“Heraclitus,” I murmured.
“The wisest of men,” said Philippe, pleased that I recognized the quote. “The gods like to surprise us when we grow complacent. It’s their favorite form of entertainment.” He studied my unusual costume. “Why are you wearing Matthew’s shirt and hose?”
“He gave them to me. It’s fairly close to what I wear in my own time, and Matthew wanted me to be comfortable. He sewed the legs together himself, I think.” I turned to show off the ensemble. “Who knew the de Clermont men could thread a needle, never mind stitch a straight seam?”
Philippe’s eyebrows rose. “Did you think Ysabeau mended our torn garments when we came home from battle?”
The idea of Ysabeau sewing quietly while she waited for her men to return made me giggle. “Hardly.”
“You know her well, I see. If you are determined to dress like a boy, put breeches on, at the very least. If the priest sees you, his heart will stop and tomorrow’s ceremony will have to be delayed.”
“But I’m not going outside,” I said, frowning.
“I’d like to take you to a place sacred to the old gods before you are wed. It is not far,” Philippe said when Matthew drew a breath to complain, “and I’d like us to be alone, Matthaios.”
“I’ll meet you in the stables,” I agreed without hesitation. Some time in the fresh air would provide a welcome opportunity for me to clear my head.
Outside, I enjoyed the sting of the cold air on my cheeks and the wintry peace of the countryside. Soon Philippe and I came to a hilltop that was flatter than most of the rounded ridges around Sept-Tours. The ground was punctuated with protrusions of stone that struck me as oddly symmetrical. Though ancient and overgrown with vegetation, these weren’t natural outcroppings. They were manmade.
Philippe swung down from his horse and motioned for me to do the same. Once I dismounted, he took me by the elbow and guided me through two of the strange lumps and into a smooth expanse of snow-covered ground. All that marred the pristine surface were the tracks of wildlife—the heart-shaped outline of a deer’s hoof, the five-clawed marks of bear, the combination of triangular and oval pads belonging to a wolf.
“What is this place?” I asked, my voice hushed.
“A temple dedicated to Diana stood here once, overlooking the woods and valleys where the stags liked to run. Those who revered the goddess planted sacred cypress trees to grow alongside the native oak and alder.” Philippe pointed to the thin columns of green that stood guard around the area. “I wanted to bring you here because when I was a child, far away and before I became a manjasang, brides would go to a temple like this before their wedding and make a sacrifice to the goddess. We called her Artemis then.”
“A sacrifice?” My mouth was dry. There had been enough bloodshed.
“No matter how much we change, it is important to remember the past and honor it.” Philippe handed me a knife and a bag whose contents shifted and chimed. “It is also wise to set old wrongs to rights. The goddesses have not always been pleased with my actions. I would like to make sure that Artemis receives her due before my son marries you tomorrow. The knife is to take a lock of your hair. It is a symbol of your maidenhood, and the customary gift. The money is a symbol of your worth.” Philippe’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “There would have been more, but I had to save some for Matthew’s god, too.”
Philippe led me to a small plinth in the center of the ruined structure. An assortment of offerings rested on it—a wooden doll, a child’s shoe, a bowl of sodden grain dusted with snow.
“I’m surprised that anyone still comes here,” I said.
“All over France women still curtsy to the moon when she is full. Such habits die hard, especially those that sustain people during difficult times.” Philippe went forward to the makeshift altar. He didn’t bow, or kneel, or make any of the other familiar signs of respect to a deity, but when he began to speak, his voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him. The strange mixture of Greek and English made little sense. Philippe’s solemn intentions were clear, however.
“Artemis Agroterê, renowned huntress, Alcides Leontothymos beseeches you to hold this child Diana in your hand. Artemis Lykeiê, lady of the wolves, protect her in every way. Artemis Patr?ia, goddess of my ancestors, bless her with children so that my lineage continues.”
Philippe’s lineage. I was part of it now, by marriage as well as the giving of his blood.