The Lute Player

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said. Then I gave my mind to the problem whether this might genuinely rank as a revelation. I had said that St. Petronella had said nothing which could not have been in Berengaria’s mind. She had countered that statement. But could it still be true? For there are things that we think, things we admit to our minds, and there are other things unadmitted which burrow about in our minds and stay hidden even from ourselves. Was this suggestion actually St. Petronella’s or something which Berengaria, set to deceive the world, had once thought of? A vague idea which had crawled in and burrowed and then, in favourable circumstances, crept up to the surface as earthworms creep up after a warm rain?

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘did you ever read anything about St. Petronella?’

  ‘Anna, you know I never read! All I knew was that she had a reputation for making babies. I didn’t even know that until Blanche told me.’

  When I found an opportunity to read a life of St. Petronella I learned that she had spent her youth in Talmont gutting herring and salting them and packing them in barrels. I also learned that one day a woman who worked alongside her, exasperated during an altercation, had attacked her with a knife. Only the direct intervention of God, so the book said, had saved the saint from losing an eye; as it was, she carried the scar to her grave. The account of her virtues—which were many—mentioned “an honest bluntness of speech,” a “distaste for deceit in any form.”

  With that I was driven to wonder. Also, thinking it over, all in all I found that I had a good deal of fellow feeling with the woman who had set about St. Petronella with the gutting knife!

  So far as anyone could see that was a very merry Christmas. Berengaria’s new ladies were a gay, lively crowd and the nobles and knights matched them. Even Richard threw himself into the revels with good heart. He had changed very little, despite the years, despite his cruel disappointment over Jerusalem, despite his long imprisonment. He was still incomparably the handsomest man in Christendom, still capable, at the age of forty, of developing the boisterous high spirit of a boy. Or he could be subtly witty, bluntly outspoken, immensely considerate, inexcusably rude, in turn.

  Under the topsy-turvy custom of the Twelve Day revels, Eddi, the castle jester, was appointed Lord of Misrule and his word was law. (The custom had, I believe, in years gone by led to confusion, chaos and even bloodshed; but nowadays the Lords of Misrule knew to a nicety how far they were supposed to go, and unpleasant incidents were very rare.) Richard was appointed Court Minstrel and when he took lute in hand and played and sang—sometimes sweet tuneful romantic songs, sometimes impromptu witty variations—I think every woman in the hall fell in love with him. Except me and even I found myself thinking how attractive he was and what a pity—and so on.

  By this time the rumours about him had spread far and wide; one or two bishops had felt it their duty to speak to him bluntly about his behaviour and bishops inspired by a sense of duty are seldom very discreet. Hugh of Lincoln had once accosted him at Mass, caught him by the sleeve and delivered a straight-forward lecture on his various sins which was heard by everyone present in the church. Admittedly Hugh had a quarrel with Richard concerning a fur cloak but the lecture was not about the sin of covetousness.

  However, there was always something about Richard Plantagenet, especially when he was present in the flesh, which seemed to give the lie to the rumour. Since Raife of Clermont had died long ago in Acre nobody had actually been named as his successor in Richard’s affection. And he now lived with the Queen, didn’t he? Childless—yes, but then that was usually the woman’s fault and some women were childless. The rumours were eagerly spread, seized on, believed; and then—like an appetising but indigestible dish—they tended to be vomited up. Men found it difficult to attribute such a vice to a man who was so brave, so virile, so noisy, so capable, so altogether what a man should be. And every woman, every single woman who ever came within range of him, felt that if she had been Berengaria she would have found it very easy to make him an ardent lover, a glad father of great boys with red-gold hair and prominent blue eyes.

  I know this was so, for I spent all that Christmas listening to women talk, often openly, often in a language they thought I did not understand. They all admitted that Berengaria was beautiful but… The buts varied and, if viewed with sufficient detachment, could on occasion provoke a sour amusement. But she was cold, hard, stupid; she hadn’t wanted to marry him; no, in sooth, somebody’s aunt’s brother-in-law had been in Italy long ago while Berengaria of Navarre had been staying with her aunt Lucia; there had been a young noble—of course an impossible match—Sancho had been furious and arranged the marriage with Richard straightaway. Ah, but wasn’t the real truth that Berengaria herself was queer? Joanna Plantagenet. That was why he, in a fury, had taken up with some man in Palestine, just his fun, his witty way of showing Berengaria how she was making a fool of herself; and you will note that it wasn’t until Joanna had been married off again to Count Egidio that Richard had taken Berengaria back. Really, how strange, two women—two men… But what? How? Why? On and on it went, tireless, pointless as our busy look, see, listen, roundabout at L’Espan.

  And I would think: God’s eyes! If only you knew, you gibbering, gabbling blind fools! And then again I would think: What a joke it would be, how it would fool you and serve you all right if—But there I was bound to stop short because my sense of humour wasn’t quite as keen or disinterested as that of St. Petronella.

