Chapter 7. One in Hope
Mid-July 1177
"Guy? A word." Martin beckoned his ward over to the end of the close. It had been weeks since he'd had a chance to speak to the lad, and this irked him. He had been busy of late, dealing with church business, most of it of the temporal kind that took him away from his flock. His brothers were more than capable of running the abbey in his absence, but he was Guy's guardian, and the boy was his charge. More to the point, he was Guy's spiritual father, and he could not risk losing the boy's soul out of inattention.
As Guy walked towards him, Martin took the opportunity to take a good look at his ward. Guy was as pale and as serious of demeanor as he'd been when he first arrived at the abbey, but he was better fed now, and there was a height and a sort of hidden strength that was unusual for a man of the cloth. Put him in a tunic with a cross, and he will be exactly as his father once was.
That thought brought with it a wave of old anger and bitterness. He had never particularly liked Roger of Gisborne, blaming him for taking Ghislaine away from him, but also because his service as a knight for the king kept him from caring for her and the children. He had no idea what had brought about Ghislaine and Roger's death, but sometimes, he wondered if Roger himself had not been responsible. He resolved that he would ensure Guy did not end up like his father.
"My lord abbot." Guy inclined his head politely as he approached, and Martin returned the gesture in kind.
"It's good to see you, lad. It's been a long time."
"Yes. Your travels went well, I trust?"
Martin smiled genially. "As well as can be hoped, I think. The fate of men rests in the hands of God in the end, and there is little any of us can do to change it."
Guy chuckled. "Lambert says—"
"Lambert?"
"Er, he's my—one of the other postulants here."
Martin cast his memory back, trying to remember who this Lambert was and what his connection to Guy might be. A scattered image of a sullen boy, the son of a town merchant, came to him, as did snatches of conversation he'd had with Guy about this Lambert. He nodded. "Ah, yes, I think I remember now. And what does Lambert say?"
"He says…" Guy stopped short and hesitated. "Well, Lambert says a lot of things. I think he says them because he wants to be a radical or something."
Martin chuckled. If he had a ha'penny for every novice or postulant with radical ideas….
"And are you inclined to believe Lambert?"
Guy was pensive. "Yes, up to a point. He can be…persuasive, when he puts his mind to it."
Martin let Guy speak for a while longer, listening carefully to what the lad said, and even more intently to what he did not say, at least explicitly. He did not know if others could see it, but Guy had changed in the past few months. He seemed more confident, easier with himself and around others, and for the first time, Martin sensed power in him, the sort that would have to be channeled properly first.
Guy fell silent, and Martin allowed the lull to take over for a few moments before clapping his ward gently on the shoulder. "I should like to speak to you more, Guy. Come see me. Tomorrow. After matins."
Guy nodded obediently and took his leave. As he walked away, Martin caught sight of Osbert, the novice master.
"Brother Osbert, if I could have a word."
"Of course, my lord abbot. May I ask what about?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary, but I was wondering if you might tell me about one of the postulants? A lad named Lambert?"
-00-
"What are you reading?" Isabella tried to keep the complaint out of her voice, but she was bored, and more, she was frustrated by Lambert's refusal to speak to her properly. Or at least the way boys are supposed to talk to you after you've kissed them!
"It's a book on alchemy." He looked up over the top of the book, just for a moment, before turning his attention back to the page.
"Alchemy." She shuffled her feet noisily, trying to get his attention. "Like changing lead to gold?"
"Yes, that," he said, to nobody in particular. "But there's more to it than that. Alchemy is about learning how things go together, separating them and putting them back together." He snapped the book shut and gave her his full attention, still not quite meeting her eyes. "It's a way of understanding the world, the way it's put together."
She nodded, not really caring about alchemy or what he had to say on the matter, but pleased he was at least speaking to her. "And do you understand it? The world, I mean."
He began to answer, but caught her real meaning. His expression clouded and he looked away, past her.
Isabella sighed. "Why won't you talk to me?"
"I am talking to you." His sigh echoed hers as he set the book down and gave her a frank look, the first time that evening he'd looked at her properly. "What do you want me to say, Bella?"
"If you don't want—if you're angry with me, why do you even bother to come here?"
