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If Robert heard, he gave no indication. Pale and fatigued, he seemed lost in prayer. “Rainald,” Girard said, in a commanding tone. “Move the pilgrims to the cloisters.”

  Philippa slouched in a brocade armchair before the fire. Brow furrowed, she took a sip of tea before issuing a long sigh.

  “You can’t expect a husband to be a father, a brother, or a friend,” Aunt Sophie cautioned, as though reading Philippa’s mind.

  “I don’t!” she lied.

  Philippa could tell by her aunt’s pursed lips that she knew otherwise. “I’ll leave you to conduct your affairs.”

  Alone in her chambers, Philippa pondered the mystery of her husband. Accustomed to her brother’s verbosity and her father’s affable good will, she could not make sense of William’s reticence. She wondered if his phlegmatic temperament might be a deliberate composure assumed in response to the dictates of battle. Or perhaps his silence was the secretive behavior of a man with something to hide. Occasionally William tilted his head or wrinkled his brow while she spoke, but whether her conversation annoyed or engaged him, she could not tell, and pride prevented her from asking. Her marriage, after all, had but two purposes—to produce heirs for the house of Aquitaine and to consolidate William’s control over her native land, Toulouse. Whether or not William found her entertaining was, she understood, entirely irrelevant.

  William did talk, however, in the privacy of their bed, a four-posted canopy draped with ruby-colored damask curtains. One evening, flat on his back, his fingers laced behind his head, he spoke eloquently of his heroism against warring rival barons. “My men and I invaded Parthany and conquered the fortress of Germond,” he explained to Philippa who sat cross-legged on the bed beside him.

  Philippa, who had heard tales of innocent young girls forced into marriages with ugly old men and tyrants, felt lucky to have married a young, handsome man. “How many men?” she asked. “Did all of them survive?”

  William’s face hardened into a mask. “The details are… unimportant. The point is we won.” He snuffed the candle, pulled the covers up under his chin, and turned onto his side. “I have some business to attend to in the morning,” he said, leaving her to toss and turn in the dark.

  This was what Sophie meant—that what a father tells a much loved and cherished only daughter differs greatly from what the same man tells his wife.

  But the following night, William surprised Philippa by asking questions about her family. “What was your mother like?” he said.

  Philippa responded in a tentative whisper, as though the most ordinary utterances were secrets too frail to be shared. William’s breathing slowed until it matched her own. “I was so young when my mother died that I hardly remember her.” Then, because she had not completely forgiven him for hurting her feelings the previous evening, she added, “But I adore my father, for he is a godly, modest man.”

  William lifted an eyebrow. Philippa blushed, turning her head away and fiddling with the bed curtain. William intrigued her. Behind his bluster lurked a man sharp enough to detect criticism caged as compliment.

  “My brother, on the other hand, is a trickster and a clown,” Philippa said, maneuvering conversation to safer ground. “Once he put a whole bottle of caterpillars into the cot of our bossy nursemaid.”

  The sound of William’s laughter opened her heart and she saw her husband’s crowing in a different light, a way to feel less awkward in a woman’s delicate world of tapestry and lace. When he touched her thigh, she closed her eyes and listened with her skin, judging William’s meaning by the pressure of his hand. Positioning his body above hers, the weight of him poised on palms and bended knees, he whispered, “At the siege of Cutanda I gave the order to mine the towers.”

  His breath warmed her forehead, reminding her of bright afternoons spent drowsy in clover, the iridescent play of color behind closed eyelids, the taste of berries and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle.

  “My men and I dug beneath them,” William said, “stuffed timber and wood into the hollowed out holes, and lit them. Poof! The first tower went up in a ball of fire.”

  He parted her lips with his tongue, slipped his knees between her thighs and nudged open her legs. Arching her back, she pressed her body the length of his.

  “I was the first to breach the opening,” he whispered. “I rode my courser directly into the armed Saracens…”

  The sound he made entering her reached for and tangled with her own.

