The Copper Sign (28 page)

Ellen could feel the tenseness building in her chest. He probably was going to tell her now about a goldsmith’s daughter he wanted to marry and explain his kiss the previous day as a mistake.

But Jocelyn didn’t say anything more about it.

Ellen polished and colored the chalice without having to ask him for help.

Jocelyn seemed to expect it as a matter of course and didn’t lavish a word of praise on her for the work.

That evening, as she was leaving, Jocelyn was holding a piece in the fire. “Wait just a moment,” he asked, but Ellen scurried out the door.

For the last time, Thibault gently massaged the young girl’s small, firm breasts until she moaned, then turned away from her, bored. He stood up without covering his firm male organ and poured himself a cup of spiced wine.

“Leave now!” he growled at the maid, enjoying her terrified gaze. She had probably believed all the compliments and declarations of love whose only purpose was to get her to do what he wanted. How simple-minded women were!

“Rose!” Thibault tied a cloth around his hips.

“Come here!”

All night she had cowered in a corner of the room, but now she got up slowly, and then just stood there silently.

Thibault walked over to her, kissed her neck tenderly, and pulled her up close. His hands wandered over her body. Gently he pinched her nipples until they stood out from under her shirt, and then he passionately pressed himself against her.

Rose didn’t move.

“You’re furious at me,” he whispered. “I know, I misbehaved…” Thibault’s breathing became heavier. His hand slipped under her shirt. “Do you remember the first time in the meadow, in Tancarville? You, only you, are my companion. The others don’t count. I couldn’t control myself.” He looked at Rose.

A tear rolled down her pretty face.

“Don’t cry, little Rose, everything will be fine,” he whispered tenderly, kissing the tear away. “It’s these terrible dreams that make me do it,” he mumbled apologetically, and nestled his head up against her neck. “It’s not my fault!” Tenderly and passionately he pulled Rose down onto the bed that just a few moments ago he had shared with the maid whose name he didn’t even know.

Rose closed her eyes, crying and praying to God that He would make Thibault hers alone. She wrapped her arms around his neck, spread her thighs, and received him, full of passion.

They lay together side by side for a while, until they heard a knock on the door.

“The king wishes to see you,” a muffled voice said. “At once!”

“I’m coming!” Thibault jumped up, dressed in practically no time at all, and rushed out.

Henry was the eldest son of the old king, and just a year ago, at age fifteen, he was crowned by his father. Since that time, they were both officially kings, but as the Young King had none of the power nor the emoluments, he always had to ask his father for money for his diversions as well as for those of his knights. He was pacing up and down impatiently in the great hall of his brother-in-arms, Robert de Crevecoeur, and when Thibault entered, Henry ran toward him. “You must leave at once for Beauvais and meet one of my father’s messengers. William will give you exact instructions.” The Young King seemed irritated, so Thibault carefully avoided asking any questions. He was only displeased that it was William, of all people, who was giving him orders, and he snorted angrily.

“As you wish, my king!”

“I await your speedy return.” Young Henry nodded briefly, and William motioned to Thibault to follow him.

It was still extremely difficult for Thibault to be calm in dealing with William. Since they first met in Tancarville, Thibault could not stand him. For a younger son, William had come very far in the world. After all, he had been the mentor of the Young King since the previous year and thus had great influence on the young man.

Two years had passed since the Poitevins had attacked Queen Eleanor. The Earl of Salisbury, her protector at that time, had been killed, and William attacked the Poitevins like a madman, all by himself, to avenge the death of his beloved uncle. He was injured, captured, and after weeks of cruel treatment as a prisoner, as he told the story, it was none other than the queen herself who bought his freedom and took him into her service. Only a few months later she made him her son’s preceptor.

Thibault had to concentrate in order to keep his mind from wandering and to be able to follow what William was saying.
Someday the time will come when I’ll get back at everyone who ever humiliated me, and you will certainly be one of them
, he thought angrily as William turned away without saying good-bye.

