“Misplace?”
“A jest, niece. I meant if anything untoward should happen to us here.”
“But we are in Canterbury’s walls. Are we not safe here?”
“One would suppose. But Becket thought the same thing, and you see what can befall you when you have a false sense of security. Now, tell me, what are you really doing here?”
I pondered the question for a moment, then decided. Let her reveal her hand first. How did I know what Eleanor had confided in her?
“For exactly the reason I told you and the prior. I am here to do penance at Becket’s tomb, in memory of Henry and for myself.”
She was silent a moment. I felt as though we were in a duel, each pausing to size up the other between thrusts, each basing our next remark on our opponent’s last point.
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
“What? Doing penance?”
“Oh, not that exactly. I’m generally in favor of doing penance for those who feel a need for it. No, I think keeping a vigil inside the cathedral tomorrow night is a bad idea.”
“Why so?” I was feeling comfortable. If my responses were kept to a minimum, my aunt would have the burden in this exchange.
“Mm … the great church is drafty at night. And it’s dark. You’ll be alone. And even if we are inside the cathedral close, there is always the possibility of rogue monks or thieves. No, you definitely should not undertake this mad all-night vigil.” We entered now the paths through the herb garden, and our skirts brushed the low plants on either side. I could still hear soft footfalls behind us.
“My advice is to say some prayers in daylight at the martyr’s tomb tomorrow. And call an end to your pilgrimage. You don’t have enough sins in your past to justify this atonement scheme.”
“My thanks, Aunt,” I said, highly amused. “If you run your Fontrevault Abbey with such human concern, I trust it prospers.”
We had reached my door. She stopped and turned to me, her face flickering in the uneven light. “I am only half in jest, niece. These are uncertain times. We must all beware. Why take unnecessary chances?”
“Then come with me,” I said. “We’ll keep the vigil together.”
I said this to tease her. She was half again as old as I, her magnificent raven hair now disappearing under gray wings at her temples. Besides, she did not revere Becket, and the prior knew it. She would never consent to accompany me on my night vigil. But I threw the gauntlet down to end the duel.
The moon was nearly full, and its light covered the ground around us like cream. It stopped only at the invisible line of the shadow of the great cathedral from which we had just emerged. As my aunt faced me, the moonlight fell on her features.
“I think your mission is futile,” she said, her lively voice suddenly toneless. In the white light, her grave expression reminded me of a death mask on an ancient tomb. “You are taking a serious risk for nothing.”
She took her free hand and bent my head to hers, kissing my lips briefly. “I leave tomorrow early. I am sorry not to speak with you further now. Perhaps we will meet soon again in France. I would like to know you better. But, oh, my dear, be careful.” And then, before I could respond, she whipped away, my unvoiced questions trailing after her like her beautiful, rustling, silk-lined cloak.
Still puzzling, I opened the door. The first thing that met my eyes was the fire, which had been well tended and blazed heartily. And then I scanned the rest of the room and had to hold a hand to my mouth to stifle the cry that came. All my belongings had been tossed into the center of the room, the travel sack emptied, the furs from my bed—all heaped onto a huge pile. Even the cushions from the chair had been added, giving the immediate impression of a preparation for a huge bonfire.
Sweet Jesu, dear God, I prayed, for once King Henry’s oaths failing me. For an instant I thought of calling out to my aunt, who had just moved on to her own guesthouse. But I caught myself and instead stepped quickly into the room, closing the door and shooting the bolt. I must reflect, I said to myself. I must not act, not yet.
I moved to the chair next to the fire, now bereft of its cushion, and sat down. It was not the pile of goods that stunned me; it was the implication of a bonfire, a sacrificial fire. I knew stories from my father’s court, even stories that had drifted into England’s court, about the heretics that had been burned in Lyons, in Flanders years earlier. Was this some kind of message? Who was following me, and why was he—or they—threatening in this way?
After some time I moved to straighten the room, beginning with the chair and the bedcovers. As I put away the things on the top of the pile, I saw that my clothes had been pulled hither and thither and that the jewel casket was once again toppled and askew, on the floor at the bottom.
I picked it up but had no need this time to raise the lid to know that it would now be empty. As it was, I set it down carefully on the small table next to the bed and looked at it.
I was not a fool. If those who had disturbed my room now wished me harm, so be it. But they could not have been the same as the men who had entered my room at Havre. At Havre all the jewels could have been taken, but they were not. The thieves were searching for something special, something they did not find. But here the jewels were gone, and a great fuss had been made to distract me.
It did not require a canon lawyer to arrive at the conclusion that these were not the same thieves. I bethought myself as I slowly continued to restore the chamber that the first set of thieves had sought something they did not find, while the second had found something they did not seek. The muscles around my shoulders were beginning to soften, and I was aware that my fears were receding like a chastened tiger. Whoever had been in my room had been here to deliver a message, perhaps to frighten me. The jewels were merely a bonus for them. But I did not think they would return.
.7.
