"A Widow's Crusade": Chapter 5

Montfort, GalileeOctober 1212

          Abelard drew up as he reached the crest of the hill, and paused to look back toward the west. The sun was setting and cast a sheen of gold across the countryside with its walled town surrounded by cultivated fields and vineyards, his lord’s vineyards. Then he turned to glance up at the walls towering above him. Hughes de Hebron was a powerful baron, and a fair one. He had been lucky to find such a good lord. Abelard took the time to say a prayer of thanks before signalling his stallion to proceed.          The stallion needed no urging. He recognised his most frequent stable and was anxious for his oats and his rest. He stretched out his neck and snorted. Abelard bent and patted his neck contentedly. A year ago he would not have been able to handle such a full-blooded horse. From the day of his capture until after his release he had not been allowed to mount a horse and skills that had seemed as much a part of him as walking had withered away. He had to re-learn not only riding but the handling of broad-sword and lance as well. At forty, one no longer had the physical agility and resilience of youth, but over time he managed to regain a level of competence that no longer shamed him.          At the gate, the porter greeted him with a friendly wave. That had not always been so. In the beginning, he had been viewed with open suspicion and ridiculed for his shabby dress, his cheap equipment and his curious behaviour. When the word of his past had spread, some of the men in the garrison had even taken pleasure in hooting orders at him in Arabic - the kind of things they had heard caravan drivers and galley captains shout at their slaves. Only the consistent support of Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie had gradually put an end to such behaviour. "My lady left word you were to report to her at once, sir." The porter called as Abelard rode through the gate.          Abelard nodded, not surprised. Lord Hughes' responsibilities often kept him away at court or visiting his fellow barons. He also had a brother and father here in Outremer. He was sometimes away for weeks on end. In his absence, Lady Emilie had come to rely heavily on Abelard. In the beginning, particularly, Lady Emilie had been helpless in her new, utterly alien surroundings, and Abelard’s familiarity with Arabic and local customs, prices, wages and goods proved invaluable.          In the ward, Abelard jumped down and turned his stallion over to the local youth, a boy of mixed blood from the town of Baram, who served as his squire. The youngster was somewhat sullen, but that suited Abelard better than the garrulous Bert de Mousseau. The latter could drive a man mad with his endless, cheerful chatter. Perhaps he also took a secret pleasure having power over someone of Arab blood, Abelard reflected, but he did not dwell on the thought.  Instead, he glanced toward the semi-circular tower in which Lord Hughes had located his private apartment and noted that light glowed high on the second floor where Lady Emilie had her chamber.          The exterior stairs up to the first floor entry were wooden and newly built by Lord Hughes. In time of siege, the stairs themselves would be set on fire and the landing pulled up like a draw-bridge to act as an extra barrier, wider and taller than the door frame.           The first floor, usually used by the knights and squires of Lord Hughes' household, was dark and still because they were away, travelling with him. The rushes gave off a slightly dusty smell.          Abelard mounted the narrow interior steps, built into the stone, to the floor above. Every three steps a narrow arrow slit enabled defenders to fire onto an enemy below in the yard.          On the landing he paused and knocked, giving his name at the same time. The door opened almost at once, and he found himself in the familiar intimacy of Lady Emilie's private domain. On the floor of above was the bed chamber which she shared with Lord Hughes, but here she had her spinning wheel and loom, her embroi­dery frame, and her books. A writing stand stained with ink attested to the many letters she dictated, and a table laden with household accounts told of her diligence in running her husband's household.          In the beginning, she had been somewhat at a loss, overwhelmed by her husband's sudden power and prosperity. She had been bewildered by the diversity of the crops and the unfamiliar currencies in use. She had confided to Abelard that at home she had only had debts and scarcity to manage. "Hard to imagine that Hughes was once so poor that even my few, mortgaged acres were worth the price of taking me to wife," she remarked one day.          Abelard had been taken off guard. It had never occurred to him that Lord Hughes had married Emilie for her wealth. Lord Hughes had, after all, been the son of the powerful and wealthy Lord of Hebron. To be sure he had been a younger son and Hebron had been lost to Saladin in 1187, but he had served King Philip Augustus as a body-squire, been a comrade-in-arms of the King of Jerusalem (when the later was Constable of France), and been one of Simon de Mont­fort's battle-captains. Lord Hughes' new wealth and prestige fit him like a glove and he wore it with ease. But Emilie, even now, was dressed in an unbleached muslin surcoat decorated with stitching from her own hand, and she rose to her feet as if for an important guest at the sight of Sir Abelard.          