A Widow's Crusade: Chapter 1
For the next nine weeks, I will be publishing in installments on this blog a novella a wrote long ago. The novella is set in the start of the 13th century and describes a widow's voyage to Holy Land on a personal crusade. I hope you'll enjoy it -- and keep in mind that the text of the story are copyrighted.
CHAPTER ONE Chauvigny, PoitouEaster Week, 1212 The bells were clanging again from all the churches of the town. Blanche stepped up into the window seat to close the casement windows, but paused as she caught sight of the crowds in the narrow street below. This was neither a traditional Easter procession to the shrine of St. Pierrenor one of the guild pageants. The people pouring down the narrow street like water in a flood wore neither the robes of the guilds nor the habits of the clergy, but they all had some sort of short white cape over their shoulders on which was painted or sewn a black cross. Arrested by memories of an earlier Crusade, Blanche leaned out of the window to get a better look at the crowd.Crusaders wore crosses similar to these, but crusaders were knights and men at arms, while the street below was filled with nothing but beardless youths and children. They were singing in high, breathy, off-key voices a melody that seemed to jar a memory, but the ineptness of their singing and the clanging of the bells obscured it. A gust of wind brought a shower of fine mist through the window, reminding and admonishing Blanche to shut the casement. The sound of the bells at once became fainter and the voices of the children were lost entirely. Instead, as she turned back toward the chamber, she became cognizant of the prattle of her guest. Madame de Mousseau was her daughter Jacquette's mother-in-law, a singularly unintelligent yet obsessively garrulous woman! With a deep sigh, Blanche unwrapped her veils and removed her hat while she tried to gather her patience. What did it matter how long or how pointlessly Madame de Mousseau chattered? As a widow whose children were both settled, Blanche had all the time in the world. But what was that haunting melody the children had been singing? Not an Easter hymn, Blanch was certain, but an old song. She wondered vaguely why it should make her feel so sad. Her girlhood had been happy.The door opened and her waiting woman Claire entered shaking the rain from her cloak. "You should see what's going on in the street." She announced breathlessly. "There’s a man out there preaching a new crusade!”Now Blanche recognized the melody the children had been running through her head: it was the “Song of Palestine,” a much beloved melody of Crusaders for at least two decades. Now it came to her more clearly, and she remembered dancing a slow carol to it, so long ago in her father's castle. But Claire was continuing in her excited voice. “Only this crusade will be completely different from all that have gone before. The last crusades failed because they did not follow Hisexample.” Claire was so excited she ignored the scandalized look of Madame de Mousseau and the annoyance on the faces of the young men. “Christ came to earth to preach love, so we cannot regain Jerusalemwith the sword but only with the Holy Word. Anyone who wears a sword is expelled from the crusade!""There will not be many noblemen among this young man’s following then." Blanche remarked dryly."What does he want with noblemen?" Claire countered apparently fully enthalled by the idea, "Christ called for the poor, the sick and the lame - and above all he called for the children - to come to him. This crusade will triumph because of the innocence and purity of its crusaders!”Claire’s apparent conviction brought an outburst of laughter from the young men, Blanch’s son and son-in-law. They at once started to mock poor Claire, "And what are the Saracens supposed to do?" Robert asked laughing. "Pack up their things and return to the desert just because a rag-tag mob of beggars and run-aways appears before the gates of Jerusalem?” "They aren't just riff-raff." Claire countered with astonishing verve. Blanche couldn’t remember the last time her waiting woman had been so outspoken, particularly in company. "There were well-dressed youths and modest maidens among them!" She insisted.The young men at once started making lewd remarks about what kind of “modest” maidens took part in a “crusade,” laughing heartily as Claire blushed, more in frustration than shame. Just as Blanche herself was about to intercede, Madame de Mousseau drew everyone's attention by announcing, "My son Bert is in the Holy Land, you know? He is squire to my sister's husband, one of the great barons of Outremer, Hughes de Hebron. Lord Hughes was named Constable of Montfort in Galilee last fall. I have a letter from Bert here. I brought it especially to read to you.” Before either of the young men could protest, Blanche declared she would be delighted to hear what Bert de Mousseau had to report from the Holy Land, in order to thereby distract attention from Claire. Madame de Mousseau removed the letter, while her audience, more or less reluctantly, settled down to listen. Blanche sank into the windowseat, but she found it hard to listen to the rambling account of a young squire with no particular gift at expression. He was rather like his mother, Blanche concluded maliciously, and her mind wandered.Outside in the street, the last stragglers were still passing below her window. If there were any well-to-do children in this crusade, these were not they. The rear-guard of this curious crusade was made up of children already so lame and barefoot. They limped and hobbled, dragging themselves along, in what looked like sheer desperation."