Chapter 15

Another Journey

to the Right Bank

 

 

 

 

Journal Entry

 

“Feeling powerless to do more for my friend, Testagrossa, or for Caterina, and unwilling to share my insights with Gaudin, who would be sure to exacerbate the situation by making sport of the love-sick seminarian, I arranged to meet with Dormoy, convinced that another point of view could do no harm.

“Dormoy had been keeping mostly to himself since the joust and its apocalyptic aftermath, and when I first caught sight of him at the table that afternoon, in Cutter’s tavern, I almost failed, at first, to recognise him. The familiar tankard of ale was there, sure enough, clutched in his right fist, held tightly enough for his knuckles to show white around the handle, but his characteristic slouch and injured facial expression were replaced by an essence of something I could not, initially, fathom. His clothes, too, looked different, not the careless country cut and light colours that bespoke his Provençal origins, but the sombre robe and hat of an apothecary or an alchemist.

“He had stopped attending lectures and withdrawn from all but the most essential social pastimes. He said that he was immersed in independent studies and was seeking out only those masters who were willing to lead their students down to the essential elements and up to the prognosticating stars. Alchemy and astrology, he said, opened the doors to truths that philosophy and theology, logic and rhetoric, had firmly closed to him and to others who were intimidated by the academic establishment. With arcane knowledge and forbidden arts, he could know the future, remix the elements of this world, remake his destiny and even cheat death, for himself and, more importantly, for those who were closest to him.

“In the fever of his new faith, he seemed to have even forgotten his friends, except for me, who did not take gratuitous pleasure in belittling his beliefs or making sport at his expense. If there was to be a new order for those in possession of the knowledge of the ages, Dormoy thought that I, of all people, ought to have a place of honour therein, among wise and poetic souls.

“I thought I might build on this trust and try to re-establish Dormoy’s contact with the real world. I proposed that we complete our outing to the library of the Celestines, the outing that had been cut short by the fateful events at the jousting pitch. Perhaps it was possible to reunite Dormoy with the race of mortals he had left behind to follow the dark Doctor Michel.

“On the day of our expedition to the Celestines, we had arranged to meet at a tavern called the Bois d’Oré, off of the St Michel not far from the bridge that connected the left bank to l’Isle de la Cité, from which we could cross, via another bridge, to the right bank.

“I saw Dormoy long before the latter deigned to take notice of me, or anyone else, for that matter. He was looking intently at the stone facing behind my head, his eyes wide and fixed, his neck, shoulders and arms held as if tensed, prepared to lunge forward at any moment, but the moment never came. He appeared to me in a state of agitated expectation, as if he were just about to catch sight of something that he was never quite able to see.

“I waited until the fog of Dormoy’s trance looked to have somewhat dissipated, before I moved closer to the table of the young astrologer and raised my hand in greeting. Dormoy eyed me with suspicion, at first, seeming to brace himself for more of the ridicule that his change in appearance had provoked among his other acquaintances. Seeing that my questioning look betrayed genuine concern, he relaxed his vigilance, and the cloud-like mask that had covered his visage began to dissolve.

“‘I may seem strange to you,’ said Dormoy, ‘but it was my old self, morose and taciturn, which was alien to my true character. This is the REAL Claude Dormoy, the man of purpose hidden behind whatever I was until now. Doctor Michel showed me who I am and where I have kept myself hidden, all these years.’

“Dormoy didn’t just look different; his speech was different, too, more like that of someone who means more than he says. I always loved to imitate people’s speech patterns, not to mock them but because I thought it was like another feature of the face, differentiating each of us from one another. I continued my friend’s train of thought, hoping Dormoy would perceive this as a kind of empathy. ‘...and you suppose that it was Doctor Michel who set you free from your former self?’

“‘He just led me to the threshold. It was I who chose to cross it,’ said the young alchemist with a look of self-approbation that was so unlike the Dormoy I thought I knew.

“‘Actually, those sombre shades suite you better than the bright hues of Provence ever did, but it’s you and not your clothes that I find most altered.’

“‘So it is with all men,’ said Dormoy, sounding to me more like Testagrossa than himself. ‘We gaze into the limpid pool of our life’s own misery and we either bemoan what we see or we remake the image, which is our very self, in a manner that befits our proper destiny.’

“‘So then, you see,’ I continued, in the same vein, ‘not what you are but what you can or will be.’

“At these words, a burning intensity lit Dormoy’s eyes. ‘Precisely, I think, sometimes, I can see the future as clearly as I can see the past.’