If Lord Hughes were not himself such a kind and possessive husband, Abelard knew he might have allowed his feelings for Lady Emilie freer rein. If Lord Hughes had been old and ugly, brutal or indifferent to his wife, or had he been inclined to unfaithfulness, Abelard's affections might have been sparked and fanned to something more dangerous. But fortunately for all concerned, Lord Hughes was openly fond of his wife, despite her social shortcomings and her seniority in years - and Lady Emilie openly adored her vigorous younger husband.           Still, Abelard could not be the recipient of her welcoming smile nor breathe in her delicate perfume and feel the soft warmth of her hand as she greeted him without his heart beating faster. To be sure, part of the excitement was still the after effects of his captivity. In the three years of his imprisonment, he had wasted his youth in a dungeon with 14 other men. They’d had no latrine, not even a chamber pot between them, no opportunity to bathe or even wash their face and hands, and the only fresh air came through a window 18 inches long and four inches wide, set high in the wall high above their heads. They had not laid eyes on a female of any description, race or age throughout that time and so had been reduced to sharing their fantasies about them in ever wilder desperation.          As a slave -- He broke off his thoughts sharply. He did not want to remember.           "Sir, I had to send for you at once-- You aren't too weary are you? Should I send for wine? Benjamin?" Emilie looked about for the son of the Jewish gold-smith, who had been sent to serve as her page. "Go fetch Sir Abelard something hearty to eat and a jug of good wine,” she ordered the boy before adding to her seneschal, “you always look starved, sir." Then she slipped her arm through his and led him toward the window seat. "There is something I must tell you."           A lifetime of disappointments, defeats and humiliations alerted Abelard to danger. He was instantly tense, and Emilie felt it through his arm. She looked up at him with her concerned golden eyes. "Is something wrong?"          "That depends on what you mean to tell me, my lady." He told her tightly, trying to anticipate the worst. Had Sir Hughes found another man he preferred to employ as his seneschal, perhaps?           Emilie caught her breath in dismay as she realised how insecure he was. "I'm not even sure it's bad news," she tried to reassure him, "but I didn't want you to be caught by surprise. Four days ago, a Templar Knight brought a certain lady here. He'd escorted her all the way from Poitou--" the shock that went through Abelard's body was so sharp that it was like a tiny earth quake on her side, but he said nothing and his face was a rigid mask.          Emilie hesitated, unsure if she should proceed circuitously or directly, but Abelard's tension was so brittle she decided it should not be increased further by suspense. "She introduced herself as Madame de Gouzon of Chauvigny, a widow, but her maiden name was Vacour--"          Abelard took a step backward abruptly and violently. Emilie looked questioningly up into his face. It was dead. Unreadable. Even his eyes were veiled. She knew the violence of his emotions by the fact that he no longer seemed the least bit aware of her presence, but the character of his emotions remained hidden.           In the last four days, she had come to know Blanche as witty, generous and competent. She was in many ways everything that Emilie wished she were ― blithely self-confident, gracious, erudite, handsome despite her years, and elegant no matter what she wore or did. But no matter what she found in Blanche now, she knew that it had nothing whatever to do with the role she had played in Abelard's past. She knew only what Blanche had confided in her: that Abelard had paid her court but because he was unsuitable as a husband her father had viewed his attentions as ipso facto dishonourable. Though Blanche insisted that her own feelings had been quite different and that Abelard had known it, Emilie nevertheless imagined that such a rebuff would not be a pleasant memory.          After what seemed like a long time, Abelard managed to ask in his rasping voice: "Why - what brought her here?"          "She is related by marriage to Bert de Mousseau and learned that you were here. She came all this way to see you." Emilie said it gently but deliberately. It seemed a remarkable tribute. She could not imagine anyone travelling such a distance to see her ― much less someone unrelated who had not seen her for nearly two decades.          "There is no one on earth I wish to see less." Abelard answered softly, his face still rigid.          "Oh, Abelard!" Emilie's cry came from the heart. She could feel the intensity of his pain and wished there was something she could do to ease it. But she thought too of Lady Blanche, who had come all this way at no small risk to herself.  She knew Blanche would be hurt by Abelard's vehement rejection. "I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed sincerely.          "You are not to blame. Was there anything else?"          "No, nothing that can't wait. I only wanted to warn you in case...."          "Thank you. Do I have your leave to retire?"          "Of course, but--" She had been about to urge him to join her for a cup of wine, but he was so distant already that she knew it would be futile and unkind to request him to stay. "I can't just send her away." She noted helplessly.          "I know. I will face her tomorrow. Give me tonight."          "Of course."          He backed away, bowed stiffly by the door, and then disappeared. Emilie was left alone in her chamber feeling miserable and helpless.
