Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “What’s this?” He sounded irritated again. “I don’t see anything here. What are all these lines?”

  “Our tutor is reading to us in Latin. That’s Julius Caesar’s army, fighting the Gauls. Or what I think the fight might have looked like, from the inside of the battle.”

  “Hmm.” The king frowned, straining.

  “Look.” I took the drawing from him. “Hold it here. Look at the whole thing. Don’t try to pick out figures. Just imagine how it was in the fight—all those men, wounded, falling, so scared, the clash of steel and cries of men over everything. That’s what I was trying to show. The image of my feelings if I had been there.” I stopped. In my efforts to find the words to explain what I’d drawn, I had forgotten it was the king I addressed. I felt a flush rise. “Sire,” I added, standing to curtsy.

  He straightened and stared at me with those sharp gray eyes that nailed me to the spot. “How old are you now, Alaïs Capet?”

  “Twelve summers,” I stammered. “Almost thirteen.”

  “Your lessons are going well?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” I was standing tall now, but still he must bend downward to me. I could have reached up and touched his well-trimmed beard at that moment if I had desired it.

  “And you have enough charcoal and parchment to draw as much as you like?”

  “Oh, yes. The tutors are very generous.” I paused. “They know that I always study my lessons better if I have parchment to draw upon afterward.”

  “Good.” I thought I saw a light in his eye before he turned away and stalked off as abruptly as he had come. He muttered, over his shoulder and loud enough for me to hear, “Imagination. Hah! Louis has imagination, all right. He imagines he owns half my kingdom.”

  His words brought a smile to my face. I knew I should resent what he said about my father, but I had learned that King Henry never said anything truly harsh about King Louis. And I was so pleased that he was getting the sense of the word “imagination.”

  The Canterbury wind rattled the guesthouse door, and my moment of reverie passed. Whatever I remembered about Henry, whatever I had once felt for him, was far in the past. All that mattered now was to find the child, if he lived, before someone discovered that he was the son of a king.

  After I washed, changed my linen, and braided and tied up my hair, I put on a clean, simple robe of newly worsted dark green wool, the color of the deep English forest in summer. King Henry’s favorite color, and so mine to this day. I belted it loosely and stretched out on the bed.

  I reached inside my travel sack and drew out the thin parchment, Eleanor’s letter, and cradled within it, the diagram of the altar of Becket’s Chapel in Canterbury. I unrolled it slowly to prevent cracking, skimmed it for sense, and then reread it yet again with some wonder. The light from the oil lamp on the desk and the torches and candles scattered around the room were more than adequate. Eleanor’s script on the paper was as tall and elegant as she herself had been when she was young.

  This reading of the letter did not bring on the wrath I had felt only days earlier. Instead I marveled somewhat dispassionately at the queen’s effrontery in daring to use the fate of my child to draw me here. Then I had to laugh out loud, for here I was, and here I would stay until I possessed the letters. Her ploy had been utterly successful.

  Next I turned my attention to the diagram of the altar that would lead me to the letters. I had barely scanned it earlier. Now I saw that the diagram appeared to constitute a map of sorts, showing the altar on the side of the great cathedral where Becket was murdered, the very spot where he fell marked by an X.

  My attention was directed by means of an arrow to a small inset in the lower corner that looked—upon closer examination—to be the back of the altar. The stones were sketched in and marked numerically. The stone I sought was inked in and circled. It couldn’t have been marked more clearly.

  Directions were written in a crabbed hand across the bottom of the diagram. The hand was certainly not Eleanor’s elegant script. I wondered briefly who had drawn the map for her.

  I was to count nine stones down from the top of the altar on the left side (as I faced it while standing behind) and two in toward the center. In that place I would find a stone that was slightly different in color, a sort of pale rust or rose as opposed to the common gray of the others. This was a stone with a strange design carved on its surface. This stone would be loose. When I removed this stone, I would find behind it a small space hollowed out of the altar. There rested the packet of letters I sought.

