Taking the Cross, page 5
Without breaking stride, Claris threw a glance over her shoulder and smiled as she increased her pace.
Eva lingered in the orchard as Claris passed through the West Gate and returned to the community. She found places to stack pears upon pears. She finished filling the wooden basket and turned to commence the short journey home.
She looked across the orchard to the terra-cotta roofed row houses of brick rising above the walls in the distance and the women and young girls and boys busily at work, tending to the grounds, engaged in some craft, or playing boule. They seemed light of spirit and free of care.
At times she wished to be lightened of the unending burden of peering through the veil into the ethereal where nothing held shape for long. Often she questioned her own fortitude of mind at seeing evil at work in events or people that by all other appearances seemed innocent.
As she emerged from the grove, something registered in her peripheral vision. A shadow, but not as one should be. It formed into figures of six sides, like the honeycomb of a beehive, and then seemed to coalesce into the shape of an owl then into a circle like a boule or perla. It was from a nearby tree and she noticed that the angle seemed to have shifted though the sun had not. The shape seemed more precise, better defined than the edges of a shadow ought to be. She blinked hard, decided it was the heat and her mind playing tricks on her.
She lofted the basket onto her shoulder and walked the narrow hard packed dirt path down the grassy slope toward the east gate. Upon leaving the shade of the orchard, she could feel and smell her dark hair gathering the warmth of the sun. The knight of Prince Guillaume on guard, fully armed and in hauberk, opened the gate and Eva entered the community. She kept her head low as she walked past the smithy and stables, even as the sweet smell of hay and the tang of manure rested upon the heated air. Eva hoped to avoid anyone else she knew well and the resultant long dialogue that would likely follow. How many of the women could spend hours in idle chatter, devout as they were otherwise. The conversations with Claris rarely were idle, but her mentor challenged her and it often left Eva tired afterwards.
Now thoughts of her father weighed on her this day in a fashion she had not experienced for many years. She needed to digest the letter once more.
She reached the threshold of her home, opened the oaken door, entered, and deposited the basket of pears on the polished pine floor. Climbing the white tiled stairs to her bedchamber, she entered the room and walked to the iron bound trunk of cypress where the items were, her only physical connection to her father
Some of the objects she knew were of exceeding value, though she’d never had them appraised. The priest in Outremer had made sure that her father’s share of Acre’s bounty was shipped to her and her mother. Each time she opened the trunk, she mildly chastised herself for her lax measures of safekeeping. If the wrong soul knew what lie within—
Reaching over the gold and silver bowls and platters, and other objects abundantly encrusted in dark colored jewels that apparently were so prevalent in Outremer, she removed an unadorned, unvarnished, round wooden tube perhaps two-thirds of a yard in length.
It was made of pear wood. The limb had been the perfect thickness. The rest of the tree she had carved into use for the choir and sacristy of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Nazare in Orange that had been completed the year previous, in 1208.
But the limb she had kept for herself.
She had rounded it into a perfect cylinder on her pole lathe, which was still given tension with the same strong rope her mother had purchased ten years past, and had bored out the center, rubbing it smooth with sandstone and pumice inside and out, creating a fine parchment tube. It kept the letter sealed from the dust and dampness of Provence. Removing the end of the cylinder, she carefully pulled out the lambskin parchment. Closing the trunk, she unrolled the document on top of it.
Then the remembrance jolted her.
The meeting. She had forgotten.
Her Painter said he had new carving work for her, a challenge she would relish. Carefully rolling the letter once more and returning it to the cylinder, she remembered her hunger as well.
First closing and latching the trunk, she descended the stairs and entered the pantry. Hurriedly she consumed the remainder of a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese—she despised it when anything went to waste—and washed it down with the remainder of a flagon of wine. She snatched the piece of pear wood she had readied for the occasion, made her egress from the row house, and hastened across the common toward the East Gate and the city of Orange.
