Within the hour we cantered up to the imposing gates of the town. The high stone wall extended nearly as far as we could see, but the iron gates that tied it together were more formidable by far. The gates were composed of high vertical spikes that were attached to two equally long horizontal spikes, and all could swing open only if someone inside undid the huge lock. But as I gazed through the guesthouse window inside the gate, I saw that the porter appeared to be dozing on his chair. He did not look as if he had any particular interest in our small cluster of dusty travelers.
“Ho, porter, we come as pilgrims to visit the tomb of the martyr!” Tom shouted through the gates, with impressive authority. “The Lady Alaïs is a princess of France and wishes entrance to the abbey.”
With that the porter came alive, jumping from his chair. He emerged from his little house, rattling his keys.
“Sorry, sir knight. Sorry, milady. Prior William knows of your coming. Brother Dermott, the abbey’s hosteler, is even now on his way to receive you.” He gestured up the hill.
A tall, brown-robed figure could be seen hurrying down the worn path from the looming cathedral, the cord around his waist flapping. He was struggling to hold his cowl forward against the wind that had come up with the sunset. “I’ll wager this is Brother Dermott,” Tom offered dryly, shading his eyes with his hand.
I turned my attention to the scene around me. A large clump of stone buildings stood directly uphill from the road leading in from the gate: the cathedral and the abbey cloisters. Between us and the cathedral complex, there lay a broad dirt commons filled with the busyness of town life. Tradesmen had set up their stalls ringing the inside of the town walls. A huge market was just being dismantled, and voices still bantered on the dusk air. Men and women called to one another across space filled with little children, a cacophony of pleasant, human discourse. Two horsemen cantered by, their saddlebags bulging with the fruits of their afternoon’s efforts and another old cart laden with one farmer’s goods waited to be let out of the town gates. The rich smell of roasted birds that had fed many a customer this day still hung over all. I suddenly bethought myself of my own hunger.
The grand cathedral on the rise of land dominated the scene, surveying the surrounds like the haughty noblewoman that she was. Augustine’s cathedral. Becket’s cathedral. Seven hundred years old. Seat of all ecclesial power in England, greater even than York. And attached to her sides, like extended arms, were the long, windowless, rectangular stone buildings of the abbey. I had been to Canterbury. I knew that on the other side of those blind walls lived an entirely different world: quiet cloister walks, herb gardens, grass and bushes and contemplative silence. So different from the busy town that lay before us.
“Welcome, welcome, noble knights.” Brother Dermott was huffing as he reached us. “Princess Alaïs of France, the abbey welcomes you especially, on your pilgrimage to the martyr Becket’s tomb. Prior William has instructed that I bring you to him upon your arrival—after, of course, you have been shown your room and refreshed yourself.” He was a long, thin monk, ascetic-looking for a hosteler.
“How is it Prior William knew of our coming?” I was puzzled. Who would have sent couriers? Philippe? It seemed unlikely. Queen Eleanor herself? Brother Dermott chose not to hear my question.
“Indeed, my lady, your aunt, Abbess Charlotte of Fontrevault, also awaits your coming.” Now I was genuinely startled.
“Charlotte! Here? And they expect us?”
“Prior William has arranged for the knights to stay in the village at the Lion’s Paw Inn, Your Grace.” Brother Dermott seemed skilled socially beyond his station, and this news was imparted with a combination of courtesy and firmness that brooked no resistance.
I turned to him to protest, but before I could speak, he cleared his throat. “Ah, in recent years, since the death of the archbishop, armed knights are not allowed to stay overnight in the abbey.”
“You mean I am to stay without the protection of my knights?” I was outraged. And of a sudden, for the first time on this remarkable journey, I felt a cold finger of fear.
I collected myself immediately. It has always been my practice to heed feelings of fear but not to be overcome by them. Besides, the martyr’s death. How could I protest? “I understand,” I said.
Tom appeared even more unsettled by this news than I. He handed my horse to the brother groom who came forward for the reins, conferred for a moment with the other knights, and then turned to me.
