Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “Yes, well, Lackland may be having the last laugh. They are all gone, and he is still here, isn’t he? And he governs all of it—Henry’s Normandy and Brittany and England, Wales and Ireland, and Eleanor’s Aquitaine. He won’t be able to hold it, certainly not the French lands. And the Irish hate him.” William drank long from his cup, then slammed it down with finality. “But for now he is king.”

  A brief silence fell on the men at our table.

  “It’s true, as you say, Princess. We have both mead and wine on feast days,” he said, raising his voice. “Other days it’s only wine. And sometimes, I regret to say, not the best wine.” After the space of a cat’s breath, the buzz of talk rose again.

  I was puzzled. “Why would John make trouble here at the tomb of the martyr of Canterbury? His father did penance here at least three times. Even Richard honored the shrine. And you know his lack of sentimentality.”

  As I spoke, I struggled to keep my expression serene. I wondered briefly how much William remembered of my ill-fated betrothal to Richard. Would he have any idea, cleric that he was, of unrequited love? Now, there was an interesting thought. I observed his face more closely. No, not likely. War or abbey management, power perhaps. But not love.

  “John may have changed. What if he truly does come to do homage to Becket?” I ventured.

  “To venerate the tomb is not, I think, John’s purpose.” William’s tone was as dry as eggshells underfoot.

  “No? What then?” I broke with his gaze to shake my head, signaling no at the offer of more hot pastries despite the fragrant apple oozing out from them.

  “You.” He brushed the crumbs from between his hands and pushed the remains of his meal from him, turning his face fully toward me. “You, Princess, are the object of his errand here.”

  “Fiddle.” I snapped my fingers. William watched my face. “John is terrified of me. Remember, we were raised together, like brother and sister.”

  “That argument is worthless.” He tossed his serviette aside. “I knew many brothers and sisters who were capable of killing each other as children or even later.” A pause. “Some did.”

  I shook my head. “Let me tell you a story. John is six or seven years younger than I—I forget exactly, but something like that. Anyway, one summer day when I was about twelve, he tried to bait me. He called me a name, said something bad about my father being the spineless king of France. We were all in the barn with the horses. His older brothers were getting ready to hunt and paid us no heed. I was above in the loft, and John was taunting me from below. I took a sack of open oats and dumped it on him. John nearly suffocated. His brothers well nigh fell off their horses laughing. John never liked me after that, but he always left me alone.”

  I rubbed my brow, oddly moved by the memory of that long-ago afternoon. But I didn’t want to show a bright eye to William. Emotion was not a sign of strength for women. “He seemed like a spoiled baby to me. He was always so…”

  “Ineffectual?” William supplied.

  “Yes, I guess we could say that. I would have said feckless.” I had to laugh. “Poor John. Poor little Lackland.” But then I remembered the story of young Count Arthur’s end, and I ceased laughing.

  “Princess”—William’s voice took on a certain urgency—“I trust my sources explicitly. They tell me that you have something John wants, some information. He heard you were coming here, and he seems determined to confront you. I don’t know precisely why, but the situation is serious.”

  Our conversation was brought to an abrupt end when a high, clear bell rang out three times. The monks around the hall rose and bowed their heads for a common prayer of thanksgiving. Our table joined. William’s arm brushed mine as we stood.

  “Pater noster qui es in caelis…” The prior’s strong voice intoned the prayer as effortlessly as if he’d had nothing else on his mind throughout the entire meal. It filled the hall. I was aware of the bulk of his body next to mine and found it hard to concentrate on the prayer. The rhythmic rise and fall of the Latin chant as the monks rendered their brief thanksgiving should have been comforting, but my heart was unquiet.

  When the last echo had faded and the monks had resumed their normal silence, Prior William turned to face me, as if our conversation had never been interrupted. This time he spoke in a whisper.

  “I think you should heed this warning. Make your reverence to the martyr while there are still folk about the cathedral, best between Vespers and Compline, at the martyr’s tomb—”

  “Altar,” I interrupted.

