Meanwhile he lighted a candle, and we glimpsed stalls for twenty or more horses, all empty now, and storage bins with grain and hay, long unused. He pointed down a long passage opening before us.
“Follow it, and you will arrive in Provins. Make no sound, not even a whisper, for the first half mile. At a point not far distant this passage passes close to a secret passage from the Castle Blandy. The lord of that castle has never been aware of this one, but we did hear someone moving in their passage once.”
Looking off into the darkness, I had doubts. “What of air? What of light?”
“Take a supply of candles or torches. You will find others at intervals. Air circulates in the tunnel by some means we have not discovered, but if more is needed, you will find occasional rings in the wall. Pull on a ring, and a small opening will appear. Stand by the openings to breathe, but when you pass on, be sure the openings are closed.”
“And at Provins?”
“There are catacombs of a sort beneath that city. There is a maze of subterranean passages, some of them dating to a time before the Romans, but be careful where you emerge. Listen, first.”
Still, I hesitated. I had my fill of such places before this. “To Provins? It must be thirty miles!”
“The distance is not important. The passage was built over several hundred years and a long time ago. Monks carrying grain or wine from one monastery to another were often robbed by such barons as he who inhabits Blandy, so this tunnel was built to enable them to come and go as they wished.
“There were many monks; few knew or cared what they did, and this passage is known to none outside the Church and only a few inside. It has not been used for many years, but the account of it is hidden in the archives.”
“I would not deceive you. I am escaping because of words spoken of which some teachers did not approve.”
He shrugged. “There are shades of opinion, my friend. We here are followers of Abelard, and pleased to be so.”
“And Fat Claire?”
He looked me in the eye. “She is my sister.” Holding my torch high, I looked down the passage as Persigny walked away. “Are you afraid, Comtesse?”
“Yes, but I have often been afraid and, no doubt, shall be afraid many more times. No one, in our world, I think, lives without fear.” She turned to me. “I do not even know your name.”
“Mathurin Kerbouchard, but I am not, as I appear, a soldier. I have been many things, a man of the sea, a translator of books, a vagabond, a merchant, and occasionally, a physician.”
“You are a landless man?”
What happened at my home, I told her, and of what took place later, with Tournemine.
“A man who handles a sword need not long be landless. The followers of William of Normandy did very well for themselves, and Roger of Sicily, too.”
“You could become a knight,” she agreed, “or win a patent of nobility.”
“It interests me less than you would believe. The difference between a brigand or wandering soldier and a noble is scarcely a generation.”
“It is a bit more than that, I think.”
“Or less. It might take several generations to achieve a Count Robert. It seems to me that blue blood only becomes important when red blood begins to run thin.”
Being of the nobility, she did not wish to agree with me, but no doubt, she knew her own family history. I did not know hers, but could guess. The Crusaders may have had noble motives, but loot was at least a secondary object, and their desire to free the Holy Sepulcher did not stop them from capturing and looting a Christian city or two.
We rode for some time in silence, and when the air became close and hot, we stopped near one of the rings in the wall and, tugging on it, found that it opened stiffly to let in cool night air. A moon had arisen, and we could see woods and fields. The opening was in some kind of a wall, a castle, perhaps. We breathed deeply, waited a few minutes in silence, then closed the opening and went on.
“Where do you go?” she asked.
“To Provins, where I have friends. If they are not present, I shall await them, then on to Kiev.”
Startled, she turned to stare at me. “Kiev?”
“Yes.”
“But it is far!”
“From there I shall go to Constantinople, to Trebizond, and even further.”
“It is my way, too. I must return to Saone.”
“Come with us. My friends are many, and there are women among them. We travel well.”
She did not reply, and for a long time there was no sound but our horses’ hooves on the stones beneath. A trickle of water ran along the center of the floor, water scarcely a half-inch deep.
“The book you gave your friend? What was it?”
Briefly, I explained, adding, a little smugly I am afraid, that it was my own translation.
“You read Latin then? And Arabic?” She paused. “I have known few people who could read.”
“The nobility rarely read. It might make them think.”
“You are not complimentary.”
“How many have you known who knew much but war, hunting, or drinking?”
“I believe you do not like us.”
“I like you. You are a very beautiful woman.”
We opened another notch to breathe the air. It was almost day, and we could see rolling hills and a flock of sheep.
“I have never been alone with a man before, one to whom I was not married.”
“You have no need to be afraid. I shall warn you beforehand.”
“Warn me? Of what?”
“It is far to Provins. Perhaps I shall wait until then. Perhaps even longer.”
“I thought you were gallant.”
“A word of more than one meaning, as you may know. Yes, I believe I am gallant. If I made love to you, would I be less gallant?”
“Without my permission, yes.”
“Oh, I should have your permission! I wouldn’t think of it otherwise.”
She turned on me, her eyes sparkling with anger. “Do you believe, for one minute, that I would allow you, a vagabond, a landless man, to make love to me?”
“Of course.”
“Never … unless you take me by force.”
“Don’t keep harping on that idea. It sounds too much like an invitation. No, no matter how much you expect me to, I shall not. I shall wait. The kisses of a woman who has been humbled are the sweeter for it.”
“You are the most egotistical man I ever met.” Her tone became cool. “We will discuss the subject no longer.”
“If I discuss it, you will leave me?”
“I cannot escape you, you know that.”
“A satisfying thought, is it not?”
We rode on in silence until finally I said, “A true gentleman is at a disadvantage in dealing with women. Women are realists, and their tactics are realistic, so no man should be a gentleman where women are concerned unless the women are very, very old or very, very young. Women admire gentlemen, and sleep with cads.”
How far we had come I had no idea, but we had ridden most of the day. During our occasional stops, we gave the horses a chance for fresh air also, and I took time to study the construction of the tunnel. It seemed to have been built at intervals over an extended period. Judging by the masonry, I believed the tunnel must have been built for some distance, and then work ceased for many years and then was begun anew. From place to place the styles of the masonry were different, and even the materials.
No doubt it had taken several hundred years to complete it, but there need have been no shortage of manpower during that time. Yet wars and political confusions within the Church may have caused stoppages. We came upon old entrances walled up and several places for escape from the tunnel; yet where they emerged, I had no idea nor time to investigate.
At one of the places where we stopped for fresh air, we shared our bread and meat, but she remained cool.
“What is your given name?” I asked.
“I am the Comtesse de Malcrais.”
I smiled. “You can call me what you wish.”
“I have several ideas about that!”
“Good! You have imagination, at least. Share them with me? What would you call me?”
“An unmannered peasant, a boor, an impossible, ungallant person—oh, I could think of many things!”
“Well, not bad, but they are rather the usual names, are they not?”
“I expect you are accustomed to them.”
“I have some names for you, too.” She stiffened, her nostrils flaring a little, her lips tightening. “You are beautiful; you have a very provocative mouth, one that was meant for kisses. Your shoulders are lovely. As for your legs … I haven’t seen enough of them to express an opinion, but probably they are ugly.”