....Sir Abelard de la Guiltiere. He--""What?!" Blanche’s attention was drawn back to letter being read aloud so abruptly that she knocked over her the embroidery screen set up beside the windowseat and it clattered to the floor. Everyone sprang up to help her set it on its tripod again. Blanche shooed them away, "It's alright! It's fine! Please read what you just read again.""My lord agreed to take him into his household--""Who?""Just some knight that approached him--""No, you read a name." Blanche insisted sharply.Madame de Mousseau stiffened and drew a face to indicate that she did not think Madame de Gouzon had a right to speak to her in such a tone, before she looked down at the letter again. “... a certain Sir Abelard de la Guiltiere. He offered his services to Sir Hughes and my lord agreed to take him into his household."Blanche couldn't breathe. The others seemed infinitely far away, their voices distant, while the melody hammered in her head. “At last my life has purpose, for my sinful eyes have been allowed to see the Land where God took human form....”"You've never seen a mill like this, Mama,” Madame de Mousseau was reading, “with running water to clean out the latrines and the kitchen slops, but to get back to Sir Abelard, it came out that he had been sold into Egyptian slavery--"The embroidery screen went toppling over a second time, and this time Jean-Pierre could not suppress an exasperated, "what's the matter with you, mother?""Excuse me. I'm not well." Blanche did not dare look at him or any of them. She had to get out of the room. She made for the spiral stairs in the corner. They would think she was making for a garderobe. Behind her she could hear their concerned voices, including Robert's practical speculation about which of the feast-day dishes did not sit well upon her stomach. "Too much Lenten fair and then such a feast. Some people such can't handle it." Claire was saying she’d go to the kitchen for butter and saffron to make a stomach poultice. Blanche had gained the stairs and so was shielded from their solicitous eyes. Gratefully she leaned back against the cold stone (there were no tapestries here). She let her head drop back against the wall and closed her eyes. The melodies and words were intermingled in confusion and overpowered by slow incessant beat of her heart. He wasn't dead.They had escaped the crowded, over-heated hall, giggling at their escape. Breathless from the dancing, she had stopped to catch her breath. He had loomed over her, taller by a head, and so broad of shoulder that she could not see around him when he leaned over her. For a moment she had been almost frightened to be so near to so much, barely curbed strength. She'd seen what that strength could do: unseat fully armored men with a single well-placed thrust of his lance. But when he bent to kiss her, his lips barely touched hers. They brushed against her so gently that she lifted her head seeking them. And he accepted the invitation gladly, kissing her hotly, breathlessly, until she had become frightened again, and wriggled out from under his arm, giggling.He let her go. Her strength was like that of a fly compared to his, but he did not try to use force. He had simply followed her, smiling a little sheepishly, but playing her silly, girlish games nevertheless.The widow found herself pounding her fists backwards against the wall. Christ! God! He wasn't dead. She'd married another man, taken his name, and raised his children. She'd let him break her maidenhead and plant his seed - and keep his mistress under her roof. She'd borne his children and worn mourning for 5 years for him. And she was trembling and in tears for a man she hadn't seen in 22 years. This was madness. She tried to pull herself together, but she couldn't face the others. She clutched her skirts and continued hastily up the stairs, seeking the privacy of her chamber. She still slept in the same room where Jacques de Gouzon had brought her the day after their wedding. The chamber had been carefully prepared for the new Lady. There were even fresh flowers in a glass vase. Her husband had pointed out to her the ivory jewelry-box and told her all the items in it belonged to her now. He had no daughters. The things he had inherited or which had belonged to his previous wives had been collected here. He seemed to think she would be delighted, but she had felt only a hollowness in her stomach. All the things someone else had bought for some other woman....She had waited for him tensely throughout the night, hardly sleeping. She had not been eager, not after the night before, but she’d been raised to think men were ardent lovers and she a beautiful bride. Only later did she learn he slept in his own chamber with a woman who’d shared his bed for a quarter of a century without ever carrying his name or being acknowledged in any way.Outside this chamber she was Madame. She had been given the keys to all the cellars and cupboards, and her husband had ordered his clerks to open their books to her. She had