  Afterwards, while she lay sprawled on her back, he propped himself up on one elbow and brought his face so near to hers she felt the brush of his long russet lashes against her cheek. Falling back onto the bed, he draped her hair (the gold, he called it) across his face and sang a love song that would have sounded ridiculous in daylight but which resonated with sincerity inside their draped sanctuary. “Our kingdom of the curtains,” he called it.

  During the day Philippa continued to endure protracted official ceremonies—the confirmation of the rights of Montierneuf, where William’s father was buried, the restoration of mills to the monks of Noaillé. But at night, she lost herself in William’s touch, the yeasty taste and musky scent of him. Because Philippa’s aunts had told her that women took no joy in sex, that the act of procreation was messy, necessary and otherwise unmentionable, she thought the fierce surge of desire she felt as William entered her, the fluttery sensation that started in her middle and pulsed to the tips of her fingers and toes, must be unique to their coupling, that the singular and special joy that together their bodies created belonged to them alone.

  “Welcome to the Holy Trinity of Vendôme,” fat Brother Girard said, his halo clenching into a fist of light.

  Madeleine studied Girard and wondered, not for the first time, if the colors she saw might be something other than haloes.

  “Please come in out of the sun, and I’ll share our history with you,” he said.

  Madeleine only half-listened to his memorized speech involving a Count and a sacred relic. When Robert refused treatment at the infirmary, Madeleine frowned but remained silent, for she understood that a woman must not contradict a man and a holy one at that.

  After Girard left to notify the Abbot of Robert’s arrival, Rainald escorted the pilgrims to an enormous garden where purple endive thrived along side sprays of carrots and parsnip, and an arched lattice bowed beneath the weight of flowering sweet pea vines. Madeleine stood beside Marie who waited until all of her girls had their fill of water from the well before taking a drink of her own. Afterwards Marie lay down under the shadowy spread of an olive tree and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  Madeleine lowered herself onto a nearby patch of chamomile. The little daisy flowers emitted a sweet creamy scent. A few stubborn clouds spotted the sky. Robert refused Rainald’s offer of wine and bread, but the rest accepted with gratitude. Perhaps a half hour passed before Girard returned. “Come this way, father,” he said to Robert. “I will take you to Abbot Geoffrey.”

  Robert’s step faltered and Madeleine rose up from the chamomile and took his arm. Girard studied the exchange with a scowl. The twins ceased their incessant whispering, reached for each other’s hands and stood as if to follow. Their tilted heads and tensed bodies reminded Madeleine of animals, all instinct and curiosity.

  “Watch over Marie,” Robert said to the twins, gesturing to where she slept. “Madeleine, please come with me.” The two of them followed Girard to a large door framed in stone blocks.

  Girard glanced back and forth between Robert and Madeleine. “Abbot Geoffrey prohibits women from entering the sanctuary.” He took a great gulp of air and then exhaled as though relieved of an obligation. Madeleine discerned arrogance in the thrust of his chin and a keen desire to be loved in the slump of his shoulders and determined that the fat monk was both complicated and dangerous.

  Robert frowned. “Brother,” he said, having regained his composu
re and calm, “does God deny His grace to women?”

  Girard ran his hand over the skin of his tonsure. “Abbot Geoffrey will be angry if he learns his orders have been disobeyed. He will think I’ve been derelict…” His voice wobbled to a stop.

  Robert placed his hand on the monk’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Brother Girard,” he said. “You need not fear the abbot. We are old friends, and I will make it clear to him that you dutifully warned me.”

  Girard nodded in gratitude. Glancing once again at Madeleine, he held open the church door, “You may enter,” he said.

  Madeleine held her breath in awe at the expansive beauty of the sanctuary. The rising of the columns was like a lifting of the soul, the bright clerestory windows and the arched ceiling like the bright ache of a gorgeous day. A calm washed over her.

  Girard led them to the other side of the transept then down a dimly lit passageway to a dark alcove smelling of beeswax, incense and damp stone.