“Please, do not concern yourselves,” I said, before he could speak. “I have nothing to fear in this abbey. Prior William will guarantee my safety. And after all, my aunt Charlotte is here. There is no need for worry.”
“How long will Your Grace remain with us?” Brother Dermott asked as the grooms pulled my dusty bags from the horse’s back.
“Three days at the most,” I replied. “Good Tom, you and the knights go to the Lion’s Paw and wait there. I will surely send a message day after tomorrow. I will pray at the martyr’s tomb in vigil tomorrow evening. I expect we will leave the following day, but I will send word when I am certain.”
Tom took both my hands in his and looked down at me with his good eye. “Princess, if you should need assistance, send this ring with a messenger. No written word will be necessary.” And, pulling off his glove, he removed a ring from his gnarled finger. It took some tugging, but it finally released, and he pressed it into my hand. A flood of warmth rose in me when I looked down, for I saw the royal lion of England engraved in the setting. This was one of Henry’s rings, given in the early days of his friendship with Tom. No doubt an impulsive gesture, generous, so typical of Henry at his best.
I looked up to protest, but something in Tom’s face stopped me. My fingers closed around the ring.
“I will see you day after next,” I said to all, putting forth more confidence than I felt. Something about these events gnawed at me as I turned to follow Brother Dermott, who had slung my travel sack over his shoulder and was already hurrying off.
It had been many years since I had visited Canterbury. As Brother Dermott led me to my quarters through the great hall and down the outer cloister walks, I saw again the intricate carvings that had been chiseled everywhere. In the stone all along the side walls and in the capitals of every column surrounding the courtyard garden, everywhere we looked, we saw exceptional miniature scenes, little dramas of the faith.
Brother Dermott, although taciturn at first, proved a storehouse of knowledge on these scenes when questioned. He could describe every picture to me, explaining even the smallest figures: This overhead was the dialogue of devil and angel over a monk’s soul; that one showed two monks in prayer; a larger carving in the stone wall was the scene of the Blessed Mother’s assumption into heaven. It was the whole of the Christian belief system chiseled in stone and set in the cloister walk, a daily reminder of heavenly choices. I was seized by a desire to return and examine every scene in this sweet corridor. Such formidable, unquestioning faith that produced these stories! How I envied it. Did William himself have such faith now? Or was he only the cynical custodian of these good monks?
I was to be settled in a small freestanding guesthouse in the close between the main monastery buildings and the great cathedral. After we left the cloister walk, Brother Dermott fell silent once again. I tried to draw him out on the history of the abbey, but his replies to my questions were brief, almost monosyllabic. An awkward silence grew as we paced along the path.
“The abbey seems to be thriving under Prior William,” I finally ventured as we made our way down a winding path through a small herb garden.
“Oui, madame,” the brother replied, gesturing for me to follow him as he took a right turn at the northwest corner. This stone path was much narrower than the cloister walk, so I was forced to drop back slightly behind him to avoid the spring mud on either side. Brother Dermott spoke to me now in nearly flawless French, turning his head slightly so that his words would drift over his shoulder. �
��Prieur Guillaume est un bon prieur, certes. Mais, la seule raison pour laquelle il est le chef maintenant est l’absence de l’abbé Hugh Walter. C’est Hugh Walter, lui-même, qui a fondé cette communauté, vraiment. Abbé Hugh est le chef.”
“You speak French! Are you Norman, then?” I didn’t bother to conceal my confusion. “Your English is excellent. In fact, I would have sworn at first you were a Lincoln man.” I was walking directly behind him now, as he led the way across the cathedral close.
“Aye, and so you would have the right of it.” He reverted to his native English with surprising ease. “Born and bred in Lincolnshire, I was. And how is it that you, a royal princess of France, know a Lincoln man’s speech?” he asked, his head turning toward me. I came alongside him as the path suddenly broadened, and when his cowl slipped back, I saw by the light of the setting sun his long, narrow face dominated by his black eyebrows. I noticed with surprise that his left earlobe was missing. He pulled his cowl forward quickly.
