A Widow's Crusade - Chapter 9

Montfort, GalileeDecember 1212

As the weeks went by, Abelard found himself looking ever more frequently for word from Lord Hughes. Not knowing whether Hughes and Emilie would be back for Christmas made planning difficult. If they did not return, there would be festivities for the permanent household at which he would preside, of course, but, if the lord and his lady were present, than the scale of the feasting and entertainment would have to be much more lavish. The livestock could be kept on the hoof until shortly before the holiday season began, but Abelard found himself laying in extra sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and dried fruits. He found the young troubadour struggling to make a living with his lute, and engaged him along with two flutists. He couldn't stop hoping that Hughes and Emilie would return. That Blanche would return.When the harbinger arrived with the news that Lord Hughes and his party were a half-day away (travelling was slower with the ladies), Abelard could not suppress his excitement. As soon as he had issued the necessary instructions for lighting fires, changing bedding and rushes, mulling wine and preparing hay for the horses, he changed into the new things he had bought himself: a dark-blue shirt, burgundy gown and a new belt. The shirt had an embroidered collar and long tight sleeves. The gown had wide sleeves that ended some four inches above the elbow, and was adorned with thick golden cords that formed a Greek-key pattern along the hem. Like his surcoats, the gown came to mid-calf and was split up the front almost to the waist so it revealed his soft leather trousers and knee-high suede boots. Last but not least, he had spent a goodly sum upon a new belt. This had panels of bronze elaborately worked with silver and gold relief, little hares and deers running.By the time he had finished making himself presentable and returned to the gate-house, the fore-riders were already dismount­ing in the ward. Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie came through the gate, and a shrill screaming went up from the entry to the tower, where Yvonne was being held by her nurse despite her best efforts to escape. Abelard paid no attention. His eyes were fixed upon Blanche as she rode in beside Lord Hughes' father, the elegant, grey-haired Guillaume de Hebron.Guillaume was approaching 70 years of age with a mane of white hair and a white moustache. He was gallant, charming and the most civilised man Abelard had ever met. He could read and write Latin, Greek and Arabic. He was familiar with astrology and had even recognised the name of Abelard's first master. (Abelard had not enlightened him about how he knew the man, and Guillaume had been impressed.) Guillaume could discuss the writings of Aristotle, Plato, Pierre Abelard and Bernard of Clairvaux­ with equal ease. And he was clearing enjoying Blanche's company.Abelard was instantly reminded of his own countless inadequacies. Guillaume de Hebron was a Baron and a widower. He had a right to pay court to Lady Blanche ― unlike that impudent squire Bert.  Abelard started forward to offer Blanche assistance dismounting, but Bert was quicker, jumping down and taking her bridle.It was Emilie who saw Abelard first, greeting him with a wave, before she bent to give her demanding daughter a hug and a kiss. Then Lord Guillaume was greeting him, hoping they would not be too much of an inconvenience. "We are expected at the King's Christmas Court at Acre, so we won't be here for more than a week,” he told his son’s seneschal, adding, “We only came because Emilie wanted to see that imp of a grandchild of mine." Abelard had no idea how well his face masked his acute disappoint­ment.At dinner Abelard was naturally displaced by Lord Guillaume, who shared Lady Blanche's cup and cut her meat. Abelard was seated next to Emilie who inquired after all manner of insignificant things like any worried house-wife, while Lord Guillaume kept Blanche in stitches of laughter with stories of youthful escapades in Hebron and Jerusalem. Abelard regretted the money he'd wasted on his new finery.The young minstrel introduced himself after the first course, bowing elegantly in the oriental fashion. He was still a very young man and