The Forsaken Monarch Page 21

  It is wrong for the king’s son to stand behind his nephew, I thought, and I might have said something to my cousin had I not arrived in front of the abbot.

  “Remember: you are dust, and to dust shall you return,” the abbot said, lifting his fingers and making the sign of the cross on my forehead.

  It was not as if I had forgotten. The whole day served to make us aware of our mortality. Nevertheless, as I returned to my position and the others had the ashes placed upon them, I considered that in comparison with the sacrifice of our Lord, my own cares were as dust.

  You must stop this. Truly, you must, I told myself. You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out of it.

  Yes, I told myself that, but even so, my thoughts continued to turn back to my problem. I chided myself to no end.

  Why do you seek something you know you can never have? You know the king would forbid it, and more than that, you have no reason to suppose that Lord Brian desires it. Who do you think you are? They may respect you for your crown, but they will never love you. If the emperor never had a passion for you, and he was your husband, then why would anyone else? You must find your contentment in God alone.

  Once the service was mercifully complete, we made our way out of the church and were about to return home when young William made a declaration.

  “Father, we must show the empress our new game!” he cried.

  “New game? What is that?” I asked.

  “The monks call it ‘hand ball,’ but I think it an ill name,” brother Robert replied, then looked down at his son. “We can show her the court, but I do not think we should play today, given the occasion. This is the day of Christ’s death, after all.”

  As the king and queen remained behind to speak with the archbishop, the king’s lads led me to the cloister just to the south of the church. A covered stone walk in the shape of a square was separated from the main stretch of grass by a row of columns and a low stone fence that connected each one. The grass courtyard was surrounded by a gravel path just inside the fence, and in the middle a rope was hung up between two posts.

  “I don’t understand. Do you have to hop over it?” I asked, as we stepped on to the grass.

  They all laughed at these words, and I felt rather foolish.

  “No, one person stands on each side and they throw or hit the ball back and forth,” Stephen explained.

  “And if the ball hits the ground, you lose the point,” William added, clutching the rope.

  “So you just hit it with your hand?” I inquired.

  “Yes, hence the name,” said Robert.

  “Actually, you’re wrong,” Brian told them, reaching down to remove some stray pebbles from the grass. “That is the way the monks used to play, but now they hit the ball with a stick—well, it’s more of a paddle really.”

  “So why do they still call it hand ball?” Robert Beaumont asked.

  “Last I heard, they were calling it ‘palm game,’” he replied, throwing the pebbles back in the gravel path, “for you still throw or hit it with the palm at times.”

  Even as he said this, a door at the far end of the cloister opened and shut, and one of the monks entered the courtyard where we had assembled, his hands evidently clasped together inside his long sleeves.

  “My lords, may I help you?” he asked, bowing his head in deference.

  “Yes. We want to play!” William cried, leaping up and down for good measure.

  “Son, I told you no,” his father said, grasping the boy’s shoulders firmly as if to plant his feet to the ground.

  “But father, the empress wants to see!” William whined.

  “We can show her another time.”

  “It is not a problem,” the monk said. “I can pull the balls out if you wish.”

  With this, brother Robert finally relented and allowed them to set up the game.

  “Two on each side,” Brian said.

  “My son and I shall take this side. Stephen, you go with Robert,” brother Robert instructed.

  As the monk retrieved the chest holding the balls and paddles, I took a spot within the square passage, leaning on the low stone fence with my arms crossed. All was made ready and Stephen began the game by throwing the ball off the roof and on to the other side of the court. My brother then hit it back toward Robert Beaumont, who was not quick enough and let it drop to the ground.

  “Yes! One point for us!” William rejoiced.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brian rounding the corner of the passage and coming in my direction. I stood up a bit straighter but did not look at him directly until he took his place right next to me.

  “So what do you think of our game?” he asked.

  “Very nice, I suppose,” I replied, looking back at the players.

  “You suppose?”

  “Well, I am sure it is fun to play.”

  “But … what?”

  I turned my head to face him again. “What do you wish me to say? It is four men—well, three men and one boy—hitting a ball back and forth.” Here I moved my hand as if to demonstrate the path of the ball. “This may not be the greatest excitement I have ever received, but I admit the game has merit.”

  “Very well, I accept your answer,” he said with a smile, leaning on the fence and looking forward.

  I tried my best to pay attention to the game, but his very presence was distracting. Of course, I enjoyed being near him. Every part of me seemed to be more alive around him. However, I was held back as always by the fear of how my father would respond, along with my fear of rejection by Brian himself. I valued his friendship and did not want to lose it on account of some foolish whim. I wondered if there was anything I could do that might diminish what I felt. Alas, that did not seem likely.

  “I hear your father receives many new offers for your hand,” he said. “You must be flattered.”

