Train up a child in the way he should go;
even when he is old he will not depart from it.
Proverbs 22:6
June 14th, 1170
Like a phantom, Aliénor ran. Her white gown whipped at her heels as she weaved madly through a field of wheat. The stalks snatched at her arms and legs, catching her skirts and twisting around her ankles.
“Ralentir! Ralentir!” Yelled the two boys behind her, but she ran even faster.
Her hair flew out behind her like a veil. The cool breeze pinched her cheeks, and the morning air was as sharp as pins in her nostrils, but she wiped her nose and didn’t look back.
“Ralentir, Aliénor!”
The field came abruptly to an end, and Aliénor stumbled to a halt on the top of a hill, bent over her knees to catch her breath. Her aching lungs begged for rest, and she inhaled sharply. The scent of cedar trees and roses infused the air, and she set her gaze on the horizon.
Dawn light dappled across the mountainous skyline; freckles of gold spilling over cedar trees and onto her face.
The hills were marked by paths of dirt, spreading over the grass like cobwebs; carved out by wagon wheels and tired footsteps. For a brief moment, she wondered if she ought to continue; to run along them until she reached the sparkling white domes of Jerusalem. She wondered if she could make it to the city in the distance before the others caught her.
But their pattering footsteps were already catching up, and it would be pointless.
“I won!” With a breathy laugh, Aliénor turned to see the young prince and his friend sprinting after her, both grabbing each other’s jackets in an attempt to pull the other back as they rushed through the last streaks of wheat.
“I’m second!” Cried Baudouin, freeing himself from Robert’s grip on his sleeve.
“Non!” Robert struggled forward and grabbed the prince’s collar, hurling him into the wheat.
There was a surprised shriek from Baudouin as he fell to the ground, and then another from Robert as the prince seized his ankles and dragged him down too.
“Arrêt!” Aliénor waded back through the wheat, to find the two boys grunting and engaged in a brutal wrestling match. “Stop!”
But either they didn’t hear, or they ignored her pleas.
Robert had Baudouin pinned on the ground, but the prince, despite being several years younger, was surprisingly accurate with his punches. His fists struck Robert in the chin, and the chest, but Robert returned the favour, withholding strength of course, lest he punished for it later.
“I am second!” Baudouin exclaimed vehemently with each blow he threw at his opponent.
“Menteur! You are a liar!”
“I am not!”
The accusation of lying seemed to ignite a bigger fire in his heart, and Baudouin shoved the other boy off him. Just as Robert looked as if he were about to pounce on the prince again, Aliénor jumped between them.
“Enough!” She faced Robert, holding her hands out to stop him approaching, “or we’ll get into more trouble. You’ve already got a torn sleeve.”
“I have a torn sleeve too.” Said Baudouin proudly, crawling to his feet. He held up his arm for them both to see.
“I didn’t do that!” Said Robert in fright, “I swear it!”
“You should never swear, Archbishop William says so.” Said Baudouin.
“William also said we’re not supposed to run away from the governess.”
“I see her! Over there! The governess!” Aliénor cut in, pointing across the field, “and she has the guards!”
“Quick, clean the prince up!”
“I am clean!” Protested Baudouin – to no avail. His golden locks were laced with chaff, and his tunic was ruined in more ways than one. With a torn sleeve, torn hem and frayed seams, he would not be escaping from the governess, or the archbishop, unscathed.
“Wicked children!” Cried the governess when she caught up to them. Her plump cheeks were flushed with fury, most likely at having to run after them in the heat wearing her full attire, and only secondly because they had disobeyed her. “Wicked, wicked children! Why must you grieve me so? The archbishop will be terribly vexed, terribly, terribly vexed!”
She spoke in a manner of great agitation, panting between each word. Ladies of her standing were not expected to gallop after youngsters at eight in the morning on a Sunday!
The two palace guards lingered behind her, and Aliénor was certain she heard one of them chuckle during the governess’ scolding.
“And look at the prince! What have you done to him?”
Nobody seemed to care that Robert’s nose was bleeding from the scuffle. Or that Aliénor’s shoes were scuffed and covered in mud. At that moment, what mattered most was that the prince was presentable.
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Baudouin clasped his hands behind his back in a weak attempt to hide the damage, but the governess was much too clever. She grabbed his arm. Her expression changed from annoyance to dismay when her eyes settled upon the gaping hole in his sleeve.
“Look at his tunic! Robert, was this you?”
“No.” Said Robert.
“Yes.” Said Baudouin.
“Maybe.” Said Aliénor with a shrug.
The governess threw her hands up in despair, “Lord Almighty, have mercy on me! Back to the palace, all of you! The archbishop will hear about this.”
***
November 10th, 1177
Like a breeze, I run, wading through the field of wildflowers. Cowslip and primroses are the ocean which spreads before me, a sea of yellow and pink against the azure sky.
I will not make it in time.
The last of the military parade are passing by the edge of the field. White banners with red crosses fly in the wind, held by knights with shimmering armour of steel. The horses are muzzled with steel also, and on their backs hang banners with the golden cross of Jerusalem.
