Midsummer glistened upon the sloping meadows of the hills of Aude. The scent of honeysuckle wafted on the breeze from the wooded glen, while the road itself was fringed with yellow Turk's cap lilies, columbines, and bright-eyed marguerites. Raphaëlle and Jacques rode side by side, followed by mounted knights, attendants on mule back, and men-at-arms on foot. Bertrande and Jehanette sat astride mules, ambling directly behind Raphaëlle.
“You are too thin,” Jacques said to her one morning as she was rising from bed. “I like my women to be more substantial. Also, your clothes are outdated, and better suited to an aged grandmother than to a young châtelaine.”
“My clothes are nearly new,” she retorted. “It would be a sinful waste of funds to procure others, especially when the village needs to be rebuilt, the chapel restored, and sets of vestments and sacred linens made. The house of God and our people’s needs must come first.”
“Do not lecture me!” Jacques ordered. He seemed incapable of brooking the slightest opposition. “Why must you be so difficult, so recalcitrant?!” Raphaëlle was confused as well as angry. No one had ever before told her she was difficult. At home, she had rarely disobeyed her parents, or given them any cause of anxiety, at least not that she had been aware of.
Raphaëlle had been disconsolate a month or so ago when she heard that Sir Martin was to leave Bécède. She went to her favorite spot on the battlements to weep in private. How refreshing the wind would be on her face! “Oh, I am sorry!” she gasped, for there was Martin standing against the stone merlons, gazing into the majestic valley, almost as if he had been waiting for her. “I thought no one else would be here!”
“Do not go,” he pleaded. “I have something to tell you.” She tried to keep her eyes downcast, for when she looked into his face it was as if a radiant glow surrounded both of them, and they were alone in some singular dimension.
“I must leave tomorrow for our commandery at Fronton, north of Toulouse. A messenger arrived this morning. I am appointed lieutenant there. We Hospitallers founded a sanctuary for the poor at Fronton about one hundred years ago. The village has grown, and the castle is quite magnificent. We will host a great feast on Saint John's Eve, a month hence. It would please me if you and Sir Jacques could come as my guests.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” she replied, not raising her eyes. “It would afford me great pleasure as well, but it will be for my husband to decide.”
“I will ask him today.” He paused, with a quick intake of breath. “Tell me, Lady Raphaëlle, are you happy?”
Her tears flowed freely. “I do not think my husband loves me, although he is a good man and a brave knight.”
“Do you love him?!” he blurted out.
Raphaëlle quivered and gazed at the curving river sparkling in the distance. She wanted to cry, “No! No! Only you!” Reticence overcame her for she realized he had asked something that a gentleman should never ask a lady who was not his wife.
“I love my husband in God,” she responded in a tone of calm detachment. “I have affection for Sir Jacques. I do not think I am altogether pleasing to him, however.”
“Sir Jacques has been under a great deal of duress. It is a feat indeed for a man to subdue this valley and you all in the same year.” He reached over and stroked her arm. She found herself throwing her arms around his neck, and softly kissing his cheek. As she pulled away, she allowed her eyes a taste of his.
“We will miss you!” she cried, trying to suppress the surge of rapture induced by his glance and his touch.
“It will soon be midsummer,” he said, turning quickly away, leaving the ramparts. She remained, basking in the lingering aura of his presence, everything else forgotten.
Jacques had left one of his lieutenants in charge of the château, along with the steward, and a newly-appointed bailiff to watch over the village. As for Sir Jacques himself, he was in high spirits, in spite of the fact that they were going to be seeing Sir Martin. “The Knights Hospitaller are such a worthy order, and have been such a great help to the poor and the sick in the last few years, which is why of course I sought to join them.”
“I still do not understand what you have against Sir Martin,” said Raphaëlle. “I understand that he comes from a respected family, who hold a great many castles and manors throughout Languedoc, especially near Carcassonne and the Montagne Noire.”
“Yes,” replied Jacques. “They are related through blood or marriage to all the most prominent noble houses. His mother is known for her piety and charity. His father was once a crusader, the very flower of chivalry, famous for his courtoisie. The eldest son, of course, has surpassed all his forbears by his proven courage and greatness of heart. Why, it is said that in the Outremer he tended the dying in the midst of pestilence, with no thought to his own health. As a youth, he debated with the heretics in Catalonia. I admired him greatly when first we met.”