“I passed my childhood years at the court of King Harry and Queen Eleanor,” I replied. “When we were in England, the king insisted that we speak English. When we were in Normandy or Anjou, it was always French.” I was bemused. Brothers in service to an abbey do not ordinarily address a guest princess with such directness. Brother Dermott seemed singularly at ease. If all the monks were like this, no one would be awed by the French royal house. I might pass my time here under no particular notice.
After a pause I spoke. “And if you truly are from Lincoln, how is it you also speak the French tongue so easily?”
“I spent some years on a crusade to the Holy Land. There were many Frankish knights there also. We shared boredom, and battle, and the occasional game of dice.”
I waited.
“That was long ago.” His voice was oddly deep and steady, the voice of a much heavier man. There was another silence. “In these times we all play many roles,” he added. A cryptic comment at best.
“Exactly when,” I asked, “were you on crusade?” I glanced sideways. From what I had seen of his weather-beaten cheeks, he might be any age. Could he be old enough to have made the crusade at the time of my father and Queen Eleanor? But no, there had been no English knights on that crusade. It was all French folly. In those days the English were still immersed in the civil war Henry’s mother, Mathilda, had started. This monk was my age perhaps, but surely not a generation older.
“I made the last crusade to Outremer with King Richard in ’91,” he said.
“Ah, with Richard,” I replied, clenching my fists against the lurch of my heart. I only hoped he did not hear my quick intake of breath. We finished our short walk in silence, and passing through a thicket of gorse bushes already blooming yellow in defiance of the raw English spring, we came to the door of the guesthouse.
Brother Dermott fumbled with the large ring of keys on his rope belt, found one that looked right to him, and inserted this into the rusty keyhole. He turned it this way, then that, twice before we could hear metal slip inside. The heavy oak yielded to the light push of his free hand. I had observed his labored process with some trepidation, since my fatigue would not allow me to stand much longer. I sighed with relief when the door swung inward and the room opened to my view.
Brother Dermott gestured for me to enter and gently handed me my leather travel sack as I passed. Then he bowed in silence and turned to leave. He was forbidden by Benedict’s Rule to step over the threshold of a woman’s chamber, even to be hospitable enough to show her the quarters. Suddenly he turned back, as if he had forgotten the most important message. “If you please, I will return within the hour. Prior William is—”
“I know, I know, Prior William is impatient to see me.” I finished his predictable sentence and, smiling still, closed the door firmly.
In truth, I was glad to be rid of the good brother. I had been more affected than I would have thought possible by Brother Dermott’s casual reference to the crusades. The mere name of Richard was still enough to undo my composure. I was glad to be surrounded by the solitude of the little guesthouse, where someone with kind intentions had preceded me. Warm water was in the pitcher and a fire recently laid danced in the grate.
The hut was spare, only a rude chamber with a small privy attached, but it lacked no necessity for my comfort. A narrow bed was shoved against the wall, its rough Brabant wool cover peeking out from under the furs, the latter undoubtedly added for the comfort of a princess of France. Two chairs in the corner opposite the fire faced each other, as if a priest might be summoned at any moment to hear confession and absolve the tired traveler who stayed here. But torches lit the corner in a friendly way, and the chairs had cushions that looked comfortable. This unrepentant pilgrim was grateful.
In the center of the wall facing the door hung a cross with Our Savior on it. The wood was old, and the rough figure had real hair falling over the sacred brow. Putting hair on images was an innovation from Hispania, one I looked on as rather morbid. But the image as a whole touched me. It presented a wordless reminder of the salvation available through the sacrifice of another. I placed the travel sack I carried on the floor and lowered myself gingerly into one of the chairs, contemplating this sign.
I became intensely aware that I was in the shadow of the great cathedral, the very house of God eternal. A calm feeling invaded my bones, a feeling akin to peace. This was a foreign state for me. When had I last experienced such serenity? The French court with its intrigues receded. Queen Eleanor and her demands seemed far away. For the blink of an eye I desired to let go of everything and remain just here for the rest of my life.