never managed such a large household before, almost 100 servants, and it was a tiring and demanding task that kept her busy all day. But nights she was alone in this well-furnished chamber with the new frescoes and the rich carpets. Alone, and young and full of childish wishes still. It was not her husband she had longed for, dreamed of and fantasized about. Blanche stared at the magnificently carved chest at the foot of her bed. On the lid two knights jousted with each-other, their lances straight and their shoulders hunched against the impact. On the side, under a double arcade, carved figures represented saints, kings and heroes. King Arthur was easily recognized and Roland with his horn to his lips. She went down onto her knees slowly, as if she was afraid of hurting herself. The chest was not locked. She lifted the lid and rested it against the bed behind. A shallow tray was laden with underwear - drawers and stockings and corsets in neat piles, all freshly washed. She lifted the tray out of the chest and set it on the floor next her. Now her summer shifts and gowns came to view.There was a knocking on the door, and Blanche started guiltily."My lady?" It Claire’s worried voice. “Madame? I’ve made a poultice?” "That’s kind of you, Claire, but I don’t need it. There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.”The door banged in the frame as the faithful servant tried to open it. "My lady? What's wrong?""Nothing. I was just - needed some time away from the others. I wish to pray. Go back to your fire and wine.""Are you sure, my lady?" Claire asked one last time. “Yes,” Blanche insisted, and sighed with relief when she heard Claire retreat. Now she could redirect her attention to her chest. Careful not to ruin the careful folding, she started to remove the shifts and gowns. She set the gowns and shifts and surcoats in neat piles around her, digging deeper and deeper until at last her fingers brushed heavy velvet at last. Now, with both hands she shoved aside the remaining clothes and drew a cloak from the very bottom of the chest. Slowly, her feet tingling from cut off circulation she had not even noticed, she drew herself to her feet. As she stood, she held the cloak at arms length, so it tumbled open. It was his cloak. He had sent it back to her from Marseilles, saying he would not need it in the sun-soaked Holy Land.At first she just stared at it in wonder, noting that the velvet was crushed beyond repair from the years at the bottom of her chest. Then she laid it over her left arm and with her right hand she stroked the beaver lining. Abruptly she flung it onto the bed, and started to undress herself. She glanced over her shoulder to be doubly sure that the door was bolted. Her adult mind kept telling her this was ridiculous. Utterly absurd. She was acting like a silly school girl - like that foolish 17 year-old who had made such a scene on the day of his departure.He had come to take his leave of her, and her father had received him more kindly than ever before, sharing a cup of his best wine with him in the great chamber. He had never looked more magnificent, his hair cut short for convenience in coif and helm and his beard trimmed neatly around his thin, strong lips. His chainmail had glittered even in the dim chamber, and his golden spurs had caught the fire-light. He wore a short, loose surcoat with no coat of arms but a blue crusader cross on the right breast over his heart. His left hand had rested on the hilt of a long-sword sheathed in elaborately worked silver. His hands were bare but for his signet ring. But when she had been summoned by her father to take her leave of him, she had lost all control over herself. At first, she had come calmly to stand demurely beside her father, but when she realized that he truly meant to take his leave (not ask for her hand as she had secretly hoped), she had refused to give him a kiss of peace. She had raised a face contorted and ugly with hate and shouted at him in her high-pitched, spoilt voice that she didn't care if he evercame back. The memory of that petulant, spoilt, girlish voice that made her cringe, as she removed her surcoat and hung it carefully upon one of the wall-hooks. Her gown was much more difficult to remove alone. She usually had Claire's assistance. The sleeves had buttons all the way to the elbow and the lacings of the gown went down her back. With increasing frustration that only fired her senseless determination, she struggled until she could worm her way out of the gown, hot and sweating and red in the face. But she could not stop. Her father, who had never liked him, had reproached her sharply for her behavior, sending her away angrily and apologizing to him. She had fled to her chamber, and then watched from the window until she had seen him descend the steps from the hall and mount his great stallion. The stallion too had been decked out in great finery with a trapper that went to his ankles and a saddle studded with brass tacks. She had leaned out of the window and shouted down at him in one last desperate attempt to salvage her dreams. "If you leave me now, don't ever, ever come back! Do you understand? I never want to see you again!"He had glanced up toward her window once, then ridden out of the ward without a backward glance. She had flung herself on her bed screaming and weeping and pounding her pillow