Come with me to Rennes,” Roland said the next day as they dined together in King’s Hall. Amid all the council meetings, diplomatic engagements, and festivities, she and her brother-in-marriage finally had a chance to talk. Jongleurs and minstrels entertained the guests, and as others around them laughed and clapped, she and Roland continued their private talk.
“I cannot leave Hortense at Tutbury to face them alone,” she said. “Besides, it would be misconstrued. You are Philip’s envoy.”
“You cannot stay in that beast’s lair. Besides, you are in danger.”
At Roland’s fury, she remembered he had nearly crossed swords with Alaric once. “I am in no immediate danger.” She glanced toward the king and queen before turning to Roland. “Please, you know I cannot.”
She watched him wrestle with his urge to protect her, and the consequences they knew would follow her escape. Her assumed alliance with Eustace and Philip would be confirmed the moment she left Englelond with him. Roland would not care how her departure would affect her husband’s place in William’s court. But he and Elise both knew that although Eustace had little use for her once she crossed the Narrow Sea, Philip would use her against William. In response, William could march his troops into Brittany, quite possibly under Alaric’s command.
Exasperated, Roland expelled his breath. “Very well,” he said to her. “If you ever find you must leave, I will send Tristan to you. After leaving you at Tutbury last year, we took a nearly deserted track eastward across the land. Unencumbered with wagons and packhorses, we reached the coast in a few days. Though the route is dangerous, Tristan can reach you quickly.”
“Thank you, Roland.” His acquiescence relieved her, for Roland would defend her and Marie ferociously. Although she longed to see her sister again, such joys were minor these days.
“Are secret communiqués necessary?” He asked, referring to the letter she’d sent to Marie through Frigga. Beneath the table, he passed her Marie’s answering letter, pulled from his sleeve.
She tucked the treasure into a hidden seam sewn into her cloak.
“Do they prevent you from sending and receiving letters? Even from your sister?”
“Yes,” she said. “You would do the same if you thought Marie conspired against Philip.”
Reluctantly, he agreed. She told him a little about Frigga and that the woman would help get her letters to Marie.
“Can you trust her?” he asked.
“Strangely enough, I can,” she said. “And a monk may also help.”
“Be careful. These are dangerous times. It would be easy to spring the trap of another’s making.”
She glanced out over the assemblage and saw Johan and Gilbert at a distance watching her carefully. She lifted her drinking bowl, saluted their vigilance, and drank.
Elise, Johan, and Gilbert rode the next morning with the king’s hunting party into a nearby wood. The sky was not yet blue when the party came to a large clearing. The king held his falcon as the falconer removed the bird’s straps. Elise and her escorts dismounted. Carrying her bow and quiver, she wandered to the edge of the clearing, and stood beneath a large oak tree. Johan and Gilbert followed. The king spoke gently to his bird, and all watched as he flung it to the sky. It circled up and up, higher, higher and shrieked from above. They all watched in awe the bird’s graceful movement and felt its tension when it seemed to hover an instant before diving hard and fast from view. They waited and collectively sighed when the falcon reappeared. The party clapped as the king extended his arm and the falcon landed, his sharp talons clutching the thick leather arm brace.
“Do you know falconry?” Johan said.
“No.” She had once hoped her husband would teach her, and through this diversion, they would learn to be together. Dismissing her thought, she turned to them.
“As the wife of your lord, I bid you hear me well.” She had not meant to startle them with the authority in her voice. When they recovered, she continued, more softly.
“All rights accorded to me as Lord Stafford’s wife have been severed by my husband. This I accept and have striven to obey his wishes. Things are different here, where I serve the king and queen on Lord Stafford’s behalf, are they not?” She waited. Gilbert stared at her coldly. Johan gave her a reluctant nod.
“I assure you, after leaving the court, all things shall resume as they were. But until we leave, I shall exercise my lawful rights. In this regard, I bring one concern to your attention and ask only that you take action consistent with Lord Stafford’s wishes.
“Marguerite d’Hesdins,” she continued. Gilbert and Johan exchanged knowing, almost smirking glances.
“Do not misunderstand me!” Her voice commanded their immediate attention. “Marguerite attempts to dishonor me here at court. My debasement will smear Lord Stafford. Many of his peers, especially those envious of his sudden rise, would use scandal to demote him and lessen the king’s regard. I seek no personal redress, only caution you such plots are in the making.”
“Lady Stafford,” Hewisa called. “Come, we will break our fast in the meadow.”
Elise waved at Hewisa and left Johan and Gilbert to watch her.
She is running, running. The girl’s shrieks stop suddenly. She feels Satan’s claws as he grabs her . . . His horns and hood fall away. His face blurs, but the mark on his chest . . . the mark nears her face.
Elise walked through King’s Hall with her entourage, troubled by the persistent effects of her last dream. Despite the festivities, the dream had come to her every night, and had become more explicit. Again last night, she jolted awoke, sweating from the lingering horror, from the sights, smells, and sounds, especially the sound of her own screams. She knew the girl had been murdered.
She had made a dangerous decision and sent Abbot Juhel a message. Now, as she greeted her peers, she sought him out. Simultaneously, she and Juhel spotted each other and exchanged a mutual acknowledgement. He said something to his party and left them to join her, greeting others as he pressed through the crowd to her.
“Abbot Juhel,” Elise said, her heart pounding.
“Genevieve,” he smiled. “We meet again. I must soon record the council’s meeting. What is this urgent matter you want to discuss?”
“Walk with me in the King’s Garden?” she invited.
“Will this take long? I have people waiting for me.”
“No.” At her gesture, her entourage followed at a discreet distance. She and Juhel entered the garden.