  “Please, be seated,” Girard said, gesturing toward a bench lining the wall. His halo—surely the most changeable Madeleine had ever seen—whittled color into an olive green cord.

  Girard disappeared through a door. Robert fell onto the bench with a sigh of relief, and Madeleine sat beside him. As always his closeness confused her and sent a rush of heat through her body. By way of distraction, she studied the room. A small lattice window let in feeble light, and as her sight adjusted, burnished cabinets and dark stained walls emerged from the shadows. It was so quiet she could hear Robert’s breathing, the thrum of her own heartbeat, and then muffled voices coming from the rectory.

  The door opened and Girard’s head appeared bright and round in the dusky light. Madeleine glimpsed shame in his nimbus, a purple black that bled through the other hues like a bruise. “The abbot will see you now,” he said, holding open the door with his right shoulder. He kept his withered left arm hidden in his robe. They entered the rectory, a large room with filigree windows nearly stretching to a high ceiling, paneled in dark rosewood. The room was dim in the twilight and smelled musty from books scattered atop cabinets and benches.

  “Master Robert, welcome to Vendôme. It has been a long time, my dear friend.”

  Abbot Geoffrey, a thin, older man with scant gray hair surrounding his tonsure, embraced Robert. Madeleine knew that during the time the two men had attended lectures together at Angiers, Geoffrey had been a vigorous man in his middle years. But clearly the prelate had aged. His eyes milky and his gait arthritic, he moved slowly and painfully.

  “But Robert, you are not well,” he said. “We must take you to our infirmary right away.” He glanced at Girard, as though he would immediately act on his orders.

  “It’s only a bout of quartan fever, my dear Geoffrey,” Robert replied, his cheeks glistening with sweat in the reflected light. “It will be gone tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey’s furrowed brow suggested concern. But when he glimpsed Madeleine in the dark recesses of the room, he stiffened with anger.

  “Robert,” he said, “hasn’t Brother Girard informed you that we do not allow women in the monastery?”

  “Yes, he has,” Robert said.

  “Surely I don’t need to explain the reason for the rule. You, as much as any man, understand the danger women pose.”

  Madeleine stepped back into the shadowed corner. A simmering anger welled up inside of her. Robert’s halo swelled and bumped Madeleine’s colors. Remembering her position, she turned her anger into a sneeze and focused her attention on a vase of iris.

  “My lord Geoffrey,” Robert said. Madeleine recognized the gravely sound of restraint in his voice and wondered if Geoffrey heard it as well. “Surely women are God’s creatures too, worthy of salvation. If we prohibit them from entering God’s house, where shall they implore him for his grace?”

  “There are other churches they can enter, Master Robert,” Geoffrey said. “This is a monastery, open only to men.” His clipped words came to an abrupt halt. The muscles beneath his flushed face tightened.

  “Brother Geoffrey,” Robert said, “I have not come here to argue, but to seek your help. I have led these hundred pilgrims, sinners who have converted to God, for many months. We are homeless, hungry and exhausted. I ask only for temporary respite, a safe haven until we can move on and find a permanent place we can call home.”

  With a sigh, Geoffrey’s gruff voice turned soft. “Sit down, Robert,” he said, motioning to Girard, who moved a heavy chair before the trestle table. Geoffrey took a seat across from him, his back to the windows, his dark form framed in light. On the table before him there were writing utensils, a wax tablet and stylus.

  Girard removed books from a chair to create a space for Madeleine to sit. Back turned to the others, his eyes crawled her breasts with the languid creep of a drowsy fly. She tried to hide her aversion, for she knew that some men were excited by a women’s disgust. Girard nodded that Madeleine should sit. His good hand grasped the back of the chair as though he hoped to brush against her back or shoulder, and his halo sparked lusty red. But when he stepped away from the chair without making any attempt to touch her, Madeleine wondered if she had, perhaps, misjudged him, for anger sometimes clouded her vision and interfered with her ability to read others.