He banged his fist on the floor in frustration, the sudden noise startling her. "I'm not angry with you! I wish I was, because it would be easier.
"Don't you see, Bella? I'm afraid of you."
"What?"
"I'm not even supposed to be here, but I keep coming back to see you. It's madness!" Lambert's voice rose in the quiet of the webster's cottage, echoing off the walls and Isabella shivered in response.
"And I'm scared. Of what you're going to say. Of what you'll expect me to say."
"I don't expect anything."
"Don't say that! Of course you do. People always do."
She nodded, and on impulse, she dropped down to her haunches, leaning on the wall beside him, close enough to touch him without actually doing it. "I don't. Really. It's enough for me that you're here."
He sighed. "Don't you see, Bella? That's the problem. Will that always be enough?"
"Yes."
"No, it won't. Don't lie. To me or to yourself." He got up and stalked away, putting distance between them. "I'm going to be a monk one day. And what will you do then?"
She bristled but kept her calm, knowing that anger and tears would have no effect on Lambert. He'd dismiss her feelings altogether and probably just walk away, and she did not want that. "Do you still want that? To be a monk, that is."
Lambert looked surprised. "Er, yes. What's the point of it all otherwise?"
"Not every postulant becomes a novice. Some leave the church, don't they?"
"Yes." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Is that what you want from me? That I should leave the church?"
She shook her head. "No. It's not about me. It's about what you want for yourself. That's what you said to me once, remember?"
He laughed, in an odd and mirthless way. "I say a lot of things, Bella. It would be best if you didn't remember them all."
She laughed. "Some things you tell me are quite useful. Like last week."
"What did I say last week?"
"That a sack of mustard could be a weapon in the right hands."
He chuckled. "See? That's just what I mean. You can't believe a man who says things like that." He let the laughter die out, as he walked slowly back to where she was sitting. He slid down on to the floor next to her. "The truth is, Bella, I don't really know what I want.
"And I can't tell you what you want to hear. Not just yet. I need…a bit of time."
She nodded. "We have all the time in the world, Lambert."
-00-
Guy took a swig of his small beer and chewed on the hunk of hard bread he'd been offered, grateful for the company, if not the meager meal. Anne had invited him to see the horse trader's new stock, and although there was no beast as marvelous as the bay roan they'd sold over the winter, the new animals were handsome and useful. He suspected Anne's brother would be paid nicely for most of the animals.
In the back of his mind, on the rare occasions when he was not overwhelmed by guilt, Guy allowed that the horses were not the real reason he kept coming back to the trader's paddock. He liked Anne, liked talking to her, watching her, and in a way that was not at all proper for a man set on a career in the church.
She was a tall woman, only about a head shorter than Guy himself, and thanks to the summer sun, her golden locks had paled into tresses the color of spun silk. She'd become freckled from her time outside, and there was a dusting of spots across her nose that Guy found particularly distracting, especially when she laughed, as she was doing now.
He frowned at her. "What?"
"You've got a bit of—something. On your chin." She shook her head, and before he could protest, reached over and wiped off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "There. All gone."
Reflexively, Guy reached up and felt the spot on his face she had touched, and he thought he could still feel the warmth of her fingers. He was tempted to laugh, but thought better of it. He knew it would not do to appear the fool in front of her, even if she did often leave him feeling just a little foolish.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, genuinely curious.
She knit her eyebrows, taken aback, and then laughed loudly. He had a sense she was laughing at him, that he was a bit of a joke to her. He bristled inwardly, even though he tried his best to hide his hurt behind a wan smile. "You think too much, too hard, about everything, Guy. You should try just being yourself."
He frowned at her, not quite understanding what she meant. Was he not being himself? Did she feel like he was making a pretense of friendship? "I…I don't think I understand you."
"Nobody understands me. It's why I'm so charming." She gave him a small, crooked smile, and her amusement touched Guy, infecting him. He found himself chuckling heartily at her little joke, enjoying himself.
"You should laugh more. It does nice things to your face."
Guy felt a sudden stab of shyness at the unexpected compliment. He turned away, hoping against hope that his face had not gone its usual shade of crimson. "You shouldn't say those kinds of things."