“Then what ill do you find in him now? Why can you not tell me?” asked Raphaëlle, genuinely perplexed. “Is it because he is rumored to dally with women? I know you think he has cast his eye upon Bertrande. Esterelle has made similar claims.”
“If Esterelle has spoken to you then that should suffice. There are some things best left unspoken. I have told you all that you need to be aware of for the present moment. The St. John’s Day festivity will be an important time for us. It is indeed advantageous that we were invited to the feast. It will immensely improve our connections to other noble families of the region.” He went on to forbid her to say anything about Lady Esclarmonde, for it would do no good for people to view Raphaëlle as a relative of such a notorious heretic, but rather to emphasize the fact that she was the daughter of a Catholic noble of Auvergne.
“It shall be as you say, my lord,” Raphaëlle replied. They entered the gates of Toulouse in the early dusk, spending the night at an inn near the basilica of Saint-Sernin. In the morning they assisted at Mass in the vast cathedral. The pink brick of the octagonal steeple seemed to glow with joy in the morning light, as the bells echoed over the roofs of the city. In front of the polychrome façade knelt men and women, each with a large yellow cross sewn upon their outer tunics. “Are they penitents?” she whispered to her husband as they entered.
“They are former Cathars doing public penance. According to recent statutes they must wear the yellow cross for the rest of their lives, even as some of our people do at Bécède.” Her soul was pensive at the thought; the finite infinity of the basilica caused her soul to soar in prayer for the poor penitents. The painted statues of the saints, the silken embroidered banners, the nine chapels radiating behind the apse, the billows of incense, all conspired to flood her with the hope of a better world. After Mass, she placed the colored candles she had brought with her before the altar of the Virgin and, lighting them, she prayed for a child. Jacques also prayed and then, upon leaving the church, he met several old acquaintances. They were knights from the north, staying in Toulouse on the King's business. Raphaëlle was discovering what it was like to be married to such an important royal official. As they rode north to Fronton, Jacques told her more about his life than she had known before. He was the youngest of five sons. He had been educated by monks, and had even studied in Paris under the great scholar Robert Sorbon.
“How old are you, my lord?” asked Raphaëlle, realizing that she did not even know his age.
“I am almost thirty. And I must tell you, I am delighted to be no longer a bachelor.” Her heart was lifted by his words, as Jacques went on to say: “I hope someday to present you to the King and his court as my bride and baroness. It would be grand to have a house in Paris. All depends on how well things go for us in the south.” Raphaëlle was pleased, in spite of herself, that he regarded her as an asset.
The tree-lined road that wound north from the gates of Toulouse led into a dense forest, taking several hours to traverse. It dwindled and merged into a field of sunflowers, surrounding a walled village, in the midst of which towered a château. It was one of the many towns of refuge planned and built by the Knights Hospitaller for the impoverished inhabitants of wilderness areas. The village appeared to be laid out in an orderly fashion, with stone crosses marking its boundaries beyond the walls. They passed one of the crosses as they plunged into the lake of sunflowers. Drawing closer to Fronton, the sight of the castle took her breath away. It had four blue conical towers, and the pale stone gleamed white in the late afternoon sun, the mountains rising in the distance behind it. The towers and ramparts were adorned with carvings and gargoyles, like a cathedral. A thin spire marked the chapel, and another steeple in the village was that of the parish church. The church was near the gates of the village so as to be used as a keep in case the outer fortifications were breached. The main road led to the town square, lined by the vaulted arcade of the marketplace, directly in front of the château. Beneath the arches, peasants with carts and stalls were selling cloth, wine, ropes of sausage, wild mushrooms, roast meats, garlic bulbs, pastries, marzipan, and innumerable crafts, trinkets, pottery, ointments, and candles. The square was teaming with Knights of Saint John and their guests.
In the center of the square was a fountain with a statue of Saint John the Baptist, encircled by thirsty horses and mules as well as human travelers. The saint's birthday eve on the morrow was to be celebrated in magnificent style. A porter showed them to the guesthouse adjacent to the castle. It was likewise trimmed along the eaves with carvings, the eight-pointed cross of the Order of Saint John being a frequent motif, along with fleur de lys, anchors, antelopes, bulls’ heads, cinquefoils, Catherine wheels, escarbuncles, estoiles, bears and bees, all incorporated into the escutcheons of the founding knights and their benefactors. As Bertrande and Jehanette were helping Raphaëlle to unpack and as Jacques was removing his chain mail, there came a knock at the door.
