CHAPTER XXIX

 

The Year 1120

The Herbarium

 

Wandrille entered the empty room. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, fragrant as incense from the Silk Road. A layer of dust rested on Martin’s quills and labels on the rough wooden table. The servants tended Martin’s garden well, keeping it free from weeds and flourishing, but the garden felt barren and lonely without him, especially in the autumn when many of the plants lay dormant.

Wandrille had wanted to strike Will for calling Martin an idiot. Something else he said had sown a seed of doubt and left her heart heavy. When Will said she was going to marry another woman’s husband, her cheeks had burned with shame.

Wandrille walked through the garden trying to sort through the conflict in her mind. She sat on the wall looking down at the terraced gardens and lawn toward the river glistening far below in the afternoon sun. The trees were a riot of color, but autumn’s wind was already stealing them from the trees.

Martin’s boat with the red sail was gone, for he was in Barfleur helping Thomas prepare the White Ship for her maiden voyage. Wandrille wished she were a man so she could be with them. She wished she could sail on the White Ship by Thomas’ side, proud to be his woman. But she could not be his, because Will was right. Thomas belonged to another. He was Alice’s husband, not hers. She could not even publically declare her love for the shipwright. Not until spring. She looked at the skeletal branches of the trees thinking spring was an eternity away.

Thomas was noble and fine, a man of honor. He could end his marriage legally if both he and his wife wished it so, and Alice was the one who wanted to be free. But did that make it right in the eyes of God?

Wandrille wished she could talk it out with someone wiser than she. Father had gone to Paris on business, but he would have no sage advice for Wandrille. Thomas was right that after the White Ship brought him fame and he had annulled his marriage Father would give him her hand without reservation. He had liked Thomas since they were children. Father would not mind adding Thomas’ fortune to his own. The Lord of the Forest would not understand Wandrille’s doubts. Whatever was lawful would be fine with him.

She wished she could talk to her mother, but Lady Catherine lived in her own world with little time for her daughter. She had taken alms to the village today for the peasants and would not be back until nightfall, and then she would go to her chapel to pray.

Wandrille admired her mother and felt awed by the Lady of the Forest’s strong personality. Lady Catherine considered the village and its inhabitants her responsibility. She was friendly to all the poor, bountiful to the full extent of her means. If anyone criticized her generosity, she was quick to point out that Christ said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Mother always said that as Christ had loved and ministered to the poor, so would she. How could Wandrille live up to such an example?

“It is my duty to benefit and elevate the people among whom it is my destiny to live,” Mother said. “I will never allow the poor to go away empty handed. At least in my corner of the world, even peasants will live with dignity and not like barbarians.”

The Lady of the Forest extended her hospitality to all. She built shelters along the forest roads for weary travelers and fed them in her kitchen, sometimes sitting down with them and discussing the news of the day. She was fond of quoting Saint Benedict, who said, “As soon as anyone knocks or a poor man hails him let the porter answer, ‘Deo gratias.’ Then let him attend to them promptly with all the gentleness of the fear of God and with fervent charity.”

When Wandrille said she wished she could be like her, Lady Catherine told her daughter that she must find her own destiny. “I have given you independence and education,” she said, “and you are strong in character. You do not need to be like me, Wandrille. You need to be yourself alone.”

Mother would understand Wandrille’s fear that Thomas’ putting away his wife might be legal in the eyes of men but wrong in the eyes of God. But Mother had raised her to think for herself and would expect her to solve her own problems. How can I solve this dilemma with such confusion in my heart? Wandrille wondered.

The sound of the abbey bells in the distance drew Wandrille’s eyes to her mother’s chapel. The door was flanked on either side by espaliered pear trees climbing their iron framework below the high chapel windows. She crossed the garden, opened the door, and stepped inside. The air was cool, fragrant with the scent of burning candles and incense. The Lord of the Forest had spared no expense in building his wife’s chapel. Like a miniature cathedral, clusters of columns passed without interruption into vault and pointed arch, drawing the eye toward heaven. The stone walls seemed weightless, like the expression of spirit, encouraging the contemplation of the divine through the senses. High glass windows allowed rays of light from heaven to pour into the sanctuary.

Wandrille knelt down in front of the altar, looking up at her mother’s greatest treasure, an altar cross carved from walrus ivory. A masterpiece of Romanesque art, the cross was fashioned after the Tree of Life, with ninety-two figures, including those of Moses and the Serpent in central medallions. Adam and Eve clung to the base, looking up at the figure of Christ. Scenes of the Passion, Resurrection, and the Ascension were carved into the ivory.

Wandrille lowered her head and whispered the prayers she had been taught from childhood. She raised her eyes to the cross. “I am not wise or holy like my mother,” she said. “I neglect my prayers and do not come here as often as I should. But I come to you now as a child to a loving father and beg you to help me. What am I to do?”

No answer came. She felt empty inside, her mind filled with swirling patterns of thoughts that would not solidify into cognizance.

Her eyes burned with tears. “Oh, Martin,” she whispered, “if only you were here to guide me. I value your advice more than anyone’s. I miss you so. My dearest, I love you so.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, for her involuntary cry echoed through the chapel. Wandrille sat back on her heels. The figures on the cross seemed to look down on her. “I have my answer,” she said. “If I am to be true to my heart then I cannot marry Thomas, for Martin’s love has always been my true heart’s desire.” She looked up, whispering, “Thank you.”

Wandrille ran from the chapel calling to her handmaid for her cloak and a change of clothing. “When Lady Catherine returns, tell her I have gone to Barfleur early to see the White Ship sail. Tell her I could not wait another moment to take part in the excitement. My mother will understand.”

She dashed to the kitchen, where she found the pantler and cook eating bowls of frumentry by the fire. Directing the pantler to pack bread and cheese for her journey, she hurried down to the stables to tell the groom to saddle her horse.

I must tell Thomas before he sails, she thought, that I will not marry him. I must tell Martin I love him, even if he does not return my affection. Even if it means I am to be alone for the rest of my life, I must do what I know is right in my heart. When Wandrille rode down the road toward Barfleur, she no longer had any doubt in her mind. For yay or nay she was her mother’s daughter, and she would be true to herself. To live without honor would be no life at all.