Chapter Seventy-eight

 

 

Mala and Guillaume

 

 

The departure of Countess Mathilda and Welf the Younger from Huntsman’s Hall signaled the conclusion of formalities for the evening. This departure was also accompanied by the departure of Pope Urban, the cardinals, archbishops, and bishops. They knew well that the level of gaiety amongst the guests was about to escalate, and clergymen had learned that it was often best not to bear witness to such frivolity since it, at times, got out of hand. And such was the very case on this night.

After General Padule’s announcement about the commencement of professional entertainment, the wine began to flow in rivers as red-faced guests laughed uproariously at jesters, gawked at jugglers and magicians, and elevated the volume of their own banter. Promiscuity also began to surface in certain quarters as nobles who had come without their wives began to seek overnight female companionship with stray females, and even many whose wives were present began to do the same.

The mood continued to elevate as inhibitions fell to the wayside for nearly two hours more. Then the music came to an abrupt halt and Vicento Balducci strolled to the middle of the floor, clearing all aside bar the musicians. “I have a surprise for you this evening my friends,” he declared. Then his eyes narrowed and slowly raked across the hall as he added, “Yes, and even for those of you who are no longer my friends. My wife shall perform for you a Romani dance. Please note that I said Romani, not Saracen. I point this out because apparently many of you, it seems, have determined that my wife is Saracen, though she is not. In speaking to the fine musicians here this evening I learned that they are not familiar with Romani music itself, yet are familiar with certain strains of Byzantine music which bear a distant similarity, according to my lovely wife, Mala.”

As Balducci spoke, several of the older women, including his own mother, began to exchange glances of disapproval, roll their eyes, or turn away. Balducci’s speech had aroused a keen interest amongst the men and younger women within the hall. All were aware of Mala’s extraordinary beauty and were ever so curious about her dancing. Although none had never witnessed it, they knew that dancing had been a part of her mysterious history.

As the crowd gathered in a large circle about Balducci and the musicians, Balducci gave a signal and the musicians broke into a loud and lively strand of Byzantine music. From the back of the hall the crowd then began to part as Mala moved through them, each step accentuated with exaggerated, graceful movements that made her thin, flowing gown cling to her long legs in one motion, then swirl outward in waves with the next. Attaining the open center of the hall, she then began to cavort about in large circles, offering ethereal movement of her arms, sweeping them left, then right, then over her head and about her long, elegant neck. As she did this her head and neck communed in a sensual combination of abrupt then graceful motions that mimicked the movement made by swans as they glide across the waterways in nature’s display of poise and dignity in its purest form.

In her dance, Mala’s dark eyes flashed here and there, often settling on individuals in such a manner that those watching thought she was focusing and dancing only for them. This, of course, served to ignite the fantasies and libidos of the men watching on, and also added fire to the enthusiasm of the younger women who smiled and clucked with approval. The dance lasted only seven minutes, but during that brief time all who watched stood in wonder, completely absorbed in Mala, her costume, the hypnotic jingle-jangle of her zills, and the ebb and flow of her limbs, skirt, and billowing embroidered sleeves. Even those who had turned away began to rejoin the crowd, unable to resist the applause, whistles, and exclamations of approval that began to swell in waves from the captivated spectators. Then, when Mala was finished, she quickly vanished from the center of hall and was not seen again that evening though many clamored for more of her and more of her dancing. Of all those watching, it was Balducci and Duxia who were the most exultant about her performance. And though their rationales were quite different, perhaps, they both sensed a triumph of sorts for Mala, as well as for themselves.

Another thing began to occur, also. As often happens after the excitement of a stunning performance, since the appreciative spectators could not get next to Mala who had become the object of their adulation, they then sought those nearest to it, which were in this case Balducci and Duxia. Men thronged Balducci, slapping him upon the back and congratulating him in the wake of Mala’s dance, and several of the younger women even approached old Duxia, overflowing with praise and questions.

Mala left the hall determined to leave the wedding celebration at that very moment and gathered her coach driver. As she was getting into her coach, Guillaume appeared. “Such an artful performance, Mala!” he declared. “Pray tell, why did you leave? Where are you going? They’re clamoring for you in the hall.”

“Oh, Guillaume,” Mala said, surprised to see him. “I’m returning to Montelucio.”

“Mathilda has pitched tents and provided overnight accommodations for her guests this evening. Montelucio is nearly half a night’s ride.”

“Perhaps so, but I’ve had enough of this place, and these people. They disgust me.”

“I see,” said Guillaume, as a glimmer of disappointment crossed his eyes and then he shrugged. “Actually, I’ve grown weary of this affair myself, especially these bawdy Bavarians. Would you object if I accompanied you then?”