“‘It is precisely the future that I have come to discuss, neither yours nor mine, for the moment, but rather, that of our friend, Testagrossa. He is greatly troubled, of late, neither about his past nor his intended future. I am afraid that it is with the present that he is engaged in such tortuous conflict, a conflict he must resolve, if he is to have any future happiness at all.’

“‘He is conflicted about the present?’ Dormoy scowled at the idea.

“‘Indeed he is. He has no idea how to respond to being in love.’

“‘Ah, “Amor vincit omnes” (“Love conquers all”),’ quoted Dormoy, looking relieved at the thought.

“‘The problem is: he doesn’t know he is in love, so he can’t understand why he feels or acts the way he does.’

“‘Testagrossa can’t understand the present, but I’m the fool because I understand the future!’

“‘For God’s sake, man, this isn’t about you. Testagrossa’s in trouble, and I want to know what we can do to help!’

“‘It’s always like this.’ Dormoy suddenly had re-assumed both his old defeated, hang-dog face and his old diction. ‘Even Doctor Michel seems more interested in my friends than he is in me. I guess I’m not such a valuable disciple after all! He’s constantly jabbering about you, about how you are destined to be rattling pikes around the world, when you have reached your full maturity.’

“‘Pikes? Is he mad? If he sees things the way he claims, he must know that my brother is the soldier of the family, not me!’

“‘I have no idea what he means, but he says that people will remember you, “the rattler of pikes” long after the soldiers and statesmen of this century will have been dead and forgotten.’

“‘...and what has your famous Doctor Michel got to say about our friend Testagrossa?’

“‘He keeps repeating the same thing over and over about his priesthood: that he will be called ‘Father’, and so he will. He even raves on about Gaudin, who apparently is to follow a Scotsman to a fortress in the north, where he will give his life in the cause of the King of Navarre, always this King of Navarre.’

“I wearily lowered my head into both of my outstretched hands. ‘None of this is particularly helpful, unless rattling a pike can shake some sense into our Italian friend’s head, I suppose.’

“‘Maybe the esoteric books will give us a clue.’ Clearly, Dormoy was still hoping that we would adhere to the original purpose of our meeting.

“‘Yes, by all means. Let’s go on to the Celestine library and see if there is any ancient riddle to help us solve this modern one.’

“Leaving our tankards of beer behind, we ventured across the two bridges that joined them to the island and the right bank of the river. As we made our way up broad new carriage ways, turning east in the direction of the Celestine convent and the residence of Les Tournelles, we became aware that Dormoy’s robes were catching more than one suspicious glare from the soldiers in the Guise livery who lounged about their posts at the major crossroads. Nevertheless, we managed to arrive unmolested at the great southern gate of the convent, the portal to the massive library of which the Celestine monks were the proprietors.

“Dormoy strode into the place like a minister of state, robes swishing on the stone floors, his eyes spanning this way and that, until he spied a suitably nervous looking young novice who was guiding visitors to the priory that day. Carelessly waving Brother Lawrence’ letter of introduction, which he had pulled from the folds of his academic gown, Dormoy commanded the boy to conduct us, with all due haste, to the brother librarian, on urgent business for the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève. The awe struck boy promptly guided the both of us, as if we were ecclesiastical dignitaries, straight to the librarian’s office, where he handed over the letter, with its raised seal of red wax. Then, bowing deeply, first to the librarian and then to the two of us (much to my amusement), he hastily took his leave.

“The librarian, Brother Sixtus, a tall and straight backed man of greying and wrinkled aspect, was not so easily impressed. From his vantage point of clear academic superiority, he was disposed to treat us both with the passive but palpable force of his contempt.

“Dormoy asked for a volume that was called, in Latin, Secretum Secretorum, or the book of the Secret of Secrets, a translation of a 10th century Arabic text that was a kind of a compendium of ancient wisdom about politics, ethics, physiognomy, astrology, alchemy, sorcery and medicine. Brother Sixtus pronounced the title as if it were vomit in his mouth. He turned his irritated scowl on the no longer so self-confident Dormoy, who was fidgeting with the full sleeves of his gown. The deflated youth forced himself to nod in acquiescence.

“Now ready for his next victim, the tall monk turned to me, his jaw set to challenge any credentials I might bethink myself to possess. ‘What shall I procure for you, young man?’ The question fell from Brother Sixtus’s inquisitorial lips down to me in the same way that a school master’s interrogation assaults a recalcitrant pupil.

“‘I would like to see what the ancients had to say about love,’ I replied, trying not to let the self-important librarian intimidate me.

