by Karen Ranney
“My father tied his sword to my leg, telling me that I would decide what my future was to be. Either I would heal as straight and as strong as that sword, or I would be lame and it was the only association I would ever have of it. I was determined to heal, and so I did.”
Her wan smile was his only indication that she had heard him.
“Where is that sword?”
“I inherited it upon my father’s death and took it on crusade with me.”
An agonizingly long time later, Juliana’s hand was bandaged. Sister Agnes bathed her face, held her head up and made her sip an infusion she’d mixed with a cup of wine. Then the force of her not inconsiderable will was turned on him.
“She will sleep now. And lord or not, husbands are not needed in this place. Not now, and not until I call.”
She moved to the door, flung it open and stood there, defying him. Her look dared him to protest his banishment. Her eyes narrowed when he hesitated.
He glanced at Juliana, who lay with her eyes closed, her face ashen.
“Do you wish me to stay, Juliana?”
She smiled softly, but did not open her eyes. “No, Sebastian.”
He stood, oddly disappointed. “Sebastian?”
She was looking at him now, her gaze as steady as before, if just a little more weary. As if the pain had eaten through her composure and her restraint.
“Yes, Juliana?”
“Thank you.”
Simple words, but they felt important. He nodded at her. Within moments, he found himself on the other side of the door.
Chapter 20
“Please tell the abbess how much I appreciate your care, Sister,” Juliana said a few days later.
“I but did my duty, Juliana.” Sister Agnes looked up from packing her box to soften the words with a small smile. “It is now yours to ensure that my work was not in vain. You must have the bandages of your left hand removed twice a day, Juliana, and place another layer of salve upon your hand before having it rebandaged.”
Juliana looked down at her bandaged hands. Each separate finger was covered by a length of linen so that they looked large and misshapen. The pain of them had subsided somewhat, or perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to it.
“As to your right hand, Juliana, I’ve no way of knowing whether you will ever write again. In a few weeks, you may remove the bandages, but I would give it much longer than that before you try to force your fingers to hold a quill.”
Juliana nodded.
Sister Agnes came and stood by the bed. “The next weeks will be very difficult. But I’ve known you since you were a small child, and I know you to be a stubborn girl. That stubbornness will serve you well now.”
Juliana nodded. “Sister, is there a cure for leprosy?” She took a chance by asking the nun. Perhaps it was the look in the other woman’s eyes, an ever-present compassion, that made her do so.
Sister Agnes turned and continued packing items into her small wooden case. It held the most precious of her healing instruments, vials of precious herbs and unguents made from recipes she was eager to share. Healing, she was fond of saying, was one of those arts that is bettered by contribution. Was she going to answer? Or pretend the question had not been asked?
“I know no one who has ever survived it,” she said, finally, not looking at Juliana. “They are poor wretches, truth to tell. But there are things that can be done to bring them comfort. This,” she said, placing a small, covered pottery jar on the bed beside Juliana, “softens the skin and has been known to ease the pain of the disease.”
Juliana placed her bandaged hand atop the jar.
“Do not allow your kind heart to apply the salve yourself. You must never touch one of them.” Her voice was gentle, her look direct. “If there is someone at Langlinais with such a curse, Juliana, it is better that they be taken from here.”
Juliana looked down at her hands. He’d wanted to burn her rather than have her suffer the same fate as his. Yet even the most caring nun would have him banished. She forced a smile to her face.
“Thank you, Sister,” she softly said, lifting her gaze to the other woman. “I will see to it.”
“There are no thanks necessary, Juliana,” Sister Agnes said. “I will add the penitent to my prayers. Is there any word you would have me convey to the abbess?”
“Only that when I regain the use of my hands I will be happy to continue my work.”
“Whatever God wills. Perhaps your time will be spent more with the children you will bear.”
Juliana managed a smile. There had been enough secrets spilled this morning. She would not tell Sister Agnes that it seemed as if her destiny was pointed in a different direction, but in which way she was not certain. If she could not work, and she would never be a wife, then what was her purpose?
Yet another question that must be answered eventually.
Sebastian stood in the oriel. It was still scented with roses. He carefully turned over the pages Juliana had so carefully inscribed. She had already fastened them together into facing folia, or individual pages, so that they were in proper numerical order. The quaternion, the book containing five sections of pages, would be sent with Sister Agnes to the abbess in the morning.
He read her colophons, those margin notes that indicated the personalities of scribes so acutely. None was as poignant as the message she’d written on the last page. I have made the letters as properly and perfectly as I could, and attempted to copy without error. It has been my intent to understand the sense of what I have copied, and to concentrate my wandering mind upon this task.
What had occupied her thoughts?
“My lord?” He turned at the sound of Jerard’s voice.
“A message has come for you, my lord. A Templar brought it.” Jerard held out the missive, a wax seal across the face of it. Sebastian took it, a feeling not unlike doom stealing over him.
He broke open the seal and scanned the letter. Folding it again, he pushed past Jerard and strode down the hall, Jerard following him. He opened the door of his chamber and tried to force himself to be calm. But anger seemed to churn within him like a whirlpool.
