"A Widow's Crusade:" Chapter 7

Montfort, GalileeNovember 1212            When Lord Hughes was in residence with his travelling household of 4 knights and a dozen of squires, Abelard took the opportunity to train with them. The heat of summer dictated training early in the morning before the temperatures were too oppressive and habit kept them to that schedule even as the days turned cool and the first rains came. Rising before dawn and snacking only lightly, the fighting men were generally mounted by the time the sun lifted itself over the horizon and bathed the countryside in its brash glory.           Just a year ago, Abelard had been so shaky in the saddle that he had not dared to join in the collective exercises. He had worked to build up his muscles and skills only secretly, when away from Montfort or when the household was travelling. Then at Christmas, Lord Hughes had presented him with a dapple-grey stallion, Maximus.          Maximus was a big-boned European stallion with knobbly knees and hocks and a "Roman" nose. Ugly but robust and already eight, he had been sold by his previous owner for a flashier, younger horse, but he quickly proved the ideal mount for Abelard. Maximus wanted only to please and, being already schooled in the knightly sports, he understood the quintain and the joust and positively loved the melée. With Maximus, Abelard had a horse capable of performing what was asked of him and desirous of doing so. With Maximus under him, Abelard regained his confidence rapidly, and was finally willing to risk the rough and tumble of training with other fighting men.          Still the spring and summer had been difficult. Once a champion with above average skills in the tiltyard, it was hard to find himself flung adroitly from the saddle even by green youths of 17. Again and again, Abelard recognised what he should or shouldn't do, but his reflexes were not fast enough. His body no longer responded instinctively, anticipating even his brain itself. Maximus did what he could, riding into the lance, anticipat­ing the blow, and stopping instantly if anything went wrong, but he could not aim a lance or parry a sword. Still, with time, Abelard’s skills improved.          It was now chilly in November before dawn, and a mist clung to the valley, particularly along the stream. When Abelard reached the tiltyard, the scattered pounding of hoofs and a solitary clang of weapons could be heard through the mist. Maximus pricked his ears at once, and his nostrils flared in excitement. He broke into a little prancing trot, and Abelard patted him on the shoulder.           As he came nearer, he could see that Hughes himself was already charging the quintain, while two squires of his household fought on foot with their swords. There were only a scattering of other men about, most of them still tightening their girths and binding their coifs as they greeted one another. Everyone, including Lord Hughes himself, wore gambesons over their hauberks and boots rather than mail-leggings.          Bert de Mousseau emerged out of the fog at Abelard's side. Although he was going on 20, he had a round boyish face which he kept clean-shaven, and he was chubby by nature regardless of how much he exercised. "Sir Abelard! I've been meaning to talk to you!" He called, shoving the remains of a bread-roll into his mouth as he signalled for Abelard to halt.          Abelard drew up and waited. Bert was well meaning and had never been one of those who ridiculed or laughed at Abelard, but his perpetual good humour could be tiresome and his chatter could drive a man mad.           Bert brought his bay stallion alongside Maximus. "My mother wrote me a 20 page letter." He made a gesture of disgust and shook his head to indicate most of it had been a waste of time. "She says you knew the Lady Blanche when she was a maiden. Is that true?"          "I knew her." Abelard admitted, already squeezing Maximus to continue.           Bert fell in beside him, insensitive to Abelard's reluctance to talk. "Don't keep me in suspense! She must have been mouth-watering! And an heiress! If I could have found something like that, I sure as hell wouldn't have gone on crusade."          Abelard shrugged. "Will you give me a joust this morning?"          "Sure. Just let me warm up first. Look, if you aren't going to court her, do you have any objections if I do?"          Deeply offended, Abelard jerked Maximus unkindly to a halt and stared at Bert in disbelief. Bert, oblivious to the offence he had caused, was bending to the left to tighten his girth. Bert, though Emilie's nephew, was a younger son of a second marriage. Emilie herself was the first to admit that her family was obscure and insignificant. Furthermore, though Bert was far from stupid, he was unrefined and unmannered. Hughes was constantly trying to teach him better behaviour, but good manners didn't seem to stick. He couldn't be bothered with etiquette. The thought of Bert with Lady Blanche was repellent. "Lady Blanche is old enough to be your mother!" Abelard reminded the youth sharply.          "So? She doesn't look it and she's loadedwith money. As a widow she can't care all that much about my background. And I'll bet she'd welcome a hot lover." He winked at Abelard with a smug self-complacency that was not even intended as bragging. "Her husband's been dead for 7 or 8 years and he was old anyway."          Abelard would have liked to know how Bert knew all that, but he could not lower himself to gossiping about Blanche, not with this callow youth. He made a point of tightening his own girth, and then pulled his coif up and drew the leather band tight at the back of his head to keep it in place. "Ten minutes warm up?"          "Na, fifteen. Dumbo here isn't even awake yet." Bert indicated his somewhat lazy bay stallion.          Abelard let Maximus trot around the edge of the exercise yard, and tried to concentrate on making him move laterally first left and then right. After a bit he tried some circling and then let Maximus pick up a slow, loping canter. His thoughts, however, kept circling back to Bert and Blanche. He couldn't get over the effrontery of a nobody squire thinking he was good enough for Blanche. Bert wasn't even particularly athletic or competent at arms, and he was useless when it came to administration of any sort. He always pleaded a "bad relationship with numbers" and excused himself from any duty that even hinted at counting or calculating. The thought of Bert, who usually took his pleasure with the nurse and was probably father of her child ― though he wouldn't take responsibil­ity for it, making love to Blanche was repulsive.           Hughes had finished at the quintain and so Abelard collected a lance from the stand and started down the narrow lane toward the dummy hanging from a chain. They had placed a captured Saracen helmet on the dummy's head and dressed it in Saracen hauberk with mail sleeves and a broad breastplate that had once been beautifully engraved but was now dented and scratched. The dummy held a round Saracen shield on his left "arm" and a mace and chain at the end of his right. A misplaced lance that sent him spinning, would cause the mace to land a blow on the rider as he swept past. If the mace hit a man on the back of the head it could easily cause a concussion. That was why beginners usually wore a helmet, but Abelard was ashamed to wear a helmet at his age. He lowered the lance and Maximus shot true as an arrow towards the target.          Striking slightly off centre, the mace swung around, but Abelard could duck and ride past unscathed. A boy ran out to re-set the quintain and Abelard trotted around to the starting position while Bert made a run at it. They alternated for another five minutes or so, and then by mutual accord left the quintain to other knights who had arrived later, and took up positions opposite each other.           There were no barriers here, only rough markings in the earth and broad ruts worn by the horses which had run the course before them. They both tightened their girths a final time, tested the stirrups and Bert pulled on leather gloves. Abelard didn't own any. He tossed the lance in the palm of his hand, trying to get a better feel for its balance. For some reason he was more nervous than usual ― or was it just antagonism against Bert because he was so impudent as to think he was good enough for Lady Blanche? Worse, the impertinent puppy seemed to think he would be doing her a favour!           Maximus broke out a fraction too early, responding to the unconscious belligerency of his rider. Abelard was startled only for a fraction of a second. The stallion's tangible eagerness pleased him, and he noted with satisfaction that Bert had to apply the spurs heavily to his lazy mount. Bert had chosen his stallion himself, Abelard remembered, and bragged about his marvellous blood-lines.  Bert's stallion was considerably prettier than Maximus, but he lacked Maximus' heart. Bert didn't understand horses; he had to rely on objective criteria. Bert was altogether much too spoilt and self-satisfied, and it would definitely do him good to eat a little sand.          Maximus kicked up his heels in sheer delight, as if he had personally felt humiliated and depressed by his new owner's singular lack of success up to now. A shout of surprise went up from the side-lines followed by scattered clapping. It was the first time Abelard had unseated anyone since his release from captivity ― and that on a first pass. For an instant his spirits soared and he felt young and strong and victorious. The scattered applause from his fellows reminded him briefly of the cheers that had once roared down at him from the stands at real tournaments. Maybe he could regain his skills? Maybe he could once again enjoy success and the respect that went with it? He looked about for a better opponent ― for what did it really mean to unseat a flabby youth like Bert de Mousseau? ― and noticed that Hughes was dismounted and standing on the perime­ter with a lady. The next instant Abelard realised that Blanche was standing beside him. They waved to him.          Abelard turned Maximus away from them and rode straight back to the castle. The last thing he was going to do was let Blanche see how rusty and clumsy he had become. He was not going to roll in the dust before her eyes.