  I had not heard anything of the sort and learning of it from Brian seemed doubly painful. Yes, I knew that the king would not allow me to remain a widow for ever, but the idea of being married to some stranger was awful when I was standing right next to someone I loved. More to the point, it was terrible to hear the news from his lips. Had he actually felt drawn to me as I did to him, it seemed unlikely that he would speak of me being flattered by other suitors, and no matter how much I tried, some small part of me had still held out hope that I was wrong and he actually did like me—yes, even love me. Thus, my heart felt very torn, and I simply said the first thing that came to mind.

  “It is my standing they desire and not myself.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he told me earnestly. “I am certain that, were they to meet you—”

  “It would make no difference. My first husband liked me well enough. If I achieve that a second time, I shall count myself fortunate.”

  “But you must believe that—”

  “Please!” I said with some authority. “I do not think we should be discussing this. It is a private affair.”

  He made no reply, but I suspected he was a bit wounded, for his countenance was clearly fallen. Maybe that sounded too harsh, I worried, but I did not dare to speak further and make the damage even worse. He looked back at the players, and I did the same.

  As we stood in silence, my eyes glanced down at his hands, which were perched very near mine on the stone rail. There was so little space between us, and yet it seemed like an eternal abyss. I imagined myself reaching out, crossing those few inches of space, and taking his hand. My heart leaped even as I thought about it. Yet no sooner had I done so than the scene in my mind changed and he was pulling his hand back and crying, “Why would you do that?!” I shook my head slightly and pulled my mind back into the present, where the ball continued to bounce back and forth.

  Another minute must have passed before Brian suddenly turned and spoke rather bluntly, “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “No,” I replied quickly.

  “You’re certain?” he asked, his eyes searching my f
ace.

  “Yes.”

  He planted his hand on the rail, leaning closer to address me. “On Christmas Eve, I walked you back to your room. We were alone for a moment, and it seemed to concern you. Ever since then, we’ve hardly spoken.”

  He was very close to guessing my secret, or so it seemed. I certainly did not want to be rude, but I was quite afraid that acknowledging how I enjoyed being around him would give the game away. Uncertain what else to do, I decided to turn the game around on him.

  “If you find me poor company, then there are plenty of others with whom you may converse. Why do you feel such a need to speak with me?”

  “Because …”

  The features in his face were strained, as if he was searching for the words.

  Oh, please say you desire my company above all others! I thought.

  But he did not say it, nor did he say anything else. He simply hit the railing with his hand and walked off without another word. My eyes followed him as he walked swiftly down the passage and departed the cloister without stopping to inform the others. I was quite stunned and stood there for a moment, uncertain as to what I should do.

  That was odd, I said to myself. Very odd. I have never seen him act that way.

  My mind raced back through our conversation, attempting to discover the point where things had gone wrong. I had asked him why he desired my company, and then he had stormed off, unwilling to answer. Was it possible that he enjoyed being around me and yet felt ashamed to say so? But why would he feel ashamed by that? No, it couldn’t be. It made no sense.

  The more I considered the matter, the more I recognized that I must have wounded his sense of honor with my question. I was not sure how, but that was what usually made men forsake a conversation. I was still watching the game, but all I could think was, Well, now you’ve done it, Maud! He hates you!

  I count myself fortunate that, from my earliest days, I was taught to read the written word. When I think of the poor souls who must stare at those letters in stark ignorance, unable to gain the knowledge they provide, I pity them most truly. For when life becomes a sore cross to bear, some easy occupation is needed to bring a measure of comfort, and a good book can be the perfect remedy.

  I was blessed with many volumes, some of which I have already mentioned. There were few I loved as much as the Metamorphoses, that ancient tale of the pagan gods. While I remained in the palace of Rouen upon the banks of the Seine, provided the weather was fair, I would walk out and take my repose in the shade of an apple tree near the water’s edge, where I might read without interruption. Thus, upon Easter Monday in the year of our Lord 1126, I set out with my volume of Ovid in hand. As I desired some exercise, I left the palace by way of the main tower and made my way into the gardens, each of which was surrounded by a hedge. I began walking amid the rows of herbs in the first garden, knowing I would come to the tree eventually.

  “What shall it be today?” I asked myself. “Perhaps the story of Icarus: there is a tale that would induce caution.”

  Even as I continued walking, I turned to the eighth book and began to read, the words of Ovid bringing delight to each step.

  “‘Along the middle runs a twine of flax, the bottom stems are joined by pliant wax. Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings the fine composure into real wings.’ Hmm … I wonder if anyone has tried this? It seems simple enough.”

  I entered the garden for the infirm and continued walking toward the largest garden near the castle wall. It was delightfully sunny, and there were butterflies here and there. I smiled and returned to reading.

  “‘My boy, take care to wing your course along the middle air; if low, the surges wet your flagging plumes; if high the sun the melting wax consumes.’ Well, this father is negligent! Of course the boy will go too high!”

  At that very moment, I heard the voice of Brian fitz Count. “Empress Maud?”

  My first thought was that I might have imagined his voice, but as I looked to my right, I saw that it was indeed Brian walking toward me, and he had evidently seen me making a fool of myself by speaking my thoughts aloud. Oh dear! Oh dear! I thought. Yes, even though I knew my cause was hopeless, some part of me was still trying to impress him.