ill at ease with his uncertain status in life. His mother was a Palestinian Christian and his father had been some Crusader who had come and gone again. But he sang very well and his audience was pleased with him. Lord Hughes ordered Bert to give him wine from the High Table. When he took a break, the singer sat himself beside Abelard and asked anxiously. "Is it certain then? I can stay the winter here?"Abelard shrugged and glanced at Hughes. "It would seem so. Do you know the song by Conan de Bethune ‘Ahi, Amors’?""Of course, everyone knows that." "Would you sing it?"He shrugged. "If you want, but it’s not very popular anymore. There are better songs. I could--"Abelard shook his head. "I want that one."They brought the third course. The minstrel stood and bowed again. "A request," he announced, "from your esteemed Seneschal." He bowed extra low to Abelard. Then with a preliminary flourish he took up the song. Blanche looked over sharply. Abelard could feel her eyes studying him. He knew he should look at her, but his courage failed. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead, until she looked away again. Then he looked at her longingly.Sometime after the desert of sugared violets had been served with sweet Commandaria wine from Cyprus, Lord Guillaume asked Blanche if she had decided yet if she would come with them to Acre for Christmas. "Or would you rather make the Christmas pilgrimage to Bethlehem?"Blanche sighed. "If you want to know the truth, my lord, I'd rather not do either. What I'd like most....""Yes?" He prompted, pouring her more wine. "What would you really like this Christmas?""I'd like to spend the night out in the fields with the shepherds. I'd like to experi­ence Christmas like the first Christ­mas: away from all festivity and ritual.""Yes." Abelard spoke out loud without realising it, and was astonished when everyone turned to look at him expectantly. But with them all staring at him, he had to explain. "I never felt closer to Him than when I was alone in the desert with only the stars...." "Surely it can be arranged." Blanche turned to Hughes. "There is no danger here, surely? If I went up to the pastures with some of your shepherds...."Hughes was perplexed. It was not overtly dangerous, but it was unthinkable that a noblewoman would go out with the shepherds. Not to mention that all his shepherds were Jews."I can escort the Lady Blanche, my lord.” Abelard offered. “We can go to the upper pastures and, if you could grant us use of your pavilion, Lady Blanche would be certain of protection even from the weather."Everyone seemed to be staring at him, and he felt foolish. "I would like that very much, my lord. Could we?" Blanche broke the awkward silence."Of course, you may have use of my pavilion, but, Sir Abelard.…""My lord?"Hughes just looked at him questioningly."I swear upon my honour that Lady Blanche will be safe. If you wish, we can take a full escort with us.""No, that would spoil the whole effect!" Blanche protested, and Hughes with a somewhat puzzled shrug agreed.

PalestineChristmas Eve 1212

Lord Hughes, his wife and father, accompanied by a selected escort left for Acre shortly after dawn broke on a clear, crisp Christmas Eve. The remaining household worked hard to finish decorating the hall with greens and to get the giant Yule log, imported all the way from the forests of Byzantium, in to the hearth. At dinner Abelard, Blanche and Father Marc were alone at the high-table. Blanche noted that Abelard was dressed again in the elegant burgundy wool gown and the elaborate Saracen belt, but he remained reticent, joining in the conversation only sparingly.Father Marc expressed his regret that he could not accompany them. "If I did not have to hold Mass for the remaining household," he insisted, "I would come with you. It would not surprise me, if you saw angels. You must promise to report all you see and hear!""Gladly." Blanche assured the enthusiastic young priest. Father Marc had come out to Palestine as a pilgrim, only to discover he never wanted to leave. He had found employment here only recently."You must dress warmly, my lady." Abelard warned her, "It is far colder in the upper pastures than here."Blanche looked over to him, but he looked down at his dinner and would not meet her eye.