* * * * *
           A few days later a party of travelling players came to Castle Montfort, offering their wares in exchange for hospitality. They stayed a total of five nights, performing a different play each night to the delight of the entire household. The day after their departure was drizzling and chill. By evening the smoke hung in the hall because the chimneys didn't seem to draw properly yet, and an atmosphere of desultory depression seemed to envelop the entire household from the sculleries playing dice on the floor by the screens to the high table itself.          Hughes remarked that they should think about hiring some musicians for the winter season ahead, and Emilie looked up from her needlework eagerly. "Oh, could we?" Her family had not been able to afford musicians permanently, and the thought delighted her.          "Abelard? What do you think?" Hughes shoved his chair back and stretched out his legs before him as he addressed his sene­schal. "There must be some starving minstrels singing for their supper at disreputable taverns beneath their dignity, who would be willing to come here for the winter. You must know someone who would know."          Abelard nodded, trying to remember where he had recently heard of a young man looking for employment as a minstrel, but before he could answer Bert spoke up cheerfully declaring, "We could make our own music! I’ll bet the Lady Blanche can sing and play an instrument.”          Abelard almost knocked his wine over as he spun around to look at the presumptuous youth. Bert ought to be serving his lord in silence, not taking part in the conversation.          "Oh, I haven't played for at least a year now, and I didn't think the journey would do my harp any good so I gave it to my daughter," Blanche demurred.          "No matter. I've got a cithern. May I go and fetch it, my lord?" Bert asked Lord Hughes eagerly.          "When you finish pouring, yes." Hughes nodded to the pitcher Bert was supposed to be refilling.          Bert grinned, finished pouring and then disappeared. Far too soon he was back and unabashedly sat himself at Blanche's feet. He looked up and asked what she would like to sing. Blanche blushed and looked about a little helplessly. "I'm hardly a trained singer. Lady Emilie?"          Emilie shook her head vigorously and raised a hand as if to ward off something unpleasant. "My voice would spoil anyone's pleasure. Hughes sings well." She looked to her husband.          Hughes shrugged. "It was your idea, Bert." He reminded the youth.          "Well, all right." Bert bent over his instrument, fussed with one string and then next, trying to tune them correctly, a shock of black hair falling into his face as he worked. Abelard watched him with fierce resentment. For all his other short-comings, Bert had a sweet, mellow tenor and could accompany himself quite decently.          Abelard had once had a decent voice himself, though he had never taken particular pride in it. Over the years of his enslavement, however, he had spent too many nights on cold floors, worked to off-load stranded vessels standing up to his knees muddy water, carried litters on windy nights despite running fevers, and so on until his voice was utterly ruined. Even when he spoke, the sounds that came out were raw and scratchy. If he tried to sing, he sounded like a croaking toad.          Bert had chosen a popular love song which he delivered with what Abelard considered to be an excess of pathos, but he noted that both Blanche and Emilie looked pleased. Even Hughes nodded his approval at the end, and suggested another song which Bert readily performed with the same exaggerated mime of a heart-sick lover. Father Claude requested a song to the Virgin, which was lively and better suited to Bert's temperament, and at last Blanche herself ventured to ask for a song, but Bert shook his head with an apologetic shrug.           "May I?" She reached out for the cithern, and Bert handed it over eagerly. Abelard thought he deliberately let his hand brush against hers as he turned the instrument over. Abelard stiffened and glanced at Blanche, but she was too polite to give any indication that she had even noticed.          Blanche hesitated a little, struck a few hesitant chords, and then clearing her throat she started singing the Song of Palestine in a clear alto voice that was warm and pleasant. As she sang, she gained confidence, lifting her head and her voice and her audien­ce was soon the whole hall. Her voice paralysed Abelard, the melody taking him back to the cellar where he had been chained at night and heard the voices of the Christian galley slaves wafting in through the window over his head. At the time, he had not himself yet served on a galley. Now the memories of those voices mixed with images of his own time chained to the oars, and he knew that he would not have had the strength and breath to sing.           When Blanche finished, the applause was genuine. Abelard joined in somewhat belatedly. Her confidence strengthened, Blanche next took up a crusading ballad written by none other than the Lionheart himself. It had, of course, been popular as a result, and Hughes' eyes lit up as he recognised it. He joined her at the chorus and the other knights and squires, who had drifted over as soon as Bert started singing, followed their lord's lead ― for it was a song meant to be sung by men. It was a song Abelard himself had often sung in the months before his departure. He had sung it to Blanche more than once. He could vaguely remember riding together through a woods, their horses sweated and on a long rein, and he had been singing. But she had answered with a foolish song about a knight losing the love of his lady, if he left her behind. They had alternated songs of devotion with songs of fickleness and laughed and sung their way back to Vacour.          Abelard glanced toward Blanche, wondering if she really remembered, or if she had sung the same songs with other lovers, with her husband even. Gouzon was a powerful family, rich and well connected. There had been a Gouzon serving with Count Richard, one of his body squires, but he had been wounded and died of fever early on in the siege of Acre.          The song that followed was one no one seemed to know. Even Blanche seemed less sure of herself and her voice grew fainter, almost fading away at times. Nor did Blanche glance up at her audience as she had during the other songs.  Instead, she concentrat­ed with obvious intensity upon her fingers. Bert, of course, took advantage of her soft singing to lean so close he brushed against her knee. Abelard was too distracted by the impudence of the squire to pay much attention to the words, which seemed at first no more than a standard lament of an abandoned lover.          The chorus, however, he noted begged for God's protection for the pilgrim who had left the singer behind "because the Saracen is treacherous." Abelard cocked his ear and started to actually listen. The singer was regretting her failure to take a kind leave of her lover at his departure. Abelard stiffened. Nights when she was tormented by longing, she wrapt herself in the cloak which he had sent to her ―          Abelard stood so abruptly that his chair clattered over. Everyone looked up at him startled, including Blanche, the words of her song dying on her lips. Abelard avoided meeting her eye, muttered an apology and fled, leaving the others murmuring exclamations behind him.           Hughes was shocked by so much rudeness and apologised to Blanche for his seneschal, promising to have a sharp word with him. But she just shook her head and reached for wine, giving the cithern back to Bert. Bert gladly took the instrument and at once struck up a lively song intended to distract attention from the incident and draw attention to himself.