  “Tomb, altar, anywhere you like. But do not keep an all-night vigil alone in the cathedral.” His hand chopped the air as he warned me. “A whole net of ears covers the country. My information is sound. You are in danger.”

  For one brief moment, I paused. What if his informers spoke true? But then I remembered Eleanor’s letter and thought of the child. No, this task, even if dangerous, was worth the risk. And besides, I had no intention of spending the entire night at Becket’s altar. I’d have the letters and be gone ere the midnight bells tolled. If John meant me ill, he’d have to be speedy about it.

  “Do you forbid my vigil, then, as prior?” I challenged William.

  He looked at me, his mouth and the creases running down his face tightening. I thought he would refuse on the spot, officially dismissing my plan. But he only said, “By God’s true cross, you are a determined woman. No, I do not forbid it. I advise against it.”

  “This vigil is important to me. It’s about Henry … and his penance,” I lied, assuming an apologetic look, which in no way fooled him. “I need to do this to honor Henry’s memory as well.” William’s expression at that moment was intense but unfathomable, and I felt ashamed for my pretense.

  But there was no further opportunity for exchange. Even as I spoke, the monks at the end of the table began to file out. I saw the young redheaded brother bound off the dais rather quickly and accidentally jostle one of the older monks. This provoked a startled reaction, and the older monk murmured something to the young clerk, who dropped his head and fell into line behind him.

  William and I passed last from the dais. He stepped down first, then offered his hand to me. Again it was done with the elegance of a courtier. When we were on the stone floor, his table formed two rows of a human guard, and we passed between them.

  The rest of the room waited as the prior’s table processed toward the huge double oak doors. The monks were now silent, as in the church. This time I could hear a mild rustle of habits and sandals as they followed behind us, no doubt in their interminable, efficient order.

  A quick glance over my shoulder yielded the same scene I had witnessed in the cathedral that morning: flocks of dark, hooded birds, wings at their sides, now gliding silently over stones in some predetermined arrangement. I wished to draw this scene. In charcoal, on parchment, I was certain I would see it as revealing a great, hidden truth of faith.

  Just at the moment of our exit, a brown-robed brother catapulted into the dining area, nearly colliding with the prior. His cowl askew, his cheeks flushed, he barely apologized. He was shorter than I, no more than a youth. And he was clearly in distress.

  “Prior, Prior, you must come at once. Something terrible has happened.”

  William looked stern. “Collect yourself, Brother Hadrian. Nothing can be this important.”

  “Oh, but it is, Prior, it is. In the herb garden, near the guesthouse. Someone has died. You must come.”

  William, his face grim, turned to follow the youth immediately, waving to three of his monks to follow him. They were close behind, but so was the rest of the group that had been within earshot of the boy’s annoucement. The entire body of monks cascaded like a vast dark wave, along the cloister walks, through the great hall and along the route Brother Dermott and I had taken so frequently in the past day.

  I joined the monks. Even Brother Dermott appeared to have forgotten about me, so I moved along with everyone else. And after all, they were goi
ng to the garden of my guesthouse. What else would William expect me to do? Wander the monastery grounds?

  And I must confess to a growing sense of unease. While no one had yet said that the death near the guesthouse was unnatural, my conscience was troubled. It occurred to me now that I should have reported the theft of my jewels. Perhaps someone had died because I had been too careful to guard my own secrets.

  We turned the last corner and began to cross the small gardens that separated the guesthouse from the abbey buildings. I saw nothing at first, so I slipped through the monks who crowded in front of me to find William’s tall frame. As I came up next to him, he turned to me. I looked on the ground and could not hold back a small cry. For the person who lay on the ground, clearly dead, wore the pale wool gown of the men from the south who had been with my uncle at the Boar’s Head Inn.

  .9.