After dinner, Claire helped Blanche change and prepare for her night in the pastures. For the last time, Claire tried to talk Blanche out of it. "Are you sure you want to do this?""Yes. I am." Blanche answered definitively, as she pulled her heaviest woollen shift over her head. As her head emerged, she looked straight at Claire and saw the worried look in the older woman's eyes. "Claire, I want the truth ― no nonsense about lions and hyenas and the untrustworthiness of Jews. Why don't you think I should spend the night up in the pastures?"Claire sighed and fussed with the wool stockings she was preparing to help Blanche into. "If you'd been there.... He was so angry ― so suddenly angry. It frightened me."Blanche knew what her maid was referring to. The day Abelard had been found delirious with fever, Claire had come to Blanche with a guilty conscience. She didn't quite know how,but she sensed that Abelard’s illness had something to do with the confronta­tion she had had with him. She told Blanch what had passed between them.Blanche had assured her repentant friend that she was not to blame for Abelard's illness, but one thing was clear to her: Abelard had said he was not the man he'd been before, not the youth she'd loved, and then gone out to do a slave's work in the pouring rain. Blanche's intuition said that he was ashamed of what he'd become and considered himself inferior to her, as he never felt even when her father scorned him. She had mentally reviewed all that he had said and done since her arrival, and concluded that it might have been motivated as much by shame as by scorn. But she had no intention of admitting her suspicions to Claire, just in case she was wrong."He comes from a family of hot-tempered men, Claire. Don't you remember how his father once struck Abbot Beranger in some dispute over lands? His brother is said to have broken his own son's arm in an argument. It is hardly fair to expect Abelard to be without his family’s temper.""But when you were young and gave him so many reasons to be angry with you, he never lost control." Claire pointed out. "Here he threw something ― I think it was a stool ― after me! It crashed against the door just after I left." Her face was pale and her fingers fussed nervously with the wool stockings.Blanche considered her waiting woman for a moment, unsettled despite herself by such profound concern. Claire had always championed Abelard in the past, and her change of attitude made Blanche question herself. Was she trying to find excuses for Abelard only because she wanted to believe he did not hate her? Yet he had requested Ahi, Amours! To say he loved her, even if they were separated? Or to say his love of God took precedence still? But he had not taken a monk’s vows, and since their return from the pilgrimage, he had not once been overtly rude. On the contrary, he had shown her a dozen little courtesies -- when he thought no one would notice."What are you afraid he'll do to me, Claire?""I don't know." Claire admitted in a whine of despair. "I don't know. But he was so angry! He said to tell you he was dead. And then he went out and tried to kill himself, didn't he?"Blanche had not thought of it that way. Had he tried to kill himself? If they had not found him, might he not have died? "And you think he now plans to kill us both?" She queried a little credulously. This might be the kind of thing that happened in ballads, but she could not quite picture it happening in real life.   Claire looked a little sheepish. "No, nothing so dramatic, but what if he strikes you or - or....""Rapes me?" "It has happened before!" Claire pointed out defensively before Blanche could dismiss this as an old woman's fantasy. "Maybe he wants revenge for being rejected. Or maybe, when he said he wasn't the man he was before, he meant he wasn't as honourable as he had been when he was young?" Claire looked up at Blanche with a pleading expression. She knew that Blanche was cleverer than she, and she was afraid that Blanche would not listen to her because she could not argue well. But her fear was genuine all the same.Blanche was too mistrustful of her own feelings when it came to Abelard to dismiss Claire's fears out of hand. Instead, she mentally reviewed the past week, searching for some indication that would give credence to Claire's suspicions. But no matter how hard she tried, she found none. "Claire, do you honestly think Lord Hughes would entrust me to someone he did not trust entirely?""No." Claire admitted, aware that it was impossible to explain something one did not understand. "But what did he mean then about being different?"Blanche took her time answering.  She sat down and held out her feet so Claire could put the stockings on, while she mentally reviewed all she had observed since her return from the pilgrimage trip. In this past week, she had watched Abelard very closely. She had observed the diligence with which he served Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie. "Claire, remember when we were young? Abelard was a bachelor-knight, with no duties to anyone. He had not yet taken service with a lord and had been his own master, free to ride from tournament to tournament in search of fame and fortune. It made him seem more exotic than the others, who were all attached to one household or another. And that was part of what made him exciting. But you and I know that knight-errancy is fine for litera­ture but, quite correctly, viewed with disapproval by society.  