until her father sent Claire to tell her if she continued to behave like a five-year-old, he’d treat her like one and she would be locked in her room for week. But he had sent his cloak back to her with a letter. He would not need the cloak in the Holy Land, he told her, but he hoped she would keep it for him until he came back. She had burned his letter in fury at his arrogance. How dare he think she would wait for him?! She had dozens of other suitors! She was an heiress and she was pretty, with a waist he could enclose in his two hands. Why should she wait for him? If the Holy Land was more important to him than she was, than he could stay in Holy Land forever! He would never have her! But when she had raised her hand to fling his cloak after the letter into the fire, her strength had failed her. She had stood with it bunched up over her head, while the cloak felt heavier and heavier, until she had flung it angrily at her chest instead and run, weeping, into the garden. It had been poor faithful Claire, who had carefully folded the expensive cloak and placed it at the bottom of the chest ‘for when Monsieur Abelard comes back.’Blanche worked to free herself of the corset. It laced up the front and held her ever thicker waist firm while supporting her heavy breasts - breasts that had grown round with her pregnancies but now sagged sadly. Tears stood in her eyes, but there was no point stopping now. She removed the corset and her shift and last but not least her drawers. At last, she stood completely naked with her discarded underclothes strewn about her on the floor ― as if a lover had torn them from her in his haste.But what lover would be in haste to have her body as it was now? She could hardly bear to look at what had become of her once elflike figure. It was now so laden with excessive padding that it was all but shapeless. The chill in the unheated chamber made her shiver and she became aware of the hiss of the drizzle against the tiny, circular window-pains in the narrow window. But that only made it easier to reach at last for the musty cloak and pull it around her.The fur was soft - as soft and gentle as his kisses had been. She closed her eyes against the present and felt his warmth, preserved in the folds of his cloak for a quarter century. He wrapped his arms around her in a caress as gentle as it was possessive."Abelard!" She screamed after him, but no sound came out of her mouth. "Abelard." She whimpered as she sank onto the floor, his cloak caressing her nakedness across the sea and across the decades. Her head clunked against the base board of the bed and she wept for all the wasted years, her lost youth, her faded beauty, the husband who had loved only her father's stud farm, and a stupid, selfish, spiteful girl who shouted out her window that he should never come home.
CHAPTER ONE Chauvigny, PoitouEaster Week, 1212 The bells were clanging again from all the churches of the town. Blanche stepped up into the window seat to close the casement windows, but paused as she caught sight of the crowds in the narrow street below. This was neither a traditional Easter procession to the shrine of St. Pierrenor one of the guild pageants. The people pouring down the narrow street like water in a flood wore neither the robes of the guilds nor the habits of the clergy, but they all had some sort of short white cape over their shoulders on which was painted or sewn a black cross. Arrested by memories of an earlier Crusade, Blanche leaned out of the window to get a better look at the crowd.Crusaders wore crosses similar to these, but crusaders were knights and men at arms, while the street below was filled with nothing but beardless youths and children. They were singing in high, breathy, off-key voices a melody that seemed to jar a memory, but the ineptness of their singing and the clanging of the bells obscured it. A gust of wind brought a shower of fine mist through the window, reminding and admonishing Blanche to shut the casement. The sound of the bells at once became fainter and the voices of the children were lost entirely. Instead, as she turned back toward the chamber, she became cognizant of the prattle of her guest. Madame de Mousseau was her daughter Jacquette's mother-in-law, a singularly unintelligent yet obsessively garrulous woman! With a deep sigh, Blanche unwrapped her veils and removed her hat while she tried to gather her patience. What did it matter how long or how pointlessly Madame de Mousseau chattered? As a widow whose children were both settled, Blanche had all the time in the world. But what was that haunting melody the children had been singing? Not an Easter hymn, Blanch was certain, but an old song. She wondered vaguely why it should make her feel so sad. Her girlhood had been happy.The door opened and her waiting woman Claire entered shaking the rain from her cloak. "You should see what's going on in the street." She announced breathlessly. "There’s a man out there preaching a new crusade!”Now Blanche recognized the melody the children had been running through her head: it was the “Song of Palestine,” a much beloved melody of Crusaders for at least two decades. Now it came to her more clearly, and she remembered dancing a slow carol to it, so long ago in her father's castle. But Claire was continuing in her excited voice. “Only this crusade will be completely