A creak in the walls caused me to look upward to see if the roof would hold against the wind, and I saw with surprise that the rough beams that crisscrossed the ceiling had carvings on them. As I raised my candle to examine them, I found that I could read their inscriptions. They were lines from the Psalms: THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD, read the one directly over my head. And next to it: I SHALL NOT WANT. And on the next beam: REMEMBER THY COMPASSION AND THY LOYAL LOVE; DO NOT DWELL ON MY SINS, THE SINS OF MY YOUTH.
Ah, yes. The sins of my youth. The journey along the cloister walks had brought memories of my last visit to Canterbury and forced my thoughts back to my youth and King Henry. Henry, the source of my young joy and of my current sorrow and fear.
But the memory of Henry that rose unbidden was earlier than the Canterbury visit. It was the time when he first touched my heart. The scene remains etched in my mind and haunts me always, for it shaped my future and my life.
The day, I remembered, was one of those changeable days during Eastertide when the air capriciously becomes warm and sweet and the world occasionally seems altogether right.
The whole court was at Angers enjoying the first days of being outside without cloak and gloves. I was not a child any longer, and the games of the royal children were beginning to bore me. On this early May day, I was high up in the castle on a stone window seat staring out onto the countryside, trying to draw with my charcoal the enclosed courtyard with the sloping green hills behind it. I was unaware of anyone near until I felt a presence behind me. I looked up and was surprised to see the king, peering over my shoulder at what I had drawn.
It was unusual for King Henry to be in the halls alone. Always when I saw him, he had three or four men striding with him while he spit out rapid-fire orders or comments in that staccato voice.
I was so startled that I dropped the charcoal on the stones, and it broke. He paid it no heed.
“Not bad, not bad for a child, “he murmured. Then he straightened up slightly and looked down at my upturned face, as if surprised.
“Well, little Alaïs Capet. What are you doing here alone? Why aren’t you at your lessons or outside with the others?” He waved his hand toward the opening. We could hear the shouts of the boys. “Don’t my children include you in their games?”
“No, don’t be angry, sire. I mean, yes, they do include me. But the boys are sometimes rough�
��without meaning to be, I’m sure. They’re only boys, after all. And I do so love to draw.”
He leaned over me again, this time taking the parchments from under my hand and raising them to the light. He squinted as he held them nearer to his eyes, looking at first one, then the next. “That’s very good, child. You’ve captured something there.” His stubby finger tapped the second sheet as his gaze went quickly from the paper to out the window and back again. “It’s not altogether accurate, though. You see the gate is farther forward than you have it, and I don’t see these”—his hand brushed the parchment—“things or animals or whatever it is that you’ve drawn here. But still, on balance, quite good.”
“There aren’t any animals there now, of course,” I said, gathering my patience. “It’s May. They’re all in the pasture. But if I only drew what was there, there would be no imagination, only a cleverness with my hands and eyes. That’s what my father, King Louis, told me. He taught me that word—‘imagination’—to explain to me the pictures I see in my head. Those are the pictures I draw.”
“Imagination? What imagination? What’s that?” The king’s voice always grew a knife edge when he didn’t understand something. “Imagination is what’s false. It’s what’s not there at all. What would happen if I ran my kingdom on imagination, eh?”
I sighed. “I don’t know about that, sire. But when you close your eyes at night, don’t you ever see pictures of things that are stored inside you? Like your mother’s face in a summer cloud? Or your brothers when they were young running through the fields?”
I paused. The king was watching my face. I was babbling, I thought, and he would be in a rage soon. I fell silent.
But he only shook his head and picked up my other drawings. One was a fox that I had drawn from a memory of the previous winter, another a face that he recognized. “That’s Richard,” he said, jabbing his finger, obviously pleased with himself. Then he came upon another picture full of dense lines.
Canterbury Papers Page 6