Once inside his room, he thrust the letter to Jerard, waited until the steward read the words.
“How can they refuse an extension, my lord?” There was disbelief coupled with anger on his steward’s face.
“Easily, Jerard,” he said. “They want something else from me.”
Inscribed in Gregory’s hand was the reply to his request for more time to pay his ransom. On the surface of it, the letter was a brotherly expression of concern that Sebastian was unable to make the last payment on the loan. Gregory suggested how he might be willing to convince the Templars to discharge the debt. All that Sebastian need do was to surrender anything he might have taken from Montvichet.
“They want the Cathar treasure in exchange for Langlinais.” The treasure was no secret from Jerard. His steward had been with him at Montvichet. But the true nature of the Cathar legacy was Sebastian’s knowledge alone. He had vowed to keep it hidden and allow it to die with him. The letter, however, altered his wishes.
Jerard laid the letter down on the table as if it were contaminated.
“I know my brother only too well, Jerard. He is happiest when neck deep in intrigue.” Sebastian walked to the table and stared down at the letter. He could almost see Gregory concentrating upon the exact wording. Enough information to alarm, but not enough to reveal the Templar intent.
“What will you do, my lord?”
He could not afford to ignore the veiled threat. He had more than his own future to be concerned about, more than a castle to shield. He had Juliana and the inhabitants of Langlinais to guard. He idly fingered the small carved figure of Juliana given to him by Old Simon.
They wanted the treasure of the Cathars.
The Templars would not raze Langlinais, but they would occupy it. Set the castle up as another of their properties, people it with warrior-monks. His people woul
d be banished, the villagers sent away. Some of the families here could trace their line back to the time of his Norman ancestor. And Juliana? What would they do to his wife? Cast her out? Her welfare, that of his people would not matter to the Templars.
Even if he could pay the remainder of his ransom, he did not doubt there would be another pretext under which they would threaten Langlinais. Some interest he’d not considered, some fine levied. Their hunger for the treasure outweighed any other consideration, even that of fairness.
There was only one thing to be done. He considered how he might offer to the Templars exactly what they wanted, and safeguard both his wife and his home.
“They are going to get exactly what they expect, Jerard,” he said. “Take a message to Old Simon for me in the morning. There is some work I need him to perform for me.” He spoke the words that would put his plan into motion, then watched as Jerard left the room.
The emotions he felt now surprised him. Relief and rage. The relief was harder to decipher. Did it have at its roots the fact that he knew his plan might work? He understood why he was angry. The Templars had stolen the last of his time with Juliana.
He pulled the robe over his head, reveling in the freedom from its confining folds. His skin chafed where the wool abraded it. He inspected himself, the way he did each day, measuring the progress of his disease like a mother might record a child’s growth. There was no fondness in this, however, no touch of kindness a mother might invoke. His condition was progressing, just as he feared. He’d not yet lost the sensation in his limbs, a blessing or a curse, he did not know which. It meant he was not declining as rapidly as he might. Or it could mean that it would be many long and painful years until he died of this.
Until then, he must protect those under his care. First, by giving the Templars what they thought he had. Secondly, by ensuring that they left Juliana and Langlinais in peace.
Chapter 21
“It isn’t as if we begrudged her help, my lady.” Grazide fixed the end of Juliana’s braid with a short piece of blue ribbon. “Nor do I doubt she’s a good soul, being a nun and all. But she banished me from your room, and she sent away all of the helpers in the buttery.” Grazide sniffed.
“I am sure she didn’t mean to be overpowering, Grazide. It’s just that Sister Agnes has always been a bit headstrong.”
“Pushy. Bossy. Arrogant.” Such terseness of speech was unlike Grazide.
Juliana smiled at her, hoping to smooth the other woman’s ruffled feathers.
“Then she told me we were a godless bunch, not having a chaplain present at Langlinais. And she said that Cook didn’t use enough greens, and that our meat wasn’t salted properly.”
“I am sorry if she was annoying, Grazide.”
The attendant removed the cotte from the cupboard. It had been shorn of its trailing sleeves, the better to accommodate the bandages on Juliana’s hands.
Grazide looked up. “It is not your place to apologize, my lady, but hers. Even being a nun does not excuse a body from rudeness, does it?”
Juliana shook her head. Such disputes normally occurred when two strong women were assigned the same task and one looked to be better at it than the other.
Once a great gust of wind had torn the roof from the refectory. She had helped with the cleanup around the convent and discovered that the youngest and most fragile trees had survived, while the strongest, most sturdy oaks had been uprooted. The lesson had not been lost on her. Sometimes the one that willingly bends is the one that remains standing after the storm has passed. She’d found, however, that it was more common for one person to expect the other to bend than willingly to surrender. It was evident that Grazide felt the same.
“I doubt we’ll see her again,” she said, in an effort to placate her attendant. “Jerard has taken her back to the convent.” Along with the newly copied volume of the encyclopedia. Juliana wondered if she would ever be able to do such work again.