  Sailing into Darkness

  At first I had the wild thought that it was Master Averroës himself, but then one of the monks drew back the hood and I saw a different Arab face, bronzed but much younger, and with a small beard. It was not clear how he had died, but from the position of his body, it was obvious he had been taken by surprise.

  “Princess?” William asked, fixing his eagle’s eye on me. “Do you know anything about this?”

  I shook my head, still not able to find words, my hand seeking his arm to steady myself. After clearing my throat, I was able to say, “I saw this man, or some dressed as he is, not three nights ago in Havre, at the Boar’s Head Inn. They had some business with the Duke of Orléans, my uncle Robert. Our meeting was accidental. He introduced me to them.” I paused. “Master Averroës was with them.”

  “Master Averroës?” William’s eyes widened. Then he turned to the monks nearest him. “Take this man to the infirmary. I do not doubt that he is dead, but I want the apothecary to look at him closely. We need to know if he died of natural causes or, if not, what killed him.”

  William turned back to me as the monks began to pick up the man, his pale wool robe now stained with the earth of the herbal garden and the blue gentian flowers he had crushed in his fall.

  “You understand what this means,” William said to me.

  “No all-night vigil,” I said, my voice flat, for the first time unable to come up with a witty rejoinder.

  “Indeed,” he said curtly. “This incident is too near your quarters for my comfort. But I cannot move you into the abbey. You will have a guard through the night. If you need anything, let him know.”

  “I will do that. But, Prior”—he stopped at my words—“have I your permission to attend Compline at the least? With Brother Dermott as my guide.”

  “Granted,” he said shortly, and left.

  Brother Dermott appeared again at my elbow. I hadn’t seen the signal that brought him there, but for once I was grateful. He paced with me to my guesthouse and opened the door.

  I half expected to see everything in disarray again, but that was not the case. All was as I had left it this morning, yet everything was changed.

  “Someone will be here soon, to stand guard for your security,” Brother Dermott said. “And I will return at the hour of Compline to take you to the prayers.”

  I nodded without speaking, and when he had left, I shot the bolt on the inside. I sat in the chair by the window and looked out. I could see the spot in the garden where the body had fallen, early plant shoots pressed to earth in its outline. And I had no idea what to do next.

  By dusk I had constructed a plan to retrieve the letters, given my new situation. I would ask Brother Dermott to leave me for an hour after Compline. After all, William had denied me only the all-night vigil, not the opportunity to reverence the martyr alone. With Dermott outside, or at least in the back of the cathedral in the shadows, I knew I could move the stone and retrieve the letters quickly.

  An evening supper was brought to my guesthouse, but I could do no more than pick at the breads on the tray. I sampled the wine but found I had no taste for it. I occupied myself with my drawing and my thoughts until the light in my guesthouse faded entirely.

  When the bells rang for Compline, I put on warm woolen wraps for my legs and folded a wool scarf around my shoulders under my cloak, should I need a covering for my head in that dank cathedral. I dreaded the bone-soaking cold more than the loneliness of the vigil, but I could think of no other way to get the hidden letters.

  Brother Dermott arrived soon after to escort me to evening prayers. As we walked through the night air, I told him of my desire to stay and pray alone for an hour at the tomb of the martyr, since I had now been forbidden my all-night watch. After a moment of thought, he agreed to leave me alone for a short time for prayer and contemplation. I wondered what William would say to this if he heard, but I was happy to take what I could get from Brother Dermott.

  I asked him about the result of the apothecary’s examination of the man from the south. He said, “He found no trace of foul play. He thinks that perhaps his heart gave out. But no one knows what he was doing in the abbey at all, nor how he got past the porter at the town gates. No one saw him before his death, yet his clothing clearly marks him as a stranger.” Dermott shook his head. “It is a mystery.”

  “Will Prior William be at Compline this even?” I was already preparing myself for interference from William in my revised plan, should he discover it.

  “No, Prior William has left for London on urgent business. He won’t return until tomorrow nightfall.”