“‘De Amore!’ said the librarian while his lip curled in a sneer only slightly less contemptuous than the one he had for the Secret of Secrets. ‘I thought all young people imagine that they, themselves, invented love. Well, Aristotle, of course has said that Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies, but if it’s advice you want, you’d best go to Ovid for his treatment of the Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love). Still, the Italian romances are said to best capture the essence and passion of what the Greeks called “eros”. Do you read Italian?’

“‘No, but I know someone who does.’ I thought of my friend without the slightest note of optimism.

“‘Pity,’ replied the librarian, ‘I happen to have a tale called Giulietta e Romeo, by this fellow, Matteo Bandello, a very popular work among those who can read the vernacular. As a matter of fact, I had an enterprising young man in here only last week, a young master named François de Belleforest. He said he was working on a French translation of the Bandello contes. You don’t, by any chance, know the fellow?’

“I perked up at the mention of the name. ‘Actually, I attended one of his lectures, on the Gesta Danorum (Tales of the Danes) of Saxo Grammaticus.’

“‘Fascinating collection of stories, the Gesta Danorum, love, intrigue, murder, revenge…’

“‘Revenge… what an edifying Christian sentiment for a monk’s spiritual reading.’ Dormoy permitted himself the observation, seeming to have regained his new confidence.

“‘Better than magic and necromancy,’ replied the brother librarian with an irritated twist of his thin lips.

“‘I think I’ll take a look at Ovid’s Ars Amatoria,’ I said, hoping to forestall another sardonic barb from Brother Sixtus, directed at my friend,’ …and the Saxo Grammaticus,’ I added.

“Brother Sixtus nodded to a passing assistant who conducted us to a visitors’ reading room, cramped and poorly lit. We were left to read by candlelight, while perched on stools facing each other at either end of a small table.

“I quickly decided that Ovid’s advice to lovers was more reminiscent of a lecherous old uncle or nurse than the serious counsel of a wise teacher. Finding myself at the end of yet another blind alley, I reached for the volume of Saxo Grammaticus. I recalled something that had captured my interest in the course of Belleforest’s lecture, and, leafing through the book, I found a certain tale, ‘Vita Amlethi,’ which suited my dark and melancholy mood. So here was a tale of a young man whose father, like mine, had been murdered for political gain. Do you suppose that Amleth shared with me both anger and relief, both sadness and guilt in the face of events against which I seemed unable or unwilling to take any action?

“As I paused to mouth the strange sounding Scandinavian names from a cold and misty past, I glanced across the table to where Dormoy was also mumbling scarcely intelligible arcane Latin words and phrases in an attempt to extract the magical content of these ancient incantations. Magic and mystery dangled the promise of an answer, while tantalizingly masking its meaning in a foggy cloak of obscurity. They were, at best, duplicitous and equivocal; at worst, false and illusory. I had had enough.

“Dormoy did not want to stop reading. He was certain that everything would become clear to him, if he would only read on another five or ten minutes, but I insisted on terminating our exercise and indicated to the librarian’s assistant that we were prepared to return our books. We were met at the other side of the reading room door by a burley looking brother with a set of ponderous keys jingling from his cincture. The heavy set brother neither identified himself nor exchanged any pleasantries. He walked with us wordlessly to the main door, at which point he opened his mouth, for the one and only time, to tell us to go with God.

“The outside air was a welcome change, after the stale, shadowy closet where we had been confined with our reading, and I, for one, welcomed the noise and bustle that greeted us, once we had passed through the convent’s ponderous oaken doors. People seemed to be even more boisterous than usual, the commotion coming from the direction of the jousting field at Les Tournelles. The two of us agreed that a slight detour to the place where Dormoy had experienced his epiphany and where Testagrossa had seen his great rival wearing his lady’s favour into combat, would be just the thing for both of our recent preoccupations.

“The crowds seemed to be milling aimlessly, as there were no combats that day. Instead, most of the field was taken up by workmen, engaged either in levelling the ground and filling in holes or shovelling prodigious quantities of horse droppings into buckets. The excrement was then hauled, by the youngest and lowliest among them, to a kind of pit or long trench which had been dug for this purpose, earlier in the day.

“On the side closest to the palace, other workers were assembling a large, new, covered viewing stand, intended for royal spectators as well as the highest of the well born and wealthy. On the other end of the field, additional rickety bleachers were being hastily erected, for spectators of lesser station. A few young squires were leading some of the younger, more skittish chargers by the bridle in careful circles around the field to familiarise them with the dips and elevations of the ground: the turns, the distances and the general layout of the field.