“No, of course not,” smiled Mala, pleased by Guillaume’s unexpected offer. “I would enjoy the company. In fact, it’s been a rather lonely visit here these past weeks, actually. Vincento has been off hunting and socializing and others have chosen to ignore me. Yes, come along then, Guillaume, I would very much enjoy having someone to share conversation with on the long ride back.”

As the coach began working its way down the steep approach to Canossa, Mala and Guillaume exchanged polite conversation about their respective difficulties during the two weeks preceding Mathilda’s wedding, and soon found themselves sharing laughter over the antics of Duke Welf, Welf the Younger, and others.

“Ah, I thought many times that I was on the verge of cuffing my rude Bavarian guests,” said Guillaume, “but that would have offended my aunt Mathilda, and I would sooner die than do such a thing.”

“It’s evident that the two of you share a great affection. As for me, I fear she holds me in low regard.”

As she said this, Mala’s tone was edged with both regret and bitterness, which brought a sudden end to the levity which both had been enjoying since leaving the feast. Guillaume reflected on her statement a moment, then said, “Yes, you must understand, she is Tristan’s aunt also, and it’s only out of concern for him that she rejects you. I must confess, I myself took the same position after finding out about what happened between the two of you. Since making your acquaintance these past days, I bear you no ill will, nor do the Danes. What transpired between you and my brother was unfortunate.”

Mala did not reply immediately. “Unfortunate in most ways, yes, but also fortunate in others, I suppose.”

“Eh? I see little in your suffering or Tristan’s that offers the least trace of good fortune.”

Mala considered these words thoughtfully before replying, then said, “Well then, I suppose you have never been in love then, Guillaume?”

Guillaume shook his head. “I know nothing of such things. Indeed, I barely even know any women other than my aunt, and she is more manly than feminine. Besides, I took an oath of chastity and celibacy two years ago, at the knees of Cardinal Odo de Lagery himself before he became Pope.”

“What?” said Mala, appalled. “Guillaume, that makes no sense. How old are you now?”

“I’m about to reach my twenty-first year.”

“Oh, Guillaume! Who on this earth talked you into such foolishness? Odo de Lagery?”

“No. It was my own decision. I’m a soldier of Christ and have vowed to worship and fight for the true Church and God, my Savior and Creator.”

Mala shook her head. “How ridiculous is life! Your brother is a monk yet he did not remain chaste, and you are not a monk, yet you take a vow of chastity! For you to take such vows is nearly as sad as Tristan taking the vows of monasticism. Oh, Guillaume, do you not see what these people have done to you and your brother?”

“Done to me and Tristan?” said Guillaume, perplexed. “They’ve done nothing less than help the two of us. Cardinal Odo brought Tristan up from nothing, and Aunt Mathilda did the same for me.”

“Oh, no Guillaume, they’ve done more than that, they’ve turned you into themselves. They’ve filled you with their own beliefs, extreme beliefs, Guillaume, both you and Tristan! That’s why you’re so much alike now.”

Guillaume shook his head. “Though I love my brother dearly, I am a different person than him, Mala. And know this, I didn’t approve of his fall from grace because of you, though I understand it, especially since meeting you and experiencing the goodness of your heart, as well as your frightening beauty. Nevertheless, he shouldn’t have weakened. His being a monk, his moral collapse was a sin against God. And God made him suffer.”

Mala laughed at this, lacking all trace of humor. “God made him suffer? Oh, you’re mistaken yet again, Guillaume. It was me who suffered, not Tristan. It was me who lost a child in the Alps, not him. Tristan is the root of my suffering. No, he has suffered little because of me.”

“Oh, not true,” insisted Guillaume. “Had you been there to witness his penance, you wouldn’t say such a thing.”

“His penance?”

“Yes. Being told of your ordeal in the Alps and learning of the child you bore him, he refuted his Benedictine vows before Cardinal Odo de Lagery himself. Then, after you rejected him as he found you traveling to Balducci’s territories, he fell into a trough of grief and sorrow. He took to drinking, cursing, blaming others, and questioning the Church even. Then Cardinal Odo Pope appeared after a time and forgave him on the condition that he perform an excruciating penance of thirty days within a dungeon cell praying and flagellating himself.”

Mala’s eyes narrowed as she took in these words and she whispered, more to herself than to Guillaume, “I never knew of this.”

“And when he had completed his punishment, he was bloodied and bowed, he couldn’t even stand or walk. I stood by the cell those many days of his penance, and heard him cry out in despair and sorrow over you and the lost child. He hurt himself to the point of near death to atone for what he had wrought. To this day, Mala, he doesn’t understand why you abandoned him in Marseilles without warning.”