The men are little in number, perhaps a hundred. All of them heading to Ascalon, to defend against the Saracens. The call to arms came like a thief in the night, and my brother, and father left early this morning so I could not even bid them farewell.
I wave at the last of the knights. His mane of orange hair gives away his identity. Robert of Aubery, son of Jean Aubery, my brother’s friend, and my childhood bane.
“Robert, attendez! Wait!”
“Aliénor? Just as slow as ever, I see.” His horse slows to a halt, and I reach his saddle retching for air.
“I have gifts.” I pant, holding up a parcel of honey cakes for him. “For you and my brother and father.”
He accepts it with a grin and tucks it into his satchel bag on his hip. “I’ve heard the rations are not something to be desired, so thank you. I see you have a letter?”
“For the king.” I give him the sealed envelope and pray he doesn’t notice the bulge of a rose bud within it. “This too.”
Reaching to undo the sleeve from my dress, I hesitate. It’s crimson in colour with silver embroidered stars along the edges. My only elegant gown. Mother made it for me when I left to the convent of Saint Mary; she would have been furious. But she is gone now, and it is mine to give.
Robert raises an eyebrow, “I’m sure Baudouin has plenty of favours from young women already.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I snap, shoving the sleeve at him, “take it, please.”
“Alright, alright.” He stuffs the sleeve into his satchel, and the letter with it. “Shall I tell him who it’s from?”
“Yes. But I don’t think you’ll have to. Farewell, Robert.”
“Farewell, Aliénor.” He casts me a final glance, and then he is off, his stallion galloping after the procession in the distance.
I watch his shimmering form fade into the clouds of dust, until the drumming of hooves and the echo of voices is no more. Until the sun crawls higher in the sky, and I know I must return before the nuns begin to worry.
My feet take the slightly longer route home by memory, following the dirt path along the outskirts of the field as my mind wanders.
I miss what used to be. I miss the magical summer trips to Jerusalem, where Robert and I would attend court with our fathers and linger around the gardens hunting for butterflies and grabbing for fish in the pond. Robert was alright, but he always had his eyes set on the courtly ladies. Even at twelve, he was a menace. But our fathers were friends, and so we too were forced into friendship.
He tortured me often with worms on a stick, or by tugging my hair. Thankfully, once we enlisted prince Baudouin into our games, Robert learned to mind his manners.
A year my junior, the young prince had no issue with telling archbishop William in full detail, every misspoken word of Robert’s, and every unpleasant act. And then Robert in due course, would receive the cane for it.
Ungodly behaviour was not tolerated in my nemesis Robert. But as long as I was good, and as long as Baudouin was equally to blame, I suffered nought.
A grin spreads over my face as I recall the summer in 1170.
I snuck a knife out of the palace kitchen, and together with Baudouin we ran, giggling like fools, to the darkest corner of the library and scratched Latin curse words into the underside of the tables.
By the time our hands were exhausted, a mess of curses decorated the bottom of the mahogany tables, reading:
“Te futueo et caballum tuum” – Screw you and the horse you rode in on!
“Puto vos esse molestissimos” – I think that you are very annoying.
“Potes meos suaviari clunes” – You can kiss my a**!
“Flocci non faccio” – I don’t give a damn.
“Te odeo, interface te cochleare.” — I hate you. Kill yourself with a spoon.
“Hahahaaɛ Faciem durum cacantis habes”. — Ha ha You have the face of a woman with severe constipation.
“Quando podeces te regi eorum fecerunt?” - When did the assholes make you their king?
“Derideo te!” - I laugh at you!
And archbishop William didn’t hear peep about that.
I miss those times. I don’t suppose we’ll ever go back to that now.
After Baudouin was found to have leprosy, archbishop William seemed to be around at the worst of times, a stumbling block to children attempting to smuggle the prince into the courtyards.
Summer trips became more rigid and more guarded. And with them, our carefree innocence began to fade.
We rarely saw Baudouin; he was concealed from view, save for the occasional banquet dinner. And then he would be at the furthest end, set away from us and from the court. Meeting his gaze felt as if I were breaking rules, and our stolen glances never lasted long.
I played alone with Robert for the months we resided there. The days dragged by slowly, and no matter how much we begged his servants, and the archbishop, the prince was no longer to be a friend, but rather, to be treated as an object of apprehension and fear.
Once, when Robert and I were sitting by the pond in the courtyard, I saw Baudouin observing us from a balcony. He was dressed plainly, and his right hand was bound in bandages. I never said anything, but I waved at him, and he waved back. I like to think he remembers that moment as vividly as I do.
Eventually we stopped seeing him at all. He was the shame of King Almaric, and the court. Perhaps they thought his disease was a curse from God. I know many people did.
But despite the fact we could not see him in person, through enough crying and sobbing to archbishop William, Robert and I were permitted to exchange letters with him, something which I maintain even to this day.
His letters are always a delight to read in the evenings at the convent. And they have become the favourite literature of some of the younger nuns, who listen eagerly when I read them aloud before the fireplace.
Perhaps they wish they were receiving letters from a king too.
But now I will not hear from him for many days, weeks even. Perhaps never again. I pray to God that He will keep my king safe from Saracens.
I have lost my mother and my sister already; I can not lose a friend too.