  Towards Berengaria Richard behaved impeccably now that he was on holiday and forced into her company. Courteous, attentive, kind. But there was no ease between them. Not even the flat, dull acceptance of one another that binds so many married couples. To my watchful eye they always seemed like a bride and groom perhaps long betrothed, perhaps willing to make themselves agreeable to each another—but just newly thrust together, wary, distrustful, uncertain. When he joked with her at table she invariably looked anxious—now, now this is a jest, do I understand it? Ah, yes, thank God—funny, yes, I see! And her laughter was always late. When he was attentive and kind there was a look in her eyes which said, Ah, if only this were real! She could pretend to the world; and to me she could make great angry speeches about false necklaces and pride and keeping up appearances—but it was plain to me now that I saw them together that she was really head over ears in love with him still and that her love constituted an almost fatal handicap.

  However, on the whole, the holiday season was pleasant and ordinary until we came to Twelfth-night and were rioting our way through an uproarious game of forfeits. The whole point of this game is that the Lord of Misrule—who will tomorrow be reduced to his proper station in life—can be as tyrannical as he pleases and can dictate to everyone, choosing the forfeit which the victim must pay with a special eye to the company’s amusement. A shy young squire, for example, will be sent to kiss the haughtiest lady, the stoutest or the most pompous man set to going round the floor of the hall on his hands and knees and so on. It is very simple. I never take part in the game because my participation embarrasses everybody, so on this evening I sat, as I had on many another Twelfth-night, on a stool just behind the temporary throne from which the Lord of Misrule issued his orders. Now and again, as I had done many times before, I would suggest some particularly apt and amusing forfeit that occurred to me.

  The fun was at its height; everybody was full of good meat and strong wine, bent on ending the festivities in proper style. Eddi, the jester, had proved himself an admirable Lord of Misrule, always amusing, always just tactful enough. One of the ladies whom I had overheard boasting in English had been sent to kiss the King just to see whether the touch of her lips held the magic that she imputed to it. And he had bussed her heartily and set her on his knee amidst great laughter.

  Presently it was his own turn and he presented himself in good humble fashion and said the words, ‘My Lord of Misrule, what is it you will that I should do?’ And Eddi, who may have been drunk or may have been bribed or simply daring
beyond belief, said in a low voice, ‘Get an heir for England.’

  I was the only one apart from Richard who could hear the words; not that there was anything strange in that, for the hall was full of din and sometimes the sentences in this game were whispered, especially if they partly concerned another person, so that one might be taken by surprise. And only I, seated just behind Eddi’s throne, could see Richard’s face. It went quite black with rage. He lifted his hands, took Eddi by the throat and began to shake him as a terrier shakes a rat. The merry, tipsy company, who had not heard Eddi’s words or seen Richard’s face, took this as part of the game and renewed their laughter. I got up from my seat and ran forward and took Richard’s arm in as hard a grip as I could force my hands to and said, ‘My lord, desist! You’ll kill him. The words were only said in jest.’ But he was past hearing. And my full weight on his arm could only weaken his grip, it could not break it. Without thinking, acting instinctively as an animal, I stretched my neck and set my teeth into the fleshy part of his hand and bit into it with all my might. With a muttered curse Richard moved his hand to shake me off as though I were a ferret and Eddi who, though he was thin and gangling, was too tough a fellow to be strangled by one of Richard Plantagenet’s hands, shook himself free.

  By this time the company was beginning to crowd down to our end of the hall to see what was to do. There was half a minute when the whole thing hung in the balance. Then Eddi, recovering the quick wit which had brought him from herding sheep to entertaining kings, called out:

  ‘My good people, that was a wasted jest and the best of the game. “Get the Duchess of Apieta to bite you,” I said to this fellow. And most cunningly he did!’

  ‘How could I know that?’ I cried loudly in mock dismay. ‘I thought I was saving your life, my Lord of Misrule.’

  Richard, recovering his sanity, countered with, ‘How else could I have provoked her—when she wasn’t even in the game? My Lord of Misrule, I claim privilege. This little she-cat sat apart, avoiding the penalties but, as you see, sharing the fun. Set her forfeit that she bind up the wound she has inflicted.’

  ‘That is but just,’ said Eddi, resuming his seat and the dictatorial pose. ‘You, woman, go with this fellow and bandage his hand with a piece of your best shift!’

  Though slightly on the bawdy side, such an order was completely in tune with the spirit of the game. Richard and I left the hall together amidst a gale of laughter with Eddi’s voice bellowing through it, ‘Good people, who is next? Don’t think to escape my orders. Who is next?’ The game went on.

  ‘I should have killed him but for you.’

  ‘I could see that. Otherwise I should have remembered my manners—and the fact that I prefer my meat thoroughly cooked.’

  ‘You showed great presence of mind. I always said you had the sharpest wit of any woman I ever encountered.’

  ‘And the sharpest teeth? Truly, Richard, I am sorry,’ I said, surverying the two half circles of holes my teeth had made on his hand.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It was the surprise and the suddenness of the nip. You heard what he said to me, I suppose.’

  ‘Good advice is so often odious.’ I drew in my breath, took hold of my courage and added, ‘It was good advice, you know.’

  He looked at me without speaking for a moment and then said briskly, ‘Come along and tie up my hand.’

  When I had done so he set his other hand under my chin, tilting my face; then, suddenly, stooping from his great height, he kissed me, not in the hearty smacking fashion of the revels but softly, slowly, almost like a lover.