          Dusk was short at these latitudes and darkness already enveloped the yard. Abelard made for the stables and then past them to a narrow, postern gate that led to a steep, rocky path unsuit­able for horse or wagon. This lead straight down the slope to the mill that straddled the stream below the castle.          The mill was dark. Lord Hughes had lived here until the castle was made habitable. As soon as he and Emilie moved into the renovated castle, Hughes had encouraged Abelard to make use of the vacated mill as his own quarters.         Abelard agreed because it was Lord Hughes’ suggestion, but he did not know what to do with so much space. The long two-storied complex had kitchens, store-rooms, cellars and baths, all of which intimidated him. He was away too often to risk leaving anything of value here, and when in residence at Montfort he always took his meals with the garrison and household up at the castle. The vaulted chambers on the ground floor were empty shells, and the upper story was hardly more utilised. Abelard had only a few possessions, and these were all collected in the corner of one upstairs room.          He had chosen the end room with a view north to the mountains from one double-light window and east to the olive orchard through a smaller single window. The room possessed a fire-place, but Abelard had not used it yet, since he had not moved in until early summer when the heat was already oppressive.          Abelard did not own a bed and he had not slept in one since he had left France. Instead he had a pallet and two sheets, one of gauze and one of linen. A chest for his clothing would have been a superfluous luxury. He kept his braies, hose and shirts in his saddle-bags which he hung from a hook on the wall when at Montfort. His hauberk, two surcoats and cloak had their own hooks. A pair of sandals and a pair of shoes were left, when not in use, in the fire-place. A crude, three-legged stool provided the only place to sit. A box of candles, supplied by Emilie, waited on the floor for use in the single iron candlestick that stood beside the pallet on the floor.           Abelard stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene as if seeing it for the first time. There was nothing in the room that was not the cheapest, simplest, most impersonal item. The only things of value which he now owned were his stallion and his sword - both gifts from Lord Hughes - and his golden spurs, a gift from Emilie. Most of what he had earned as seneschal was still coin, kept in a purse tied inside his belt. He could not have said what he was saving it for specifical­ly, but it was his security against new disasters. The only things he had afforded himself had been a decent hauberk, a good quilted leather gambeson, a pair of boots, and two surcoats of plain silk.          The last time Blanche had seen him, he had been fitted out in glimmering chain mail from head to toe with helm and gauntlets at his velvet-spanned saddle. His silk surcoat had flaunted his arms and his cloak had been velvet lined with the best beaver. Even his stallion, a better-bred horse than he could now ride much less afford today, had had a trapper of silk that reached to his fetlocks and his bridle had been ennobled with bands of engraved silver. Yet even thus, with his inheritance mortgaged to Italian bankers to pay for so much finery, he had been too poor and too insignificant for Blanche.          Christ what a fool he had been! He had been so ludicrously confident that he could over-come the handicap of being born second with nothing  more than his fine figure and athletic competence on the tilt yard. It had never occurred to him that he might fail to win fame and fortune. After all, at 20 he had already become a champion on the tournament circuit and Blanche herself, a coveted heiress, had been in love with him.          Blanche. He tried to picture her, but his memories had grown dim from neglect. From the day of his capture, he had known he had lost her. The truce Count Richard had made with Saladin so shortly after Abelard was taken at Jaffa had eliminated any hope for winning fortune even after his release. Nor had he been so stupid as to think that his ransom would not strain his parents' resources. As the months in prison dragged on, he had forced himself to abandon all his fairy-tales and one of them was Blanche. He had not allowed his thoughts to dwell on her since.          All that he could call to mind now was that she had been dark and the wittiest girl he'd ever encountered. She had had a quickness of mind and a liveliness of tongue that could keep three of four men jumping and her laughter was contagious. He knew she had been counted a beauty, but he could not picture her features. When he thought about it, however, he remembered that she had a slight, almost boyish figure and had been an accomplished hunts­woman, but what stuck in his memory was the jewels glittering from her head-band and encircling her throat as she danced.          