different from all that have gone before. The last crusades failed because they did not follow Hisexample.” Claire was so excited she ignored the scandalized look of Madame de Mousseau and the annoyance on the faces of the young men. “Christ came to earth to preach love, so we cannot regain Jerusalemwith the sword but only with the Holy Word. Anyone who wears a sword is expelled from the crusade!""There will not be many noblemen among this young man’s following then." Blanche remarked dryly."What does he want with noblemen?" Claire countered apparently fully enthalled by the idea, "Christ called for the poor, the sick and the lame - and above all he called for the children - to come to him. This crusade will triumph because of the innocence and purity of its crusaders!”Claire’s apparent conviction brought an outburst of laughter from the young men, Blanch’s son and son-in-law. They at once started to mock poor Claire, "And what are the Saracens supposed to do?" Robert asked laughing. "Pack up their things and return to the desert just because a rag-tag mob of beggars and run-aways appears before the gates of Jerusalem?” "They aren't just riff-raff." Claire countered with astonishing verve. Blanche couldn’t remember the last time her waiting woman had been so outspoken, particularly in company. "There were well-dressed youths and modest maidens among them!" She insisted.The young men at once started making lewd remarks about what kind of “modest” maidens took part in a “crusade,” laughing heartily as Claire blushed, more in frustration than shame. Just as Blanche herself was about to intercede, Madame de Mousseau drew everyone's attention by announcing, "My son Bert is in the Holy Land, you know? He is squire to my sister's husband, one of the great barons of Outremer, Hughes de Hebron. Lord Hughes was named Constable of Montfort in Galilee last fall. I have a letter from Bert here. I brought it especially to read to you.” Before either of the young men could protest, Blanche declared she would be delighted to hear what Bert de Mousseau had to report from the Holy Land, in order to thereby distract attention from Claire. Madame de Mousseau removed the letter, while her audience, more or less reluctantly, settled down to listen. Blanche sank into the windowseat, but she found it hard to listen to the rambling account of a young squire with no particular gift at expression. He was rather like his mother, Blanche concluded maliciously, and her mind wandered.Outside in the street, the last stragglers were still passing below her window. If there were any well-to-do children in this crusade, these were not they. The rear-guard of this curious crusade was made up of children already so lame and barefoot. They limped and hobbled, dragging themselves along, in what looked like sheer desperation."....Sir Abelard de la Guiltiere. He--""What?!" Blanche’s attention was drawn back to letter being read aloud so abruptly that she knocked over her the embroidery screen set up beside the windowseat and it clattered to the floor. Everyone sprang up to help her set it on its tripod again. Blanche shooed them away, "It's alright! It's fine! Please read what you just read again.""My lord agreed to take him into his household--""Who?""Just some knight that approached him--""No, you read a name." Blanche insisted sharply.Madame de Mousseau stiffened and drew a face to indicate that she did not think Madame de Gouzon had a right to speak to her in such a tone, before she looked down at the letter again. “... a certain Sir Abelard de la Guiltiere. He offered his services to Sir Hughes and my lord agreed to take him into his household."Blanche couldn't breathe. The others seemed infinitely far away, their voices distant, while the melody hammered in her head. “At last my life has purpose, for my sinful eyes have been allowed to see the Land where God took human form....”"You've never seen a mill like this, Mama,” Madame de Mousseau was reading, “with running water to clean out the latrines and the kitchen slops, but to get back to Sir Abelard, it came out that he had been sold into Egyptian slavery--"The embroidery screen went toppling over a second time, and this time Jean-Pierre could not suppress an exasperated, "what's the matter with you, mother?""Excuse me. I'm not well." Blanche did not dare look at him or any of them. She had to get out of the room. She made for the spiral stairs in the corner. They would think she was making for a garderobe. Behind her she could hear their concerned voices, including Robert's practical speculation about which of the feast-day dishes did not sit well upon her stomach. "Too much Lenten fair and then such a feast. Some people such can't handle it." Claire was saying she’d go to the kitchen for butter and saffron to make a stomach poultice. Blanche had gained the stairs and so was shielded from their solicitous eyes. Gratefully she leaned back against the cold stone (there were no tapestries here). She let her head drop back against the wall and closed her eyes. The melodies and words were intermingled in confusion and overpowered by slow incessant beat of her heart. He wasn't dead.They had escaped the crowded, over-heated hall, giggling at their escape. Breathless from the dancing, she had stopped to catch her breath. He had loomed over her, taller by a head, and so broad of shoulder