"Why not? There's no law against speaking your mind." She dropped her voice to a whisper and added conspiratorially, "At least not yet."
He shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It's just…not proper."
"Because you're a boy and I'm a girl? Or because you're a boy playing at being a monk, and I'm a girl?"
"I'm not playing at—"
She smirked at him, as if she had won a point in a game of wits, but said nothing else. That was enough to sow a tiny kernel of suspicion in Guy's mind. Am I really playing at it? He shook his head, trying to clear this new bit of self-doubt. He had chosen a path, and he was determined to walk on it. Who was this girl anyway, a rank outsider who presumed to know everything about him? He seethed for a moment, cursing her silently for her presumption, but he cautioned himself to calmness and adopted once again the mask of studied indifference he'd worn since he was a child.
"So what are you playing at then?"
Anne had been biting into an apple, and she stopped short at his question, her mouth still formed around the piece of fruit. She spat it into her hand hastily, and gaped at him "What?"
"I'm playing at being a man of the cloth. That's my part in this game. What's yours?"
She regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment and then, abruptly, she stood up and nodded at him, heading for the door. "Alright, that's good. Fair play to turn it around on me like that."
"That's not even an answer." He tried to keep the note of alarm out of his voice. "You're leaving without answering my question."
She wheeled around and glared at him. But then her expression softened, and she sighed. Guy thought he spied tears in her eyes, but she scrubbed at them before they could fall.
"Two years ago, my brother sold one of the king's men a horse. A beautiful animal. That bay roan you wanted was like a mule before this horse.
"And the knight who bought it, he knew a lot about horses…how they're bred, what sort of horse is good for riding to battle, how to break a colt, that sort of thing.
"He wanted to test the steed he was buying, so he rode the horse down the street at full speed, not caring that it was a market day, that there were women and children there. He trampled a man to death, and then he just rode off, as if it were nothing at all."
She was distraught, not even hiding her tears as they streamed down her face. Guy was aghast, not only at her sudden grief but at the galling tale of cruelty that brought it on.
"The man who died, he was my husband. We'd been married four days. Four days!"
She laughed suddenly, a hysterical sound that rent the air and frightened Guy a little. "So that's who I am, widowed at eighteen, who lives with her brother because she has no other place to go.
"And the best part is I'm not even playing at it."
She walked out, slamming the door shut behind her, and as the sound reverberated over the tiny space, all Guy could think was that Anne sounded exactly like Isabella.
-00-
Two days later
Guy caught Isabella out of the corner of his eye, hoping he could discern—perhaps from her facial expression—why they were here. But she seemed as mystified as he was, and when she caught his eye, she gave him a questioning look. He shrugged in response, and they both resigned themselves to waiting for an answer.
He'd been called into the abbot's chambers earlier that morning, and the fact that Isabella had been asked to join them set Guy on edge. He could not imagine what the abbot had to say that required her presence, and the uncertainty of it left him feeling nervous and fidgety.
Isabella, on the other hand, was her usual implacable self. Guy was impressed at how well she kept her composure, considering her age and the blows fate had already dealt her. She held herself straight, like a sword ready to be wielded, and to Guy, she often seemed as poised and balanced as a good weapon, too.
There were other changes as well, although with these Guy was less comfortable. He suspected they were the sort of things other men would notice, and he felt powerless to do anything about it. His only consolations were that she was reasonably safe from prying eyes at the nunnery and that Isabella herself had shown little interest in the sort of coy and flirtatious behavior girls of her age seemed to enjoy so much. He also had great confidence in Isabella being a sensible sort of girl, the sort who did not get her head easily turned by pretty dresses and baubles. It would take far more to get her attention, and as no suitors had yet come calling, Guy dismissed his concerns out of hand.
Isabella cleared her throat to get his attention and inclined her head towards the door. On her prompting, Guy noticed the sound of feet shuffling over the stone floor. He stood and drew himself up to his full height, motioning Isabella to her feet.