He shook his head sharply to clear it of memories, but now they would not go away. He had desired her. There had been an erotic energy between them that had filled the air with static. It had frightened her, young and virgin as she was, and she obsessed him no matter how much he tried to find release with low-born girls. He had wanted her so much that he had imagined the wildest schemes to gain access to her chamber. He had even spent hours reconnoitring the relative position of roofs, windows and chimneys in her father’s castle. He had practised scaling walls under the pretext of training for sieges, when in fact the only goal in his imagination had been her bed. He had even given thought to using violence against her father's watch-dogs, the knights and squires who were always in attendance upon her when they were together. But quite aside from the uncertain outcome of any such tactics, he had shied back from any hint of force against Blanche herself. Even then, he noted with a kind of wonder, the only kind of intercourse he craved was that given freely.          His broadsword rasped from its sheath and he swung it against the stool. The blade bit into the seat and stuck fast. He strug­gled, freed it, swung again and again until the stool had been hacked to pieces and lay splintered at his feet. He stood leaning on the sword to catch his breath, and was forced to admit it had done no good. Nothing, ever, could restore what they had taken away. He thought of the bow-legged, pock-marked sergeant who had been so ugly they had selected him to guard the harem -- after they had castrated him of course. Abelard had come to envy him. He too enjoyed a "privileged" position in the household, and they had occasionally found a few minutes to speak French together. By the time Abelard met him, the sergeant had been in slavery for 5 years already and had come to accept his position. He had even learned to appreciate some of the "secret pleasures" of serving a neglected harem. Certainly he made a good income from selling access to his charges, taking money from both sides.          For Abelard there had been no such compensation. After four years, he still experienced the same revulsion, helpless rage and self-loathing as on the first day when they pinned him down and held a sword under his ear to make him lie still while his master raped him. His hand went automatically to the scar across the back of his neck as he remembered. He had bled so much he had been bed-ridden for nearly a week after­wards. As soon as he could stand, he had been taken back to service the master again.           But they never needed a sword again. He had learned to submit without an outward struggle. But not to accept what they had done to him.          In the beginning, he had been too stunned, weak and well-guarded to think of escape. Later, it was the example of two other slaves that had held him back. They came from one of the heathen tribes east of the Oderand were identical twins sold by their own parents to the German traders. Abelard's master had purchased them when they were still quite young and they were clearly his favourites. But one day they were caught making love to each other and their outraged owner had made everyone watch while he castrated the one and cut the hamstrings of the other. The first was then sold, and the second crawled about the household ever after.           Eventually the deterrent effect of even this example wore thin, and Abelard risked running away. He was caught, returned to his master, flogged and degraded. Whereas previously he had served in the stables, one of the six grooms kept to care for the 20 horses of their owner, after his escape attempt he was employed in more demeaning and exhausting tasks. He was set to carrying casks and sacks into the cellars or out again, hauling water, cleaning out the privies and the like. He was no longer allowed to share the hay-loft with the other grooms, but was chained nights on the naked floor of a damp cellar. Meant as added punishment, he had been relieved to be alone. He was no longer forced to listen to the gossip­ing, bragging and teasing of the others. Never again was he forced to watch them take their turns with a whore and then endure their ridicule when his turn came and he could not perform.           Alone in his cellar, he had been reminded that he was not alone. A window high over his head opened toward the Nile. He could hear the lapping of the waves and the calls of the ferrymen, the dip of oars and the creaking of rigging as ships wended their way up and down the river. Then one night, not long after he had been confined, he was woken by an eerie chorus of voices singing the Song of Pales­tine. At first he had been so disoriented and confused he had thought it could only be a choir of angels. Then he realised that it was coming from a galley, evidently manned by enslaved crusaders. For almost two years thereafter, that ship had passed up and down the river at regular intervals, but gradually the voices grew weaker and fewer and then they ceased to come or ceased to sing.          That ship had been a life-line for him, reminding him that he was not alone, reminding him of the Holy Land and God's Grace. When he heard the others singing, he knew that even if he had been denied communion and confession and forced to commit sodomy, even if he were to die where he was chained, he would be forgiven and find Paradise because he had tried to free Jerusalem.          Coming back to the present, Abelard returned his sword to its scabbard and collected the wreckage of the stool. The latter he carried back down stairs to dump it in the mill stream, eliminating the evidence of his fit of futile fury.           