“That is a remarkable jeweled piece you are wearing,” he said unexpectedly. “May I see it more closely?” He motioned a page to come nearer with a torch.
“Yes, of course, Master.” I moved forward so that I was standing in front of him. I could smell his sweet breath, which reminded me of the figs my mother used to receive as gifts from her own mother in faraway Castile.
“You must excuse me. I do not see as well as in former times,” he said in his sere voice, and he bent over the jewel. He lifted it by its cord and turned it in his hand, being careful all the while not to touch my skin. I could feel the warmth of his breath, though, and I made an effort to hold myself absolutely still, looking over his bent head.
I saw my uncle watching us. He had moved back and slightly behind the master. His eyes met mine, and he seemed to be signaling me in some way, but I could not divine what message he wanted to convey.
“This is a jewel created by Omar Ibn al-Faridh of Toledo, is it not?” the master asked when at last he straightened. “He worked for the caliph in Córdoba when I lived there as a young man, many years ago.”
“I believe you are correct.” I was still ramrod straight and breathing carefully. “Ibn al-Faridh was a great poet and a master jeweler as well.”
“You know our culture well, for a northerner.” He smiled. Was he trifling with me, or was it a compliment? “How did you come by this? Was it in your mother’s family?”
“No, it came as a betrothal gift from Richard Coeur de Lion. His mother was given it by her grandfather, who brought it back from his captivity in your land.”
“Ah, yes, the famous Duke William of Aquitaine.” The master paused, his expression inscrutable. “He spent some time in Seville after he was captured in Outremer. He was a great favorite of al-Mu’tamid. He must have been given the jewel as a farewell present.” He spoke as if Duke William had paid a social visit to southern Hispania.
“I had no idea this jewel is so well known,” I said, and I could not keep a frown from forming. I did not care for notoriety of any sort.
“I remember Eleanor wore that pendant on the day she and Louis were married,” my uncle offered, as if to break a rising tension.
“Did she so?” I murmured as I pulled my wrap around my bosom and flung one end over my shoulder. A page scrambled to pick up the cloak that had slipped to the floor. “It was a gift from Eleanor to her favored son, Richard. And then from him to me,” I said. And then, for the benefit of the master, who seemed far too interested in my jewel, I added, “It never leaves me.”
My words filled the air for a long moment. We all seemed frozen in private thought. It was the master himself who turned to my uncle and said softly, “I believe you have documents for me.” He executed yet another elaborate bow in my direction. “Forgive these old men who must forgo your charming company to do our business.”
“It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master,” and again I bowed. It was not obligation but a recognition of his great learning and his ancient eyes that moved me. “Perhaps one day I may come to Toledo and visit the school that you and Gerard of Cremona have created.”
“Ah, you know about that? We would welcome you most gladly,” he said, speaking in English heavily inflected with the music of the Arabic language.
“Alaïs, will I see you in the morn?” My uncle came forward and took me by the elbow to steer me toward the door. “We could perhaps break bread together before you board ship.”
“No, Uncle, my party must move swiftly tomorrow. My men have arranged a passage at dawn, if the storm has passed. We must waste no time.”
“Ah, I regret that we cannot spend more time together. You must come to Blois at the first opportunity.”
I smiled at that sally. “I must, if I am to see you. You never come to Paris now.”
“Philippe can manage without his uncle’s counsel. And I find myself extremely harried these days.”
I wanted to ask him why he should be so busy when he was well past the age where he had to gather troops and lead battles. But I could sense an impatience to return to his conversation with Averroës.
After he formally embraced me, bending his tall frame to mine to brush each of my cheeks, he did an odd thing. He gently pulled my dead hand from out of my left pocket and pressed his lips to it. This embarrassed me. I am intensely private about my hand and rarely expose it. If it had been anyone but my uncle Robert, my bile would have risen. Then he withdrew a step and regarded me with his deep gaze.
“You look much like your mother, Alaïs. You have her coal-black hair and green eyes. It is a great pleasure for me to see you, and to see you well.”
I was so startled by Duke Robert’s sudden change of mood that I fear my mouth gaped. Then he continued.
“But, niece, take a warning. Please have a care about your person. Do not expose your jewels in these public houses. Thieves lurk everywhere.”
I began to form a rejoinder when his mood slid yet again and became quite military.
“I shall order two of my men to see you to your room.”
“Uncle, be sensible!” I said, finally voicing my exasperation. “I have come safely all the way from Paris with four good men, and I can certainly see myself to my room in this inn without assistance from the army of the Duke of Orléans.”
He began to protest but then saw that I was serious and shook his head, speaking with a chuckle. “All right. And I see you are right to trust them. Is that not your man waiting over there?” He pointed across the room as the large doors swung open. There was Roland, propped up against the wall, his head drooping. It snapped up at the sound of the doors, and he hurried to my side.
“Good-bye then, Uncle. And Godspeed,” I said, murmuring inwardly that I would give much to know where God would speed him next, and for what purpose.
“That was a long conversation,” Roland said, falling into step beside me.
