Paris: The Novel (12 page)

“He’d really have me castrated?” He stared at her in horror.

“Nothing will stop him. The king couldn’t stop him.”

He was squirming. She watched him. It was perfect.

“I can’t leave Paris,” he muttered. “I’ve nowhere to go.”

“We could run away together,” she said. “I have some money. We could run away to Normandy. Or England.”

“That won’t do,” he answered, staring at the ground. She knew he’d say that.

“You don’t want me,” she wailed. “I am lost.”

“No, no. I care for you,” he answered.

There was a long pause.

“He doesn’t mean to kill you,” she pointed out. “That’s something. They say that Abelard was a greater philosopher after it happened to him.”

It was clear from Roland’s face that philosophy wouldn’t console him.

“What can I do?” he cried.

It was time. She reached below her cloak and pulled out the knife. He shrank back.

“Here,” she said. “It’s for you.”

“For me?”

“If they come for you, use it. Don’t hesitate. You won’t have any time. They’ll mean business. But if you can kill them, or wound them, maybe it’ll stop him trying again. It’s your only hope.”

He took the knife. He weighed it in his hand, and pursed his lips. She saw him glance around.

And suddenly she thought she read his thoughts. The one thing she hadn’t allowed for. Could it be so? Was he wondering whether he should use the knife to kill her? To get her out of the way? Nobody had seen them. If she was dead, he could be thinking, her uncle would never discover his identity.

How could she have been so foolish? She’d brought the knife only to make her story seem more convincing. And she’d been so busy plotting her own revenge that she’d overlooked this weakness in the plan. She froze.

But then he shook his head and gave her back the knife.

“I have a weapon of my own,” he said. Though whether she had been wrong, or he had calculated the odds and decided against killing her, or his conscience had intervened, she would never know.

“I must go before I am missed,” she said. “But take care, my Roland. I fear we may never see each other again. May God protect you.” And pushing
the knife back into her girdle, and covering her head with her shawl, she hurried out of the churchyard.

As she went back down the street toward the river, she wondered happily how many sleepless nights and nightmares he would suffer, and whether he would run away from Paris. And oh, the pleasure of watching the cocky little swine while he squirmed.

Revenge was sweet.

The rest of that day did not go well for Roland. He tried to go about his business. He attended a lecture. He went to his usual tavern, where he met some friends. He longed to share his troubles with them, but didn’t feel that he could. He bought bread, a little cured meat and some beans, and took them back to his lodgings.

The room where he lodged was up a creaking wooden staircase. The door had a bolt, and he wondered whether to add a second one. But he decided there was no point. A couple of determined men could break it down anyway. There was a heavy oak chest, however. He could drag it over to the door. If he laid his mattress beside the chest, he’d be sure to wake up instantly as soon as anyone tried to break in.

The window worried him. It was only ten feet above the street. But it was narrow and the shutters were stout. He might be able to defend it.

As for a weapon, he did have a dagger. He wished he had a sword, but a student couldn’t walk around the streets with that. The dagger was long and made to be used in battle. It had belonged to his grandfather. He tested the blade. It was sharp. Even if several men battered down the door, he ought to be able to kill one of them, maybe two.

He stayed indoors until evening, ate his food, set up his barricade and prepared for the dangerous night.

But he couldn’t sleep. Each creak he heard made him start. Around midnight something outside, a rat probably, disturbed a little pile of faggots, one of which fell with a soft click on the cobbles. In a flash, Roland was up, waiting beside the window, dagger in hand, not daring to signal his presence by opening the shutters but straining every nerve to hear if anyone was in the street, or coming up the stairs. He stayed there almost half an hour before lying down again, still listening.

And as he listened, thoughts chased through his head. Why had he gotten involved with Martine? If only he’d been chaste. If only he’d been
a Temple Knight. And what should he do? Could he return home? How would he explain it to his father? His family would be furious. He was supposed to be helping them and he’d let them all down. He dreaded the thought of facing them almost as much as he dreaded mutilation.

The hours passed. He didn’t even doze. At dawn, he started violently again, as someone threw slops from a window down into the street. And by the time the city gates were opening, and people were moving about in the streets, he staggered down the stairs, hollow-eyed, to face the day.

He had to attend his first lecture early that morning. He didn’t want to go out unarmed. But a student couldn’t wander around with a weapon in his belt. How could he keep it under his hand unseen? After looking around his possessions he hit upon a solution. He had a roll of cheap parchments, mostly rabbit and squirrel, the kind that clerks and merchants used for transactions. Slipping the dagger through the middle, he found that he could carry it quite hidden, but pull it out with ease. Thus armed, he descended into the street to join his fellow students.

Everything seemed normal. He felt some comfort from being in a crowd, but he couldn’t help wondering—if he were suddenly attacked, would his fellow students protect him? From some angry townsman with a club, probably. From two or three armed men? Perhaps not. Even as he walked back in their company toward his lodgings after the lectures, he found himself glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

Another thought also occurred to him. Shouldn’t he try to protect his body in some way? Could he wear a leather vest, like a man-at-arms, under his clerical dress? Some of them had metal studs. If he could somehow attach the ends together between his legs, might that give him some protection, or would his assailants just slit it with a knife?