The moon was rising and flooded the orchard with light and shadow and shimmered on the waters of the stream. He paused to take in the beauty of the scene around him and breathe in the fresh clean air. Overhead the stars were brilliantly clear. His master had been a highly respected astronomer who had understood the passage of the stars and comets. His chamber had been filled with charts of the heavens and noting Abelard's interest he had deigned to point things to him, explaining that just as it was possible to navigate a ship by the stars, men who knew how to read the stars could chart their lives by them. Certainly he had done very well for himself, Abelard reflected cynically. He had owned a huge, beautifully furnished house in Alexandria, and kept over 100 slaves.           As someone reputedly able to read the stars, he had entertained a stream of important guests, who came to consult him. While still a groom, Abelard had seen emirs, mullahs, rich merchants and famous scholars come and go. They had been highly cultivated men with manicured hands, oiled and perfumed skin, silken robes and bejewelled turbans. The other grooms had pointed out surgeons, architects and poets with admiration and wonder. Abelard had wondered how these elegant, learned men with their fine manners treated their slaves and their women.          To be fair, his second master had been good to him. He had been sold without warning or reason. He simply found himself turned over to a merchant who expected him to load his caravan camels. Abelard had never had contact with the beasts before and he soon discovered they were as evil tempered as they smelled. Furthermore, they were obstinate, sly and vindictive. The first three days were the sheerest hell he had experienced ― barring the sexual abuse of his old master. By chance, however, he witnessed the way one of the other drivers was cheated when he went to buy some supplies, and his new master was amazed to discover he could calculate. He was at once given charge of the warehouse and it had not taken long before he was given ever greater responsibil­ity, authority and favour.           He was given his master's cast off clothes, new sandals, even a turban. He was allowed to sleep in the office while the other slaves slept in the warehouse. He was tipped now and again and with a wink told to seek a little "paradise" ― he was even given meticulous directions to two different brothels that his master recommended for being "reputable" and "clean."          Cleanliness was considered a great virtue among the Arabs, and it was a custom that had rapidly been adapted by the Christian settlers in Palestine ― no matter what the Church said about cleanliness being vanity. Abelard had taken his master's advice, but despite the blue-glazed tiles, the potted palms, bubbling fountains and clean white sheets, the results had been the same every time. The impotence always over-came him the moment he recognised how much they hated him beneath their impassive faces or their forced smiles. He could not use a whore without remembering how he had been used. Eventually he stopped humiliating himself by even trying.          His new master was a perceptive man. He noted that Abelard no longer made use of his offers to "seek paradise" and offered to buy him a "wife." When Abelard refused, he even offered to buy him a Christian wife. That had only reminded Abelard of the time the grooms had brought a girl up to the loft for their collective entertainment and she had turned out to be French, a captive like himself. When his turn came, he had been able to do nothing for her but hold her in his arms and let her cry until her master came to take her to the next man (or men) he loaned her out to. She said she was lucky, if he remembered to feed her between customers.          Not long afterwards, Abelard had run into an Italian sailor and discovered that Italian merchants traded with Alexandria. He had found the quay they used and eventually made contact with one of the captains. He arranged to go aboard the vessel just as it set sail, but the Italians had betrayed him, knowing that he could never pay for his passage and that his master would reward them more. His master had been so furious that at this betrayal of trust after all the favor he’d been shown that he had sold Abelard to a galley master.          The air was chill now and Abelard shivered as he gazed up at the stars. In the entire seven months he had spent aboard the galley he had not once had a chance to see the stars. He had been chained either to the oars or to a bunk. On watch or off. One lived in the bowels of the ship, hearing the life of the free only as foot-steps or voices over-head. The air the slaves breathed was fetid, putrefied by the run-off from the bilges and the seaweed that clung to the planks beneath their feet, and their own excrement. His health had suffered seriously for the first time since his enslavement. Like the time in prison, his leg muscles wasted away from inactivi­ty. His arms and back, in contrast, were exercised beyond their limit. He was almost 40 and a 4 hour stint of rowing, three times a day, left him nearly crippled with pain.           Toward the end, he had started to have pain in his chest as well, and once he had even collapsed at the oar before the end of his watch. They had beaten him awake again, but it made no difference. He knew he could not go on ― and they probably did too. It was just a matter of using him as long as possible, and when he could no longer pull his weight, they would toss him over-board. That was what they did with galley-slaves that no longer earned their feed. Besides he was an infidel. Not worth any more thought than a mule.          