They bowed low, neither bothering to look up until the abbot spoke. The man himself did not stand on ceremony, and Guy knew this, but he wanted to make a good impression, and more than that, he was keen to set a good example for Isabella, to show her how nobles were expected to comport themselves in public. He doubted she was receiving much training on that score from the nuns at the abbey, so he took it on himself to make up for the lack.
"Oh, no bowing and ring-kissing now. Come, let me take a good look at both of you." The abbot embraced them both quickly before waving them back into their chairs.
"So Isabella, my child, how have you been? The abbess tells me you're quite the seamstress."
Isabella reddened at the complimenting, surprising Guy. "I try, Uncle. I don't know if it's a useful skill to have, but my lady the abbess says it helps cultivate patience. And we are all in need of patience, are we not?"
Martin chuckled. "Yes indeed. Perhaps we should all take up sewing then."
Isabella joined in the laughter, clearly pleased that her little joke had gone down so well. Guy, on the other hand, was finding it difficult to be cheerful without knowing why the abbot had called them both to his offices.
Martin seemed to catch his train of thought. "If you're wondering whether you're both in some sort of trouble, let me set your mind at ease.
"You're here together, because I have a matter of importance to discuss with you, both of you."
Martin sat down in his chair and leaned back, long fingers poised on the desk in front of him. "Tell me, what do you know of your family's history?"
"Sire?" Guy understood the question well enough, but he had no idea how to answer or whether an answer was actually expected.
"Do you know anything of your father's ancestors, where they came from, how they died…that sort of thing?"
Guy tried to conjure up a list of ancestors in his mind but found he could not quite remember the names of many of them, and the others he was certain he'd never really known.
Isabella stepped up, her voice soft but confident. "I know some of the names. Godfrey of Gisborne, he was our grandfather."
"Yes, Godfrey. Do you remember him?"
Guy shook his head. "No, he was long gone by the time we were born."
Martin nodded. "Godfrey was an English baron. His holdings were not large, nor was he very wealthy, but he was a good knight, and he was unfailingly loyal to his lord and master, the old king Henry.
"When the king died and all the troubles began, Godfrey threw his lot behind the king's daughter, Matilda. But things did not go well for Matilda, when Stephen became King of the English in her stead.
"She could not wage her war from English soil, so she took refuge here, in France, and her loyal knights came with her, including Godfrey, of course."
Guy listened in rapt attention. He'd heard very little about his grandfather, and to get an account of him from someone who might have known him was an unexpected—and pleasant—surprise.
Martin continued speaking, holding up a hand to silence Guy when he tried to interject. "Godfrey had a reputation as a strong man, a good soldier, and other knights flocked to his standard, making him powerful. And indispensable to Matilda.
"In return for his unflinching loyalty, Matilda promised Godfrey an earldom in England, and Godfrey rejoiced, because it meant his family would finally have land and title and honor."
Martin had a faraway look on his face, as if he we were in a dream. The abbot would have only been a small boy during the struggles between Stephen and Matilda, and Guy allowed that Martin had probably heard the story from another. Maybe Father told him…
Isabella interrupted. "What happened to all that then?"
Martin smiled, but the expression was a wistful one, fleeting and sad. "Henry Curtmantle happened.
"When Matilda first came to Normandy with her most loyal knights, Henry was just a young lad. Godfrey came with them, of course, and he brought his young son with him, to foster with an old friend.
"The son was Roger, your father, and the friend was Robert of Lisieux, my father."
Isabella made a tiny sound of surprise, not quite a gasp, but perfectly audible. Guy caught her eye, cautioning her to silence, but also sharing his own surprise with her. They now knew how their parents had first met, and the knowledge was both joyous and sobering.
"With Godfrey's help, Henry was able to raise an army in a few short years, and he traveled to England to win himself the throne.
"And win he did, of course. When Stephen died, Godfrey tried to remind Henry of his mother's promise. But Henry was a young king, and he now needed friends in high places, men of wealth and influence. So the earldom went to another, and Godfrey was banished, sent back to Normandy to live out his life in penury."
"He died soon after, a bitter and broken man, I imagine. Henry felt guilty, of course, so when he heard Roger had married, he gave him a small holding in the middle of England somewhere. The village of Locksley, in return for Roger's continued loyalty and service."