On the western side of the Latin Quarter, there was a gate in the city wall where the road led out to a church in the suburbs called Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Just inside this gate there was an armorer’s workshop. He’d never been in there, but he’d heard it was one of the best. In the afternoon, therefore, he paid the place a visit.

The little factory was certainly busy. It had forges like a blacksmith. He saw swords, helms, chain armor, all manner of implement and protective clothing for the fighting man. But while everything was designed to protect the head and arms, the torso and the legs, there was no individual item to protect a man between his legs. And I can hardly walk around in a suit of body armor, Roland thought.

He asked for the master armorer, and was pointed toward a short, brisk figure with a close-cropped graying beard, who listened carefully as he explained the protection that he wanted.

“Never been asked for that before,” the craftsman remarked. “Did you get caught with somebody’s wife?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I always say we can make anything. You want something like a chastity belt, only it would have to be bigger. Difficult to make that out of metal. I doubt you could sit down.” The armorer considered. “To be flexible, it would have to be like a short hose, chain armor over a leather backing, I should think. It’d be quite heavy, you know, and it’ll cost you.”

“You could do it?”

“Not for a month, at least, maybe longer. I’ve orders waiting from some of the greatest nobles in the land.” He looked up at the unhappy young man. “Can it wait that long?”

“Probably not.”

“Better hang on to yourself, then.” The craftsman grinned.

Roland departed sadly. He probably couldn’t afford such a thing, even if he could find anyone to make it.

It was almost a day and a half since he had slept, and he was starting to feel light-headed. He hardly knew what to do with himself. Returning to the rue Saint-Jacques, he turned down toward the river. Soon, on his left, he passed the Church of Saint-Séverin. And in the hope that the place might calm his spirits, he went in there to rest.

There was something very intimate about its strange, old, narrow vaults. Though rebuilt from time to time, the church had already been there for seven hundred years, since the days of the early Frankish kings. As he sat on a stone bench, his back to the wall and his eyes on the door, with his dagger concealed in the roll of parchment across his knees, young Roland reflected on his situation.

The facts were all too obvious. He had sinned, and God was punishing him. He deserved it. That much was clear as day. But what could he do? He must repent. He must beg forgiveness with all his heart, though whether it would be granted was another matter.

A terrible thought occurred to him. Could it be that God actually intended he should be castrated? Was God not only punishing him, but saving him from further temptation? Had God decided to ensure that his life was dedicated to religious service as a celibate priest or monk? Surely
it could not be. Wasn’t it God’s will that he should overcome temptation, more or less, rather than have temptation removed from him? Abelard might have suffered that fate, but Abelard was a great scholar and philosopher. His own place in the world was far more modest. He wasn’t worthy of so much attention. Plenty of other men in Holy Orders had done the same as he had, and got away with it. If he dedicated his life to serving the Church, he told himself, that ought to be enough. If he truly repented, forgiveness would be granted.

So Roland tried to pray. He tried very hard indeed, for over an hour. And at the end of that time, he did feel a little calmer. At least he’d made a start, he thought. That was something. He got up, and cautiously went into the street.

If only he didn’t feel so tired. He must get sleep. But he didn’t want to sleep at his lodgings. He needed to find another place. Somewhere the men searching for him wouldn’t think of. Where could he go?

And then, it seemed to him, he had a good idea. What about the girl on the rue Saint-Honoré? What about Louise? Neither Martine nor her uncle knew about her.

Louise had a little room near the tavern. She’d surely let him sleep with her there. And to show that his repentance was sincere, he wouldn’t make love to her. That might work. He’d go to the tavern and ask her.

With this new, confused hope in his heart, he crossed over the river, and headed north.

There was only one thing that worried him. Once in bed with her, would he still be able to resist temptation? And would she let him? Still pondering this difficulty, he came to the rue Saint-Honoré and started to turn into it.

A hand closed on his elbow. He leaped in the air. His hand flew to the roll of parchment. He twisted, with a terrified face, toward his assailant.

“My dear young man. Did I startle you?”

It was the priest from the church by the Cemetery of the Innocents. The man to whom he’d delivered the letter the week before.

“Father!” he cried.

“I’m very sorry I made you jump,” said the elderly priest apologetically. “But I thought I recognized you. You came to my house the other day. Are you all right?” His mild blue eyes were peering at the younger man. “You look very pale.”

“Yes,
mon Père
, I am well.” Roland stared at the priest with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Thank you. Ah … The truth is that … I did not sleep well last night.”

“Why was that, my son?”

“Well, you see …” Roland searched his mind feverishly. “There was a fire in my lodgings. Just a small fire. It was put out. But my room is a terrible mess. Black dust everywhere …” He was babbling, but the elderly priest continued to look at him kindly.

“And where will you sleep tonight, my son?”

“Oh … Well … I was going to ask a friend …”

“Why don’t you sleep at my house? There is plenty of room.”

“Your house?”

“It would be a strange thing if the priest of the Saints Innocents did not help a scholar in need.”

And then it seemed to Roland that he understood. This was a gift from the Almighty. God had sent this priest to save him from temptation in his hour of need. He need not sleep with Louise. He would be safe.

“Thank you,
mon Père
,” he said. “I accept.”