CHAPTER XX

 

The year 1120

Lammas Day in August

 

A candlelit procession along the riverbank followed the yearly ceremonial blessing of the bread. The Lord and Lady of the Forest had invited Thomas Fitz Stephen and his men to join the villagers in the annual celebration on the lawn.

Their bellies full from the generous feast, the company sat back to enjoy the song of a trouvere.

 

“Who has not looked upon her brow

Has never dreamed of perfect bliss,

But once to see her is to know

What beauty, what perfection is.”

 

Martin watched Wandrille, so lovely in a soft blue gown. The trouvere’s song expressed his feelings.

 

“Her charms are of the growth of heaven,

She decks the night with hues of day,

Blest are the eyes to which it is given

On her to gaze the soul away.”

 

He could truly gaze his soul away were Wandrille the object of his gaze. She had grown more womanly in the last year and lovelier than ever embraced by the halo of the late afternoon sun. Were he a whole man he would ask her father for her hand this very moment. Alas, Martin saw how she and Thomas looked at one another. They were in love, and Martin knew his friend would not let an unhappy marriage stand in his way. Thomas always got what he set his mind on, and if he knew Wandrille wanted him in return, Alice would soon have her abbey and Thomas his freedom.

Martin would never stand in the way of their happiness. He loved them both too dearly. Wandrille deserved a strong, healthy husband, not a man afflicted with devils. That was what the peasants said, turning their faces away each time he went into the village. Sometimes it seemed that even the storks nesting among the irises on the thatched roofs took to the skies when they saw him approach. He would not lay such a burden on Wandrille’s shoulders.

Martin listened as the villagers and ship builders spoke of the mysterious signs that had appeared in the heavens, a blood red moon cut in twain by a streak of sapphire light, which after an hour disappeared to reveal the crescent moon looking normal again. They wondered how for fully three nights a brilliant red light had shot across the skies of Normandy. There was much conjecture over what these things might portend.

Martin filled his flagon with ale and sat down next to Thomas on the grass. Thomas raised his own flagon in a toast to his friend.

“I was just telling Wandrille how intrigued I am by her mother’s healing art. How does she know which herbs to use to cure ills? Were it left to me I would be quite lost and the poor soul would die.”

Wandrille laughed. “Mother is well versed in herb lore. What some call magic is her deep understanding of nature. She goes into the forest and speaks to the plants and the spirits who dwell within them, voicing what the problem is and why she seeks their help. Mother has always told me that when the spirits agree to help us, we are ethically bound to accept their suggestions.”

“Does she believe in elves and goblins then?” Thomas asked. “I thought only the Celts believed in fairies.”

“No. Mother does not believe as the Celts. She says that God gifts us with nature’s remedies as well as the ability to recognize them. Her methods may not be the most modern, but she knows that a garlic swallow will counter most infections, and that monk’s pepper aids women with their monthly cycles. She knows that apple blossoms work very well in love potions, and that chamomile is good for stress, insomnia, cramps, indigestion, and back pain.”

Martin leaned toward Thomas. “Also,” he said, his eyes shining with mirth, “Lady Catherine has studied the herb book of Dioscordes and the works of Hippocrates, Galen, and Aurelius. So much for magic.”

They laughed.

“Martin speaks true. Quite simply, dear Thomas,” Wandrille said, “my mother has taken the time to study the healing arts as written down by the masters. She keeps a careful account of what herbs she uses for each purpose, so she knows what to use the next time an ailment presents itself to her. And that is how the spirits of the forest reveal their cures. Mother believes that all kingdoms in nature require balance and that the care of the body and soul work together. Physical health ensures the health of the soul and vice versa.”

Thomas nodded. “That is a novel concept. Methinks the Lady Catherine possesses great wisdom. I must return to Barfleur on the morrow to build my ship. Before I take my leave I shall remember to thank the spirits of the great forest for giving up their trees to that end.”

The musicians struck up a round dance. Thomas rose and offered his hand to Wandrille. She accepted with a dazzling smile.

Martin watched them dance, the joy he saw in their faces scratching at the core of his heart like the blade of a knife. Fitz Stephen was a good man, not like the others who had vied for Wandrille’s hand. Thomas could put away his wife as was her wish and marry Wandrille with her father’s blessing. Martin should be happy for them, but all he could think of was if only he were Thomas Fitz Stephen.

The dancers held hands and danced in a serpentine pattern around the lawn and tables where seated guests clapped their hands in time to the music. Beyond the lawn the sky above the river grew dark as a shroud. A shooting star dove into the water. The bells of compline echoed through the twilight. The lord and lady of the manor bid their guests a good evening and retired.

Servants cleared the lawns, the villagers walked slowly home, and the ship builders returned to their camp. Martin watched as Wandrille stood on tiptoe to whisper something in Thomas’ ear. Fitz Stephen nodded, kissed Wandrille’s hand, and followed his men toward camp.

The maiden turned and, seeing Martin, approached him with her hand outstretched. He took hold of it as he rose a bit unsteadily to his feet.

Wandrille’s laugh was like refreshingly sweet water dancing over stones in a stream. “I confess I am a bit light headed, Martin, from so much ale and dancing. It was a lovely Lammas Day.” She took his arm as they walked up to the manor house together. “How I hate to see it end.”

“I also love a holiday,” said Martin. “Alas, holidays always end too soon.”

 

* * *

 

Martin gazed from his window at the stars. The cry of a peacock drew his attention down to the lawn where he saw a ghostly figure slip from the house and steal away into the forest. In the pale moonlight Wandrille’s form was unmistakable. So she and Thomas will have a lover’s tryst by the martyr’s well, he thought. Martin’s eyes stung from drinking too much ale.