“Sir Gaston!” exclaimed Jacques, hastening to greet the tall, lanky knight. “This is a happy meeting!”
“Indeed, it is. And here is another with whom you are acquainted.” From behind him stepped Sir Martin, in his black Hospitaller’s surcoat. Raphaëlle’s heart fluttered as she went forward to greet them with as much dignity as she could muster.
“How goes it with you, sir?” asked Jacques of Sir Martin.
“I have had of late great weariness of mind,” replied Martin. “However,” he continued, bowing over Raphaëlle’s hand, “I am feeling better now.” Sir Martin and Sir Gaston brought a jug of wine for their mutual refreshment, and then commenced to show them the beauties of the castle. Raphaëlle resolved to be attentive to her husband. She sensed that Martin was also avoiding making any eye contact with her. He first took them to the hospital with its tiled floors and canopied beds, where the Knights of Saint John were tending the sick, one ward being reserved for women and another for men. At the end of each ward was an altar where daily Mass would be offered in the presence of the sick. The chapel proper was large and ornamental; the rood screen was covered with gold leaf; enameled statues of saints smiled down from the heights. She gasped as they entered the Great Hall, with its mosaic floor and ceiling. The Hall opened onto a quadrangle, in which rose trees blossomed in their terracotta pots alongside bushes of jasmine. Blue clematis climbed the arches while bunches of lavender, rosemary and thyme lined the gravel paths. A heady fragrance overhung the garden like an invisible cloud.
Jacques began to sneeze. “I hope, Sir Martin and Sir Gaston that you can sup with us this evening in our quarters. I have ordered a hearty supper which our own chef is even now preparing.” Raphaëlle suppressed both surprise and anger, for Jacques had not consulted her. Even scullions and varlets were notified when guests were to be invited. But she smiled serenely as if she had known all along. “It would delight me,” accepted Sir Martin. “I shall greatly anticipate it.” And he bowed again to Raphaëlle.
“Alas, I have some duties to which I must attend,” lamented Sir Gaston. “I am in charge of the hospital this evening. But we shall see each other tomorrow at the feast.”
“You did not tell me we were having company!” she scolded Jacques as they returned to their chamber in the hostel.
“Do you object, Madame?” he asked, sternly.
“No!” she declared. She could not understand how Jacques could invite Sir Martin to dinner when he had such objections to his character. It seems he thought the social advantages overcame the troubles of the past, whatever they had been. Her annoyance rapidly turned into pleasure, and she hastened to change her surcoat, as Jacques had already changed his. At least she did not have to worry with her coiffure. Since her marriage, she habitually wore a stiff, high-crowned wimple, with a barbette that covered her chin almost to her lips. Her hidden hair was braided and wound into a bun at the back of her head.
Sir Martin appeared at the appointed hour, and a supper of garlic, bean, and bacon soup, a ripe cheese along with bread, fruit, and wine were promptly served by Jacques’ butler and the two pages that he had brought along. The three of them sat at a small table near an open window. Jehanette and Bertrande whispered and ate on a bench along the wall, near the knave Robert. Sir Martin asked the blessing; then Jacques himself poured the knight a cup of wine, while he shared his with Raphaëlle. At first the conversation revolved around politics, but quickly drifted into matters of religion. “We have invited several noble families of Toulouse to our fête,” continued Martin. “Many do not have the means for a festival of their own, not after twenty years of war and destitution.”
“I am glad that the King and the Queen-Mother refuse to tolerate heresy,” said Jacques. “The filth of Catharism has penetrated everywhere. Even the songs of the troubadours have become quite heavy-handed against marriage. Some of them say that true love cannot exist in marriage, but only outside of it.”
“I happen to know from experience that that is not the case,” replied Sir Martin. He seemingly ignored Raphaëlle as he ate. She, in turn, focused on her husband and the food. Jacques was sponging up the dregs of his soup with his bread.
“I believe that only in Heaven, after the general resurrection, will we know the meaning of bliss,” added Sir Martin. “The original unity between Man and Woman will be fully restored.”
