The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom.
Though it cost all you have, get understanding.
Proverbs 4:7
June 15th, 1170
Candlelit chandeliers illuminated a tower of books on the table, and many more were strewn about in a disorderly fashion. Some were thick, others barely wider than a thumb’s width; all written in Latin.
Despite the arched windows at the front of the room, the overcast weather shrouded the place in a melancholy atmosphere.
At a mahogany table, the prince and archbishop William were engaged in a lesson in Latin grammar, while Aliénor was permitted to sit at the other end of the table, swinging her legs in a chair twice her size, and watching absently as a moth fluttered near a candle on the nearest book.
“Bonum autem facientes non deficiamus tempore enim suo metemus non deficientes.” Said William, pointing at a line in the Vulgate, “translate.”
“In doing…” Baudouin hesitated, “and in doing good…let us… not become weary.”
Aliénor yawned. The moth was climbing up the waterfalls of candlewax, closer to the flame.
“Soon enough…” Continued Baudouin.
“Almost. Try again.”
“In…due time…we will reap a good harvest…. if we do not give up.”
The moth wobbled around the edge of the candle; close to the flame. Aliénor was tempted to give it a slight blow and watch the creature erupt into fire. Before she could, the moth wobbled a bit too much, and in a bright spark of light, exploded into a million shades of orange.
“Oh!” She exclaimed in awe. The creature flailed for a moment, and then succumbed to a pile of ash at the base of the candle.
William gave her a pointed look but returned his attention to the prince.
“Archbishop,” Baudouin frowned at the page in front of him, “how long is ‘in due time we will reap a good harvest’?”
“Sometimes it is a lifetime, your majesty.”
“That’s annoying.” Said Aliénor, frowning at the remaining ashes of the moth.
“I would rather suffer all the days of my life and inherit eternal divine joy, then have carnal joy now and inherit eternal darkness.” William mused, “but the choice is for the individual.”
“I want to go to heaven.” Said Baudouin, “does that mean I must suffer?”
William chuckled, and ran a hand through his greying hair, “that’s not what permits you into heaven. It is simply the consequence of following Christ. As He suffered, so will we. As the world rejected Him, so it will reject you.”
Aliénor pouted, “but I don’t want to be rejected.”
“You musn’t say that!” Baudouin exclaimed, “we must be rejected so we can go to heaven!”
“No, children, no.” William groaned, “perhaps we ought to read the gospels again before any more misconceptions sprout.”
Baudouin lunged for a book in the centre of the table, nearly knocking over a candle in the process. “Sibylla always speaks of the Gospel of John in her letters.”
“Very well, your majesty.”
Aliénor groaned and lay her head down on the table as the archbishop began to read the first chapter of John in Latin.
Latin irritated her. She knew little of it, and hearing the endless amounts of reading that Baudouin endured every day was torturous. Her ears yearned for the sounds of the palace garden. The chortling of the fountain, the soft hum of the breeze, the melodies of the birds.
But Baudouin had begged Robert and Aliénor to join this lesson, and Robert had already declined rudely to go off hunting. So now it was just Aliénor with the prince and his tutor, the archbishop, enduring for the sake of his majesty’s happiness.
And his majesty was always happy reading Latin.
At least the vulgate was slightly more entertaining to Aliénor than the history books the prince seemed to drag around everywhere.
“In the beginning was the Word…” His quiet voice echoed among the bookshelves, a lullaby in itself. Aliénor felt her eyes drooping and didn’t fight it.
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“And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God…”
*
“Lady Aliénor.”
She awoke from her sleep with a jolt and found archbishop William standing over her with a candle in his hand. “Lady Aliénor, I believe it is time for your evening meal.”
Fumbling to straighten her dress, she stood up hastily. Baudouin was gathering a few books into his arms at the other end of the table, as if the lesson had just finished.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I must have dozed off.” She mumbled.
“Right this way, children.”
Following Baudouin and the archbishop, Aliénor hurried after them out of the library and into the torchlit hall.
Halfway down the corridor, the prince slowed his pace to match hers, letting William ahead of them.
“Do you always sleep in your lessons, lady Aliénor?” Baudouin raised an eyebrow at her as he hugged several editions of Latin grammar books to his chest.
“I’ve heard the book of John before.” Aliénor sniffed, “a lot, actually. It’s quite boring once you know it as well as I do.”
“You know it all? What’s the start of it like?”
“Well, in the beginning was the…uh…the…the world.” She felt her cheeks reddening, but it was too late to back out now. “Yes, in the beginning was the world.” That seemed right.
She turned to him with a nervous smile and found Baudouin’s face equally red as her own. He was holding back laughter.
“You know I’m right!” She exclaimed, “aren’t I?”
“Perhaps,” archbishop William cast them a glance over his shoulder, “his majesty ought to question Lady Aliénor after she’s had an opportunity to fully awaken. The groggy mind is a terrible thing.”
“I’m sorry.” Baudouin bowed his head pensively.
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” Aliénor insisted, “in the beginning, there was the world, wasn’t there?”
