Chapter 25 #2
We moved in early March, and for a month we were busy adapting to the house and adjusting it to our needs.
I moved the furniture around again and again, and the lighting, and the pictures on the walls.
I worked on the balcony. I made friends with the yard.
It gave me unexpected pleasure. I grew grounded in my new life and would gaze for long minutes out at the sea, which continually surprised me from different corners of the house and property.
I was looking forward to the start of spring and warmer weather, weekday dips in the wild waters, surrounded by the ruins of the mysterious and inaccessible fortress.
After the suffocating mental stress of Acre, I surrendered completely to the serenity of the wind and the sea—the wet, salty scent in the air, the blue expanses, and the stretch of coast to the east that accompanied us from a distance.
Jean and I stood by the wooden railing, watching the ship parting the water for some time before we began talking.
Brunette lay on the deck at our feet, her eyes closed in the pleasant sunshine.
Although I was calm, I was still preoccupied with the episode in the solarium at the house of Rohard in Acre.
Alice had no doubt that I was her husband’s lover, that was clear, and the way in which he dismissed it as if she were crazy made me a little uncomfortable.
I thought of Nina and the day when I had turned up to Halimi’s office and informed him, in her presence, that I wanted a divorce.
I sighed. Jean, who was deep in thoughts of his own, turned to me.
“My lady,” he smiled at me, but sadly.
“My lord,” I replied with a similar expression.
“I never wanted to cause you such distress. All I wanted was to spend a little time together.” He looked back at the water.
“I love my wife very much, and I did not want to upset her either. I do not know how the Good Lord created hearts capable of such extreme contradictions. He must have been putting me to the test, and I failed.”
I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and he looked back at me gratefully. His telling me without apology that he loved his wife comforted me in an unexpected way.
“You did not fail the test, my lord,” I told him gently. “In this complex situation, on account of a lack of forethought, your comportment was knightly and noble. It seems to me that your wife is not really so angry at you.”
He smiled at the sea, turned to me, and seemed to want to say something else but stopped himself.
“Speak,” I encouraged him. “I do not think that we need hide anything further from each other.”
He smiled and nudged my shoulder with his, then grew serious and said, “Mine is a life of journeys, while hers is a sedentary one, at home. She has a strong and lively soul, and the obligation to keep quiet and do nothing arouses in her an anger that is unbecoming of a Christian woman. But I love that anger. It sharpens her tongue, which is keen as it is, and though I have known more than a few women besides her, I always return to her bed like a sailor thrown to shore, and she knows it.”
I was quiet, but not because I had nothing to say.
I tried to organize my thoughts into words in a way that he could understand.
More than anything, at that moment, I felt a kind of solidarity with the Lady Alice, stuck there in the Middle Ages instead of conquering the world.
Jean interpreted my silence as discontent.
“I apologize, my lady,” he said quietly. “It is not right to let you into our business. You make me feel that I can say anything to you, like a confessor, but of course, that is not the case.”
“Do not apologize, Jean,” I said, courageously calling him by his first name for the first time, with no seigneur or any other formal address. “You do not cause me any discontent. Just gratitude for the fact that you trust me and reveal what is in your heart.”
He looked at me, trying to understand if I was sincere or just saying things to please him.
Evidently, my expression persuaded him that I was speaking honestly, because he pulled me to him and hugged me.
“To hell with everyone,” he whispered, demonstratively ignoring any gawking we might draw from the people on board. I hugged him back and closed my eyes.
De Périgord’s little ship had a designated spot at the anchorage of the Pilgrim Castle.
We disembarked to the platform via wooden stairs that were brought for us, and de Périgord took leave of us while hurling orders in every direction.
Jean led me into the yard of the fortress and immediately went to look for a horse that would take us to the spring.
“We can go on foot,” I told him. We had been just two or three hours at sea, but my legs longed for solid ground. Jean looked up at the sky. By the angle of the sun, we had another two to three hours of light.
“It would be better if we took a horse,” he said curtly. I nodded. He left me to wait with Brunette in the bustling castle yard and went to the stables.
I began to scratch my eye. Something was really irritating it.
No matter how much I blinked and teared up, the itching did not stop.
I rubbed and rubbed, and suddenly I felt my contact lens fall out.
“Shit,” I said aloud to Brunette. She looked at me with concern.
I looked around with one eye closed. Nobody was paying any particular attention to me, but the yard was full of people.
I did not dare try to put a new contact lens in and instead narrowed my good eye in the direction of the stables.
Jean was nowhere to be seen. At least the itching stopped.
“Lady édith of Cilicia,” said an oily voice, and I looked up and met the moist gaze of Gautier de Brienne. Brunette let out a low growl.
“Seigneur de Brienne,” I said and stood, patting Brunette on the head. He gave a little bow, and I returned the gesture. I opened the other eye, too, so as not to appear crazy, and it was strange to see the world half blurry and half in focus.
“Still in our environs, my lady? And where is that mannerless cousin of yours?” asked de Brienne, emitting that sour-milk smell of his in my direction. He must not have bathed in weeks.
“Not for long, sir,” I answered respectfully. “Seigneur Jean is looking for a horse for me so I might continue on my way.”
“Well, it seems that there is no better time for you to pray to Saint Euphemia for a successful journey,” said de Brienne in his slippery way as he clasped my hand. What’s his deal with this saint?
I released my hand vigorously and wondered for a moment what was preferable, to answer sharply that my prayers were my own private affair or to respond humbly that I was awaiting my cousin’s direction.
The timely appearance of Jean, holding the reins of two horses trotting after him obediently, solved my dilemma.
“De Brienne,” Jean sighed.
“Young Ibelin,” de Brienne replied. “Was the king’s mission crowned with success?” It was evident to me that he was bitter that he had not been asked to join.
Jean gave him a stern look. “The business and journeys of the king are his concern, and I will not speak of them in his absence.” He did not break eye contact with de Brienne, who eventually shifted his gaze over to the great church. Its stone dome was glowing pink in the dimming light.
“How can it be that your cousin appears again and again at the Pilgrim Castle without paying her respects to our martyred saint?” de Brienne resumed his pestering.
“Is she a pilgrim or an apostate in disguise?” Jean looked at me, rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly, then said, as if reconciling himself to his fate, “My cousin asked me to escort her into the Pilgrim Church myself. She is a delicate creature and fearful of strangers and large crowds.” De Brienne removed his crimson velvet beret with its peacock feather and cleared the way with an exaggerated gesture.
Jean led me into the church and tied the horses to rings installed in the outer wall.
Brunette accepted her task of waiting for us there and lay down beside the horses.
“Another delay,” I muttered reluctantly, but I still relished, even if I was not proud of it, his calling me a “delicate creature.”
The church was large, gloomy, and awe-inspiring.
The sunlight that penetrated through the enormous round framed stained glass burned the dark stone floor with panes of color.
Many worshippers were bowed in the prayer seats, and others were walking around.
Although the big iron doors of the church were open wide, it somehow felt both suffocating and cold inside.
I tried to keep both eyes open and saw everything half blurry and half focused, and something inside my head began spinning.
Jean led me inside the length of the corridor until we stood at the edge of a group of people, awaiting their turn to pray before the remains of Euphemia. I did not know what to expect—a desiccated leg? An urn of ashes? A cloth bag supposedly containing her bones?
“Who is this Euphemia anyway?” I whispered to Jean under the auspices of muttering prayers. Jean couldn’t help but smile.