Thibault was hiding out in a narrow lane not far from the goldsmith’s house. He had been observing Ellen for two days. He had seen her by chance on the street shortly after arriving in Beauvais and from that moment on could scarcely concentrate on his work. Every one of his thoughts eventually came back to her.

When he had first seen her the day before, she looked so much in love that his stomach felt as if it were full of cold stones, and today he was especially nervous. His thumbnail kept digging painfully into the soft flesh of his index finger. Pain had something reliable about it, something soothing.

When Ellen left the goldsmith’s shop, Thibault could immediately see a change in the way she looked. Weren’t those tears glistening in her eyes? Yes, it looked like she was grief-stricken. It served her right. Why should he be the only one to suffer? Just as he had the day before, he again followed her at a safe distance. She was running straight ahead, but with her head down, through the crowded alleyways. Surely she was on the way to the smithy. Thibault had asked around and knew she lived and worked with Michel, the smith. He tracked her skillfully, and after she had disappeared in the smithy he watched for a while at a distance. Once again he dug his thumbnail into his index finger. “You belong to me!” he muttered.

The following day was a Sunday, and Ellen had decided to use it to get her mind off Jocelyn. After church she started walking toward the nunnery, where she intended to take Nestor out for a ride. And there she met him.

“I hoped I would meet you here.” Jocelyn cleared his throat.

How well he knew her! Naturally she had told him of Nestor, but that he had really been listening…Ellen stopped and stared at her feet.

Jocelyn put his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me, please!”

Ellen looked into his hazel-brown eyes. His gaze caressed her face.

Jocelyn pulled her toward him, put his arms around her neck, and kissed her. She closed her eyes as his tongue found its way between her lips.

Ellen felt defenseless and miraculously at his mercy. The kiss seemed to last forever as his tongue probed even deeper into her mouth. After that he covered her face and neck with tender little kisses until the little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Jocelyn was breathing hard as he let the tip of his tongue slide gently down her pounding neck. Suddenly he stopped. “You are the fulfillment of all my dreams! Will you marry me?”

“But you know nothing about me,” she protested in a trembling voice.

“I know what I need to know. You are ambitious and extremely talented. You are simply wonderful, beautiful, and headstrong. I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. You can work with iron, gold, or silver—I’ll leave it all up to you. If you still want to forge swords, I’ll never stand in your way. Together we could even make the finest sword for our king. What do think of that?”

Ellen looked at him incredulously.

“The Lord was merciful and let our paths cross. This mercy doesn’t happen to anyone twice in life. Please say yes,” he urged her.

Ellen was wildly happy and nodded eagerly. “Yes, Jocelyn, yes, I will!”

The goldsmith raised her up, overjoyed. “I love you, Ellen,” he cried out.

The cows in the meadow looked up and mooed anxiously.

Ellen and Jocelyn sat down in the grass, started making plans for their future together, and exchanged tender caresses. Ellen felt a strange anxiety creeping up on her and turned around to look a few times, but she didn’t see anything.

“I never want to be without you again,” Jocelyn said later, kissing her over and over while they walked back to town hand in hand.

“Well, Michel will be disappointed,” Ellen replied playfully.

“Indeed he will!” Jocelyn laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

A smith’s journeyman saw the couple and grinned impertinently.

Ellen blushed, and Jocelyn kissed the end of her nose lovingly. “We should get married as soon as possible.” He stroked her cheek. “You’re all aglow!”

“I’m happy.”

“We’ll see each other tomorrow,” he said when they arrived at the smithy, blowing her a farewell kiss.

Ellen waited a moment until he had disappeared in the milling crowd in the alleyway. Then she entered her master’s house.

“My word, what’s wrong with you,” Michel growled when he saw her red cheeks. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“Nonsense, Michel, she’s in love! That’s been obvious for days.” Marie laughed. “The beer addles your brain. You don’t even know what love is anymore, do you?”