  ‘I shall have bussed every female out there before the night is done,’ he said, as though explaining. ‘And that was a kiss of peace.’

  ‘Thank you, my liege,’ I said, forcing my voice to lightness. Father, on very rare occasions, had brushed my brow with his beard but no man had ever kissed me before.

  XV

  That Twelfth-night marked the end of the revels; some lords and ladies took their leave and I began to think, almost in homesick fashion, about L’Espan but whenever I mentioned leaving Le Mans, Berengaria found some excuse to detain me. Finally, after some days of dalliance, I said:

  ‘But you will be going back to Rouen yourself very shortly.’

  ‘Not until the Châlus treasure arrives. Richard is waiting for that. And surely, Anna, you who are so curious about all things remarkable would like to see a board and chessmen all made in gold that has been buried for five hundred years. They say it belonged to Charlemagne himself.’ She spoke as though the Châlus treasure were something that everyone knew about.

  Buried in L’Espan, I had never even heard it mentioned and was forced to ask, ‘What is the Châlus treasure?’

  ‘I told you. A golden chessboard and pieces. Had you not heard? A peasant ploughing on Vidomar’s fields turned it out with his ploughshare. All the pieces are gold but to distinguish them some are set with rubies and some with emeralds and the squares on the board are also marked with jewels, one square being set with small diamonds and the next with sapphires.’

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘would be a very remarkable sight. And if Charlemagne ever possessed such a toy, every chronicle I ever read about him was at fault; he was supposed to despise such gauds.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘wait until tomorrow or the next day and you shall see for yourself.’

  Later that day I mentioned the Châlus treasure to someone else and was told that one of Vidomar’s ploughmen had uncovered the door of a secret underground chamber which, investigated, yielded six alabaster jars full to the brim with jewels.

  Putting the two stories together, I found myself just able to believe that one of Vidomar’s ploughmen had ploughed something of interest and possibly of value out of a field. It was worth waiting one day or two days to see what it was, particularly as Berengaria seemed to cling so ardently to my company.

  Perhaps I was the only person who found that “treasure,” when it did arrive, of any interest.

  It was a jar of coarse red pottery with a lip at one side and a handle at the other and when the clay was soft somebody had scratched on both sides the ‘fish’ sign which abounded in the catacombs of Rome. I recognised the jar as one of those lamps which had shed a light upon those early Christians as they gathered underground for their worship—with Nero and his lions, Poppaea and her curiosity, Trachus and his spies almost overhead. Somebody faithful or sentimental had carried it northwards and at some time of crisis had buried it. There were twelve coins in it, six silver, six of base metal and all so defaced by usage that they told me nothing.

  Richard refused—or to be just—was completely unable to believe that this paltry bit of pottery, these few worthless coins actually constituted the Châlus treasure.

  ‘If Vidomar thinks he can fool me thus—’ he said, and breathed out threats as a dragon breathes fire.

  He was, it seemed, a believer in the chessboards rather than in the alabaster jars of jewels for the message he despatched to Vidomar ran, ‘Will you give up the golden chess set or must I come and take it?’

  Berengaria said to me, ‘Until he gets the answer, Anna, he will have no thought for anything else. I think I will ride back with you and spend a few days at L’Espan. I would like to see it and the women again.’

  I took it as a good sign that she should evince interest in something outside her relationship with Richard and we set out in good spirits. Once I should have harboured doubts concerning the effect of her arrival on Blondel’s peace of mind but from the time of his return to the time of Richard’s sending for her we had all lived together so pleasantly and peacefully that such doubts seemed now out of time and out of place.

  They greeted each another with a warmth and pleasure which, despite their difference in rank, spoke of a steady affection. She said he must play for her a great deal during her visit because no other musician—and she had heard many in Rouen and Poitou—could make music half so well and sweetly as he did. She
praised the appearance and design of the house which had grown up during her absence and gave him full credit for his work on it. I watched and listened and remembered how once a word of praise from hers could bring a blush, a glow, a too-ready word of self-deprecation. Now he listened and smiled and was pleased but without anything pitiable about his pleasure.

  When we were alone she said, ‘How old Blondel looks, Anna. And how ill!’

  He is older,’ I said; ‘we are all older. And he drinks too much.’

  ‘And what has happened to his arm?’

  ‘It is withering. Like a half-lopped branch. Don’t you remember, it was almost slashed through at the Battle of Arsouf?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said but I could see that she had either not known or had forgotten that trivial thing.

  She was older now and kinder, less self-centred. And in a curious, almost ominous way, despite the elaborate hairdress, the new-fangled gown and pointed shoes, the shining jewels, she fitted in with the peaceful, unworldly jog-trot life of L’Espan, that refuge for unwanted women. It was a pleasant, peaceful week that she spent with us; then the news came that Vidomar, Lord of Châlus, had returned Richard’s message: ‘I see, my lord, that by demanding of me something I do not possess and have never possessed you are determined to pick a quarrel with me. I sent to you the only treasure-trove to which as my overlord you are entitled; anything else of mine that you covet you must indeed come and take.’