Mala had lost herself in the images Guillaume was describing, and was touched to the point of tears, but with his last statement, her expression flared with indignity. “So, Tristan continues to play innocent and you for the fool like he did me in Marseilles. The truth is, Guillaume, he lied to me, deceived me, and betrayed me while I foolishly fell for his ruse in Marseilles.”

“Eh?” said Guillaume, baffled. “What do you mean by such a thing? He told me that his time in Marseilles with you was the happiest moment of his entire life, that you mysteriously vanished without even offering the slightest explanation.”

“No explanation was needed, for Tristan knew well what he did to me in Marseilles,” retorted Mala, feeling her anger rise. “Either you are defending him to the grave because he is your brother, or you are as gullible as I was! Tristan lied to me about where he was staying in Marseilles, then deceived me with that other woman he was spending time with in Marseilles as well. Don’t deny such a thing because he told me you were in Marseilles at that time, unless of course, he was lying about that as well.”

“Indeed, I was in Marseilles with Tristan,” said Guillaume, more confused than ever. “And the Danes were there with me. We were staying at the Benedictine monastery with Tristan while in Marseilles.”

Such a fabrication brought Mala nearly to the point of outrage. “Not true!” she cried, convinced that Guillaume was in collusion with his brother. “I went there myself and spoke to the abbot of that monastery, a certain Abbot LeTour. He said there were no soldiers staying there at the monastery, and knew nothing of a Tristan de Saint-Germain. He said there were no guests whatsoever staying at the monastery and that he had no idea what I was talking about!”

Guillaume sat back in his seat, trying to recollect details of the mission in Marseilles. “I was there with the Danes, Mala, at the Benedictine monastery of Abbot LeTour,” he insisted, “and so was Tristan. We were on a clandestine mission to collect money and arms for Mathilda’s fight against King Heinrich. If the old abbot told you such a thing, it was because he was under orders by Odo de Lagery to conceal our presence so as not to attract attention from Heinrich’s spies. Tristan was working for the Benedictine underground at the time. Did you not know he was a spy in those days?”

“What?” said Mala, her breathing coming to an abrupt halt.

“Yes, right after his ordination he joined the Benedictine underground. He posed as this and that, which is why he never wore monk’s garb nor had his hair cut in the Benedictine tonsure. He was forced to live a life of disguises.”

Mala’s hand went to her breast as she remembered Tristan’s vague responses concerning a temporary dispen-sation that allowed him to wear layman’s clothing rather than the black robe of the Benedictines. Even though she felt the ground crumbling beneath her feet, a part of her insisted that he had still betrayed her. “But he and that woman in Marseilles that my friends saw; the two of them were embracing and kissing right there in the street! Surely if you were in Marseilles with him you know who of which woman I’m speaking of!”

“Woman?” said Guillaume. “There was no woman in Marseilles.” After a few moments of reflection he recalled the morning that Lady Agnes Truffault had appeared at the monastery to deliver a wagon load of arms and money. “Ah, wait! Yes, there was a certain Agnes Truffault who came to the monastery one day. A promiscuous little bitch whose husband lived in Dijon. She was visiting her husband’s brother in Marseilles, consorting with him, apparently. She happened to take a liking to Tristan immediately, and threw herself at him openly, hanging all about him. It was a source of embarrassment to him.”

“Embarrassment?” said Mala, her voice declining into weak and thready syllables.

“Yes, we only saw her twice, once at her brother-in-law’s manor where we first met her, then one time later as she and a teamster delivered a wagon to the monastery.”

“Tristan only saw her twice then?” said Mala, sensing that she was on the edge of internal collapse. “He was not staying with her throughout his stay in Marseilles?”

“Definitely not. He was with me every night. On the morning she came to the monastery, as she was out of sight of her brother-in-law, she immediately began to paw at Tristan and cling to him as though they were lovers. She insisted that he accompany her into town that morning, and as they left the monastery I could see Tristan attempting to stave off her advances. I’m not certain what your friends thought they saw going on between my brother and that woman, but I assure you, Lady Agnes Truffault was the only one making advances, certainly not Tristan. He thought her repulsive. ”

At this, Mala fell silent, and her chest began to break into sporadic heaves that began to arrest her breathing. “O-oh…” she finally sighed, her eyes falling shut and her hands beginning to tremble. “O-oh!”

“What is it, Mala?” said Guillaume, grasping her shoulders to hold her up. She withered in his grasp and soon fell into a heap across his knees, breaking into inconsolable sobs. He could feel her quaking in his lap as one taken by seizures. Nothing he could say or do did anything to abate her sudden and inexplicable grief. This continued for nearly an hour and Guillaume sat there motionless, cradling Mala with his arms and hands until finally, the sobs dissolved into whimpers. When the whimpers finally ceased, he looked down at her tear-stained face. She had fallen asleep.