It was as much his free-lancing status as the fact that he was a younger son that made my father mistrust him. And my father felt more kindly toward him the moment the Count of Poitou took him into his service.""That's true." Claire agreed, though she could not see what Blanche was getting at. The stockings tightly bound with garters, both women stood and Claire brought Blanche's gown."But don't you see, Claire? He's not like that now. Now he's a sober and responsible official. He spends more time reading accounts than tilting, and his hands are stained with ink rather than chain-mail oil.""But that's nothing to be angry about!" Claire pointed out."I know." Blanche answered simply. What had made Abelard more glamorous and romantic to the maiden of 16 had no appeal for the widow. On the contrary, Blanche had had enough trouble with dishonest and incompetent stewards in her lifetime to know how valuable a good seneschal was. Hughes and Emilie sang Abelard's praises, and Blanch saw evidence everywhere of the meticu­lous care Abelard took of whatever was entrusted to his keep­ing. "But he may not know I know."Claire stopped in the midst of lifting a heavy, quilted surcoat over Blanche’s head. What Blanche said made sense, but it could not ease her fears. She had heard in Abelard's anger something that was more violent and more primeval than a mere concern that he was no longer the carefree hero of their youth. Because she could not explain her fears, however, she could only sigh of resignation and finish helping Blanche prepare for her night out alone with Abelard.In the ward, Blanche found Abelard checking the coverings on the pack-horse and interrogating the groom who had packed Lord Hughes' pavilion. He was so intent on making sure everything was in order, that he did not catch sight of Blanche until she was almost beside him. He had no chance to veil his thoughts as he looked up, and for an instant their eyes met. Blanche caught a glimpse of the burning and longing that had seemed extinguished up to now. As if aware that he had betrayed himself, Abelard snapped his head away sharply, his face slightly flushed."I've taken the liberty of selecting another mare for you, my lady. The mare you bought in Acreis not sure-footed enough for the tracks we will be taking, certainly not in the darkness. This is one of my lord's mares." He indicated a sturdy, shaggy chestnut on which he had secured Blanche's expensive saddle."Whatever you think is best, sir." Blanche agreed readily, moving over and holding out her hand palm up. The mare pricked her ears, sniffed at the offered hand and then licked it tentatively.Without another word, Abelard went around to the far side of the mare and held the off stirrup so Blanche could mount easily. It was so typical of the man he was now, she thought. Bert would have offered her a leg up and Guillaume de Hebron would have asked if he could be of assistance. Abelard simply did the most helpful thing without drawing attention to himself.He had changed out of his fine red robes, she noted, and was again wearing his quilted green brigandine. Over this he wore his fur-lined cloak. He must have spent consider­able time brushing it for it was now difficult to see the creases left by the years in her trunk. It made him look broader. He glanced up discom­fited by her long scrutiny. She smiled, but he hastened away to mount. They left by the main gate and followed the road down to the town, but, rather than passing in through the gates, took a road that lead north. After they had left the town behind, Abelard fell back to ride beside her. She waited expectantly, but for several minutes he seemed unable to find the words he sought. When at last he spoke, he surprised her with: "You must miss your children, my lady." Blanche opened her mouth to reply, caught herself, and then decided on the truth after all. "Not at all. Do you find that unnatural and scandalous?"Abelard glanced at her obliquely, and she could not read his thoughts, but he said, "No. Rather it is hard for me to think of you as a mother at all, my lady.""Sometimes it is hard for me to think of myself that way either. Since Jean-Pierre and Jacquette are married, they seem hardly any part of me.""You had two children?""I had three children, but I lost my younger son when he was only four years old to a fever.""I'm sorry.""I was lucky. Many women bury all or most of their children. Your mother lost all her daughters." She hesitated, but Abelard, though he was not looking at her, was listening with an intensity that was almost painful. "If your mother had had known where you were or how to secure your release, nothing on earth would have stopped her.  She would have sold her very soul to set you free. You must know that."He glanced up and his lips twitched. "Yes. I do, that’s why I always assumed that she was dead. I always blamed my father and brother....When did my father die?""The same year as King Richard, 1199."Blanche could see Abelard calculating backwards, trying to remember where he had then been. "That was the year of my first escape attempt." He announced after a bit, though Blanche was uncertain if he really intended her to hear. He was gazing straight ahead and yet he did not see the road ahead of them. His first attempt, Blanche reflected, wondering why it had failed and how many others there had been before he finally succeeded. "And my brother? Is he still alive?""Yes. He is married and has four sons."Abelard glanced over at her with a wry twist to his lips. "That's three too many.""Or four. Your brother is rumoured to have fought so violently with his heir that they came to blows and he broke his arm.""How old was my nephew at the time?""18 or so, old enough to be knighted, in any case."Abelard raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment. They rode in silence for a bit. "When did my mother die?""The same year as your father, five months before him. She died in June. He followed at Martinmas."Abelard calculated backwards again, but this time he said nothing. After awhile, he glanced over at Blanche. "And your father? When did he die?""He died at Holy Trinity, two years after my marriage, in 1195.""You didn't marry until '93?""I married the first Sunday of Advent '93."Again he calculated. That was more than three years after they had parted. In December of '93 he had been in captivity over a year. Somehow, he had always presumed she had married sooner."It was after the first reports of your death had reached us. I would not have consented otherwise.""But...Gouzon...I was told he was an old man.""He was not really old, but he was aged. I allowed myself to be persuaded by my father, who felt wealth and status would bring me greater security than affection. Affection, he was wont to say, is fickle. I prided myself on my good sense and maturity in following his advice." She smiled cynically."Was there someone else? Someone else you would have rather married?" He asked without daring to look at her."You. You know that. But we thought you were dead, and my father would not have consented."He glanced up sharply, piercingly sharp eyes looking for some hint of hypocrisy, deceit or mere melodrama, but Blanche was not afraid to let him search her soul as long as he liked. She was not lying.