CHAPTER 5
18 JULY 1209
Their army seeking peace rode across the final expanse of the valley. Andreas felt a pang of trepidation as they abandoned the haven of such an open place. Trees once more rushed up to the road. Towers of wood to hide a foe lying in wait. He straightened his back. Without turning his head, he quickened his hearing to the sounds of the forest.
All that reached his ears was the noise of creatures in flight: the songs of sparrows, the cry of hawks circling overhead, the sound of owls in the wood, the buzzing of bees. A hive must be concealed in a nearby tree. There was enough lavender and poppies in the valley they had quitted to sustain honeybees without number. Had he indeed heard owls?
He spied more small creatures and birds than at any other point previous on their journey. The forest spilled itself onto the road. Two white rabbits hopped across the indented route of stone. Several gray squirrels leapt in front of them as a pheasant ruffled the leaves and took flight. A great wild boar with huge curved tusks rumbled through the forest, trampling the saplings in its path like tender flowers. In the periphery of his sight, Andreas saw at least three deer bounding through the underbrush. Another two, a stag and a doe, broke out of the wood and dashed across the road not ten yards in front of their company.Was it only the skittish ways of deer stirring up the wood, or another thing?
This day it would be good to be on the hunt. He was hungry. Imagining the smell and taste of venison or pork roasting on a spit was no chore.
But not only deer and boars were in motion this day.
Andreas returned his attention to the songs of birds and sensed nothing unusual, yet his apprehension remained, stubbornly lodged in his mind, like beef in one’s back teeth. Wondering what Raimon Roger was thinking on, Andreas started to express his concern, then halted his speech as his lips parted and the breath filled his throat.
If there was a reason to be leery of the forest, he decided Raimon Roger already knew of it.
Andreas prided himself on knowing when to trust Raimon Roger and when to question his lord’s judgment. Raimon Roger would know if anything was amiss and would have formulated a plan. Bertran also seemed unconcerned. The châtelain chose instead to put forth an innocent question.
“We near Montpellier, my lord. Shall we continue on to the city?”
“We reach the extent of my lands.” The tone of Raimon Roger was wary. “Montpellier may be under the banner of King Pedro, even the natal city of the Viscountess, but I assure you we will receive no fair welcome there this night.” He looked to the greenwood. “An inn is nearby, outside the city walls. We shall take our slumber there. The owner is a friend and remains true. He will treat us in the proper fashion. He may also have word of the French interlopers.”
Bertran made a mark in the air with his finger. “Pardon my lord; has he stables for our horses?”
Raimon Roger shot him a knowing look. “Not only stables but watering troughs and feed aplenty. You yourselves will dine at table and fill your bellies and will not leave thirsty. Guilhabert will see to it.”
“Ale for all!” cried Aimer, riding next to Bertran. “A man grows parched in this accursed heat.”
“I think you’ll find the wine more to your liking,” said Raimon Roger, feigning seriousness, knowing of Aimer’s fondness for good ale. “Guilhabert is always well-stocked with barrels of Toulousain burgundy.”
“Milk for the squires then. They are but babes newly weaned.” Aimer looked back at the rear of the company and laughed. “At their tender age, they must not over imbibe. Or cut into the supply of our hearty wine bowls.” The sturdy, red-haired knight laughed again, glanced once more at the youths, who remained impassive. Aimer ever reminded Andreas of a Norseman. He even preferred the battle axe over the warsword. The squires had no need of worry, for Aimer would be the first to make sure their flagons were filled with wine or ale.
Andreas turned to the squires and winked. He sought to give reassurance. Not that they would easily betray their angst, but he sensed it nonetheless. It was palpable. The squires knew their first engagement may soon be forthcoming. Andreas had told them as much and their response proved they had taken heed. It was one thing to prepare for battle with pels, the stout wooden posts imbedded in the ground that were used for training. It was another thing entirely to be locked in steely combat, bloody and imminent. Only the thrust of a sword or blow of an axe from plunging to mortality.