“That is true,” agreed Jacques, wiping his mouth on the tablecloth, and then blowing his nose. He had been sniffling ever since the visit to the rose garden.
“For man and woman to be one is part of the divine plan,” stated Martin, philosophically. “Even fornication, although it is a sin, is still according to the natural law, and therefore not as sinful as the unnatural vices.”
“Monsieur, forgive me, but I do not wish my wife to hear of such matters,” interrupted Jacques. Raphaëlle flushed. “He thinks me a fool,” she thought. Sir Martin raised his cup to her.
“Alas, but here are you and I, my friend, in outposts far from the places of honor,” lamented Jacques. “I would prefer to be in Paris, and you must long to be in Jerusalem.”
“Not so, Sir Jacques,” replied Martin. “I would prefer to be with my kin near Carcassonne. This region, however, is not without its consolations.” He poured himself more wine and likewise refilled the cup Raphaëlle was sharing with Jacques. As she dipped her bread into the mustard, he did the same; his fingers lingered against hers. When Jacques turned momentarily to give directions to the servants, Martin's eyes were upon her like a lodestone. He gazed with such sweetness and ardor that she felt faint, especially when she realized his knee was pressing against hers. She edged away.
Afterwards, when in bed with her husband, after the curtains were drawn, she lay staring up at the canopy. How could so much happiness be mixed with so much pain and confusion? What was going to happen? She could not exist without Sir Martin’s love. If only she could be certain that he loved her; she could then be content and live happily even if she could not be with him. Jacques was already beginning to snore. She shook him. “Jacques!”
“What is it?” he asked, groggily.
“I wonder… Sir Martin... does he appear to be flirting with me? What say you, my lord?”
“Zut alors! He would only flirt with a very beautiful woman. Go to sleep.” And he began to snore again. After shedding a few desperate tears, Raphaëlle slept.
During Mass the next morning she refused to look at Sir Martin, although she could feel his eyes upon her, as she tried to concentrate on her prayers. She then joined a half a dozen other noble ladies on a bench in front of the hostel, where they were making garlands and wreaths, and nibbling raisin tarts. She found herself seated beside a tall, young matron with round, brown eyes and freckled, plump cheeks, partly hidden by her wimple. She was perhaps only a year or two older than Raphaëlle and had four small children playing in front of her in the square. She introduced herself as Béatrice de l'Avreyon and after exchanging pleasantries, she inquired of Raphaëlle how she came to be at the fête. “My husband and I were invited by Sir Martin de Revel-Saissac.”
“Ah, Sir Martin. We have been friends with him for many, many years, my husband and I,” replied Béatrice, deftly weaving together the roses, foxglove, rosemary, Saint John's wort and other herbs from a basket at her feet. “He is the bravest of the brave, to be sure.”
“You know him well, then!" exclaimed Raphaëlle, sucking her finger as she pricked it upon a thorn. “Were you acquainted with his wife?”
“No, not I. But my cousin, who dwells on the Montagne Noire, is very intimate with the House of Revel-Saissac. She often saw the Lady Elena de Rosas, a great beauty from Catalonia. Sir Martin married her when he was sixteen, after being knighted. Alas, she died a year later. Martin was devastated, and spent fourteen months at the shrine of Saint Guilhem-le-Desert. Then he joined the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John.”
“He must have loved her very much,” murmured Raphaëlle.
“Indeed, he did,” agreed Lady Bèatrice, lowering her tone. “However, there are many that say he should have married again.”
Raphaëlle nodded. “He does seem to be very fond of the company of ladies.”
“Fond! I should say!” Lady Bèatrice took a bite of raisin tart, then continued, her voice falling to a whisper. “Be wary of him! My cousin says that two years ago he was found with a lady who was estranged from her husband, embracing her in her brother's orchard. The lady was sent to a nunnery; his family managed to keep the tale hushed up, to avoid a scandal. There is also talk of another lady, who took her own life. He was known to be friendly with her family. She was newly married, and most likely he had no involvement with her. Nevertheless, there are rumors wherever he goes.”
“Why? Is it because he is so handsome?”