 Eventually they left the road and started up rocky paths that seemed to meander somewhat pointlessly but gradually led upwards into the sparsely vegetated upper slopes. They encountered one shepherd with his heard of sheep, and Abelard spoke with him briefly in Arabic. Later, just at dusk, they reached a shepherd’s hut.Smoke wafted lightly from the hole in the tiled roof, and an old man came out to greet them. He bowed to Lady Blanche and offered her some of his wine. Then he turned to Abelard and gesturing with his arms discussed various things with him at length. Finally they took their leave of him, and continued in the near dark at a slow pace. Abelard led the way on Maximus, and Blanche followed in silence behind him.It was chilly here as Abelard had warned, and the first stars were piercing the luminous blue sky. The stillness was profound, and Blanche found herself thinking of the Virgin, heavy with child, searching for a place to rest and finding no where but a stable. She remembered Jean-Pierre's birth vividly. She had been so frightened and there was no one who could comfort or reassure her. She had never known the woman, who had died giving her birth and Claire, as an old maid, had no experience with pregnancy and child-bearing. Her husband was indifferent to her condition, it being so common, and his mistress had not dared to approach her. She had not even been sure when to send for the midwife, not wanting to call unnecessarily or too soon. In the event, it was Claire who, nearly hysterical with concern, sent for the mid-wife almost too late. Blanche was assured that in comparison to unluckier women, the birth had been “quick” and “uncomplicated,” but the horror of those 22 hours of labour remained with her even now. Abelard drew up and indicated a level spot beside a barren bluff. "Would that suit you, my lady?"Blanche looked about at the arid landscape, lit only by the stars and the sliver of a setting moon, and shivered. The desola­tion of her surroundings seemed ominous and she glanced to the sky that was splendid but cold. She nodded.Abelard jumped down and led Maximus and the pack horse forward. He surveyed the ground carefully and then set to work erecting Lord Hughes' tent. Blanche dismounted, tethered her mare, and stood to one side feeling somewhat foolish. What had she expected? Once the tent was standing, Abelard spread a canvas on the ground and then flung a number of sheep skins upon it. He unfolded a small, low table and then unloaded two jugs of wine, a loaf of bread, goat's cheese, figs, dates and dried apricots. These he carefully arranged upon a glazed and hand-painted platter which he placed upon the table. For the wine he had brought two silver goblets inlaid with enamel. "I hope this will do, my lady." He murmured as he finished, glancing up at Blanche, who still stood unmoving and distant in the door-flap. Absently she smiled and entered the tent. "I had thought to fast, but I'm glad you were less foolish." She sank down onto the sheepskin beside the table and reached for some of the dried fruit."May I pour?" Abelard asked."Please." Blanche's stillness discomfited Abelard. In his memories and from observation at the High Table she was a lively conversa­tionalist, adept at asking questions to make others talk and equally capable of entertaining with her own narrative. He did not know what to make of her reticence now, and felt the need to break the heavy silence. Having exhausted the subject of her children and his own family, however, he did not know what subject he could safely raise.There had been a time when he would have been up to the task of finding some topic of conversa­tion, he reflected discouraged. As a young man, he had not been tongue-tied. But the years of isolation had had their effect. After he had been sold by his first master, he had had no one with whom he could speak French, and with time he had even started to think and dream in Arabic. But it was not just the language that was unused, it was the social custom of conversation itself. The other slaves had been born to slavery and accepted it without thinking. Uneducated and horizonless, their conversation offered Abelard nothing, and he avoided it. As a result they considered him aloof, arrogant and slightly crazy. His second master had occasionally chatted with him, but he had never taken much interest in Abelard's answers. Why should he? A slave, an infidel slave, was not a person to be taken seriously. His first master ― Abelard tried to stop his thoughts. Why was he thinking of that now? But the memories seemed to press in on him. The room with