XXII
Vézelay – 6 December, 1191
THE GREAT ABBEY church of St. Mary Magdalene rose out of the mist like a white finger pointing at the heavens. It was a welcome sight – a glorious, uplifting vision that seemed to justify all the trials that had preceded it. It seemed to have come upon them suddenly, as if appearing from nowhere, the hill on which it sat rising dramatically from the rolling Burgundian landscape as if the earth itself was striving to be closer to God.
Galfrid was happy. The snow had turned to freezing rain, the wind battered them, whipping their sodden, icy cloaks in their faces, and the pace since Auxerre had been punishing. But Galfrid was happy.
It had not been so when Gisburne had first revealed his intention to divert westwards. It was worse still when he outlined the reason: to effect a meeting with an old friend, since they would be within a few days’ striking distance. Galfrid became impossible. Nothing Gisburne could say would pacify him. The diversion was a waste of time, he said. They had already lost two days before Courances. This trip – this “social call” – would put unnecessary strain on their fresh horses. They should continue straight to Pouilly-en-Auxois with all possible speed, then due south for Lyon – especially now they knew they had a shadowy rival. Gisburne – sorely tempted to say that this was his mission, and to Hell with what a squire thought about it – had instead painstakingly explained the need. This old friend – from Gisburne’s days in Normandy, his days with de Gaillon – was someone with whom he had to consult. He had knowledge essential to their success. Galfrid had dismissed the necessity out of hand. Knowledge, he said, would be of little use if they missed the ship.
Then he had found out where Gisburne intended for them to go, and he was transformed. His objections melted away; he picked up his pace. Gisburne didn’t think he had seen him in such high spirits, not ever.
Vézelay. The word had worked like magic on him. Here, on this imposing hilltop, were housed the holy relics of Mary Magdalene, making it perhaps the most significant site of pilgrimage in all of France – a starting point for pilgrims on the Way of St. James to Santiago de Compostela. Here, too, Bernard of Clairvaux had preached the Second Crusade in 1146. And here it was, in 1189, that the newly crowned King Richard and King Philip of France had chosen to meet, bringing together the English and French armies before departing for the Holy Land on the Third Crusade.
Why the so-called “eternal hill” exerted such a fascination for Galfrid, Gisburne could not guess. For Gisburne, however, Vézelay meant only one thing: Albertus.
Albertus was a scholar and physician who had seemed old even when Gisburne was a boy. Then, Albertus had been part of the community of Fontaine-La-Verte, tending the wounds of the many knights and squires who trained there – until he was drawn into Richard’s wars. Disillusioned, worn down by the needless bloodshed, the cruelties and the endless lust after destruction, he had retreated to the abbey at Vézelay and taken the Benedictine vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
Gisburne suspected that a key factor in Albertus’s disillusionment had been the fate of Gilbert de Gaillon.
When de Gaillon had been betrayed by Richard, and Gisburne made an outcast, it was to Albertus he had turned. Albertus was the only one who understood. The only one with the backbone to stand by him. Not that there was much Albertus could do. But for Gisburne, understanding was enough. When all around had suddenly ceased to acknowledge him, it was as if he had stopped existing. As if it was he who died that day, in that shadowy ravine, and now walked the earth as a phantom beyond their reach – invisible, insubstantial, incorporeal. So disconnected was he that he had, in the days and weeks that followed, felt his grip on his own sanity loosen. But Albertus saved him. It did not require much – perhaps Albertus was unaware quite how important his role was – but it had restored some sense of reality, and provided Gisburne with catharsis – a means to mourn. Gisburne had no words to describe the relief he felt upon finding someone with whom he could talk about his mentor. Talk he did, all day and through the night, laughing, crying – by the end, all emotions were spent. But he was back in the world. He was real. De Gaillon was real. And his death was no longer a dream. His sense of desolation had transformed into something more fruitful: anger, and thirst for justice. Looking back, Gisburne now understood this was something Albertus had tried to warn him about. That impulse had led better men than he astray. Gisburne had not listened – but came to an understanding on his own.
He had returned to England to find his mother Ælfwyn had died two months prior. Instead of welcoming him, his father had berated him for lingering with Albertus in Normandy. Then a vicious argument had erupted about the death of de Gaillon and its aftermath. The perpetrators of the terrible betrayal had been quick to spread their version of the story. So powerful was it, that it seemed even his own father had been infected. His faith in his old friend had been shaken, his confidence in his son’s valour almost destroyed. As the accusations flew and the words grew sharp, he had called Guy a coward. Without further word, Guy turned on his heel and walked out, intending never to return. Penniless, bitter and hungry to vent his rage, he joined a band of mercenaries headed south. That road had led him far further than he had ever wished to go – to the brink of utter destruction, and to the gates of Hell.
“Wait here,” he said to Galfrid as they dismounted before the basilica. Galfrid, who clearly was not listening, simply gazed up in wonder at the towering grey-white west facade.