  If the rosy stone had been tightened, I must pry it out, so a white cutter’s chisel would come in handy. Tom had suggested this when I told him details of my mission. Ever resourceful, he had secured a chisel for me when we stopped to change horses in a village near Havre. The tool rested in my purse now, under my hand, and I could feel its hard outline through the thin leather.

  I placed the letter and its diagram in my purse and drew out the chisel to inspect it. As I turned it in my hand, I tried to focus my thoughts on the coming meeting with Prior William and my aunt Charlotte. Many questions clamored for my attention. There seemed to be much more to this situation than Eleanor’s letter had led me to believe.

  For one thing: What was the Abbess Charlotte doing here? She must have known that Eleanor’s request would send me to this place. Her current visit to the abbey seemed too coincidental. Tom of Caedwyd’s comment echoed in my head: Queen Eleanor and the Abbess Charlotte had become “quite close” since the queen had retired to Fontrevault. There must be a game here. But what was it?

  Then there was my uncle Robert’s remark on the prior: “It’s quite a different matter now, Alaïs… In his way William is every bit as weighty as Abbot Hugh … in his way.” It almost sounded like a veiled warning. But about what?

  I was still turning over events, looking for clues in all that had happened so far, when there was a light tap on the door. Before I rose to open it, I slipped the chisel into my small travel purse, which hung across my chest by a thin gold rope. Then I straightened the braids of my hair, took a deep breath, and moved to open the door to greet Brother Dermott, he of the missing earlobe. I had no answers, but I felt sure that the questions—and the evening to come—would eventually prove entertaining.

  .6.

  Evening Supper with the Prior and the Abbess

  Brother Dermott stood in the doorway with a lantern. I was surprised to see that darkness had fallen completely in the short while since he had left me.

  “So Prior William awaits me?” I asked, throwing my cloak over my shoulders. “Odd, that he would have known of my coming.” This remark raised no response from my laconic companion. I lapsed into silence myself.

  Spring in England, I thought, as the keen wind coming through the open door pierced my chest. God’s sweet blood itself would freeze here in this chill season.

  Finally he spoke, saying only, “The prior has set a supper for you. He will see you in his private chambers.” The companionship of our earlier exchange appeared to be forgotten. Brother Dermott showed no inclination for further conversation, and I had to hurry to match his stride as we crossed the abbey herb garden and moved toward the cloister walk.

  I had forgotten where the abbot’s rooms were in Canterbury. Though Henry and I had been Hugh Walter’s guests for dinner on my last visit, twenty years earlier, the sands of time had dulled that experience. Memory is like an old parchment on which the writing has faded so much that a scribe can use the scroll again. So I must follow Brother Dermott’s lead, he gliding like a black-robed ghost along the passages and I wandering a little behind, moving reluctantly toward the interview with William of Caen. I found my palms moistening as we walked, even though the night air had a chill clip to it. When we came at last to a large iron door with a huge stone angel kneeling beside it offering blessed water in a stone shell, Brother Dermott paused only briefly before giving one soft tap.

  A muffled voice barked, and Brother Dermott swu
ng wide the door. I saw first a large chamber remarkably lit with torches, candles, and oil lamps, so bright it was almost daylight; next I saw another tall black-robed monk standing directly across the room. His hands were clasped behind his back. He was dictating or speaking to a young clerk who sat at a table on the opposite side of the fire, writing furiously.

  The younger man had auburn hair so burnished in the light that it looked as if it were on fire. The older man was as dark as the other was fair, and he was unmistakably the William of my childhood memory. Yet he was quite different.

  The monk paused in midsentence as his gaze moved from the young secretary to me. The younger man continued to write for a moment after the voice stopped and then he looked up. Without turning his face from me, William made a brushing gesture with his hand, and the fresh-faced redhead scrambled to gather his papers and quills. He bowed and scuttled from the room, though not without a certain grace allowed him by his long legs.