He had first tasted of this sickening thrill at age six and ten, seven years past.
The buzzing of bees echoed still in his ears.
Andreas looked to Raimon Roger. “My lord, I know of no inn that lies in these woods.”
“There are reasons why the knowledge of its existence is elusive. It is possible to travel the Via Domitia many times and have no awareness of this inn. Its secret is jealously guarded among certain men.” Raimon Roger turned his head to face the entire company of knights. “I expect it to remain so after this night.”
“Have no care, my lord,” said Bertran. “But tell me this I pray, where lies the graveyard of those who would speak of its setting? Surely the owners of loose lips have paid a price.” He seemed to have knowledge of what he spoke.
Raimon Roger smiled grimly. “In a few days you may be able to ask them yourself if you have want.”
Andreas looked to Raimon Roger then back to Bertran.
Aimer, riding next to Bertran, pointed heavenward. “I would wonder what devil is worshipped there under a full moon in a courtyard of stone that so few have knowledge of its very existence. What infernal secret lies hidden within? What covert altar to a pagan god?”
“Perhaps it is a noble hunting lodge where the board is paid for in gold and deer hides and the souls of men.” Andreas smiled but felt a flash of fear.
“You are not far from the mark, my friend, though not in the manner in which you think,” said Raimon Roger softly. “Here lies the red boulder. It is time to enter the forest.” He drew rein with one hand, and raised the other high. “Halt,” he declared to the company as his massive chestnut mare slowed to a stop. It was a milsoldor, a thousand shillinger, a warhorse of exceeding value.
“We proceed single file to the right. All fall in line behind me, including you Guilhem,” ordered Raimon Roger. “Lower flag and banner, we will have no more need of them this day.”
The gonfanonier did as he was bidden and obediently moved in line behind the knights and squires.
As Andreas directed his own black stallion into place, he became aware they were at a rare spot where the road both dipped and rounded a bend all at once. Unless almost on top of them, other travelers on the road would be unable to see them. None were nearby.
A shallow streamlet that seemed to part the hill flowed alongside the extreme end of the turn in the road, vanishing in the dense wood of Lignin Oak.
Without a word, Viscount Raimon Roger Trencavel disappeared behind a triangular-shaped red monolith and plunged his horse onto a watery path. The knights and squires followed one at a time toward the unknown Inn of Guilhabert.
CHAPTER 6
18 JULY 1209
The district of the guild of painters in Orange was a warren of ancient buildings. Ochre-colored Roman stone structures barely cleaved from one another by cobblestone alleyways, which were little more than footpaths.
It was said that painters toiled there because no other merchandise was so flat as to be carried among such a tightly packed maze of stone.
Even in these compact spaces, the city was alive with the dealings of business. Customers entered and departed painters’ houses; some clutched their newly purchased art or painted manuscripts.
The Painter that Eva sought had his rooms in a corner dwelling on the edge of the district, befitting his ever-rising status. He had moved from the crowded heart of the warren some thirteen years past to his ancient and elegant house.
The erupting fervor of holy building had served him well.
In an age when each burgeoning city of means wanted an imposing, inspiring cathedral to house the relics of saints and fill the coffers with the largesse of wealthy pilgrims, painters who could combine colored enamels with carved wood to match the grandeur of stained glass were greatly in favor.
The Painter was waiting for Eva when she reached his studio. She glimpsed him keeping vigil by the front window.
She tarried before making entrance, admiring the towering exterior stone wall of the city’s Roman theatre. Though she had seen it countless times, it never ceased to inspire, for unlike so many Roman structures in Provence, the theatre had not dissolved to ruin. She could imagine a play by Sophocles or Euripides being performed there.
Yet she need focus on painting now and think not on dramatic stagings. She lifted her eyes from the theater and entered the Painter’s triple-story villa.
Passing under the lintel, she breathed in slowly through her nostrils the startling, brain-cleansing smell of paint on wood. To Eva it was a holy odor, like the smoke of incense in Solomon’s Temple lifting to the Almighty.