  “Very well, Robert, I will help you,” Geoffrey said, as he leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands together so his fingertips touched. “But I would feel remiss if I did not warn you about the dangers you place yourself in by this proximity with women.” He glanced in Madeleine’s direction. She pretended not to see his gaze and ran her fingers across the surface of a leather-bound tome. “Only a fool places tow next to fire.”

  “There are many ways to follow our Savior,” Robert replied. “I dedicate my life to saving the less fortunate, even if that means approaching fire.”

  Madeleine took a deep breath and studied the stone floor. She tried to leave her body behind and enter Robert’s promise, that place of comfort where every woman’s needs would be met by the brothers who served them, but she succeeded only in conjuring up the scent of lilacs before the sound of the abbot’s voice split the seams of her fancy wide open.

  “Women are the root of all evil, Robert,” Geoffrey said darkly.

  “And women are God’s vessels, the brides of Christ.”

  “Just be careful, Robert. The higher you climb a mountain, the greater the fall should you slip.” Brother Girard carried a candle to the table, walking slowly so its flickering flame would not extinguish, and placed it next to Geoffrey. The candle’s light cast a circle on the gleaming black surface, making the room seem even darker.

  “While I do not approve of your scandalous familiarity with women, my concern for your health is great. I will allow your followers to occupy the cloisters, which lie outside the monastery. You will be exposed to the elements, but we can provide food and provisions for you.”

  “Thank you, Brother Geoffrey. You are merciful and blessed.”

  “But mind you,” he quickly added, “the arrangement must be temporary. You will have to find a permanent place elsewhere for your congregation.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” Robert said.

  Madeleine knew from the settled sound of Robert’s voice and the compassionate glow of his halo that he was remembering his vision.

  The Abbot pulled himself up in his chair and stroked his chin with a soft, well-manicured hand. “I believe I can be of some help in securing monies for your venture. I am second cousin to the Duchess of Aquitaine, whose father recently died. She is a pious woman who has in the past contributed generous funds to the reform of prostitutes by supporting Magdalene houses.” He directed a smoldering look at Madeleine before continuing. “Lady Philippa might be interested in assisting your congregation. I will compose a missive asking her if she would be willing to donate land to you and your followers, perhaps a gift in her father’s name. You may
hand deliver it to her yourself, for your words are far more persuasive than any I could pen.”

  “I thank you in advance for your assistance, Geoffrey,” Robert said. “I knew you would help me realize my dream.”

  Geoffrey looked over at Girard, who was tending the fireplace. “Brother Girard,” he said, “bring Robert to our infirmary, and tell Rainald to let the pilgrims enter the cloister.”

  “No,” Robert said, raising his hand. “I will stay with my people.”

  “Very well,” the Abbot said.

  Madeleine took one final glance at Geoffrey. He was carving figures into the wax tablet before him on the table, perhaps already composing his letter to the Duchess of Aquitaine. “Brother Girard,” he said without looking up from his work. “Take Robert and his pilgrims to the cloister.”

  A short while later the women passed though the great portals of Trinity. Madeleine watched how, hungry and tired, they composed themselves with quiet dignity and stood tall beside the men.

  Philippa’s first pregnancy ended in miscarriage—a painful, bloody affair that left her weak and sorrowful. Mere weeks later, she conceived a second time. This time she felt vigorous, healthy, and full of a new and tingly knowledge. Every morning before she rose from bed, William’s mother, Mathilde, brought her a vegetable broth infused with fortifying herbs.

  Mathilde, whose own childbirths had involved an impatient barber surgeon who induced her to labor with whips, insisted that William retain Wallada, a lean, copper-skinned Spanish Moor with a head of woolly black hair and long muscular fingers, to assist with the birth. William hesitated until Mathilde quoted from the Bible. “The book of Exodus clearly states ‘God dealt well with the midwives: and the people multiplied, and waxed very mighty.’” Wallada examined Philippa and pronounced her fit. A delighted William postponed his trip south to stay by her side.

  Sibyl and Sophie, who returned to Poitiers to attend the birth, warned Philippa that William’s attentiveness was transitory.