  William’s expression gave nothing away. He simply stared, as if he had not been expecting me at all. I looked full at him across the room. I saw that though he was still somewhat lean in the body, his height and broad shoulders gave him the appearance of force. Ice-blue eyes, so unusual with that black hair, held mine as he advanced.

  Two thoughts skittered into my head like mice: First, Prior William seemed not quite so physically unappealing as I remembered, and then, rapidly, it also occurred to me that it would be difficult to dissemble in front of those eyes. They had the quality of the eagle about them.

  He moved toward me reluctantly, it seemed. I was surprised when he embraced me, but it turned out to be that dry, formal embrace Norman nobles use with each other to assure themselves that neither is holding a sword. His cheek grazed mine on either side, and then he withdrew, his arms dropping. It was nothing personal.

  “Welcome, Princess. I’m delighted that you’re here.” His voice was unexpectedly deep and full. What had I expected? The voice of a child? I shook the cobwebs from inside my head. Speaking over my shoulder, the prior instructed Brother Dermott, still hovering at the door, “Please tell the abbess that the princess has arrived. And tell the steward to see to our supper. I’m certain our kinswoman is hungry after such a long journey.” Then to me: “I believe that the abbess will join us shortly.”

  I heard the latch catch behind me and knew that we were alone. I, who moments earlier had reams of questions, now could think of not one comment. I let the prior slip the cloak from my shoulders, which he did with practiced ease. Where did a cloistered monk learn such courtesy with women? I wondered.

  “It’s been many years,” I said, immediately feeling foolish at the banal statement. “How has your life gone since last we met, William?” Not much better on the second try.

  “I’m older, for certain.” His laughter was unexpected, and it made me smile as well. At least our awkwardness was mutual. “But you look well…” His voice faded.

  “Despite?” I could have bitten my tongue. Why was I always so ready with the rapier of my words? He might not even remember my failed betrothal.

  “Rather, I should say, because of … the intervening years since last we met,” he replied gallantly.

  The prior gestured toward one of the large carved chairs arranged at the far end of the room. I saw that there were three fireplaces, which gave the room warmth and light. In the center was a round table, already set for our repast with fresh white linen.

  I took my place in the chair he indicated and found that it was made comfortable by many soft cushions. A small, low table between the chairs held a decanter and two glasses within easy reach.

  William waited until I settled myself, and then he took the opposite chair, watching me. In his black robe, hood resting across his shoulders, he might be any simple monk of the order: a vintner perhaps, or a cook. Why, then, did I feel so disconcerted?

  “So what brings you to Canterbury in this crisp spring air, Princesse?” William finally spoke.

  “I thought you would know that,” I parried.

  “I?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “How would I know?”

  “You knew of my coming. Since the journey was spontaneous—uh, in a way—I can’t imagine how you knew. But you did. Your hosteler said you expected us. A week past, I myself didn’t know I would come here.” I was smiling, but I fixed my gaze on him. I was intent on getting information before the abbess joined us. “So I assumed you would also know my purpose.”

  “Ah, I see.” His pleasant expression was bland. “As to my knowledge of your coming, I’m afraid there is no mystery about that. A half-dead courier arrived from Paris yesterday with the news from your brother that you were coming soon, accompanied by several knights. The king said you would explain your purpose yourself but that I was to prepare hospitality and assure him of your safety while you are here.”

  The prior couldn’t have been smoother. And it made sense. Perhaps.

  “My purpose is no mystery either, Prior William. I have undertaken a visit, a pilgrimage really, to the martyr’s tomb. I want to do penance for my sins.” I met his eyes again. “Something I know you will respect, given your close association for so many years with the saintly archbishop.”

  Prior William’s handsome features flew upward in surprise. “You remember that I was the chancellor’s clerk.”

  “Indeed,” I noted. “With the chancellor and later, when he had risen in the world, the archbishop. And after that, I recall, King Henry’s secretary. Was it not at Henry’s court we last met, nearly twenty years ago?”