“Not soon enough, my lady. She lectured us, she did, all about how we were to care for you, and make the salve for your hands. Kept us there for an hour telling us over and over, until I thought of throttling her.” There was an odd look on Grazide’s face as if she just now realized her words and now wondered at the celestial punishment for wishing to strangle a nun.
“I am sorry, Grazide,” she said again. Sister Agnes had left that morning, perhaps by tomorrow, the other woman’s anger would have softened.
Grazide draped the cotte over Juliana’s head. The voluminous garment served as her night attire, its thin weave masking little of her body. Modesty, however, had been supplanted by necessity. She could do few things for herself now, especially with her hands bandaged so thickly.
“Not that we don’t have enough to do,” Grazide mumbled, “what with all the preparations for my lord’s journey. Twelve men, plus he and Jerard to provide provisions for, too.”
“Journey?”
Grazide straightened up, folded her hands at her middle, frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve no knowledge of the thing, my lady.”
Juliana shook her head.
“Off to France he’s going. Him and Jerard, with a troop of our men-at-arms.”
“When?”
“A sennight or less.”
She stood, allowing Grazide to arrange the folds of her cotte around her. Her hands were kept above her waist, to minimize the pain. Sister Agnes had left a draught for her to drink if it became unbearable, but each day the ache seemed less.
What she felt at this moment was pain of another kind. Why had he not told her? And why was he leaving?
There was no knock on the door. It simply opened. He looked up at the interruption, thinking it was Jerard. His steward was his only visitor. Even the talkative Grazide had been convinced early on that he needed none of her care. Never mind that she’d wiped his nose and swatted his backside when he was a boy. No one else would dare invade his privacy. Therefore, it was with surprise that he watched Juliana glide into the room. Between her bandaged hands was a covered vessel. She lowered it gently to the bench. He frowned. She should not be carrying things.
She did not meet his eyes, asked no pardon for the interruption, simply sat beside the jar, her eyes intent upon the black maw where flames leapt in colder days. He knew, in that strange sense that came over him in matters that dealt with her, that her demeanor was studied and calm only through will.
He’d not seen her for two days, had removed himself from her room and her sight. Looking at him could only remind her of what he was. He had enjoyed, for a few hours at least, her acceptance. He did not want to see that emotion transformed into revulsion. But it seemed as if he was to be treated to some strong feeling. She trembled with it.
“Juliana.”
“Sebastian,” she said, and he wondered fleetingly if she mocked him.
He sat at the other end of the bench and stared ahead, just as she did. Sometimes, it was better not to face one’s opponent, but to slice from the side. He waited for the blow.
She turned and looked down at the earthenware jar on the bench. “Promise me you’ll use this, Sebastian.”
“What is it?”
“Something Sister Agnes says will ease your discomfort. You must spread it on your skin once a day.”
“What is it? Bat tongue? Ground-up beetles?”
She shrugged. “I do not know. Does it matter? If it eases you, do you care?”
He did not tell her that there were no potions, no salves, no unguents made that would ease his coming discomfort. He opened the earthenware jar. It smelled of mint, similar to the preparation Sister Agnes had used on her hands.
“Promise me.”
He had given her far less than she deserved, he could give her this. He nodded.
“Grazide says you are leaving.” It was not a question. Both hands rested on her legs. Heavily bandaged, they looked like white clubs.
He nodded, concentrating his gaze upon the floor. He noted that the timbers were warping
in one spot.
“Where do you go, Sebastian? And why? Or do you intend to tell me anything? Shall I aspire to be like Hildegard of Bingen? She was consulted as a prophet, you know. Think of all the conversations we could have without your having to speak. I could think of the question and you could simply think the answer.”
His lips quirked at this evidence of her irritation. It was the first time he’d ever seen her angry.
She stood and walked the short distance to where he sat, facing him. She was not a short woman, but he was a tall man. If he had stood, the top of her head would have come to his shoulder. With him seated, she was but a little taller than he, enough to look imperiously down at him. Enough that her chin tilted at an angle that would have been considered regal had he not seen it quiver just the smallest bit.
Her cotte was of linen, finely crafted and too transparent for this moment. Beneath it he could see her lovely body, the swell of breasts, the curve of leg. He did not need to see her to know every inch of her skin. He could too easily recall how she’d looked, naked, in the glow of the lamps. Such recollections were replayed in his mind nightly. He looked away.
“Am I to be left here, then, Sebastian? To weep for you? To yearn? And one day, I will fall into another man’s arms and he will console me, and you will sleep your martyr’s sleep, content that your plans have been fulfilled?”
If the loneliness was too great to bear, and she took a lover, the world would not condemn her for it. He shied from the idea, his mind skirting the sudden quick image of Juliana being kissed, Juliana with her face flushed with wonder in the arms of another man. He could not think of it without feeling the twin spikes of rage and grief.
Her eyes seemed to deepen, the green of them seen through a sheen of tears. He said nothing as she turned and walked toward the door.
“Fare you well, Sebastian. Go with God.” Why did she appear so much more delicate than she had in the past? As if she were no more than a wraith, a faint rendering of herself.