“You took it well,” I joked. “I see you are finally growing tired.”
“Tom said if I could not wait, then he would do it, but he was already nodding when the three of us sat by the fire, so I packed him off to bed.”
There was a silence. I dared not laugh. As we made our way to the stairwell leading to our cramped but whitewashed rooms, we passed a small group of men who sat at an oak table in the corner with trenchers of ox stew and goblets of red wine.
I would have passed them by, intent as I was to lay my head on a pillow, but their garb caught my eye. Although there was a roaring fire in the grate and the place was warm with the sweat of the men shouting and gaming in the opposite corner, these men still wore their cloaks and hoods even as they dined.
As I passed, one turned to talk to his mate, and his hood fell back momentarily. In the torchlight I saw the outline of a high forehead, a strong nose broken at one time, and full lips. As if aware of being observed, the man made a quick gesture to pull the hood forward.
I didn’t pause but took note of all. There were three of them, and I bethought myself of the three mounted men I had seen on the Île de la Cité as we rode out from my brother’s Paris castle.
My mind was still on these men as I entered my chamber, drawing the heavy bolt behind me. A wall torch still flickered, and for a moment I stood perfectly still. There was something in the room, some scent that was not familiar. A musky scent of male sweat.
I lifted high the tallow candle I was carrying and swung the light into all the corners. Everything seemed as I had left it. The basin half full of washing water, my travel sack on the floor near the bed, my cloak tossed across the chair in one corner.
Then I saw it. My small casket of jewels lay inside the leather fold of my travel sack. I always packed this casket at the bottom, as I rarely pulled out jewels when I journeyed, unless I needed them to exchange for silver. The casket was less likely to fall out and get lost if it were tucked away safely under my clothes.
So someone had removed this casket and examined it. He must have been
in a hurry to be so careless in replacing the item. Or he was an inept thief who didn’t know how to forestall suspicion.
I stooped and picked it up. The small oval box had been a gift from Eleanor’s daughter Joanna when I returned to the court at Paris, and I treasured it for that reason. Also the fanciful design of the colorful gemstones on the lid pleased me. I noticed now they were untouched, though they would have been easy enough to pry off. The small lock that held the lid to the box had been twisted and broken, however. Setting the casket on the rough oak side table, I flicked open the lid, expecting to see an empty box. To my surprise, the few jewels I had brought with me lay peacefully on the bottom: the jewels to twine in my hair (should I ever reach civilization again!), a necklace that Philippe had given me, a brooch that was a favorite, a ring that was my mother’s, all nestled against the scarlet velvet lining.
I snapped the lid shut and surveyed the room again, but nothing seemed amiss. A quick check of my leather sack showed my few clothes slightly rumpled but all accounted for.
My next act was to throw open the shutters of the window. I felt violated, and I wanted the strange scent gone from my space. I leaned over the sill and looked out onto the harbor, breathing deeply. The rain had abated finally. With the passing of the clouds, the moon had made a delayed appearance. The boats bobbing in the water seemed peacefully oblivious to the recent storm. But my soul was puzzled and very unquiet.
.5.
Canterbury Ghosts
I knew I should not sleep well that night, but I burrowed under the pile of wool blankets the inn provided with some hope that after the buzz of the events of the evening inside my head diminished, I should receive some surcease in the arms of Morpheus. Alas, it was not to be. But it was not the unsettling meeting with the master nor the mysterious intrusion into my chamber that distracted me. It was the cloudy memory of a long-ago scene with William of Caen that overtook me, almost as if it were summoned.
This kind of imaging has never frightened me. I consider such visitations a gift. As an artist, and one who often draws what is not yet visible, I am not afraid of visions. It matters little whether they be memories of events or scenes of the future. But this night images from my past well nigh overwhelmed me.
I supposed it was triggered by my uncle’s news that William of Caen was acting prior at Canterbury. As I closed my eyes, the picture of William of Caen backed onto the stage of my mind. He was just as he had been as a child, short and slight. His face, when he turned toward me, was still covered with a blush so severe it looked like a rash.
I saw him cowering on the field outside of Caen, having watched King Louis’s soldiers impale his English father on a spear before his very eyes. He was discovered, it was said, when the knights made a last pass through the field after the battle noise had faded. Of course I was not there. Being only a child myself, I was kept at the castle with Queen Eleanor and her daughters, but now I could see it all: the frightened little boy huddled by his dead father, the tall, commanding William Marshal, Henry’s chief knight, impulsively scooping him up into his saddle as he cantered by.
And with the face of that little boy came tumbling the memories of my school days with my sister, Marguerite, and the children of Henry and Eleanor. Especially the princes.
Since the orphan lad didn’t know—or was too terrified to tell—his given name, he was named for his savior William Marshal, and the great man became the little boy’s patron at court, sort of his beau-père. Young William was a terribly bright lad, well mannered beyond his years (some thought), and at the top of his form with the tutors William Marshal provided. Soon even King Harry noticed him and took him into his own household. He began having his lessons with us, and that is when his troubles began.