“Suddenly, I spotted my room-mate, Gaudin, leading a grey and chocolate stallion onto the pitch. Gaudin was cursing at the beast for constantly rearing its powerful neck. At the same time, he was coaxing the creature forward in the general direction of the fence at which we stood, observing.

“Gaudin had been spending little time in our room, of late, and even less time at lectures or libraries, since he had announced his decision to join the company of Gabriel, Comte de Montgomery, to be in the service of a man of valour. As surely as Dormoy had fallen in as a disciple of Doctor Michel, Gaudin had committed himself, in body and in heart, to his illustrious captain for the pursuit of glory, as becomes a man of courage and honour. No more the juvenile prankster, he now enjoyed a calling to high seriousness and hard work – not excluding the hauling of horse manure from the field – in the eager pursuit of glory. I wasn’t sure if Gaudin’s new friends in the service of the Captain would replace his old academic fellows, but I was at least reassured that the aspiring fighter could still recognise Dormoy and me in a crowd, from a distance.

“‘Good to see you, my fine fellows,’ Gaudin called out while wrestling with the bridle of the beast he had in tow. He moved closer to the fence in a series of circular diversions and recoveries caused by the animal’s desire to go the other way, finally coming to rest at a distance where conversation was possible. ‘So, what news from the haunts of the Latin speakers?’

“I wanted to say something about Testagrossa and Caterina, but I thought better of it. Dormoy, reluctant to give Gaudin another pretext for making fun of his master, likewise hesitated to speak of what was foremost on his mind. Gaudin took our blank stares for tell-tale signs of the idleness with which he had increasing come to regard his former academic life. His story, therefore, was undoubtedly of much greater interest.

“‘The days pass very quickly here,’ continued Gaudin, his eyes wide with excitement, his speech uncharacteristically fast and devoid of his customary ironic detachment. ‘There’s so much to do and so much to learn from the Captain. Why, there’s a whole new vocabulary to acquire, not only about the knights’ battle attire but about what the horses wear, as well.’

“I made a pointing motion with my head in the general direction over Gaudin’s shoulder. ‘What preparations do the builders make?’

“‘A marriage has been concluded between the King’s daughter and that persistent pain in the ass, Philip of Spain, to seal a treaty of lasting peace between them. So we will have a grand combat, starting in two days, to celebrate peace, and the cracking of heads to mark and seal the bonds of matrimony.’

“I smiled at the irony. ‘How fitting!’

“‘And my captain, the Comte de Montgomery, will fight with only his most advanced knights in the lists.’

“I was interested, but perhaps not for the same reason as Gaudin. ‘Will that young fellow we saw last time be among them? I think his name was de Frontenac.’

“‘Most likely,’ admitted Gaudin without pleasure. ‘The Captain, my master, has been grilling him almost daily about his technique and concentration. Personally, I don’t think he’s much with a lance, but he is well enough connected to make it worth the Captain’s while to train him. I don’t really think the captain likes him very much, for all that.’

“‘I don’t suggest you discuss that particular fellow with our heavy set Italian friend, if you know what’s good for you,…if you even deign to dine with us again.’ I suppose that my face was uncharacteristically grim, clearly not receptive to any attempts at derisive humour.

“‘Do you know how long a walk it is between the Scottish armoury and our old haunts? Do you know how busy they keep me, between oiling tackle and hauling horse shit for the captain? The road to glory is mired in the muddy ruts of the artillery wagon wheels and trails of animal droppings, you know,’ protested Gaudin, his defensive head held high in search of his lost dignity.

“‘And Howard, here, must endure Mme. Beber’s complaints and suppositions about why you don’t come home at night. You’re reputed to have tarried with every barmaid on the St Germain,’ added Dormoy. He was evidently enjoying the opportunity to tease the teaser.

“‘Very well, then, what about tonight, at the Ecurie? I think I can escape from shovelling duty at the shit pile long enough to take a meal together with some old friends.’

“The mention of L’Ecurie immediate brought me back to my major preoccupation. ‘Maybe Father Testagrossa will be there to see his old friends, and we can restore his spirits with a good dosage of fellowship.’

“‘It’s worth a try,’ said Dormoy, thinking of his master’s words about Testagrossa’s being called ‘Father’ by people other than his offspring.

“‘And the Captain would surely give me a night off to help an old friend, now that almost everything is ready,’ added Gaudin with what sounded to me like real interest in the endeavour.

“So, we parted, with the promise to meet for supper and to band together in the cause of helping our tormented friend.”