“Can she sit with me for dinner?” Baudouin said to the archbishop, “please? We can talk about John. And the Word which was at the beginning.”
“You are not giving a theology lesson to Lady Aliénor, your majesty.”
“It would be an educated discussio-”
“And who mistook the book of Chronicles to be in the New Testament only last week?” The archbishop retorted.
Aliénor snickered as Baudouin cheeks turned a deeper red than her own.
“Fine.” Huffed the prince quietly and stamped after William in embarrassment.
“Please, archbishop William.” Aliénor grabbed onto the corner of the man’s robe, “please, do let us sit together for dinner. I don’t want to be next to Robert; he pulls my hair.”
“It’s true! He’s a nuisance.” Confirmed Baudouin, “and very, very wicked!”
“See, archbishop? Please? We’ll be good. I’ll be good. You know I have excellent manners.”
A few more minutes of relentless begging, and even the archbishop could not help but relent. With a long sigh, he nodded at last, and the children let out screams of delight at their success.
“Come, Aliénor!” The prince seized her hand, dragging her towards the beaded curtains leading to the dining hall, “come! Perhaps the servants will give us dessert early!”
William watched in silent amusement as the prince and his friend disappeared behind the curtains. Their laughter echoed along the corridor and he wondered if perhaps one day he would ever have children of his own.
***
November 10th, 1177
“What has possessed you, Tilly? Are you out of your mind?” My words hang in the stuffy air as Matilda De Cour shoves her tunic, a small prayer book, and a half-used candle into a satchel bag. Our shared room is dim, with only a small slit of light coming from the window above our beds. It’s cramped, and yet, homely. But without her I would not feel at home. “Where are you going?”
“The Order of Lazarus will be here any moment.” She says breathlessly, tying up the bundle with a piece of wicker string.
“And you plan to join them?”
“Aye, I do.” She stands up straight and throws the bundle over her shoulder, “my brothers have gone to war. I can not sit here and stitch handkerchiefs while they bleed.”
“But you are not a woman of war! You…you puke at the sight of blood; don’t let us forget the chicken incident.”
“We shall indeed forget it, Sister Aliénor. I am leaving with the medics of Lazarus at once. You would be wise to do so as well. I have heard the Saracens outnumber us twelve to one.”
“Twelve to one?” But my words fall on deaf ears, Matilda has dashed out of the room to the stairs and left me standing open mouthed like a fool.
The sound of grinding wagon wheels emanates from below, and the rough shouts of men echo up from the open window. The Order of Lazarus has arrived.
Another nun rushes past the bedroom door, carrying a bag much like Matilda. She doesn’t even stop to greet to me.
Twelve to one. Her words spiral in my mind; dizzying, sickening.
Dear Lord have mercy.
I scarcely know what I am doing, but my hands find their way to the chest at the foot of my bed, tug it open, and throw my second tunic into the worn carpetbag my mother gave me years ago.
What am I doing? I do not even know. But like Matilda said, I can not simply sit still and knit while the others die.
I’m half nauseous and half scared to death as I stumble down the stairs and into the courtyard. There, are stood several men in shimmering iron suits, with the red cross painted across their fronts and their faces obscured by silver helmets.
Mother Superior is talking to the tallest of them, her tone a mixture of worry and firmness. She speaks quicker than I have ever heard her – and just as I am about to turn and search for Matilda, she spots me.
“Aliénor of Acre! Come here.”
Clutching my old carpetbag to my stomach, I join them.
“This is the daughter of Henri of Acre.” Mother Superior nods at me, “she is diligent and hardworking, and very clever. She will serve you well.”
“She knows medicine?” The tallest knight demands, “herbs?”
“Some.” I say, “and I can learn.”
A second knight cuts in, setting a hand on the shoulder of the tallest, “she will do. We must hurry.”
The next few minutes are a blur. There are men in shining suits running in every direction, nuns gathering supplies, horses whinnying, wagon wheels churning in the dust. Two knights lead me to a wagon laden with bandages and pots of sour smelling herbs. Matilda is already there, sitting against the edge of the wagon, fidgeting nervously with her skirt.
“Stay here.” One of the knights gestures for me to climb in, and they close the back behind me.
“Tilly, what is happening?” I hiss as I settle across from her. On either side of me are crates of what seems to be comfrey and sage; the scent is overpoweringly strong, and I cover my nose with my right sleeve – the sleeve I have not torn off.
“We’re going to war.” She says, staring blankly into space. “The Order of Lazarus is bringing healers. The King’s army has plenty of wounded already; small bands of Saracens have been attacking them on the journey to Ascalon.”
“But we are not healers, I-”
“It does not take a doctor to work a saw. I reckon I can use one just fine.”
“Dear Lord.”
Her attention flicks to my bare arm, “what happened to your sleeve?”
“I gave it away.”
“Robert of Aubery is already betrothed to Maria Blaise.” She scoffs, “what a waste.”
“It was not for Robert.” And despite her whining pleas, I say no more. My secrets are mine, and mine alone.