Elise had carefully considered the risks of approaching Juhel. He had been her confessor and protector for years. But despite their kinship and once genuine affections, in recent years she and Juhel had had an unsettling, sometimes hostile relationship. Perhaps it stemmed from the lashings she had received that day he found her outside the cloister in her tree where she had taken refuge to escape the tedium of the abbey. Perhaps it stemmed from the time a young monk had spoken to her. She had scoured her memory to understand Juhel’s murderous rage, for he had nearly killed the monk, so severe was his punishment. But encouraged by the warmth of their recent meeting, and now, with the mere hint of an archbishopric, she thought he had a powerful reason to help her.
“Have you finished your Historia Ecclesiastica de Normandie,” she asked.
Juhel stopped walking and studied her. Immediately, she realized her error. His book was a sensitive topic. For decades, he had struggled with it, with the controversial, dangerously unpopular ecclesiastical thoughts, some verging on heresy. “You did not request a meeting to discuss my work, Genevieve.”
She nodded, and they resumed their walk. “In recent days, I have experienced something that frightens me. I hope you will help me to dispel this . . . this fear.”
“I am not your wet nurse, Genevieve. Unless it concerns the well being of your soul, you can find others to indulge you.”
“Forgive me. I do not wish to offend you, Abbe,” she said. “I only hope you will guide me to take the right course.”
He motioned to a nearby bench at the edge of the garden. Before sitting, he glanced around to assure their privacy. “Speak.”
“Over the years, I have been plagued by a peculiar nightmare. Please, do not judge my words as childish nonsense. The dream takes place in the Abbey’s forest. There is a ritual, a fire. Men, perhaps demons, wear hooded cloaks, a stone slab, perhaps an altar. There is a girl. I know her. She was a year younger than I, a novice.
“The devil, Satan, robed, with horns protruding from his temples, leads the ceremony. He, and the others . . . do things to her.” She looked pointedly at Juhel.
He stared at her in horror, which changed to disbelief.
“Her shrieks terrify me. I scream and run away. They chase me. Satan himself catches me, his claws . . .”
Juhel shook his head back and forth. “Genevieve—”
“Please, my Lord Abbot, Hear me.” She glanced at Johan, watching them intently from a distance. Assured of their privacy, she continued. “In more recent dreams, Satan opens his cloak and presses me against his . . . his bare chest. He is branded. A strange symbol . . . a cross, I think.”
“No!” he said, jumping to his feet. “No. You did not see this!”
She touched his sleeve, a plea. Juhel whipped his sleeve from her fingers. “This nightmare,” she continued, “began at Abbey Clarion when I was not yet ten winters. The girl died in truth, but not from fever, as the Abbess said. She was murdered. I’m sure of it now. I saw it.”
Juhel gazed about the garden. As if suddenly embarrassed at his public display, he sat back down. “Saw it?” he asked, his voice low and furious. “These visions, these dreams stem from you, from your own weak nature. Your sinful heart, your carnal desires. Oh, Genevieve, your soul is in great peril with these phantasms.”
“And if my dream, my vision, is real,” she said, “the villagers still practice ancient rituals, that—”
“Silence!” Juhel grabbed her arm and squeezed so hard she nearly cried out. He released her abruptly.
“You do not know what you imply with your reckless words!” he said. “I have served Abbey Clarion for years, working with the Abbess to build the two houses side by side. If pagan worship or murder, as you say, occurred there, the blame would rest on my shoulders. Even the hint of such evil would destroy me. Why? Why are you telling these . . . these lies? What do you want of me, Genevieve?”
“Your guidance.”
“Guidance! You must repent for your wicked, evil thoughts. Confession, prayers, and penance.”
“To whom should I speak, if not to you, my kinsman? My confessor? Who else should I ask to discover the truth?”
Juhel turned his face away.
“Dear Abbe,” she said softly. “If this girl died a dozen years ago from pagan worship—”
“Blasphemy!” Juhel said.
“Or if evil resides near Abbey Clarion, someone must know of it. Who would you trust to seek the truth carefully, with discretion? Is there anyone who could discover the truth without destroying either your reputation or the Abbey’s?”
“And if the truth is nothing more than your wicked heart?”
“Are there no prayers to dispel these visions?” she asked.
“You frighten me, Genevieve.”
“I, too, am frightened,” she whispered. “What priest will hear me? Who can perform a discreet mass without speaking or writing an incautious word that would harm you?”
She watched the implications of her words seep into Juhel’s mind. He clasped the cross dangling on the chain at his chest and stared out at the garden. She saw the side of his cheek throbbing. He bowed his head, and his lips moved as if in deep thought or prayer. She waited, trembling inside.
“Have you told others of these manifestations?”
“Only Hortense, who resides with me at Tutbury.”
“Your sister?”
“No.”
He nodded. “I will arrange a private mass for you tonight in the small east chapel immediately after Matins. Go alone if you can. Do not interrupt me!” he said harshly. “There is no truth in your suspicions. As with all women, your weak mind is easily swayed by wicked imaginings. But you balance on the precipice of great danger. Anyone hearing you speak about these visions might think you a handmaiden of the devil. You well know the penalty for serving the devil.”
She knew. The Church preferred a public burning.
He rubbed his forehead before putting his palm on her hand. “They do not know you as I do, Genevieve. They might assume you cavort with Lucifer, but I know you merely lack piety and devotion. You are far less reverent than your queen, far less virtuous than your impish and stubborn sister. Daily devotion will make you less susceptible to these incubi.”
“And the girl? Pagans?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, rising from the bench. “I will look into it myself when I return. I will purge you of these visions, and you need never again mention pagan worship at Abbey Clarion.”