“Partially. I think perchance it is because he likes to play the troubadour, not choosing a lady love, but paying court to all ladies. With the young and innocent, such mischief can cause anguish and turmoil.” In Raphaëlle's inner core, it was as if she had been gutted. Was she just one more inconsequential flirtation? Did he gaze at all ladies with such intensity? Her mouth went dry. She could not speak.
“Well,” continued Lady Béatrice, “my husband is convinced that someday Sir Martin will seek to be dispensed from his vows, and marry. It would be better for him to be a steady married man than a wayward cleric.”
“Yes, I suppose,” sighed Raphaëlle.
Lady Béatrice’s voice lowered itself to a whisper. “It has been said that he has dabbled in heresy, for he has gone as a welcomed guest to many Cather strongholds. They say he has participated in their secret ceremonies. But, here I go, gossiping again. How my confessor will scold me when he hears of it!” They spoke no more of Sir Martin but applied themselves to the decorations. The mood was buoyant; the outbursts of laughter, frequent, yet Raphaëlle passed the day in a trance. How she envied the woman he had been found with in the orchard! She envied Elena de Rosas, so beautiful, so loved by Sir Martin! She even envied Lady Béatrice, who was his friend. She longed to be his friend, his confidante, if she could not be his true love. How wrong of her to have such thoughts! And she should not have been listening to gossip in the first place! As a penance she decided to visit the hospital, to see if there were any chores that she could do. An older matron was in charge of the women’s ward, and she busied Raphaëlle with the task of emptying chamber pots, which Raphaëlle deemed a suitable and soul-cleansing penance under the circumstances. She happened to pass the men’s ward, and paused a moment at the sight of her husband tending to a patient. Jacques must have asked to volunteer as well, and she was amazed to see him cleaning the mess of an incontinent old man, removing the stinking small clothes and linens and wiping the soiled flesh as gently as if the man were a baby. She could not hear what he was saying but she could tell from his tone that his words were gentle and soothing.
She saw Sir Gaston enter from another doorway. “Sir Jacques, I am glad you are here! We have a patient who has just been brought in, a lad with a bad cut on his foot from a scythe. I recall how you excelled at stitching wounds. Please come!”
Jacques settled the old man and then quickly followed Sir Gaston. Raphaëlle was amazed; she had no idea that Jacques was such a skilled healer, and so meek and gentle with the lowliest. It was a side of him she would never have fathomed; she found herself longing that he would always be as tender with her.
Soon it was time to dress for the feast. She wore her red samite wedding gown and the kirtle of gold and vermilion cord, without the surcoat. Her head was covered with only a white silk veil, augmented by a gold filigree circle. She had Jehanette comb out her hair, so that it rippled down her shoulders and her back.
“Are you pleased, my lord?” she asked her husband, as she emerged from behind the portable screen. His dark eyes ran over her in a somber manner.
“Your eyebrows need plucking, and your nails, buffing. You are not as well-groomed as a lady of your station should be. But it is too late now. Come, let us go.”
The feast was held in the square in front of the Hospitallers’ castle. In a corner, jugglers and acrobats were already entertaining. Youths were filling their cups from the casks of wine that had been rolled into the arcade. Pigs roasted on spits, as well as mutton, venison, capons, pheasants and geese. There were baskets of oranges, grapes, and persimmons and platters of bread and cheeses. On another table were marzipan and bowls of dates, almonds, raisins and figs. Some children were throwing old bones, rags and scraps onto a pile of logs, sticks, and kindling, not far from the fountain. The sun was setting; the Saint John's fire would soon be lit.
Sir Martin, with about sixty Hospitallers and their chaplain, came out onto the front portico of the castle. The villagers cheered. Sir Martin's regard fastened upon Raphaëlle immediately, as if he had known ahead of time where she would be standing. Looking at her, he bade welcome to all, then the chaplain blessed the feast. There were benches set up throughout the square, and all ate heartily, peasants, nobles, and Hospitallers, mingling in the dusk, amid the sparkle of fireflies. Then the great moment came, the moment to light the bonfire. Sir Martin took a burning torch, which the chaplain blessed, then lit the pile of wood and rubbish. Flames leaped up, the youths and children hooted and clapped. Amid such pervasive joy sadness took flight, although the hurt of her husband’s criticism ached in Raphaëlle’s heart. The wine flowed; she lost count of how many cups she herself drank. Young lads set afire old wagon wheels, which they rolled through the streets of the village, as others ran beside them with torches. The entire landscape was illumined like a dream of faery. Music burst forth, and the dancing began. There were fiddles, drums and bells, harp and psaltery, horns and lute, merging together in a boisterous harmony. The village lads leaped in a circle around the bonfire with their torches. The maidens formed another circle around the fountains, joined, twirled and clapped. Entwined with the music were Saint John's carols, led by an older peasant man with a rousing baritone voice. Raphaëlle saw Jehannette dancing with the knave Robert, each smiling broadly into each other’s faces, careless and carefree.