* * * * *
          The following morning Abelard was hunched over the accounts in his cramped and cluttered office in the gate-house. The rents were still largely paid in kind, and it was Abelard's responsibili­ty to record the payments and to decide what to store and what to sell. He kept the inventory records, the accounts of the prices they attained for their sales, and the accounts of where the money was then spent.           His duties were further complicated by the fact that Lord Hughes’ tenants had become accustomed to a distant absentee lord. They resented the new control introduced by Hughes and employed every conceivable trick to avoid paying their dues in full. Abelard had quickly learned that he could trust no account submitted to him, and that he had to double check both the quantity and quality of goods delivered.           With resignation, Abelard forced himself to concentrate and did not interrupt his calculations when he heard a faint knocking. After a moment the knock came again, and noting the sum he had just added on a chalk board, he called “come-in” impatiently. He expected the kitchen or wardrobe clerk with yet more work for him, and he barely glanced up. The sight of Lady Blanche's waiting woman thoroughly flustered him.          Claire was dressed again in her marigold gown and saffron-stripped surcoat. She wore a fresh white linen wimple. "I wish to speak with you, Monsieur. It won't take long." Her tone was determined and broached no contradiction.          Abelard could remember Claire vaguely from before. Even then she had seemed old and her face had been pock-marked. He had seen her only as a means of communicating with Blanche, and had been relieved to find her co-operative and well-disposed to him. Many a lover had been foiled by a hostile waiting woman, after all.After decades in Egypt, however, he found himself discomfited to be alone in a room with a strange woman ― regardless of her age and looks. It crossed his mind that Claire would have been better off in a society that proscribed that she hide her face. In Egypt no one but her own family would have ever known that she was disfig­ured with pock-marks. She would probably have been married off to an unsuspecting bride-groom, who would have been offended, appalled and disgusted by what he discovered at her unveiling.           Yet Claire was not ashamed to show her face to him, nor ashamed to meet his eye. With a touch of surprise, Abelard discovered that he admired her for that ― for facing him with dignity and self-possession, despite her disfigurement.          "How can I be of service to you, Lady Claire?" He asked politely.          Claire raised her eyebrows. She was not entitled to be called ‘Lady.’ "I won't take up your time, Sir. But there is one thing I want to know: After all you've been through, did it never occur to you that Lady Blanche too might also have changed? That she is not still the spoilt brat, who rejected you 22 years ago?"          Abelard was so astonished by the question and the reproachful tone that he found himself at a loss for words ― and Claire discovered she had a good deal more to say after all.          "All you ever saw of Blanche was the facade she wore in public ― the role she played because it was expected of her and because she hadn't yet learned who she was. But she wasn't ― not even then ― the light-hearted flirt she pretended to be. She noticed every hunting dog that came in with a wounded paw, and ― what is far less common ― every scullery boy with a burnt hand or when a laundress had a cough. Blanche took an interest in everyone in her father's household, and she was quick to intervene on their behalf. Her father was not a cruel man, nor a harsh one, but like most lords he didn't particularly notice if one of his grooms could hardly stand for boils on his feet, much less consider that a page should be allowed to go home just because his mother was sick with milk-fever.           "Blanche has always had a soft heart, and what she felt for you, Sir, was real ― so real it fright­ened her. No, she didn't know how to handle it. How could she? It was all so new to her. But she wasn't lying last night. She did try to seek comfort in the folds of your cloak long after she was married to Gouzon!           "Do you know what Gouzon was like? He was 25 years older than Blance. He was a half-head shorter than her and bow-legged, with crooked, yellow teeth, half of which had broken off or decayed. He squinted whenever he looked at someone and sprayed saliva whenever he spoke. He'd had two previous wives when he took Blanche, and he kept a mistress who shared his chamber every night. In their whole marriage he only slept with Blanche when they were travelling, and the only reason he'd married her was for her land.          "She found herself with three step-sons who were unruly, arrogant and intensely resentful of having a step-mother. They did all they could to make her life miserable ― from childish pranks like putting frogs in her chamber-pot to deliberate cruelties like tying her spaniel by its tail to the back of a cart. They were insolent, disobedient and, as they grew older, they made sure she knew she they intended to rob her blind and put her away in a convent the moment they could. After Gouzon's death, they tried to steal her dower portion.          "No doubt all these woes seem trivial to you, after what you must have been through. But Blanche was very much alone in a hostile world and yet she didn't become self-centred or bitter. Instead, she learned independence and self-reliance and even greater sympathy for those worse off than herself. Do you think it is everyone woman, who would take a half-crazy heretic's child like Simone under her wing? If you knew how many others she helped ― not with cold money but with kindness and comfort and good advice!          "Blanche has a great heart and all her life she has wanted to give it to a good man. The only thing she ever wanted in return was his love. No one re­proached her for what she did to you more than did herself! Isn't it time to forgive? Aren't you man enough to forget the child and look at the woman Blanche has become?"          Throughout her heated lecture, Abelard found himself torn between fascination for this loyal waiting woman and perplexity at what she was saying. An Arab woman who spoke to a strange man was automatically presumed a whore ― and treated as such. Consequently, one was more likely to fuck a strange woman than to have a conversation with one. Abelard had discovered with Emilie how much he craved talking to a woman. But he had come to know Emilie only slowly and diffidently. It was months before they had talked of anything more than his duties. He found it compellingly courageous that this woman ― who knew she would never find favour for her face or flirt her way to success ― would come and confront a strange man and state her opinion so candidly.           With a shock, it finally dawned on him that she reminded him of his own mother. His mother too had been plain and consequently never enjoyed the power that beauty gave to women. But she had been a good wife and mother. She had not only managed their estates frugally, while her husband wasted his income on senseless rebellion, but she had not been afraid to speak her mind against a husband who was often hot-headed and violent.           The memory disturbed a massive wall in his mind, like the first preliminary tremor of an earthquake. Unsettled, Abelard got abruptly to his feet. He did not want to think of his mother ― much less his father.           He forced himself to focus on what Claire had said. That he should forgive Blanche? Whatever for? For what she had done or said as a girl? But he had never blamed her for her temper tantrum.  He knew how easy it was to say something you didn't mean in anger and disappointment. His father―          He cut off the thought sharply. "I don't blame, Lady Blanche." He told Claire, interrupting something she had started to say and he had not even heard. "I never blamed her.  That's why I sent the cloak back, to say I understood that she didn't mean what she'd said. I'd forgotten all about it, until she sang that song last night."          It was Claire's turn to be stunned. She stared at Abelard uncomprehending. Blanche had not slept for crying all night long. She had not wept so miserably in years ― not since the death of her youngest child. Claire had been so furious with Abelard for being the cause of her misery, she had decided to give him a piece of her mind. "But - but if you don't ― then why ― You've treated my lady with contempt! You've avoided her, turned your back on her and last night ― She was only trying to tell you how much she regretted what she'd done. She wrote that song herself, years ago! She used to sing it when she was alone. It took all her courage to sing it out loud in front of everyone ― for you. And the way you interrupted her singing and left, you might as well have spit in her face ― and that in front of Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie and the entire household!"          Abelard stood stalk still, mortified by what he saw in the mirror Claire held up to him. She was right, of course. His behaviour had been churlish and insolent. He had had no right to behave like that ― not to anyone, much less a lady of high rank. Even Bert would have behaved better, and it occurred to him too late that he must have displeased Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie as well.           "Well." Claire had blown herself out. "I've said my piece. You know what I think. I wish to God I could understand you. Not many men get a second chance with a woman as good, loving, wise and fair as Blanche. I used to favour you myself, but not any more." She turned to go, but stopped and looked over her shoulder. "They did more than enslave you, didn't they? They warped your soul. You aren't the man you were before."          "No I'm not!" Abelard retorted hotly. "That's the whole point! I'm not the man I was before, and I never can be. Tell her that! Tell her to forget the youth she fell in love with. He's dead!" The vehemence of his words surprised even Abelard himself. He had not intended to respond like that. He had intended to apologise for his rudeness and promise redress. But Claire’s last remark ignited something inside that so enraged him he had simply exploded.           Claire retreated hastily, closing the door behind her, not a little shaken by the fury she had so unexpectedly provoked. Behind her she heard an inarticulate cry and then something heavy crashed against the door, making her gasp and then scurry away in fright.
Copyright © 2012 Helena P. Schrader