  A sudden event forestalled his reply, which was just as well. I had taken a risk mentioning Henry’s court. That could open up the conversation to any number of recollections, most of which I would willingly forgo. But I’d said it to establish that we had an adult connection. Our childhood seemed very far away.

  There was a rush of air as the door opened with barely a knock. William rose easily. I followed suit thoughtlessly. It was wise, for, without any warning at all, my aunt Charlotte shot into the room with the speed of an arrow.

  The abbess of Fontrevault needed no introduction, nor was she likely to tolerate any. She brushed past Brother Dermott, who probably had attempted the knock, and headed straight in my direction. Before I had even a good look at her, she enveloped me in her embrace. I nearly smothered.

  Then she held me at arm’s length. “Princesse Alaïs, cherished daughter of my dear, dead brother Louis. You look wonderful.” I was afraid she would once again clasp me strongly to her bosom, but instead she stood back and surveyed me.

  “But you have changed, ma chérie. I remember you as a girl, long-legged and gawky as a young colt. Now”—she raised her elegant hands as if in blessing—“you are a woman.”

  “Bonsoir, chère tante Charlotte,” I replied, retreating slightly, eager to put one of the prior’s tall chairs between myself and my aunt’s enthusiasm.

  I may have appeared altogether different, but my aunt Charlotte had not changed one whit since last I had seen her twenty years earlier. She still looked magnificent. She was tall, straight-backed, and bold. Although slender, she gave the impression of being very large. This was accomplished by her extravagant gestures, her booming voice, and her astonishing clothes. She refused to wear a religious habit and dressed instead in the finest wools and furs. In the summer she was known to wear silks from head to toe. The abbess was one of those women who filled any room she entered. And afterward everyone wondered how she did it.

  Her one concession to religious life was to minimize the jewels she displayed, it was said. But this evening there was no evidence of such reticence. Her fingers glistened in the reflected light of the many torches and candles. The twinkling, jeweled clasp on her cloak reeked of royalty. I was glad I had left most of my own jewels in their casket for the evening, for I could not compete with her! I fingered my modest Arab pendant, as if to protect it from comparison with its newly arrived cousins.

  “And what a beautiful woman
you have become,” my aunt was saying. She bestowed her glorious smile on me. “Please, come sit beside me and tell me everything that has happened to you since last we met.”

  She nodded briefly to William and then sought her chair, opening the brilliant brooch and dropping her cloak. Brother Dermott, who had observed her entrance with evident amusement, rescued it before it hit the floor.

  My aunt caught me glancing from her to the prior and laughed, a kind of throaty, infectious sound.

  “Oh, do not fear for my manners. The prior and I have already greeted each other. In truth, we have just spent the entire afternoon conferring. I am not ignoring him by paying attention to you. I am just eager to hear all your story.”

  “I have a better idea,” William said, offering my just-seated aunt his hand. “The princess must be tired after her journey. Let us all to table, and the servants will bring our dinner.”

  Even Charlotte, who appeared to operate on a trajectory of her own, could not refuse Prior William in his own chambers. And so the three of us awkwardly made our way to the table, jostling one another as we arranged ourselves.

  “Please, across from each other.” William made a gracious gesture to the two chairs. “I’ll sit here at the head.” It was clear he was used to commanding.

  As if by magic, the large double doors at the end of the room opened and servants appeared with steaming platters of poached lamprey and shrimps, followed by equally attractive platters of poultry and meat and deep flagons of rich red wine. William chose for us, deferring occasionally to my aunt’s interjections. This process took some time, during which they both ignored me. It gave me a chance to study William, which I did with interest.

  His mature face was long, with a deeply chiseled look to his bones. I saw little of the whey-faced orphan I remembered. Only the strong bend of the nose (had one of the Plantagenet princes broken it for him when he was young?), the prominent cheekbones with hollows beneath them, and the piercing quality of those deep-set eyes seemed the same.