An Enlightening Interview
I heard Mass early the next morning in Becket’s Chapel, as it had come to be called since his murder. Brother Dermott came for me before dawn, for it was the custom in this abbey for the monks to say their Masses at the various altars of the cathedral immediately after Matins. I decided not to report the theft of the previous evening to the hosteler. In truth, until I knew those whom I could trust in this abbey, I would tell nothing. And I knew that if William heard that my chamber had been ransacked, it would be the end of any permission to keep my vigil this evening and retrieve Eleanor’s letters.
Mass was not an event I felt compelled to attend. My faith was in an uncertain state, and I had been avoiding rituals lately whenever I could without causing scandal. But William’s hospitality and my alleged purpose in visiting the abbey demanded a show of piety. And, anyway, on a practical level, I had a need to see the chapel where I would spend my vigil so that I would be better prepared to carry out my task.
Brother Dermott led me silently along the cloister walks and into the massive church. The air inside was sharp, noticeably colder than outside, as if the cathedral insisted on holding fast the night while outside the day was creeping in. Many torches lined the walls, and wrought-iron holders as tall as a man held giant candles. They stood like silent soldiers up and down the aisles and all around the altars; stillness and gloom prevailed.
Monks were stationed at the many side altars, already murmuring the Latin of their required daily Masses, creating a soft, eerie cloud of sound that rose and fell around the church. As we moved into the nave, I saw three monks at the central high altar, concelebrating a Mass that was already in progress. They wore the white vestments of Eastertide; the gold thread running through them flashed as they moved. I wished heartily for my charcoal. If I only had paint, these men would look like three large goldfinches on my parchment.
I assumed that one of these monks was William. He would have the right, as prior, to celebrate Mass at the high altar in the absence of the abbot. But then I noticed a solitary figure sitting in the ornate chair off to the side, near the choir stalls. Alone, unatten
ded, and not in Eastertide vestments, but in the plain black robe of the order. The cowl was pushed back, and the upturned face, revealed in full, was blank of all expression. It was the face of Prior William.
I puzzled over this as I dutifully followed Brother Dermott to the side altar—called simply “the altar of the archbishop”—which would be the site of my vigil that evening. There Mass was already in progress.
The archbishop’s chapel was small, a sort of alcove off to the side of the nave of the larger church. It contained a modest altar and individual wooden prayer seats with kneelers, what the monks called a prie-dieu, for a handful of the faithful. The altar stood out from behind the wall, just as Eleanor’s map had indicated. A row of twenty kneelers crossed in front of the altar, and I had noticed about the same number of rows extending behind me. If I were kneeling just here, I thought, on the end of the first row, it would be a simple matter to slip behind the altar, loose the stone, retrieve the letters, and return to my place. The whole thing could be done in minutes.
My attention returned to the present. The priest was beginning to distribute communion to the little group gathered in our corner. He was a young monk, tired-looking. I took communion, so as not to draw attention to myself in this crowd of faithful, although whether my soul was in a state of grace could be debated. When all had been served, the priest turned and faced us. He opened his arms. “Go in peace. Ite missa est,” he intoned in the familiar Latin.
As if on cue, Brother Dermott appeared at my elbow. “We leave now. You have time to rest. Then the prior has instructed me to take you to Father Alcuin. We will find him in the abbey’s library.”
Brother Dermott and I joined the orderly procession of monks leaving the great cathedral by the side door, which allowed a narrow tunnel of light to flood down the aisle. We moved through it in silence. As we came closer to the door, the monks noticed us and stood aside to let us pass. I pulled my veil more closely over my lowered head. The cathedral had that effect on me, or perhaps it was the monks.
On my return to the guesthouse, I found that the fire in the grate had been restored once again. But this time I had no evidence of malign visitors. The room seemed almost welcoming after the dank, shadowy cathedral, although I could not shed a vague sense of unease still. It was due, no doubt, to the astonishing and unpleasant surprise of the previous evening. Even though I did not yet feel completely safe, I was very tired. I crawled under the furs on my simple bed and slept without dreams for several hours.
I was awakened by the knock on my door, the signal that Brother Dermott had come for me again. I wound my plaits around my head, smoothed my wool gown, and made myself ready. Brother Dermott waited patiently outside the door as I placed my veil. After a terse greeting, we walked silently in the direction of the chapter house. I was struck by the fact the each time he fetched me, Brother Dermott appeared more removed. And the challenge of introducing conversation in the face of such withdrawal was too much, even for my courtly skills.
We passed by the chapter house and through the great hall, then down a long indoor corridor that led to a stairwell. He preceded me up these, gesturing for silence, rather unnecessarily, I thought.
When we came to the top of the stairs, we were in a huge room containing many tables and shelves. Several monks were working at long tables, carefully copying manuscripts. Others stood at higher tables, engaged in similar work. As we passed between them, I could see that some were working at calligraphy while others seemed to be drawing the elaborate artistic schema around the first letters of the chapters. A few looked up, but most kept to their work.
At the head of the scriptorium—for that is clearly where we were—sat a large, dour-looking figure, full of face and bald as a babe. He glanced up occasionally from his own reading to scan the room and assure himself that all were assiduously employed. On one of these movements, he sighted Brother Dermott and myself, threading our way between the desks toward him. He did not appear particularly pleased to see us.