Martin turned to both of them, regarding them carefully through narrowed eyes. "That was the last time I saw Ghislaine and Roger. But sometimes when I look at the two of you, I can see them as clearly as if they were sitting here before me."
He shuffled some papers on his desk absently, as if he were buying time. Guy was on the edge of his seat, eager to hear more.
"You must wonder why I brought you here, just to tell you a tale of woe you can do nothing with."
Guy shook his head. "No, no. We understand."
The abbot smirked. "Do you now?"
Guy paled and fell silent, but Isabella had no such qualms. She looked Martin straight in the eyes, her voice clear as she spoke. "You want us to help you take revenge on the king!"
Martin gaped at her for a moment before shaking his head. "Oh, no. Or at least not in the way you suggest, my girl! That would be…well, treason, and it's best you don't speak of such things so lightly."
"I apologize for my sister, Uncle. She's not—"
"No, don't be sorry. She's not wrong, not entirely. While I don't think Henry deserves your vengeance, perhaps he does need a reminder that he owes certain people certain favors.
"It is time he recalled the services rendered to him by the Gisborne family, time for him to make restitution."
"And what do you want us to do?" Isabella surprised Guy with her forthright manner.
"Your duty. You will both serve the king in some way and earn your reward in the form of the earldom that was promised to you. There will be a Lord Gisborne in England one day, but you will have to make it happen."
He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Do you understand?"
Guy and Isabella nodded in unison, but although he was agreeing with the abbot, Guy had no idea what was really expected of him, and he set aside his usual polite restraint and took Isabella's direct approach instead.
"How are we expected to serve the king? I am only a postulant, and if all goes well, I may be a brother of this order one day, but—"
Martin held up a hand. "The king wishes to be all-powerful, and to do so, he must have the Church on his side. He must show Rome that he is a penitent man and a good Christian. To do this, he must surround himself with clever men, dependable ones. Men of the cloth." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Guy, who finally understood where the conversation was leading.
"I am to be like Thomas Becket?"
Martin laughed. "Yes, as brilliant as Becket, but with less of the martyrdom." Guy joined in the laughter, not sure how else to react.
"To that end, the focus of your studies here are to be changed, Guy. You will be trained properly in history and philosophy, and in the law, both civil and canon.
"You will be sent to Chartres, where you will learn from John of Salisbury himself. He was my teacher, and with luck, you will learn from him as much as I did."
"What?"
Martin raised an eyebrow at him. "Was I unclear? I'm happy to repeat it all."
"No, I…I mean, it is an unexpected…surprise that I am leaving this place." Guy floundered, searching for the right words. "When does all this happen? When am I leaving?"
Martin nodded in understanding. "Not for a while yet. Some arrangements must be made, before we can move forward."
Guy nodded, and when silence fell on the room, he became lost in his thoughts. Chartres! He had heard of the place, of course, and its great cathedral, but he felt honored that his uncle thought him up to the task of being a scholar. Of John of Salisbury, he knew naught. The name sounded oddly familiar, as if there was some reason he should know it. But nothing came to him, and after a few minutes of pondering the matter, he gave up. Lambert will know, I'll just ask him…
Isabella's voice, now small and lacking any of its previous confidence, cut into his thoughts. "And what it is to become of me, Uncle?"
Martin gave her a quick appraisal before answering. "You have a role to play in this, too. If Guy is to do as Thomas Becket did, you will do as his sisters."
Isabella gasped, but recovered quickly. Guy watched as she took a deep breath and met Martin's eyes evenly. She nodded once, and abruptly, she stood and curtsied. "I should like to be excused. I need to return to the women's abbey before nightfall."
If Martin was surprised at this, he did not show it. He nodded in her direction and bid her farewell, and as she shut the door behind her, Guy had a sense he'd been party to some strange and silent bargain between Martin and Isabella.
He looked to Martin for clarification, but the abbot said nothing, sitting back at his desk, and busying himself with the scrolls on it. Several minutes passed, and Guy, unsure what to do next, cleared his throat gently. Martin looked up at him once and nodded curtly. "I think that will be all, Guy. I thank you for your time. Good day."
Guy bristled but took the dismissal in stride. "Good day, my lord abbot."
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