  “Good day, sir,” I said, shutting the book quickly.

  “Good day, Your Highness,” he replied with a bow.

  “I seem to have wandered too far. I had best get back.”

  I started to retreat toward the infirmary garden, when he said, “Come into the garden, if you will. I have something to show you.”

  I turned back to look at him. He seemed honestly pleased to see me, a smile upon his face. Perhaps he did not hate me then. Nevertheless, I briefly considered denying his request, but a voice in my head seemed to say, Have courage, Maud. Speak with him. It won’t kill you. How will you make it through life if you cannot talk to people? Therefore, despite how awkward I felt, I approached.

  I walked to within a single pace of him, quickly tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear. I looked in his eyes meekly but saw nothing there to make me think he was the least bit angry. Indeed, those eyes almost seemed to beckon me. Then again, I could be seeing what I desired yet again.

  “So what is this thing you have to show me?” I asked.

  “Over here,” he replied, pointing to the right. “Some of the roses are starting to bloom.”

  I followed him toward the outer wall of the castle, where a line of rose bushes was planted. “Over here!” he called, beckoning with his hand even as he bent down and pulled one of the branches toward us. Sure enough, a few pink flowers had opened.

  “Usually they don’t bloom for a few more weeks,” he said. “Here, smell one!”

  As he continued to hold the branch, I set my book down on the ground, leaned forward carefully, and placed my nose near the bloom. I closed my eyes and took in its fragrance. It was indeed wonderful. I had gone for months without smelling a flower in bloom. Its scent seemed to call to mind everything wonderful in the world. I then opened my eyes and noticed that my face was very close to Brian’s. My heart leaped and I straightened up at once.

  “What accounts for these early blooms?” I asked, reasoning that this was a fairly safe subject of conversation. I was unlikely to slip up as long as we were discussing plants.

  “It has been rather hot for the season, which has caused them to grow more quickly,” he replied, letting go of the branch and standing up himself. “The only danger is that it may yet freeze, and then the buds will die.”

  “Well, I hope that they continue to grow without a problem. Now, I really must be getting back.”

  “Wait!” he said, taking hold of my arm.

  In an instant, I felt heat pass through my body. It was rare for anyone to touch me in such a manner, and to have the man I loved do so seemed to heighten every desire within me, even if he only did it to get my attention. I strove to reclaim my thoughts and direct the situation. I looked at his face again. His eyes were wide. Indeed, they looked almost desperate, searching my face. All this happened within the space of two breaths, and yet it seemed to be moving slowly.

  “Did you come here because you knew I would be taking my walk?” I asked.

  He let go of my arm and raised his hands as if in apology. “Yes, I am sorry,” he said softly. “I just knew it was the only way I could speak with you.”

  He wanted to speak with me? I could see that this conversation was about to go one of two directions, and I was exceedingly interested in which one it would be. I waited for a moment to see if he would continue. His lips began to form a word, and then he stopped. Finally, I spoke instead.

  “I do not understand you, Sir Brian. Why are you always so desperate to speak with me? Is there some favor you require?” I had no desire to be rude, but I very much wanted to find out the truth of the situation.

  “No, that isn’t it,” he said definitively.

  “Then what?”

  “Why are you always avoiding me?” he aske
d, his tone direct but not rude. “For the past few months, every time I try to speak to you, I feel there is a wall between us, and it saddens me. Your friendship means a great deal. I must know the answer to this riddle, for you claim I have never offended you. So why do you withdraw?”

  He almost had me there. He had clearly recognized that I was avoiding him, or at least avoiding the kind of open conversations we used to have. Well, that was no surprise. He was one of the cleverest men I had ever known. Sadly, were I to answer his question honestly, I would be forced to admit that I loved him. I feared that rejection would be only one step behind, so I was determined to give nothing away.

  “It is not for me to tell you what I think or do not think about anyone,” I told him.

  He shook his head slightly. “I do not seek to command you. I am asking you as a friend, for I hope that is what we are. Please tell me what I have done wrong.”

  “Why does it matter?” I asked, afraid to know the answer, and yet longing to know it.

  “Of course it matters!” he cried.

  “No, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine.”

  So there we stood, staring at one another, both breathing heavily, neither of us willing to admit what was on our mind—neither willing to cross the Rubicon that stood between us. I did not want to lie to him, and yet I feared what might happen if I told him the truth.

  “I cannot answer your question,” I finally said, “not truly, so I shall not answer at all.”

  I attempted to leave once again, but he stepped in front of me and blocked my path.

  “Please, you can tell me anything, even if it is to assail me. Even if you wish to send me into exile and never see my face again. I should hate it, but I will hear it.”

  My heart was feeling so much in that moment that I was on the verge of tears. I held my eyes shut and whispered, “That is the last thing I want.”

  “If you seek to be near me, then why do you avoid me?”

  “Because I cannot be near you!” I cried, opening my eyes again.

  “Why not?”

  The look on his face was so earnest, so determined that my defenses were breaking down.