrow. It was the supply of ink that concerned her the most, however. If she did not begin a new batch soon, she would find herself having to wait until it was cured in order to work. Tomorrow morning, then, she would begin her search of supplies.
Would each day be as sweet as the one just passed? If so, she could bear her marriage well.
Chapter 6
Sebastian stood and walked to the arched window that overlooked his demesne. His chamber was identical to Juliana’s, the only difference being that his window was neither glazed nor as wide, since it overlooked the countryside. It would be foolish to expend so much money on something that could easily be destroyed in the defending of Langlinais. Even though the castle had not seen a siege in more than two hundred years, it was difficult to forget that they lived in a lawless era, in tumultuous times.
It was his favorite time of day. The birds were still; it was that hour before dawn when the sky had lightened but the sun had not yet made an appearance over the horizon. This morning the mist had vanished, leaving behind a clarity to the air that was usually found only after a heavy rain.
His home had been a lodestar, a goal he’d thought about all those long lonely months he’d been imprisoned. His father gone, his mother long dead, his brother in the service of the Templars, there had only been himself left to guard and protect Langlinais.
He had been wise to send Jerard back to England after he was released. His squire turned steward had proven as loyal to his home as he had been to Sebastian. It had been Jerard who had kept Langlinais prosperous during his imprisonment. And when the time had come to return home, Langlinais had sat like a white beacon upon the landscape, welcoming Sebastian as if he had been whole and strong and worthy of the title lord.
He tucked his hands within his sleeves, turned toward the east to watch the sun begin its journey over the hills of Langlinais. Another ritual, this. One that marked the tenor of his days. He watched the unfolding panorama with appreciation born anew each morning.
To his left was the small village. Before it, a common pasture, a mill, and sheep fields. A few strips of land had been set aside for the villagers. The people who lived there were accountable to him just as he was responsible to them. It was for both his sake and theirs that he’d put into motion the plan to protect this world. He would not have it compressed and held tight in the fist of the Templars. The warrior-monks would banish his people and occupy his home. Unless he stopped them from coming.
Today the fields would be weeded again. The thistles had not been cut before Midsummer Day in the belief that they would grow back threefold if pruned too early. It had become a custom in the village to mark the day with a drawing of straws. The winning boys would circle the fields with blazing torches, in order to chase away dragons. He doubted any of the villagers truly believed in the long-tailed, fire-breathing creatures. It was more likely they simply enjoyed the celebration. The next to come, however, would be September’s celebration of the harvest. Until then, there were backbreaking weeks ahead as the hay was gathered, then the rye and wheat.
The people of Langlinais would bring his portion to his granaries with great fanfare, the occasion marked with solemnity. And he would send Jerard to meet them and thank them on their lord’s behalf. They would remember when his father entertained them with stories of the Crusades, when there was ale and red wine in abundance, when the occasion of the tithing was a ceremony replete with song and dance and merriment.
His father had been a fierce man, one who had added to the family’s wealth by winning countless tournaments over the years, ransoming the armor and horses won or simply selling them outright. Yet, he also had a reputation for fairness. He had married well, a woman of Poitou, and had brought to his home a great thirst for a dynasty. But of the eleven children he’d sired, seven of them sons, only two were alive when he’d died, and neither at his bedside.
They had not been fostered out as was customary. John of Langlinais had told his sons once that he believed himself the only one capable of guiding them correctly. “You were young lions,” he’d said. “Why would I subject one of my friends to your presence?” Their duties under their father’s watchful eye had been heavy, the days long for a dual purpose. First, to teach them all the duties in which they must be proficient, then to give them a taste of humility.
Sebastian smiled, thinking of his father’s proud grin the day he was knighted. He had been twenty, eager to test his prowess in battle. Even more eager to see the world. He had, and returned to his home with this secret, one his people had not yet discovered.
His father had died not of a broken heart as much as an aged one. Even though the effigy carved upon his tomb reflected the customary appearance of a man of thirty-three, John of Langlinais had been sixty-eight when he’d died.
And Sebastian had been in Paris, unaware.
A furl of movement in the corner of his vision distracted him. He turned his head and saw her. His bride walked toward the east gate, a basket in her hand. She wore neither toque nor wimple, only her hair braided in a coronet. Her stride was long, one that decreed purpose and destination in each step.
A woman who had charmed the residents of Langlinais, if Jerard was correct. She rarely gave orders, treated everyone with the same degree of kind bemusement, as if surprised at their presence. She involved herself, he’d been told, almost wholly in her work.
He watched her, grateful for the distance between them. The morning breeze cavorted around her ankles, swirling her skirt playfully, delineating the shape of her legs beneath the fabric. Did she think to leave him? Leave Langlinais? A small smile ridiculed that thought. How, Sebastian? Equipped with a basket and nothing more? His curiosity was piqued, even as she pushed open the gate and entered the forest.
The basket had been found in the buttery. It was not exactly what she needed, but a cursory examination had not revealed any spare jars or crocks. She would have to improvise, but then she was used to doing so. The Sisters of Charity were a parsimonious lot. Having taken their vows seriously, they not only begrudged waste, but were often without the rudimentary supplies needed in a scriptorium. But Juliana had found that being poor could be a very valuable experience. She never wasted parchment, and she could brew at least three colors of ink. It was a rather heady feeling to know that, at least in these two instances, she could do for herself.
The gatekeeper was fast asleep, leaning against the high wooden fence, his neck at an odd angle. Old Simon had given her a small carved wooden cat as a welcoming gift to Langlinais. She smiled and tiptoed past him, closed the gate with a small click, and headed into the woods.
At the base of a venerable oak she stopped, circled the trunk for several minutes, inspecting the ground. She moved off to a second tree, then a third. At the fourth she found what she needed. She began gathering the oak galls, piling them into her basket. She could boil acorn caps, but i
t was the oak galls that would produce the kind of ink she needed, the blue-black mixture that wore well and did not fade.
She bent and retrieved another gall and placed it in her basket. She was lucky to have found a tree so infested. Otherwise, she would have had to strip the bark, an action that could sometimes damage a tree. She chastised herself for her slowness. The quicker she finished this process, the quicker she could begin her work again.
He told himself that it was foolish to be here. But she was not inside the keep, and he was infused with curiosity about this woman circumstance had made his wife. He stood in the middle of the oriel with his eyes closed, scenting the air like a wolf seeking its mate. Roses. Faint, as if the breeze blew the scent in from the window. But it came from a woman who perfumed herself.
She was tidy in the arrangement of her tools. There was a pile of quills, some carved and ready, some not yet curved to the necessary point. A small saucer held a drop of drying ink, a horn the powder that produced it. In the center of the space was a book bound in wood, its worn leather hinges testament not only to its age but its use. Next to it, a piece of parchment, half the page completed, the letters carefully inscribed.
He had learned to read the way he’d done most things as a boy, with a great show of reluctance and a secret joy. Magdalene had taught him Latin and Greek and his numbers, so that he would need no scribe to write or read for him. But more than that, she had made his lessons interesting. He’d discovered that he loved to learn, enjoyed exploring the abilities of his own mind.
Why did he think of Magdalene so strongly right at this moment? Because she had been a woman of learning? Or because she would have felt the same as he did now? Impressed at the skill of the writer who had transcribed the words on the parchment before him.
He did not touch anything, merely lowered his hand, covered in a leather gauntlet, until it was only an inch from those implements Juliana used every day. It hovered there as if to absorb the warmth of a hand not present, touch a finger that would lightly press against the parchment the next day.
