The evening before the pilgrims departed from Vendôme, Robert paced the grounds of Holy Trinity. Pausing beneath one of the silver maples that flanked the south door of the transept, he contemplated his next move. Now that the land for the monastery had been secured, the real work of building would begin. “Mother Mary,” he prayed, “grant me patience and the fortitude to continue.” A momentary peace calmed him, and he resumed walking until Girard’s voice interrupted his solitude.
“Robert of Arbrissel cleaved a tree in half with the power of his faith, stunning two robbers into conversion!” the monk proclaimed to a group of women loitering near the entrance to the garden.
Appalled, Robert slipped behind a nearby tree, clinching his hands until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. Despite his guilt, or maybe because of it, Robert said nothing to contradict Girard’s blasphemy. God knew he was a weak, ineffectual man even if Girard did not.
After Girard and the group of women dispersed, Robert dropped to his knees and covered his face with both hands. If he could not keep Madeleine safe, how could he provide protection and guidance to a hundred more? Pounding his fist against his chest, he prayed for forgiveness. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…
While Robert did not question his love of God, a passion that eclipsed all else, he was less certain of his motivations in converting prostitutes than he had been in Rouen. Although he was bothered less and less by lustful thoughts of women in general, he could no longer deny his feelings for Madeleine. But he had never touched her except to bless or anoint her until that horrible day in the grove. Only after they arrived back in Vendôme did Robert acknowledge his far less noble feelings. He fought against these impure thoughts and desire with prayer and frequent penance. And, indeed, during the days, both proved adequate distractions.
But nights were a different matter entirely.
For Satan was clever. He assumed Madeleine’s shape and followed Robert straight into his dreams with the smoldering allure of a Parisian whore. Night after night Robert mounted the same fiery horse, wrapped his arm around the sloe-eyed demon’s middle and remembered the exquisite fit of Madeleine’s body against his own, how nothing had separated their two heartbeats but a silk alb and a worn cassock. In his unholy dreams he called out Madeleine’s name loud enough to wake himself and the men on the pallets beside him.
Now, once again kneeling in contrition, Robert fumbled for his beads and prayed for a way that would strengthen his resolve, help him overcome Satan’s demons and renew his faith. He longed to be enveloped in God’s unblemished grace and pledged to love Him with a love devoid of sexual confusion and full of pure light. Wind blew through the limbs of the trees, waking a pair of sleeping doves. Robert lifted his head to the cooing birds, and felt a warm flutter of fingers brushing his forehead. And though he could not see her, Robert knew the fingers belonged to the woman of his vision. “Have faith, Robert,” she whispered in hushed, soothing tones. “You will be delivered.”
Five days later the pilgrims arrived safely at the forested valley of Fontevraud where Robert led his one hundred followers to the bottom of a gentle declivity to a fresh water spring called Fons Ebraldi. Private without being isolated, Fontevraud was but a short distance from the bustling harbor of Candes and the fortresses of Saumur, Chinon, and Loudin. Climbing onto a flat rock, he spread his arms and proclaimed, “Here, at the junction of three diocese, Angers, Tours, and Poiters, we will build our abbey. Let us pray and give thanks to our generous benefactor and to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The fountain spilled over into a sun-lit pond. Those who lifted their eyes saw sooty shearwaters gliding the sky, dipping from side to side on powerful stiff wings. At the close of Robert’s prayer, Moriuht charged through pussy willows and waded into the pond, scooping water into his hands and swallowing with great noisy gulps. “Sweet!” he announced, “and bitter cold!” He shook his head so that beads of water flew from his beard and sprayed the children lining the shore. Their giggles and squeals tangled with the yodeling high-pitched wail of the black-throated divers. Peter began a song of thanks that layered one note on top of another, climbed the branches of the trees, rose up past the canopy of leaves and nudged the clouds.
The next day Girard asked Robert for permission to permanently join his mission. The two of them worked beside the other pilgrims, tearing out briars by their roots, piercing their hands and stripping the shallow valley of its growth. At day’s end, the men carried armfuls of prickly cane to a knoll on the lip of the valley and dropped them in a great sprawling mound, setting a communal fire on the spot where they would build the church. The flames leaped into the darkness and lit the faces of the exhausted pilgrims. Robert looked for Madeleine, but she was not among them.
Near the end of the first week, they began to run low on supplies. Marie, gruff, impatient and filled with purpose, approached Robert by the pond where he stood watching water bugs skitter the surface.
“Your followers are hungry,” she said. “If they are not fed, they will not be able to continue the work.” Hands on hips, Marie cut an imposing figure. “You cannot expect work from starving people,” she said.
“Have patience, Mother Marie. Look what we have accomplished already.” Robert said, pointing in the direction of the newly cleared land.
“Bah! The land is still littered with branches and stumps!”
“True,” Robert said, smiling slightly, for there was something about her directness that delighted him. “But very soon we will level the earth and begin building.”
“You think so?” Marie laughed, a mirthless sound scratchy with fatigue. A shearwater swooped the pond. Its wingtips kissed the surface and a shudder of ripples gilded the water. “The Lord has led us here,” Robert said. And though he knew his knowledge of psalms would not persuade Marie of his holy intent, he hoped that the sound of the words might comfort her. “These waters will revive our bodies and souls,” he said. Heartfelt passion imbued his words, for just looking at the restorative waters lifted his own flagging spirits.
