Afton of Margate Castle (40 page)

Hildegard kept her face smooth and expressionless as she continued to work in the recreation, but her thoughts were troubled. Such gifts had been coming regularly since Lady Harriette’s installation at the nunnery, and Hildegard worried that accepting them violated her vows of poverty and obedience. She knew, of course, that the food and other gifts were compensation from the king for accepting his mistress, and she grudgingly received them, for the year had been hard and the tithes and offerings of the villagers had been few. A drought had hurt all the villagers, and the nuns’ own garden had yielded little to augment their store of provisions.

Though it rankled her soul to receive these gifts, Father Odoric had told her to quiet her fears and receive them as the provision of God Himself. So Hildegard bore all in silence.

***

Hildegard unburdened her heart to the bishop, though, when he came for his regular visit to oversee the operation of the nunnery. During these annual visits, each nun sat with the bishop in private and made complaints not allowed in the fabric of every day life. Hildegard relished the occasion and complained freely about Lady Harriette and the worldly pleasures she brought into the cloister.

“Her ladies wear gowns with low necks and costly furs,” Hildegard said in a calm voice as the bishop’s scribe transcribed every word. “They procure dog, monkeys, rabbits, and birds, which all too often escape into the chapel and distract our worship. Moreover, it is the reason that she is here that concerns me most. The church supports the holy institution of marriage, and yet this woman is not the king’s wife. She is quite proud of her calling as his mistress.”

The bishop pressed his lips together and lay his finger upon his nose as if he were thinking. Madame Hildegard waved her hands. “Apart from this situation, all is well here. We strive to remember that we are dead to the world and alive to God. We seek in all things to give Him praise and prayer.”

The bishop paused until he was sure she had finished speaking, then he folded his arms. “I have spoken to each of your nuns, Madame, and find that the more mature nuns share in your concerns. They, too, worry about the worldliness of your paying visitors, and have prayed that God would send a messenger to call Lady Harriette and her retinue away.”

His hand circled the crucifix that hung from his neck. “But, Madame Hildegard, is it possible God has sent Lady Harriette to you as an exercise in the heavenly virtues of patience, forbearance, and true charity? Might you lead these women by your virtuous and holy example? Who knows but that they will amend their ways, and even consider a vocation of the religious life as a result of their stay here.”

Hildegard controlled the muscles in her face so the bishop would not see how her heart rebelled at his words. She had tried to show charity. Indeed, had she not borne their foolishness with a serene and gracious air as her Holy Rule demanded?

The bishop leaned forward and lowered his voice so that his scribe would not hear. “We are not in a position to give affront to the king. He has recently levied a scutage against the clergy in England, and this new taxation is being appealed even now. If we protest his actions on so personal a matter, he might see fit to raise our rate of taxation.”

The bishop leaned back and resumed speaking normally, and Hildegard knew the matter was closed. She would be hostess to Henry’s mistress for as long as the king saw fit.

“Your sisters also speak of your harshness,” the bishop went on. “Two or three described your nature as ‘scolding.’”

“I rebuke them when necessary,” Hildegard said, stiffening in her chair.

“Another sister mentioned the appearance of favoritism. She said you bear an obvious love for the child called Agnelet.”

 
The river of emotion in Hildegard’s heart burst its strict boundary; tears sprang to her eyes. How could it be? She had made every effort to assign Agnelet’s care to several nuns, and she had forcibly stifled every maternal instinct that threatened to elevate her love for the child above love for Christ.

“I love her, as do we all,” Hildegard said, her voice quivering. “I love all the souls placed within my care with the tender love of Christ.”

“What is to be done with the child?” the bishop asked, his dark eyes piercing Hildegard’s calm. “What place does a four-year-old child have in a nunnery? More than that,” the bishop went on delicately, “she has no father to give her a dowry, and whether she is married to a man or to Christ, what bride goes empty handed to her marriage feast?”

Hildegard folded her hands beneath her scapular knotted her hands into fists. “She may reside in the nunnery as a servant, and a companion to the nuns. She is most useful, and will grow to be even more so.”

“Can you not return her to some family in the village?”

“No.” Hildegard shook her head resolutely. “The mark on Agnelet’s face would invite speculation and fear. Father Odoric agrees with me; to send Agnelet to the village would be a mistake.”

 
The bishop nodded slowly and brought his hands together as if for prayer. “Then I shall abide by your wisdom. On my next visit here, we shall see what good or evil has come of this decision, and we pray that only good will come from it.”

He traced the sign of the cross in the air before her, and Hildegard breathed a gentle sigh of relief.

***

Madame Lienor was chosen to serve as Hildegard’s chaplain for the coming year, and though she still did not speak, Hildegard found the girl to be thorough, well-educated, and an excellent worker. One afternoon, after dictating several letters, Hildegard paused and looked carefully at the young nun who assisted her. Maturity had been kind to Lienor. Her skin sparkled clear and smooth, her spare figure complimented her height, and her manners had been refined by the austere training of the Holy Rule. She had bushy black brows that spoke eloquently in place of her words, and her forehead, Hildegard noted with approval, was modestly concealed by the veil and headbands she had never attempted to raise.

“I read an interesting comment from a fellow nun the other day,” Hildegard remarked, picking up a letter from the abbess at a neighboring convent. “I’d like to know your opinion, Madame Lienor.”