Raphaëlle looked around for Jacques. He was engaged in conversation with a group of knights, of both clerical and lay variety. Across the square, in the flickering of torch and firelight, Sir Martin leaned against a garlanded pillar, sipping a cup of wine, and staring at Raphaëlle. Raphaëlle turned quickly away. There was a voice at her arm.
“How do you enjoy our feast, Madame?” It was Sir Gaston. He was courteous and deferential but modest as a monk; he reminded her of Friar Hound.
“Very much, Sir Gaston, very much.”
“That is good. I saw you standing here alone and feared you were not having a merry time. May I fetch you some food?”
“Oh, no thank you, Monsieur.” Perhaps it was the wine or her husband’s neglect or Sir Gaston’s guileless manner that made her want to open her heart to him, and she found herself almost bursting into tears. “I must tell you, though, that my heart is heavy. I have been hearing terrible rumors about Sir Martin.”
Sir Gaston’s clear brow furrowed. “Alas, Madame, there are many rumors about Sir Martin. Although he is my brother in the Order, I must tell you, as you have surely found out by now, that his imprudent behavior feeds much of the gossip about himself. In confidence, you must be aware that our superiors are ready to discipline him for his laxity, and for coming very close to ruining his vocation. There are many who think he joined the Hospitallers too soon after his wife’s death, and that he may not have had a genuine vocation to the celibate life. Yes, there are many clerics who fall, but a knight such as Sir Martin, who is so greatly admired, revered, and loved by all, has the potential for giving enormous scandal, more so than a dozen mediocre clerics.”
Raphaëlle trembled but was able to restrain her tears. “Sir Gaston, I hate to repeat such gossip, but I must know the truth. I heard today that some think that Sir Martin is a secret Cathar. I know he has fought on the side of Cathar sympathizers such as my uncle. But has he given himself over to their heresy?”
Sir Gaston’s stern expression was replaced with one of humor. He smiled. “No, Madame, that is utter rubbish. Whatever his foibles and weaknesses, Sir Martin’s theology has been sound. He used to debate with the Cathars as a lad in the square of his hometown and elsewhere. Now how his behavior corresponds to what he believes is another matter altogether. He needs prayers and perhaps to be held more accountable for his actions by those with the proper authority. He is seen as being such a hero that few challenge his indiscretions. But such seemingly petty failings could be his undoing.”
“Well, it is good to know that he is at least not a heretic,” commented Raphaëlle, “for then there is more of a chance for him to reform his ways without having to change his belief structure.”
Sir Gaston surveyed the crowd on merrymakers.
“Where is Lady Béatrice? She is a good sort, although I would bid you not to believe all that she says.” He winked. “Stay at her side this evening and she will make certain you have a pleasant time and are not inconvenienced. I must check on the wine, to see that we have enough. Perhaps we will speak more later, although maybe it is better to put what we have said to rest.” He bowed and departed.
She searched for Lady Béatrice, who was in a corner near the spits, busy wiping her children's greasy and sticky faces and fingers. When Raphaëlle looked across the plaza again Sir Jacques was near the wine cask, deep in talk; Sir Gaston was nowhere to be seen, while Martin's unwavering gaze was still upon her.
“Are you going to dance?” asked Lady Béatrice.
“I do not think so.”
“Oh, come! Let us dance with the villagers! It is Saint John's Eve!” She grabbed Raphaëlle’s hand and led her into the circle, which was joined by other married women, as another song commenced. The dance started in slow steps, and then the leaps began. Raphaëlle laughed as she leaped, heeding only that her hair did not swirl into anyone’s torch. The next dance was more lyrical. The dancers broke into couples, husbands and wives, young sweethearts. Sir Martin danced with a plump matron, obviously a matriarch among the villagers. Raphaëlle could not take her eyes from his graceful movements, so amazingly flowing for a man of his size. Jacques continued to talk with the men. There was no one for Raphaëlle to dance with, so she sat down with Lady Béatrice and her children.