“Hummph!” Marie said. “Our bodies will need more than dry tubers and water from your miraculous fount if you expect us to build a monastery.”
“You must have faith, Marie. Just a bit longer.”
“Will faith cure my aching belly?” Closing her eyes, she stood in silence. Her breathing grew even and relaxed, a soothing sound that gave Robert the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at his soul. “Marie, how is Madeleine?”
“Her body is mending,” Marie said. “As for her mind, I have no idea, for Maddy has not said a word since your… miracle… in the grove.”
“Marie…”
“Save your confessions for God,” she said and turned to begin her ascent to camp. “What’s done is done,” she called over her shoulder. “Now we deal with the consequences.”
That night after the converts trailed out to sleep, Robert walked up the road they had traveled and, raising his robe, knelt bare kneed in the pebbly dirt. Oh Lord, he prayed, be gracious to me and hear my cry. How long shall I keep planning in my soul and experiencing daily sorrow of heart? He prayed until the evening fire burned to embers and the stars disappeared from the skies. He prayed until his knees ached and the muscles in his shoulders burned with the effort of touching palm to palm. He knew that despair was a failure of character, a cowardly surrender to Satan’s powers, and prayed for a sign that the pilgrims would receive what they needed to survive. Only after he toppled in exhaustion to the ground did he make his way slowly to his pallet where he fell into a deep slumber.
Before Moriuht even touched his arm Robert smelled his presence, that peculiar blend of clove oil and unwashed skin. Opening his eyes to Moriuht’s dancing feet, he knew that his prayers had been answered.
“We are saved, Master Robert! God has sent us provisions, bread and food and wine…” His joyful smile, full of nubbed teeth and inflamed gums, was exactly what they lacked. After the initial heady excitement, Robert and his pilgrims had grown grim in their work and their hunger. “Come,” Moriuht said. “I have a surprise!”
Robert followed him to the spring where half a dozen peasants clustered beside a handful of congregants. The peasants carried straw baskets, wooden crates, and linen-wrapped bundles in their arms.
“A gift from Lady Philippa,” a stout woman said, peeling back several layers of cheesecloth to reveal dark loaves of bread.
“Please thank the Duchess for her charity,” Robert said. Dropping to his aching knees, he instructed his followers to do the same. “Let us also praise the Lord who has blessed us through this woman.”
During the next fortnight, with full bellies and renewed hope, the congregants set about building wooden huts with thatched roofs and packed dirt floors. Only slightly larger than the cramped box of a confessional, the dwellings offered privacy and warmth at night when the winds blew through the valley. Separating the virgins from the reformed prostitutes, Robert placed two or three women in each hut. He and the other men slept outdoors.
In the middle of the encampment he helped construct a makeshift oratory where all could meet for worship at the canonical hours. Lady Philippa, who continued to donate food and clothing during these difficult times, persuaded other aristocratic women, Hersend of Montsoreau and Petronilla of Chemillé, to do the same.
Amidst all this activity, Madeleine never left the hut where she lived with Marie. Worried, Robert approached their dwelling. “I’ve come to offer counsel and comfort,” he told Marie, who stood in the doorway, arms folded against her chest.
“Not yet.” she declared with firm resolve.
“When?” he asked.
“When she’s ready,” Marie said. She had the scent of baking about her, a buttery yeasty smell that reminded Robert that he had not eaten all day.
“Has she spoken yet?”
Lips pursed, Marie responded with an abrupt shake of her head.
“And her health?”
“She looks better than you,” Marie said. As Robert turned to leave, she called after him. “Master,” she said, “you won’t be helping any of us if you starve yourself sick. We need a leader strong of body as well as faith.”
Master? He wondered if perhaps a full belly and a place to sleep had softened her attitude towards him, and the idea filled him with joy. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll eat tomorrow.”
The night air, thick with humidity and the peppery scent of vegetation, carried the high-pitch bark of a lone pup and the harsh clang of a leper’s bell. Standing by the charred remains of that night’s fire, Robert imagined the monastery he would build. The church unfolded in his mind’s eye with the clarity of a holy vision.
Built of white stone, the exterior was simple, but within, the soul leaped: the central nave, massive and white, the flagstone floor, flecked with glittering mica, heavy columns and arches, established solid order, the only decorations small carvings in the capitals. At the end of the nave, bright light illuminates the chancel, its narrow pillars thrusting heavenward.
Flanking the church, he saw the huge quadrangle of the monastery. At its center, square lawns of the cloister were divided into smaller squares by hedges. Along one side of the cloister a large refectory terminated in an eight-sided kitchen. On another side stood the chapter house and common room.
Visualizing the buildings gave him a sense of purpose and direction. He realized that women need protecting, that caring for them was to be his life’s true mission. He determined he would dedicate the oratory to John the Evangelist, and that the men—clerics, monks and laymen alike—would serve the women just as John served Mary. In this way he might partially amend for his sin with women.