But her tirade made no impression on Michel. “Women’s talk,” he grumbled. “I’d rather go over to the tavern.” After he stood up and staggered out the door, Marie tried to get more information from Ellen, but she kept her silence.

“You’ll learn about it soon enough,” she said happily. “I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep. Good night!” Ellen went back to the workshop and lay down on her bed. Her thoughts were spinning around in her head, and it took a long time for her to relax.

In the meantime, Thibault had been standing in the dark alleyway only a few steps from the smithy, trembling with anger. He had been following Ellen since morning. She had looked beautiful on her way to the church in her light linen dress and her wind-tousled hair. He had already decided to approach her, even talk to her, when out of nowhere the goldsmith suddenly appeared. Seeing the two of them so much in love and exchanging sweet nothings had been unbearable to him, and even now their happiness burned in his stomach like a greasy meal. Thibault closed his eyes and imagined how he would strangle his rival with his own hands.

“She belongs to me, to me alone,” he growled.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow,” Jocelyn had said, but he would never see her again! Thibault pushed off from the wall of the building where he was standing and walked over to Jocelyn’s shop. He observed the house for a while and then decided to go to the tavern for a drink.

It was a wild night at the Laughing Boar, and Thibault had trouble finding a seat at one of the long tables. The Boar was known for its strong beer and hearty food. Especially popular, however, were the waitresses, all buxom girls with low-cut dresses that showed off their inviting, heaving breasts. They laughed and joked with the men, encouraged them to drink, and didn’t mind if now and then one of the men made a pass at them.

The torches and tallow lanterns smoked so much that the air was as heavy as a foggy November night, but more stifling. It smelled of sweat, beer, and urine because so many men simply relieved themselves under the table rather than going outside. A barefoot girl with long, matted hair was dancing on one of the greasy tables, shaking a tambourine. The men howled and whistled when they could get a look under her skirt where, aside from her own skin, she was wearing nothing at all.

A brunette with chipped front teeth and a dirty dress brought Thibault a beer. He paid no attention to her, but kept looking around the room. In one corner, a few men were playing dice. Thibault, bored, was about to turn away again when he caught sight of Michel in the crowd. The smith was beaming, and raised his fist triumphantly. He must have been having a lucky streak, as one by one the other players withdrew. Thibault’s face twisted into a fiendish grimace. He took out his purse and reached for the loaded dice he had gotten a while ago from a swindler. Then he went over and casually stood next to the smith, as if by chance.

“A game, my lord?” Michel asked. He was already drunk and playing with the coins he had just won. “Today’s my lucky day, I can feel it!”

A drinker and a gambler who would sell his soul in a game of chance
, Thibault was thinking contemptuously, but he replied in a friendly voice, “Well, then let’s try your luck!” Thibault took the dice and spit on them three times before throwing them against the wall. He feigned disappointment when he lost. At first Michel was winning. Every time he won he acted as if Lady Luck were always on his side, and Thibault had trouble controlling himself and not showing this braggart what a fool he was. After a while and after losing some small change to the smith, Thibault secretly changed the dice for his own loaded ones and put an end to Michel’s run of good luck. By the time midnight had arrived, the smith had lost so much money to Thibault that if he gave up then he would lose his house, his smithy, and all his plans for the future.

“I’ve got to go out to pee,” he said. Half drunk, he staggered outside, walked over to a wall, and relieved himself. Thibault had followed him out of the tavern and stood in the shadow of a house. He observed with disgust how the smith became ill in the fresh air, choked and retched miserably, and finally vomited.

Michel thought he might just slip away now and forget about his debts.

Thibault followed him and pushed him into the first dark alley they came to. “Gambling debts are debts of honor,” he whispered into Michel’s ear. “If I want to, I can cut your throat right here in the middle of the street because you didn’t pay them. I have plenty of witnesses.” Thibault pulled out his knife and held it to Michel’s throat.

He was confronted with the stench of vomit when Michel opened his mouth.

“Please, sir, I don’t have the money. Give me some time, please!” he begged.