He flagged down one old monk, who went to fetch another, and finally a cadaverous young brother with thick black eyebrows appeared, his face a picture of indignation.
“What is this?” he said. Gisburne judged his accent to be Spanish.
“I’m Guy of Gisburne. I wish to see Albertus,” he said.
The monk raised his large eyebrows. “Indeed! I was not aware you were expected...”
They were not expected. Gisburne had not had the opportunity to send any message ahead. Knowing little of monastic ways, he had rashly assumed that since this was Albertus’s home, he could receive them when he chose. But, as the officious Spanish monk insisted on telling them, in tremendous and unnecessary detail, such was not the case. There were strict routines which could not be interrupted. The abbot ruled absolutely, and his rule was strict. Probably they would have to wait. They might be sent away altogether. He made sure, too, that they were absolutely aware of the annoyance and inconvenience their visit was personally causing him.
“What if I were ill?” said Gisburne. “Seriously ill?”
The Spanish monk frowned, his manner softening somewhat. “Then as physician, Brother Albertus would come to your aid.”
“I’m ill,” said Gisburne. “Seriously.”
The monk stared at him blankly, having no idea how to take it. Choosing to ignore it rather than try to assimilate it into his narrow view of the world, he finally spoke again.
“I shall enquire. Meantime, you may spend time in quiet contemplation in the basilica.” And off he scurried.
Gisburne found Galfrid already inside, awe and delight on his face. It was a look that had begun to appear even as they had approached the abbey by the long, sloping road up to the peak of the hill. It was the expression of a wonderstruck child. And now, finally, Gisburne understood. The desire to see the cathedral at Amiens. The frustration of not getting to see Notre-Dame. His sudden change when he heard that this was their destination.
This cynical, world weary squire just loved cathedrals.
Gisburne stood by him in silence for a moment, allowing his eyes to wander about the huge enclosed space, across its high, curved ceiling, the soaring, rounded arches on either side atop the rows of columns in alternating bands of white and coloured limestone, each with its own biblical scene – some elegant, some humorous, some gloriously grotesque – carved into the capital. Then on to the high windows above the altar, where the relics of Mary Magdalene were kept. Through these daylight now streamed, illuminating the translucent tiers of arched white stone, layered one upon the other, with such a glow that they appeared carved from ice.
Gisburne felt a stillness descend as he did so. He had never lingered in such places. He had never been a religious man. But now, he felt humbled.
“Do you... believe, Galfrid?” he said.
“I believe in places such as this,” came the hushed reply. Gisburne nodded, feeling he understood. Galfrid looked at him. “You?”
He shrugged. “I’ve sent prayers up from time to time. In my youth, mostly. But it always felt like yelling into a void. I knew not to expect an answer. In time I came realise it was merely an affectation.” Gisburne wondered why he was suddenly telling this man such things – sharing thoughts he had shared with no one before. He only hoped they weren’t offending whatever religious sensibilities his companion might have, aware that they could sound cynical – even heretical. But when he glanced across, he saw Galfrid nodding slowly in agreement.
“That’s a sound philosophy. A soldier’s philosophy.”
Gisburne looked back to the cathedral ceiling, wondering what battles Galfrid had seen in his life. Perhaps he had something in common with this man after all. “I don’t doubt there is a God in Heaven. But I am not arrogant enough to believe that He makes time to listen to my pleas. Nor that He should be relied upon to effect change. Chaos threatens all around. It is up to us to create from it some order.” His eyes roved around the interior of this impossible structure, the work of generations, whose toil and determination had somehow transmuted dead stone into a weightless, soaring wonder – a work raised not by God, but by ordinary men. “I believe we can do it. No, I know it. That is what I feel here. I look at this, and know we can do it.”
“God must’ve gave us free will for a reason,” shrugged Galfrid, and flashed the briefest of smiles. He turned his eyes heavenwards again, becoming momentarily lost in the same vision. “It always seemed to me... He’s like a father. Nurturing us when young and stupid, then, gradually, letting us have our head. Make our mistakes. And there comes a time when we can no longer run to Him, but must rely on our own strengths. When He can help us no more. All children must be let go at some point.” Gisburne looked at Galfrid in quiet amazement. It was the longest speech he had ever heard him make.
“Why did you never become a knight, Galfrid?” said Gisburne. “You’re twice the man of many knights I’ve known.” For the first time, almost to his surprise, he found himself addressing his squire in unguarded tones.
“Couldn’t afford it,” he said. “Then I realised I simply preferred being a squire. So a squire I resolved to stay. I’m arma patrina,” he said. “I offer my service and lend assistance where I can, to whatever masters may benefit from it. And those Prince John chooses. So far, I have been lucky.”
“How am I shaping up?” said Gisburne. He found, to his surprise, that he wanted to know. Somehow, what Galfrid thought of him had begun to matter.
“We’ll see,” said Galfrid, a faint smile on his lips.