During an hour we made many turns and twists among farms and lanes. Once when a party of horsemen appeared, going toward the city, we took hasty shelter in a stable where Julot relieved the hens of several eggs.
Day came to a land brown with autumn and a gray sky with lowering clouds, a sky that promised rain. Julot shivered in his rag, nor was I clad for the weather. From time to time I thrust my fingers into my shirt to warm them.
“There is a castle nearby, a place called Blandy. The lord of the castle is a brigand with a penchant for attacking merchant caravans, which we must avoid. But there is a chapel at Champeaux, built in the time of Clovis, and the monks are friendly. Abelard was a teacher there, and most are of his persuasion. The man Persigny is their friend also.”
A fine rain began to fall, turning the atmosphere to a steel mesh, but we huddled our shoulders against the rain and the cold and hurried on. There was need for shelter and warm food, for Julot’s hands were turning blue, and his cheeks were drawn, his eyes hollow. He looked half starved, and no doubt he was, for many students barely existed while carrying on their studies.
Monks had scattered gardens and vineyards through the Brie forest, and here and there were old farmhouses, lying in ruins from past conflicts. The woods were dismal, a web of black branches interlaced overhead, a track marked by pools of rain that lay like sheets of steel across the way. Riding past such a ruin, we came in behind it to leave no tracks where we entered. We rode through weeds and brush and walked our horses through a breach in the wall, entering an ancient hall where a few disconsolate bats hung from the ceiling.
Gathering sticks for a fire, we built it carefully wanting no visible light nor smoke to warn a passerby. When flames sprang up we stretched our cold hands toward their heat, two dark and crouching figures, rain-soaked and cold, seeking as man has ever sought, the consolation of fire.
“It is good, the fire,” Julot said.
“The companion of vagabonds. Few men are so poor they cannot have fire.”
“You knew your father?”
“Aye.”
“My mother was a peasant girl; my father, a soldier in some army or other. She never knew which army or where he was from. He was a gentle man, with a handsome beard, so much and no more could she tell me.”
“Men without fathers often place more emphasis on them than others would. A mill does not turn on water that is past.”
“Perhaps, but without family a man is nothing.”
“You are mistaken. Your church has given opportunity to many men without family, the army, also.”
“One must conform, and I conform badly.”
“Be a philosopher. A man can compromise to gain a point. It has become apparent that a man can, within limits, follow his inclinations within the arms of the Church if he does so discreetly.” I smiled at him. “Remember this, Julot, even a rebel grows old, and sometimes wiser. He finds the things he rebelled against are now the things he must defend against newer rebels. Aging bones creak in the cold. Seek warmth, my friend; be discreet, but follow your own mind. When you have obtained position you will have influence. Otherwise you will tear at the bars until your strength is gone, and you will have accomplished nothing but to rant and rave.”
“Compromise is an evil word.”
“Think a little, Julot. All our lives we compromise, and without it there would be no progress, nor could men live together. You may think a man a fool, but if he is an agreeable fool you say nothing. Is that no compromise?
“Victory is not won in miles but in inches. Win a little now, hold your ground, and later win a little more.
“A man should not compromise his principles, but he need not flaunt them, as a banner. There is a time to talk and a time to be still. If a wrong is being done, then is the time to speak out.
“Study, Julot, gain prestige, and people will ask you solemnly for advice about things of which you know nothing.”
“I like not the sound of it,” Julot grumbled. “I am a fighter. I fight for what I believe.”
“There are many ways of fighting. Many a man or woman has waged a good war for truth, honor, and freedom, who did not shed blood in the process. Beware of those who would use violence, too often it is the violence they want and neither truth nor freedom.
“The important thing is to know where you stand and what you believe, then be true to yourself in all things. Moreover, it is foolish to waste time in arguing questions with those who have no power to change.
“There! My sermon for the day is finished. No doubt I will make at least some of the mistakes I have advised you against.”
“You preach well,” Julot grumbled. “Now see if you can preach us up a meal.”
“You have eggs; there is water and a fire. If we can find a kettle, we can boil our eggs, or a piece of metal on which they can be fried.”
“The idea is yours,” Julot said, “do you find the kettle. After all, who robbed the hen?”
Rising, I hitched up my sword belt. “Do you sit warm and snug. I shall venture out into the cold and storm.”
“Go ahead. Make, something of it, but come back with a kettle.”
To tell the truth, I was confident. This ruin was such a place as would attract vagabonds, and where a kettle might be hidden for some future time. Stepping out into the rain, I began scouting every corner of the ruins.
My search brought me nothing but a greater soaking from the rain and the realization that the ruin was more extensive than imagined. And then I saw the path. It is my weakness that I can never resist a path or a bend in the road, although usually the bend in the road when rounded only reveals another bend, as topping a hill only shows another hill before you. Yet I could not resist. I followed this one into the forest, my hand upon my sword hilt, my eyes questing at once for danger and a pot, a kettle, or something edible. From a tree I saw a great streamer of bark ripped away, which brought to mind a way in which we had often made baskets or boxes as a child.
Our problem was solved. Searching for the bark needed, I found some chestnuts the squirrels had overlooked. Studying the earth for more, I found something else.
A footprint.
A tiny, pointed toe. A track made by a slipper never intended for the forest, nor for a lady to wear walking in the wilderness. It was a slipper for dancing, for the halls of a castle.
Squatting on my heels, I studied the footprint. A damp leaf was pressed into the earth. Lifting it, I saw the earth was damp underneath. As it had begun to rain only a short time before, a brief rain already turning to sleet, there was a good chance that track had been made since the rain began. How long ago? A half hour? An hour?
What was such a woman doing in the forest at such a time? Unless she had been all night in the forest, she must have left some castle before daybreak. If such was the case, somebody must come looking for her, which meant our ruin would be searched as an obvious place of hiding. Hence we must leave at once.
But where was she?
Rising to my feet, I looked carefully around. The track had come from the direction in which I was going, and had she come further than this, would I not have seen her tracks? I had been searching the ground for whatever might be useful and could scarcely have missed them.
No doubt she had seen me and had hidden herself nearby.
“If you can hear me”—I spoke loudly—”please accept me as a friend. I know not who you may be, but those who come seeking you will find me, and I would be far from here before they arrive. It may be I can help you.”
Rain fell softly on leaves, freezing there. It was growing colder. “There is little time if you are to escape. I have a friend and horses nearby.”
A long, slow minute passed, and I began to walk away. Then there was a sudden movement, and a voice called out, “Please! I am in great trouble!”
She stood beside some brush where she had hidden herself on my approach. She was slender, wore a cloak reaching almost to the ground, and carried in her hand a small bundle.