“Father Alcuin, Prior William requests that you provide information to our guest, Princess Alaïs of France, on the subject of a certain Arab poet.” The two monks exchanged bows, and Brother Dermott turned to me. “I’ll return for you in less than an hour,” he said.
Father Alcuin had risen at our approach, and he made a substantial bow in my direction. “Please,” he said, indicating a chair on the opposite side of his table. “How can I help you?”
“I seek information on the Arab poet Omar Ibn al-Faridh. This pendant, which has been in my possession for years, has an inscription on the back that contains a line of his poetry. The object seems suddenly to have become of interest to others, and I would like to know why.” I noted that I now had the monk’s attention. “Prior William tells me you have studied at the abbeys of the Tyrrhenian Sea area, and I thought you might know the history of the Arab poet who made it.”
“May I see it?”
I shook my head. “I am sorry, but it never leaves my person. I can tell you the inscription. It is from a longer poem. The inscription says ‘Death through love is life.’”
The monk frowned, then nodded slowly. He seemed burdened by his weight and years. “I know the poem, but I must get the full text, so I do not make a mistake.” He moved ponderously, disappearing through a door into another room that opened behind his desk, which appeared to contain shelves of books and scrolls. I was glad I had not entrusted to him the jewel, for what would I do if he walked away with it?
He was back shortly, breathless, carrying two scrolls and a book. “I had forgotten that I brought two of these home from Sicily. You may be interested to see a copy of the poem in the poet’s own handwriting.” And he shoved one of the scrolls across the table to me.
I opened it with trepidation, only to find that the poem was written entirely in Arabic script, and I could read not a word. I looked up to see Father Alcuin grinning at his little joke.
I smiled as well. “Do you have a translation, Father?” I asked in a pleasant voice.
“Yes, I do.” For a moment I thought he would refuse the translation until I let him hold the pendant, but then he flashed again an elfish grin. After glancing at the scroll open in front of him, he recited, with eyes closed:
The repose of love is a weariness; its onset, a sickness; its end, death.
For me, however, death through love is life; I give thanks to my Beloved that she has held it out to me.
Whoever does not die of his love is unable to live by it.
“That’s beautiful, but I’m not sure that I understand it,” I admitted.
“Are you familiar with the Arab mystics?”
I shook my head to indicate I had never heard of them.
“Ibn al-Faridh was the leader of a group of Arab poets who were obsessed with platonic longing after the ideal.” He paused and grimaced as if an unsavory idea had occurred to him. “You have read Plato?” He fixed a beady eye on me.
“Yes, in my studies when I was young.” He was visibly relieved.
“Many of these men were writing when I was in Hispania, in my youth also.” He acknowledged me with a nod, as if we had something in common. “But their writings were often misunderstood by their own people. Indeed, al-Hallaj and Suhrawardi, two of the leading poets of my time, were put to death while I was in Sicily because the symbolism they used was unacceptable in Islamic tradition. They were accused of a subtle Manichaeanism, a duality between good and evil. What they really sought was to write of human love as an illustration of divine love, as if it were the union of man with the divine, or with the soul.”
“A mystical union?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right.”
“It sounds somewhat like the poetic traditions of the troubadours in the south.”
“That is not surprising,” he said, rounding his lips in thought. “If I recall correctly, William of Aquitaine was inspired by the Arabs he came in contact with while in captivity. He was the first of our Provençal troubado
urs.”
“So you follow Provençal poets as well as Arabs?” I was more and more intrigued. Strains of the poems I had learned at Eleanor’s court in Poitiers were drifting into my head. “It was William who brought this pendant back from his stay in Seville, generations ago. It came to me through his granddaughter, my stepmother.”
Suddenly, on impulse, my trust having increased during this exchange, I loosed the cord around my neck and handed my jewel across the table.
“Father Alcuin, forgive my earlier reticence. I would like you to examine my pendant. Perhaps there is something there that I cannot see. Can you think of why it has value today, why someone would want it?”
He reached a pudgy hand across the oak and took my offering. He looked first carefully at the filigree setting, then turned it over to examine the inscription. As he did so, his tongue ran along his upper lip, almost as if he could taste something delectable.
“Yes, there is no doubt it is the work of al-Faridh. He was not only court poet but master jeweler to the caliph of Toledo before Alfonse took the city, and later to the caliph of Córdoba.” He looked up at me. “This would be valuable for many reasons, not the least of which is that al-Faridh has been dead for over a hundred years.”
“But I thought you just said he belongs to a group of Arab poets who write mystical love poetry, that some were still writing when you were a student.”
“Indeed, he was their founder. He was the first. The others have come much later and are still writing or only recently dead.”
“So one reason this jewel is of interest is that there will never be another; its maker can make no more.”
“Well put,” the monk said, rubbing his beardless face with his soft left hand. “You know your Aristotle as well.” He held the jewel up to the light with his right one and looked at it again. “Another could be just its intrinsic value. I am no jewel master, but even I can see that the amount of gold in the setting is worth nearly the price of the ruby it holds.”
Canterbury Papers Page 9