What drove the young princes wild was William Orphan’s constant humility, so different from their own bold approach to life. William never volunteered an answer but was always ready when the masters called upon him. He never came to the Latin lessons without his reading, as the rest did. And when he got a right answer, he seemed more embarrassed than the princes when they had no answer.
The princes’ annoyance reached a pinnacle one fine summer afternoon when Master Clement pointed out to the king how good William was at his studies and not very diplomatically compared Richard’s and Geoffrey’s indifferent performances to that of the orphan. King Henry summoned all of the young princes before him, even John, who was too young to be in school yet, to inform them that William’s example was the one to follow. “By God’s hair!” he bellowed. (I wasn’t there, but later Geoffrey did his usual absolutely accurate rendition of his father’s famous rage.) “How can an orphan outperform the sons of a king?” He paused (Geoffrey said), and his sons, lined up before him, hands clasped behind their backs and legs straight apart, waited; then he answered his own question in an even louder voice: “Because they are lazy, arrogant, and stupid.” And he walked down the line and slapped each one lightly across each cheek. Not exactly a knighting.
Geoffrey was all for beating up the little runt after that, but Henry Court Mantel dissuaded him. Prince Henry was the eldest son and had just a touch more common sense than the others. He had learned from an early age that just a bit of restraint helped avoid an even greater punishment in that chaotic household. He did not want to provoke his father’s wrath yet again, especially over that pipsqueak. But they all agreed one fateful night, when we met in the barn under the moonlight, that William Orphan was a dreadful creature and should be taught a lesson. I stood in the corner listening and hated William, too, on behalf of my stepbrothers, whom I adored.
I could still summon William’s voice from the incident that happened the next day. Young William had taken the prize in Latin, hanging his head shyly as he always did when he won. The young princes were sorely put out. They lured him to the barn to play, then blindfolded him and, turning him till he was dizzy, pushed him from one to the other while he screamed in fear. I cheered my heroes on from a safe distance.
William Marshal himself happened to be passing and heard the screams. He stuck his head in the door and put a stop to the teasing with one intimidating bark. The young princes fell back in chagrin, and the marshal himself whipped the blindfold off the beleaguered boy. Then he stalked out of the barn without a word, and the young princes dispersed just as quickly. I was rooted in the corner, where I had fled when the marshal appeared.
William Orphan stood in the middle of the barn turning about with a slightly dazed air. When he finally stood still and saw me, I held my breath. Silence draped over us, like a heavy fog. He stared at me, and his eyes locked with mine. His look was not so much blaming as quizzing me, and somehow that embarrassed me more. At that moment I wished I could say I was sorry, but instead I simply ran past him and out into the open.
That night at supper, the king was angry. We knew that William Marshal would report the incident. Nevertheless, when the king called young William to him and asked for an account of the bullying scene, we all became very quiet. Although we could see his skinny legs shaking beneath his tunic, to William Orphan’s credit he would not give evidence against his tormentors. He said in his high child’s voice, “It was only a game, Your Grace. The princes meant no harm.” Henry said to his shamefaced sons, “This young orphan knows more about the kingly gesture than you do.” There was no need for a slap on the cheek this time. The burning, quiet words of the king were enough.
After these events marched through my mind, I began to search for other images in my quest for sleep. But I kept seeing only the scrawny little boy bravely facing the king. And I knew I must draw him one day. Finally even he faded.
The last thought I had before sleep overtook me was an odd one. There must be more to the history of my jeweled pendant than I knew, to have it attract the attention of Master Averroës. Where could I find more information on the inscription? But then I knew: Was I not headed for the center of all learning in England, Canterbury Abbey? Of course! Prior William could sen
d me to the best scholar on Islam at the abbey. Perhaps there was a monk who would know why the work of Ibn al-Faridh was so compelling. Because I was becoming increasingly certain that the master was not the only person interested in my jewel. Someone else had sought it in my chamber this very eve, and been sorely disappointed.
There were no strangers in evidence the next morning when our small party gathered at the appointed hour at the inn’s hostelry. I tried to put the disturbing incidents of the night before out of my mind, but they kept picking at me like impatient insects. For some obscure reason, I forbore to mention either the encounter with Averroës or the ransacked chamber to Tom. Perhaps prompted by a concern for his quiet mind.
When we reached Canterbury two days later, the sun was settling into the trees, leaving that complicated rosy-yellow smear against the western sky that spring evenings sometimes offer in Kent. The color put me in mind of some dimly remembered feeling from my youth, some formless yearning. I paused to study the sky as if it were a work by a friendly artist.
My companions pulled alongside my horse. Tom, sensing my mood, waited. Roland spoke, looking upward. “Rain tomorrow, there’s no doubt.” He turned to me. “My father was raised by a fisherman off the south coast of Brittany. He taught me how to read the sky at sunset when I was only seven summers.”
I sighed. I didn’t want to discourage the lad, but I wondered when it was that young men ever got the hang of the blessing of silence at moments like these. I looked over at Tom and saw that he followed my thoughts. He grinned. Our sharp exchange at the Boar’s Head Inn had been forgotten, and I was grateful.
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