turquoise tiles all the way to the ceiling was suddenly vivid in his mind's eye. The sound of gurgling fountains wafted up from the garden and miggled with the happy shouting of children playing in the street below. The oppres­sive heat bathed his naked body in sweat ―"A penny for your thoughts." Blanche offered innocently."Save your money for prettier things!" Abelard snapped back so viciously that he startled himself. But the images were gone, and he was suddenly looking at a Blanche who drew back with wide hurt eyes like a whipped dog. Abelard grabbed at her wrist without thinking. "Don't!""Don't what?!""Don't be hurt. I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just ― " He forced himself to speak, knowing that only speech could bridge the chasm that yawned between them against both their wills. "I was remembering ― remembering things I would rather forget ― things I wish had never happened. But they did. I can't change that." He looked at her, his expression at once one of supplication and defiance."I know." Blanche answered so gently that Abelard let his grip relax and breathed out slowly. "But neither can I." Abelard sat in silence, absorbing what she said, trying to understand what she meant. Gradually, he became aware that he still had hold of her wrist. She made no move to free herself. She just waited, watching him with her large, gentle eyes."There are things so ugly that I can't tell you ― don't want to tell you ― about them. Can you understand?""Of course, but you can't blame me for not knowing what they are, for not reading your thoughts.""I don't blame you, Blanche." It was the first time he'd used her Christian name, and it slipped out before he knew it. At once he was embarrassed, but her eyes lit up a little.She shifted her hand to entwine her fingers with his. "Abelard, I don't know what I expected or wanted when I came here.  In truth, I mostly wanted to get away from the empty life I had at home. But I like what I found." She looked him straight in the eye, and he forced himself not to look away. With a start he realised that his habit of avoiding other's eyes had been acquired in slavery; he had been afraid they would see the hatred burning inside and punish him for it. Blanche was continuing, "You should hear what Sir Hughes and Lady Emily have to say about you behind your back! You'd think you could walk on water." Blanche added in a lighter tone.Abelard looked down in genuine embarrassment. He was pleased to think that Lord Hughes valued him. "I serve them gladly." He said deliberately, thinking what a world of difference it was to serve a lord like Hughes as a free man rather than be sold into service without choice. Then he glanced up sharply at Blanche. She was watching him, waiting for him to speak, and he felt the warmth of her hand in his. With a conscious effort he overcame his shyness, and forced himself to say aloud what he was thinking. "The duty of a vassal to his lord, even of a serf, does not take from him his dignity as slavery does.""How did you ever escape?" Blanche asked the question that had preoccupied her for months."I didn't." Abelard admitted, but he did not leave it at that, he told how he had come to be released. The words started to flow more easily. They had finished the first jug of wine, and started on the second. Blanche listened to him with attentive, sympathetic eyes and her questions kept the silence at bay. He discovered there was much he could talk about, many things he had witnessed and observed that were not too humiliating to reveal or too offensive to tell. There was penned up inside of him half a life time which, in fact, he desperately wanted to share, but had been afraid to. Until now. They had left the table long ago to sit in the entry to the tent with a view of the heavens and the desert-mountains spread before them. The moon had set, but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the mountains seemed strangely light. Blanche sat clutching her knees in her arms, as she listened to Abelard's rasping voice. She could no longer remember what it had sounded like when he was young. She let her eyes caress his face, thinking that as it was now, sunken and carved, it was dearer than ever the handsome youth had been. Oh, God, she thought silently, "how good you have been to me! Just as You sent Your Son to die for our sins, you sent him back and gave me the courage to come here."Abelard adjusted his position slightly, stretching out one leg and grasping the other knee. Blanche's glance went to his over-thin thighs and then to his bony hands with the prominent veins. There