that she could not see around him when he leaned over her. For a moment she had been almost frightened to be so near to so much, barely curbed strength. She'd seen what that strength could do: unseat fully armored men with a single well-placed thrust of his lance. But when he bent to kiss her, his lips barely touched hers. They brushed against her so gently that she lifted her head seeking them. And he accepted the invitation gladly, kissing her hotly, breathlessly, until she had become frightened again, and wriggled out from under his arm, giggling.He let her go. Her strength was like that of a fly compared to his, but he did not try to use force. He had simply followed her, smiling a little sheepishly, but playing her silly, girlish games nevertheless.The widow found herself pounding her fists backwards against the wall. Christ! God! He wasn't dead. She'd married another man, taken his name, and raised his children. She'd let him break her maidenhead and plant his seed - and keep his mistress under her roof. She'd borne his children and worn mourning for 5 years for him. And she was trembling and in tears for a man she hadn't seen in 22 years. This was madness. She tried to pull herself together, but she couldn't face the others. She clutched her skirts and continued hastily up the stairs, seeking the privacy of her chamber. She still slept in the same room where Jacques de Gouzon had brought her the day after their wedding. The chamber had been carefully prepared for the new Lady. There were even fresh flowers in a glass vase. Her husband had pointed out to her the ivory jewelry-box and told her all the items in it belonged to her now. He had no daughters. The things he had inherited or which had belonged to his previous wives had been collected here. He seemed to think she would be delighted, but she had felt only a hollowness in her stomach. All the things someone else had bought for some other woman....She had waited for him tensely throughout the night, hardly sleeping. She had not been eager, not after the night before, but she’d been raised to think men were ardent lovers and she a beautiful bride. Only later did she learn he slept in his own chamber with a woman who’d shared his bed for a quarter of a century without ever carrying his name or being acknowledged in any way.Outside this chamber she was Madame. She had been given the keys to all the cellars and cupboards, and her husband had ordered his clerks to open their books to her. She had never managed such a large household before, almost 100 servants, and it was a tiring and demanding task that kept her busy all day. But nights she was alone in this well-furnished chamber with the new frescoes and the rich carpets. Alone, and young and full of childish wishes still. It was not her husband she had longed for, dreamed of and fantasized about. Blanche stared at the magnificently carved chest at the foot of her bed. On the lid two knights jousted with each-other, their lances straight and their shoulders hunched against the impact. On the side, under a double arcade, carved figures represented saints, kings and heroes. King Arthur was easily recognized and Roland with his horn to his lips. She went down onto her knees slowly, as if she was afraid of hurting herself. The chest was not locked. She lifted the lid and rested it against the bed behind. A shallow tray was laden with underwear - drawers and stockings and corsets in neat piles, all freshly washed. She lifted the tray out of the chest and set it on the floor next her. Now her summer shifts and gowns came to view.There was a knocking on the door, and Blanche started guiltily."My lady?" It Claire’s worried voice. “Madame? I’ve made a poultice?” "That’s kind of you, Claire, but I don’t need it. There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.”The door banged in the frame as the faithful servant tried to open it. "My lady? What's wrong?""Nothing. I was just - needed some time away from the others. I wish to pray. Go back to your fire and wine.""Are you sure, my lady?" Claire asked one last time. “Yes,” Blanche insisted, and sighed with relief when she heard Claire retreat. Now she could redirect her attention to her chest. Careful not to ruin the careful folding, she started to remove the shifts and gowns. She set the gowns and shifts and surcoats in neat piles around her, digging deeper and deeper until at last her fingers brushed heavy velvet at last. Now, with both hands she shoved aside the remaining clothes and drew a cloak from the very bottom of the chest. Slowly, her feet tingling from cut off circulation she had not even noticed, she drew herself to her feet. As she stood, she held the cloak at arms length, so it tumbled open. It was his cloak. He had sent it back to her from Marseilles, saying he would not need it in the sun-soaked Holy Land.At first she just stared at it in wonder, noting that the velvet was crushed beyond repair from the years at the bottom of her chest. Then she laid it over her left arm and with her right hand she stroked the beaver lining. Abruptly she flung it onto the bed, and started to undress herself. She glanced over her shoulder to be doubly sure that the door was bolted. Her adult mind kept telling her this was ridiculous. Utterly absurd. She was acting like a silly school girl - like that foolish 17 year-old who had made such