Living as he did, he had no way of knowing where he was. When in port there was no rowing, of course, but the galley slaves were kept locked in the fo'castle where they gambled with straw or pieces of clothing, drank the cheap wine delivered to them and fought among themselves. Abelard had lain on his bunk and ignored the commotion because he did not want to be involved in their brawls. Then someone had shaken him. "Christian!"          He turned over. The man standing over him was the man who wielded the whip. "You're wanted on deck."          He had been pulled as much as rolled out of his bunk, and the key had turned in the lock to free his manacles from the iron rod running the length of the bunk. On deck he had been blinded by the sun and his legs had hardly been able to hold him. Vaguely he had been aware of two men in the fine white robes of wealthy Arabs.           "Christian! Who are you?" One asked.          He must have screwed up his eyes and given them such a wild or blank look that they had hastened to inquire of the driving-master if he were "all right in the head?"           "Of course he is!" Came the answer, accompanied by a blow to his head.          There had been a discussion of whether he understood Arabic but again the driving-master insisted that he could understand, so the question had been put to him again. "Who are you?"          He had stared at them. His eyes were starting to adjust to the sun-light a little and he could make out the men more clearly. They were rich Arab merchants. But he could not bring himself to utter his name. He had not said his name aloud for years. He could not remember the last time he had mouthed it even in silence. His first and second masters had called him "Ibrahim" ― apparently because Abelard had reminded them of Abraham. But on the galley he had not been called even that. Galley slaves had no names. There were too many of them and they didn’t last long.“Don’t you understand?” They asked exasperated. “We want to know your name! Your Christian name!"          Standing there, naked except for a filthy loin-cloth, his wrists and ankles chained, he found it nearly impossible to identify himself with the man he had been 18 years earlier. With difficulty he had formed the words in his brain and then slowly he had felt them in his mouth, but still he could not say them aloud. The merchants were shaking their heads sadly. The one comforting the other, assuring him they would find others. "There must be dozens of Christian knights in Alexandria. Surely we will find one. Come."          "Sir Abelard de la Guiltiere." It came out at last.           They stopped, looked at one another, looked back at him. Stepped closer. Asked his name again. He said it more firmly and suddenly they were embracing each other, congratulating each other, thanking Allah with words of boundless praise.          His chains had been removed, he had been cleaned, his hair trimmed, the nails of his hands and feet had been clipped and filed, and then he had been outfitted in decent cotton robes and worn but serviceable sandals and put aboard a galley ― in a cabin on deck ― along with 19 other former slaves like himself. It turned out that the son of one of the merchants had fallen into Christian hands when his ship went ashore in a storm. The King of Jerusalem had demanded the release of 20 Christian knights and 60 men of lesser rank as part of the ransom.           A week later Abelard had been landed at Ascalon and found himself a free man again ― but one without a penny, a sword, or a horse ― much less property, patronage or position. All the released captives had been in a similar situation and the King of Jerusalem had been forced to provide for them. Most had been in captivity even longer than Abelard and were too old and broken to be of any kind of service. So they had been given pensions or corrodies at one of the monasteries. Abelard had been made a knight of the King's household ― but a knight who had not mounted a horse or used sword or lance in 18 years. He had been pitied and laughed at behind his back. That was why he had sought to find service with someone who did not know what he had been, and he had applied to Lord Hughes, hoping for a new start.           But he could not hide his past. It was written on his back where the marks of his flogging were obvious whenever he removed his shirt. It could be read from the distinctive chain scars on his wrists and ankles. It was betrayed by his uncertain, halting French as he tried to remember a language he had not spoken in years. And of course, one had only to see him ride and or watch him at the quitain to notice he was more inept than a green squire.          Blanche had seen him triumph at a half-dozen tournaments. She had cheered him, sprung to her feet and clapped for all to see when he flung his opponents to the sand with his well-placed lance. He had worn her tokens, and claimed her kisses in victory after victory. And now he couldn't even match the dummy at the end of a quitain, but usually found himself lying flat on his back with a mouth full of sand.          Christ! Why did she ― of all the ghosts of his better past ― have to come to Palestine! Why did he have to face her in his cheap clothes and his battered body and his crippled masculinity? Why?          But God was silent as always. Refusing to answer that question now any more than He had ever answered questions in the past. So Abelard knew he had no choice but to face this humilia­tion just as he had faced all the other humiliations of the last 20 years.    

Copyright Helena P. Schrader 2012