Lienor looked up from her parchment, her eyes eager and trusting. Hildegard smoothed the letter on her desk and read: “Anyone who has received the gift of knowledge and eloquence from God should not remain silent or conceal it willingly.”

Hildegard glanced quickly at Lienor’s face, which had fallen.

“Do you agree that knowledge from God should be shared?” Hildegard asked.

Lienor did not look up, but nodded hesitantly.

“I have asked you before, Lienor, but I will ask again. Do you have some knowledge from God about the child Agnelet who has been with us all these years? I have often read something in your eyes, some knowledge you possess but are not free to reveal. Could you reveal it now?”

Lienor shook her head, then reached for a quill pen on the desk. On the parchment in front of her she scratched a message and pushed the paper toward the abbess. Hildegard glanced at the page and read aloud: “Who is to say whether the knowledge we possess is from God?”

Hildegard nodded slowly, the nun in her overruling the curious imp in her brain that demanded to know more. “Who, indeed?” she answered. She folded her hands under her sleeves. “When you feel at liberty to disclose this knowledge, I trust you will,” she answered gently. “Until then, daughter, I will trust your judgment.”

C
alhoun breathed a sigh of relief. They had reached Antioch, the northernmost outpost of Outremer, and in a few days they would be in the sacred city of Jerusalem. Now, at last, they were safe within a city controlled by Frankish Christians, not by the dark-skinned Saracens whom Calhoun had not learned to trust.

No house or hostelry in Antioch would take so large a company, so Calhoun’s contingent pitched camp in an open field, the knights spreading themselves around the company of men, women, children, and priests who were not content that Jerusalem truly did lie within their grasp. Calhoun directed the knights to posts around the camp, aware that Fulk carefully inspected his management. “Do you not think this is a good arrangement?” he asked Fulk privately when the other knights had gone. “I know nothing of this land or its people, and I shall defer to your judgment if necessary.”

A corner of Fulk’s mouth dipped in a wry smile, and Calhoun felt slightly offended. “I am not so proud as to be foolish,” he added. “Have I not listened to the good advice of Reynard of the knights Templar?”

“You amuse me, my young friend,” Fulk answered, his teeth gleaming in a dark smile. “You find pride in your humility!” Fulk gathered his belongings and moved toward the outskirts of camp. He waved the back of his hand in Calhoun’s direction. “Good night, my lord. Sleep well in Outremer.”

Calhoun did not sleep well, nor had he since they left Constantinople. The night air bit into his lungs, waking him with dry coughing attacks, and even the creatures in the sand on which he slept were sharp and venomous. Twice Calhoun had wakened in the night to find horrible spiders on him,
tarrents
, Reynard called them, terrible creatures that wounded a man and tortured him with pain. The desert sands sheltered other creatures that stung painfully, small, scaly reptiles that crawled out at night and stunned innocent men as they lay on the ground. No, Calhoun did not sleep well in the desert sands of Outremer.

Since leaving Constantinople, he and his company had also encountered disease. At a small outpost outside Constantinople, several families had eaten eels from a small stream and became terribly sick. Within days the flesh on their legs dried up, their skin seemed to grow black spots. “Leave them behind,” Fulk told Calhoun, his eyes hard. “They will not survive the month.”

It had been difficult to leave the affected families behind, and for miles afterward Calhoun had the impression that their eyes followed him on the road. More than once, the skin on the back of his neck prickled as if a number of eyes watched him from close by. Once he
knew
he was being watched from behind a great dune, and he spurred his mighty war horse and charged over the sand only to find a solitary dark-skinned Bedouin there, a skinny lamb over his shoulders. Calhoun nodded sheepishly at the man and turned back to his company.

The feeling did not leave him at night. Though the fire raged in the center of camp and thirty valiant knights surrounded the edges of their circle, still Calhoun felt as though the stars themselves watched him. And waited.

***

He had just saddled his horse when Reynard rode up beside him. “We are short one knight today,” Reynard announced, his eyes glancing warily at the sand dunes that surrounded them. “Saracens came into camp last night. Parnell’s body rests on his carpet, but the Saracens have his head this morning.”

Calhoun felt his empty stomach heave, and he hid his face against the strong shoulder of his horse. When his stomach and nerves had quieted, he looked into Reynard’s impassive eyes. “Is there anything to do?” he asked.

“We bury the body, of course, or the cannibal Saracens will return for it,” Reynard said, turning his horse. “I will handle the rites of the church. We will be free to proceed in an hour.” Reynard disappeared in a cloud of dust, and Calhoun squinted around the circle of their camp, trying to remember at which point the eager young Parnell had slept. Was it northward or eastward? From where had the enemy come?

A heavy hand clasped his shoulder, and Calhoun whirled around, withdrawing his dagger instinctively. Fulk leaned back and raised an eyebrow at the sight of it. “Easy,” he cautioned. “We cannot kill each other in our haste to rid ourselves of the enemy.”

“How cowardly is this enemy who kills under cover of night?” Calhoun whispered, watching the sand dunes around them. “He attacks a sleeping knight without warning or the challenge to a fair fight?”

“The days of fair fighting are past,” Fulk replied, stooping to gather the remainder of Calhoun’s belongings. “Now we are dealing with a bitter and conquered people who seek their lands and their honor. You forget, my friend, that we showed little honor or mercy when Jerusalem was captured, and we ask too much if we expect honor or mercy from the Saracens.”