a scene on the day of his departure.He had come to take his leave of her, and her father had received him more kindly than ever before, sharing a cup of his best wine with him in the great chamber. He had never looked more magnificent, his hair cut short for convenience in coif and helm and his beard trimmed neatly around his thin, strong lips. His chainmail had glittered even in the dim chamber, and his golden spurs had caught the fire-light. He wore a short, loose surcoat with no coat of arms but a blue crusader cross on the right breast over his heart. His left hand had rested on the hilt of a long-sword sheathed in elaborately worked silver. His hands were bare but for his signet ring. But when she had been summoned by her father to take her leave of him, she had lost all control over herself. At first, she had come calmly to stand demurely beside her father, but when she realized that he truly meant to take his leave (not ask for her hand as she had secretly hoped), she had refused to give him a kiss of peace. She had raised a face contorted and ugly with hate and shouted at him in her high-pitched, spoilt voice that she didn't care if he evercame back. The memory of that petulant, spoilt, girlish voice that made her cringe, as she removed her surcoat and hung it carefully upon one of the wall-hooks. Her gown was much more difficult to remove alone. She usually had Claire's assistance. The sleeves had buttons all the way to the elbow and the lacings of the gown went down her back. With increasing frustration that only fired her senseless determination, she struggled until she could worm her way out of the gown, hot and sweating and red in the face. But she could not stop. Her father, who had never liked him, had reproached her sharply for her behavior, sending her away angrily and apologizing to him. She had fled to her chamber, and then watched from the window until she had seen him descend the steps from the hall and mount his great stallion. The stallion too had been decked out in great finery with a trapper that went to his ankles and a saddle studded with brass tacks. She had leaned out of the window and shouted down at him in one last desperate attempt to salvage her dreams. "If you leave me now, don't ever, ever come back! Do you understand? I never want to see you again!"He had glanced up toward her window once, then ridden out of the ward without a backward glance. She had flung herself on her bed screaming and weeping and pounding her pillow until her father sent Claire to tell her if she continued to behave like a five-year-old, he’d treat her like one and she would be locked in her room for week. But he had sent his cloak back to her with a letter. He would not need the cloak in the Holy Land, he told her, but he hoped she would keep it for him until he came back. She had burned his letter in fury at his arrogance. How dare he think she would wait for him?! She had dozens of other suitors! She was an heiress and she was pretty, with a waist he could enclose in his two hands. Why should she wait for him? If the Holy Land was more important to him than she was, than he could stay in Holy Land forever! He would never have her! But when she had raised her hand to fling his cloak after the letter into the fire, her strength had failed her. She had stood with it bunched up over her head, while the cloak felt heavier and heavier, until she had flung it angrily at her chest instead and run, weeping, into the garden. It had been poor faithful Claire, who had carefully folded the expensive cloak and placed it at the bottom of the chest ‘for when Monsieur Abelard comes back.’Blanche worked to free herself of the corset. It laced up the front and held her ever thicker waist firm while supporting her heavy breasts - breasts that had grown round with her pregnancies but now sagged sadly. Tears stood in her eyes, but there was no point stopping now. She removed the corset and her shift and last but not least her drawers. At last, she stood completely naked with her discarded underclothes strewn about her on the floor ― as if a lover had torn them from her in his haste.But what lover would be in haste to have her body as it was now? She could hardly bear to look at what had become of her once elflike figure. It was now so laden with excessive padding that it was all but shapeless. The chill in the unheated chamber made her shiver and she became aware of the hiss of the drizzle against the tiny, circular window-pains in the narrow window. But that only made it easier to reach at last for the musty cloak and pull it around her.The fur was soft - as soft and gentle as his kisses had been. She closed her eyes against the present and felt his warmth, preserved in the folds of his cloak for a quarter century. He wrapped his arms around her in a caress as gentle as it was possessive."Abelard!" She screamed after him, but no sound came out of her mouth. "Abelard." She whimpered as she sank onto the floor, his cloak caressing her nakedness across the sea and across the decades. Her head clunked against the base board of the bed and she wept for all the wasted years, her lost youth, her faded beauty, the husband who had loved only her father's stud farm, and a stupid, selfish, spiteful girl who shouted out her window that he should never come home.
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