was no objective way to call them beautiful, and yet she wanted to take his hands in hers and kiss the gnarled knuckles one by one. She had lost track of what he was saying, and when he paused, she looked up and met his eyes. They were smiling at her. "Abelard." She lifted her face to him, and without thinking ― without hardly knowing what she was doing ― she spoke out loud her deepest wish: "Please love me." Abelard was abruptly scrambling to his feet, and when he stood, he distanced himself from her as if she were a leper. He stood a pace away staring at her with a look of such boundless horror that Blanche could only cover her face with her hands and bend her head to her knees, curling up in a humiliation so profound she wished she were dead.The next thing she knew, he was shaking her by the shoulders. "Listen to me! I can't!" Blanche couldn't hold the sobs back any longer, but she tried to free herself of his hands, to turn and crawl back into the tent. "I said I can't!" He rasped at her, his fingers digging into her shoulders like claws. "I want to! Don't you understand?!" He was raging at her now, his voice breaking. She refused to understand him. She just tried to get away from him, sobbing harder and harder."I'm impotent!" He shouted at her in his fury at her refusal to understand.Blanche went instantly still, and Abelard instantly released her, drawing back slowly, warily waiting for her to look at him with contempt. He was already taking a step backwards, but when she looked up her expression was one of puzzlement rather than pity or disgust. "Is that any excuse for not kissing me? For not taking me in your arms? Oh, dear God!” She cried out, "What is wrong with me? Why can no one love me?""Everyone loves you, Blanche.” Abelard assured her in a voice that was gentle but also tired. “Your father doted on you. Your household adored you. How many rivals did I have? And haven't you noticed the way Lord Hughes looks at you? Don’t you see Lord Guillaume would take you to wife at an instant? Not to mention that insolent squire! Everyone loves you." Abelard sounded resigned.Blanch answered with a bitter laugh, and then started crying so miserably that Abelard could not bare to leave her there alone. He closed the distance between them and gingerly took her in his arms. With his right hand he stroked her head, feeling her hair through the silk of her wimple and wishing he dared removed her scarves. His left arm held her against him, and he could feel his blood rushing at the feel of her soft body filling in the hollows of his own wrecked form. "What do you want from me?" Abelard asked gently, when her sobbing had eased."Oh, Abelard! Is it so hard to understand? I want to be with you, talk to you like tonight, laugh with you, sing with you as we used to. The whole time I was on pilgrimage, I kept wishing you were with us. Everything I saw I wanted to share with you. And I want to go to sleep and wake up in your arms. Is that too much to ask?""And you could be content with that and nothing more?""Content? No, I would be happy and grateful--"He stopped her words with a kiss that was a trifle hard because he was wretchedly out of practice, but he quickly discerned his mistake and eased off slightly. Blanche slipped her arms up around the back of his neck and raised her face to his. He could taste her tears, and so he placed a series of kisses up her cheeks and onto her closed eyelids, gently licking her tears away.
The bells were ringing for Mass as they rode past the town and up the road to the castle. Abelard kept glancing over at Blanche, as if he was afraid she might disappear in the mist. But every time he glanced at her nervously, he found her gazing at him, smiling radiantly. She couldn't really be over forty, a widow with grown children, he told himself. She looked too fresh and young for that. She held out her hand to him, unable to bear not touching him for more than a few minutes. He caught it and took it to his lips, kissing the palm. As the gate keeper admitted them, he looked at first astonished and then grinned widely and winked at Abelard behind Blanche’s back. Abelard considered that impertinent, but he dared not rebuke the man. It drove home to him, however, the need to protect her honour. He would have to make his intentions of marrying her known at once.Father Marc was approaching them smiling broadly. "Did you see any angels?" He called out even before he reached them, and it did not surprise him that both of them broke into smiles of devout rapture and declared with earnest fervour. "Yes, we did."
  Copyright © 2012 Helena P. Schrader