The festivity rollicked along. Raphaëlle rose to get some marzipan for the children. She bumped against someone. It was Sir Martin. He spoke in a tone so soft she barely heard him.
“The garden is a paradise at night. I will be there as the moon rises.” She moved quickly away, in a muddle from the wine. Had she heard him correctly? Béatrice was returning to the hostel, to put her children to bed. Raphaëlle threw herself into another dance. Then she gazed upwards, for the moon was glimmering on high. Sir Martin had vanished from the scene. She found herself dodging through the crowd to the castle portico. As she slipped into the hall, there was presented to her mind the illumination from her mother's Book of Hours portraying the Last Judgment, with the devils in Hell torturing the lost, burning souls, writhing among the worms. What if she committed adultery and then died a sudden and unprovided death, unshriven? She would be in danger of eternal damnation. However, she told herself that Sir Martin probably had no interest in her, but was merely flirting to pass the time. There was one thing for her to do. She must tell Sir Martin of her heart's inclinations, and beg him to stop toying with her; to leave her alone if necessary.
She ran through the hall to the arched portal that opened onto the quadrangle garden. The white jasmine petals gleamed in the moon's radiance. Their heady fragrance and that of the roses emanated a net of intoxication. Sir Martin’s form loomed before her in the shadow of two rose trees. She glided towards him, and then froze.
“Sir Martin?”
“Yes?”
“I have something to say to you.”
“What do you have to say, Lady Raphaëlle?”
“You must stop dallying with me.”
“I dally with all women,” he replied, lightly.
“It is cruel of you.”
“Perhaps,” he spoke, slowly. “I shall try to mend my ways.”
“Yes,” she agreed, haltingly, “but…but I have an inordinate attachment to you.”
“That is not vexatious to me,” he said, gently.
Her arms and legs began to quake. “It is cruel of you to make sport of me with your fond looks and gestures.” He fell silent, taking one step towards her. She could discern the contours of his face; the moonlight shimmered on his glossy black hair. Her mind went blank; with difficulty she remembered what she wanted to say. “I...I struggle to overcome my sentiments towards you, Sir Martin. At times, they seem more powerful than my…my very being. But I do believe in the honor and nobility of a pure love and a restrained passion.” Martin was now close enough to her so that he could have reached out and taken her in his arms.
“I have found,” he said, “that it is exceedingly difficult to be content with smelling the apple, when one wants to bite into it. Be glad that I am a man of virtue.
“What do you want from me?!” she cried, clasping her hands.
“I want nothing from you,” he insisted.
“Then leave me in peace!” she turned to depart.
“Wait!” he called, and she halted. His voice became urgent and intense. “My family holds a castle on the Golfe du Lion. It is very old, having been built by the Moors, and is not far from the Abbey de Font-Froide. I think you would like it. Someday, perhaps, you will go there.”
“I hope very much that my husband and I can travel there and make the acquaintance of your father and your mother,” she replied, with a semi-indifferent toss of the head. “My parents do not dwell at the castle. My father is ill; my mother cares for him at Saissac.”
“I should like to see the Abbey de Font-Froide,” she said, guardedly. “I hope we shall visit it someday.”
“Then Font-Froide shall be our place of rendezvous.” He stepped towards her again. “There is something I want from you.” She could not reply. He fell upon one knee. “I wish to ask the favor of your kirtle as a token to wear beneath my mail.”
She carefully untied the gold and scarlet cord, removing it from her waist. She went to him, placing it in his hands. His fingers caressed hers as he rose to his feet. Clasping the kirtle, he bent towards her, so that she felt his breath upon her face. Her eyes closed, and her lips parted. She stepped backwards, knowing that if she did not leave his presence at that moment, she would be lost. Without looking back or saying another word, Raphaëlle ran from the garden. She sped through the merrymakers to the hostel. Once in her chamber, she quickly climbed into bed but sleep was impossible. When Jacques came at last, she pretended to be asleep. He had bathed since their wedding, and smelled much better. Soon he began to snore, while she drenched her pillow in tears.