  I was oddly disconcerted at this piece of news. Now I would not see William again, as I was determined to leave this abbey early in the morn. Somehow our brief encounter after all these years seemed incomplete.

  Brother Dermott accompanied me into the darkened cathedral. It was mysterious to be in a church at night, especially one so cavernous. The candles carried by the monks cast sporadic light in the recesses of the side altars. The drafts caused wavering shadows as the monks made their orderly procession into their choir stalls. The chanting began. First the clear voice of the cantor rang out like an alto bell, then the musical rumble of the monks as they answered one another, like dueling choirs of black-robed angels. I marked the beauty of the chant, all simple, all rational, a sea of musical worship filled with light. In spite of all this, I was possessed of a dark foreboding.

  Dermott escorted me to a place of honor in the nave near the choir. I knew he would return at the end of the prayer and lead me to the martyr’s altar. As the last strains of plainsong fell and the echo from the cathedral’s stone walls likewise drifted off, one by one the monks filed out with their candles. Brother Dermott appeared at my side with, wonder of wonders, two torches. He handed one to me and motioned me to follow.

  When we arrived at Becket’s Chapel, he lit the tall tallow candles in the holders on the altar from the torch fire he carried. He placed several more candles beside me on the stone steps, as if provisioning me for a long journey. Then he placed both of the torches we carried in the sconces on the wall.

  I had brought a small pillow for my knees, and he smiled slightly when I pulled it out from under my cloak. It struck me that Brother Dermott might be close to my age and have aches of his own. I grinned at him amiably. Still, even after I was settled kneeling on the prie-dieu, he seemed to linger. Finally I asked, “Yes, Brother? What is it?”

  He demurred. “If you should want for anything, Your Grace, I leave this bell for you. Just ring it. Someone will hear. There’s a fearsome echo in this church. And a warden monk is always sleeping in the passageway between the church and the cloister. I’ll return within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Brother. I’m right grateful for your thought.” I truly was touched, although my impatience for him to be gone was mounting. I wanted to get to my task before my time disappeared. “I will await your return.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and jammed his hands into the sleeves of his habit, in that way monks have. Then he faded noiselessly away, leaving me to marvel how a Lincol
n man could speak so smoothly when he chose, almost like a Parisian courtier. It must have been Richard’s influence.

  The great cathedral had darkened now, except for the pool of light in my small chapel area. It had much the same feel at the end of Maundy Thursday when the pomp and ceremony of the bishops’ washing of feet was over. As a child I always feared the moment when we faithful, putting on our shoes again and taking up our staffs, departed. Our footsteps echoed mournfully as one by one the torches and candles were doused to signify the end of Christ’s life.

  I knew I had to wait until all likelihood of being discovered had passed before I could begin. It was difficult. I was known for my patience when I was young, but the habit had departed. Perhaps the uncertainties of living with Henry and Eleanor had left their mark on me. I wanted now to accomplish my task as quickly as possible. But I knew if some stray monk should chance on me while I was loosening the bricks behind the altar, I should have much to explain. Pilgrim indeed! And while William might wink should he hear such a tale, there was no telling who else was in the abbey. The memory of my eyes meeting those of the young brother at the end of the table at lunch still unsettled me. Could he be connected to John?

  My hip began to pain me again. I could scarcely wait for my task to be accomplished and thought with longing of my cozy guesthouse.

  I tried to call up pictures from my childhood. There were such marvels that came to mind from time to time. Riding hard in Normandy, across the plains south of Rouen. Christmas in Chinon Castle, with Henry and Eleanor getting along for once and a goose larger than any I had ever seen brought into the hall for our Christmas dinner. Languid summers in Poitiers, where we all read and wrote to our hearts’ ease, taking delight in each other’s poésie. Richard was always the best. He knew how to put into words what we others thought. He had his mother’s gift that way. I fingered my pendant, the only thing I still carried with me from those magical years. The shadow of Henry’s wrath hovered over us, but I was too young to know it fully. It was only later that I learned.