On a small stone table were multiple grayish clamshells filled with paints of various shades. The Painter had clearly just finished using the newly mixed paints to color the series of pear wood rosettes she had carved the month previous. They lay spread out on a canvas covered rectangular table in the center of his workspace. A few still glistened brightly, covered in bright beautiful hues of red, pink, yellow, azure, green, and purple, and still obviously wet, but she knew none would ever appear entirely dry.
Few understood the art, but the Painter was able to mix his pigments and solvents to produce an effect that seemed to bring life to the dead wood he adorned with his enamels, a way to make the paint remain glossy without rubbing or flaking off with the passage of time. The red, she knew, was produced with cinnabar obtained from Iberia, dried and crushed to a fine, bright red powder and mixed with certain oils. The azure, even more costly, came from crushed lapis lazuli from Italy, and left a luminescent, jewel-like effect that sparkled with a faint golden shimmer on parchment or wood alike. Paintings from centuries past adorned in the blue of lapis lazuli lost not a glimmer of color, ever appeared as if stroked onto the surface earlier in the day. There was no other color more costly, not even purple.
At the sight of her, the Painter deposited his sable hairbrushes in a wooden bowl filled with turpentine and removed his spattered white smock.
“Ah, my gray-robed Beguine. I thought the knowledge of our meeting may have vanished in your orchard of peras,” said the Painter, turning his lips in a smile that did not engage his eyes. Eva took note.
“I brought the wood you requested.” Eva handed him the piece.
“Ah yes. Pera wood,” said the Painter, reaching for the rectangular object. He examined the rich brown color of the smooth-grained timber. “To simply behold such a tree, one would not know the beauty or value of its wood.” His finger moved the length of the wood grain. “Do you have supply enough for the choir, sacristy, and altars? They will require perhaps forty more pieces of this size.” The Painter set down the wood, turned to his stone jars.
“The ten trees nearest the valley of the Rhône have reached good size this season. They should yield twice that bounty.”
“Splendid. His grace, the bishop of Avignon, will pay handsomely for the adornments. You must cut the wood now and let it dry over winter.” The Painter stopped closing the stone jars with pigments, cocked his head sideways, and narrowed his eyes. “There must be no cracking as in la cathedrale in Arles.”
Eva clucked her tongue once and let indignity fill her voice. “That was but one piece, and three years past at that.”
The Painter took a step back, held up his hands in conciliation, color-etched palms outward. “I know this, and you repaired it admirably, dear Eva. I examined it anew on my recent journey to Arles and it remains whole, have no fear.” He closed his right hand except for his index finger and pointed it at her. “In Avignon, there must be no such failing.” He poked her thrice in the shoulder. It had ever been his way of chastening. “The city is special to Rome in ways I do not comprehend. Popes enjoy making sojourn there and celebrating mass. Success in la cathedrale Notre Dame de Doms will expand our good name and our business. You most certainly will earn your coinage this time.”
“The one exception notwithstanding, do not I always surpass expectation?” She gave the most winsome smile she could muster, let the corners of her lips droop to a frown. “Although you receive all recognition.”
Her eyes glanced casually about the room, but her mind was working like a thresher, trying to sift out what felt different about this place, this large villa occupied by only one man. Another presence was here. She could sense it. Whether corporeal or ethereal, such knowledge eluded her.
“I never reveal the name of my carver and my customers do not inquire,” replied the Painter, seemingly oblivious to Eva’s visual scanning of his studio.
“I never know who would approve or disapprove of a woman supplying the ornate carving of a masculine cathedral or monastery,” he stated with a broad wave of his hand. He proceeded to bend over the table and blow lightly on the still drying rosettes.
“Slender fingers make the most intricate designs and latticework,” replied Eva, collapsing into a black leather chair. Exhaling, she turned her full attention toward the Painter, a squat man with powerful limbs, a wild shock of black hair and penetrating, hazel-colored eyes.
