 Blanche d'Evereux and her escort were heading to the keep of Gisors, to Poulain, to the loyal troubadour who had sacrificed his freedom so that she might bring enlightenment to her people. The prisoner held the key to secrets which Church and State forbade any mention, of that much the determined noble woman was certain. And, when once released, the Spaniard would be free to help to spread such ancient wisdom to sage advisors throughout her realm. As the company moved through torch-lit Time, the ruler remembered Poulain’s look reserved for her, sent from a secluded corner of a crowded reception hall not so long ago. She recalled his introduction under minstral’s guise, his show of fealty to her alone, his subsequent arrest by a jealous, suspicious husband and the true pain she had felt for the foreigner’s fate. Blanche relived the excitement she had experienced the first time she had ventured to his cell, alone and disguised in a metal suit, to pay him tribute and offer succor. How their eyes had locked, despite absence of light, how he had reached out to dry her subsequent tears of regret, then tell to her a story she would never forget. "Dear queen," Poulain had said gently, in a quiet tone, "I have come to you as an emissary of that former company whose greatest knights were held captive in this tower, within these very walls." "Not the Templars!" Blanche near cried, choking on the stale air invading her chest. The year might have been 1350, and near forty years may have passed since the cruel demise of the warrior monks, but none had forgotten De Molay and his men, so savagely beaten, so unjustly disbanded and murdered by Philippe le Bel, then King of France. "We of the Bretheren have continued on in Spain," he explained. "And I have for you, White Queen, a most precious gift, a marvelous legacy to bestow, should you return to hear my tale." "But how?" the woman of eighteen unseasoned years demanded. "How might I return to hear this story of yours - I am a queen, my actions are followed. And your devotion to my house has already caused you such grief. To be so young and so comely and reduced to such dire circumstances is an unbearable state for me to contemplate. If I were you, monsieur, I should rather be dead." "No," Poulain smiled, "no. To give to one such as yourself the treasure, is no curse but rather a blessing, prison or no. Listen and I shall explain using the words of the great teacher, Aali-Pir, to demonstrate my case. Once I believed, as do most men, that a spiritual guide may seem as a hunter, requiring the student to enter a cage. Of course, I resisted until one day I thought of the example offered by the untrained hawk that thinks itself enslaved if captured. For does not the poor animal understand that the hawkmaster will give him a fuller life, perched freely on the wrist of a queen, without the perpetual preoccupations of food and of fear? I, too, had been full of doubt, but upon kissing the hem of your gown, I became your honorable peregrine, submitting myself to she who is of the Way. "I do not demand such sacrifice, monsieur,” Blanche protested. “Surely, you are most mistaken to think that I do." "Return later to my cage," Poulain smiled. "Bring a chaperone, a priest, and I shall demonstrate to you the wisdom back my words." The Queen of France dried her watery eyes and returned to the nearby Château of Neufles. What an impossible man, she told herself en route to her private home, what a strange character she had pitied and cried over, what a waste of her affections he had proven, Monsieur Poulain of Spain. But just at the same hour when she was about to retire, her lady-in-waiting announced the arrival of a messenger from that very land. Preparing for dire news, Blanche hastily threw a wrapper about her shoulders and gave the signal for the courier to be admitted. In entered a dark-skinned man, who laid a suit of black armour at her feet and handed her a slim volume of a most curious description. "From the friends of Monsieur Poulain, your Majesty. Think well of the Brothers of Purity, even though they show harshness towards you; for when evil suspicion takes hold of your mind, it severs a queen from a hundred friends. If a tender admirer treats you roughly to try your spirit, ‘tis contrary to reason to distrust him." Confused by the departing servant’s speech, Blanche opened the very bizarre token, a picture book of foreign design, and recognized the script on the frontispiece as belonging to Poulain. My mistress liberated me from the captivity in which I was; the captivity in which I thought I was free, when in fact I was actually revolving in a pattern. Then, she stared for a very long time at the dark suit and the curious ink sketches of penitent gentlemen being castigated by noble ladies, and after some time had passed, knew precisely what she must do - create a Company of the Spur and Serpent - and liberate Monsieur Poulain from the Tower. Inspired by Poulain’s detention, Blanche worked tirelessly with a like-minded group of nobles to draft a charter and create her Knights of the Spur. She resisted a visit to the dunjon at Gisors, until she was quite satisfied that her growing cadre would be well equipped and sufficiently prepared to effect Poulain’s release. Weighing in the group’s advantage was a passageway, a secret, subterranean highway leading from Neufles to the home of her swain. Confident of success, knowing her aging husband to be sickly and abed, Blanche led troops through the earthen, snaking channel. Her soft skin was encased in onyx plate, cool to the touch, and specters of breath preceded her long stride, for she considered herself on a rendezvous with great deed and selfless action. The attendant sentry saluted his queen and the company passed through the Tower gate without difficulty. Then the door to her desire loomed, and Blanche’s eyes narrowed. She produced a key and entered onto a scene taken straight from Saracen legend. For Poulain whirled before his lady, garbed in white robes crafted from bed linens, twirling, turning, faster and faster, performing some dervish dance, spinning with such speed that Blanche thought she might topple over from the pattern of his movements. Instead, she stepped inside the simple, round cell and saw its stone walls had been transformed to match the drawings in the folio. Carvings graced the confine - crudely manufactured outlines of lady knights ministering unto their supplicants. Then her sight alighted on the most potent symbol of all: two goddesses holding aloft a winged heart where had previously existed a man, the shape of which had been reduced to some wretched creature groveling at the duo’s feet. Temporarily distracted by the thud of Poulain’s body landing prostrate before Vulcan’s pitch-colored handiwork, Blanche of Navarre ignored the supplicant, gaze returning to the testament that made prison, palace, and immediately, the wise girl-queen was changed into woman-goddess and likewise, she understood. "I shall return here, as it pleases me," Blanche announced, "to be instructed as to the secrets of Chemis, the Black Land of the adepts. And in my presence, this prisoner will perform the Dance of the Visionary, to the beat of a cracking whip, and all will be revealed, as the stones here have foretold." "Success," murmured Poulain, as Blanche left the jail and its grateful inhabitant, his winged heart soaring within her contented breast. "I have found my dark goddess," the prisoner then shouted aloud, to no one in particular, before losing his own sense of identity in the memory of her thrall.  While most historians claim that Monsieur Poulain was of Scots descent, they fail to realize that in Sufi code, used extensively by the Templars and certain European nobles of that time, a "Scot" denotes a foreigner, namely one hailing from Spain. Also it should be noted that "Poulain" translates to "colt," the code used for a Templar's passport, containing his genealogy and references. |
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