Memories flitted through my mind like fireflies. Had I my charcoal with me in this cold cathedral, I could not have drawn one picture from my musings. Not one image stayed in my head, only the feeling of those times. Wind on my face, freedom, joy in a celebration, quiet happiness of being near my first love.
I caught myself as I nearly fell forward. I must have been asleep on my knees. Surely now it was late enough for me to act. I listened for a long moment. There was not a sound, not even the small scurrying of a cathedral mouse. I could proceed to search for the packet without fear of discovery.
My last feelings, just before the hands seized me, were of my cold limbs. My last memory before darkness was of a trivial nature. I recall noticing the torches lining the cathedral walls and the leaping shadows that sprang from their fire to perform a macabre dance as if for my entertainment. They reminded me of a traveling dance troupe from Venice I once saw, tall, thin figures garbed in black cloaks and doublets, rising and falling like shafts of dark water in rhythm. The cold gusts of air feeding the torches seemed to increase as I watched, as if doors had opened somewhere. I should have been warned, but instead I paid no attention.
So engaged was I in that arduous task of rising that I failed to hear the slight sound behind me that would have signaled my fate. Instead I was taken completely by surprise. The only thing I felt was a strong arm around my neck, another around my waist and—before I could cry out—I smelled the thick, sweet scent of a mandrake-soaked cloth. Unforgiving hands clapped it against my face, and all went dark.
BOOK II
The
Heart’s
Search
.10.
Old Sarum Tower
I seemed to be struggling upward with a heavy heart. I could see far below, into a valley. There was snow, a whiteness that was nearly blinding. Then I found what I sought. A small child, a dot of red on the snow, using a pine bough to stave off howling animals that surrounded him.
There was no one to help, no other sign of color on the ground below. I was the only one. Would I give up this loved child to these wolves? I knew I was wounded, but I stretched my wings wide. I felt the power of the black wingspan as the cold air invaded my lungs, and I knew I could do this thing. If only I had the sight in both my eyes again, as once I did. If only the snow were not so white. I circled twice and made ready to dive.
But someone held me back. There were hands on me, and a shaking that was not caused by the wind. I resisted and fell back into my dreams, but the flight was ended. The snow and the child had faded.
Now it was summer. I knew because I could smell the scent. I could feel the summer breeze, and before me young Richard sprang over a low wall. He had the start of a fuzzy red beard on his chin, and we were surrounded by the garden flowers of Poitou. He stood gazing down at me. The flower scent was powerful, unusual. A bee, or many bees, were buzzing around us, creating a sound that grew in my ears. The sunlight fashioned a halo around his head. The aura expanded. Light was taking over.
“Princesse Alaïs, can you hear me?” A voice reached me from afar. It seemed to be a woman calling.
“Princesse, I think you are waking now. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”
Something in the voice caught at me, like the siren calling Odysseus. I could not refuse. I began a movement toward the voice, leaving behind first the images, then the buzzing, moving always toward the voice, which seemed to be in the light. I felt now as if I were coming up from a deep well. Only the smell, those unusual flowers, followed, a trailing, bittersweet fog.
“Please open your eyes if you can hear me.”
I had been summoned. I did as I was bidden, for some reason seeming to have no will of my own. The sight that met my eyes was a small face quite close to my own, with wide brown eyes, a pert nose, and the dark skin of a woman from the South of France. In the background low voices murmured.
I closed my eyes, hoping the rich, sweet, familiar scent that hung around me still would subside before I became sick.
Then I opened them again, slowly. The face no longer hovered over me, but a woman’s voice spoke. “I think she is finally coming ’round.”
“It’s about time.” A man spoke from across the room. I could hear his impatience. The voice had a familiar ring, but the identity was just out of reach. The murmuring stopped.
The canopy over me wavered. My unsteady gaze traveled around the heavily curtained bed hung with wine-colored velvet pulled back and tied at each corner. Through the wide triangle between the curtains, I saw a room of whiteness. The ceiling was white, the walls coming down from it were white, and a white light filled the room. There must be many wall openings to allow such light. My head throbbed, but gently. Little by little the bright light became bearable. Forms and shapes attached themselves to voices.
My right elbow pressed into the bed, I began the considerable task of raising my body to better see where I was. As I attempted to steady myself, I heard a rustle and felt a small but strong arm slip under my shoulders. I was surprised that someone wished me well enough for that gesture. For I did not imagine for a moment, even in my confused state, that I was among friends.
When I had attained a sitting position, I had to fight another wave of blurred lines, but then my vision began to clear. Someone placed pillows behind my back and adjusted the fur rugs over my lap.
I tried to make sense of the present. I seemed to be in layers of clothing, more than I had need of, even though the air in the room was chill and the wind whistled outside the narrow openings in the wall. The maroon wool cloak lined in fox that lay around my shoulders and the spring-green wool gown under it were my own. In the grate a fire burned. I could feel wool wraps around my legs and wondered briefly why I would be wearing such extra clothing. I had no memory of putting these things on nor indeed of anything that had happened to bring me here.
Then I surveyed the room, or what I could see of it. It appeared to be a large rectangle made entirely of whitewashed stone, with my bed at one end and a large table up against the wall at the other. The stones were clean and smooth. I focused on the intricate way they had been arranged, as if each had been specially cut and polished for its particular place. The room gave the impression of spaciousness, although I judged that it was in truth no larger than the dressing room of my apartments in Paris. Many long, slender openings in the wall allowed light to come in, but the openings were situated in such a way that I knew I was in a fortress. The place seemed familiar. Had I been here before? Or just dreamed it?
“Is she awake enough to answer questions?” The importunate man spoke again. There was a strange, regular noise, like a cork popping from a bottle.
My eyes drifted across the room to the source of the voice. I squinted to improve my vision. A slender, dark-haired man sat at the far table, playing with a jewel-handled dagger. He flipped it over, the jewels glinting in the morning light. There was another popping sound as the point stuck in the table. The jewels swayed. When he looked my way and saw me watching, he stood up and jerked the dagger from the table, jamming it into his belt as he came across the room. A small white terrier followed this lanky form, happily wagging its stunted tail.
“Oh, no.” The words slipped out as he came near. “Not you.”
He was older now, and leaner than I remembered him, but it was unmistakably John Plantagenet, he whom his brothers had called Lackland. The strong chin jutting forward clearly marked him a Plantagenet, while the insistent eyebrows, growing into a perpetual frown in the middle of his forehead, and his small eyes set him apart from his handsome brothers.
“Alaïs Capet, you will show this king of England more respect than you have shown the others.” In four quick strides, he was at my side. “I am not my father in his dotage, nor my lovesick brother Richard, for you to address me with such insolence.” With one angry movement, he yanked the bed curtains down, revealing me to the entire room. I looked past him and saw that there were four or five knights with him, all ha
nging back against the walls. Silently they watched their king.
My eyes came to rest on the pretty woman whose face I had seen on waking. Now she sat next to the bed, her hands loosely folded in her lap, a look of mildly questioning interest on her face. It was she who had helped me to sit upright and placed the pillows behind me. Once the curtains were drawn back, we could see each other fully. This must be John’s new queen, Isabelle.
I returned to John. He stood, hands on his hips, looking down at me. My gaze scored him from head to foot. “You’ve acquired a new tailor since last I saw you,” I said. “You must have come into silver recently.”
I could see his brown eyes turn black, as they always did when he began a tantrum. One of the knights snorted and quickly covered it with a cough.
“I warn you, Alex,” John said, calling me by the English version of my name. He grabbed my arm, twisting the skin on it, an old child’s trick to hurt without leaving bruise marks. “If I were you, I’d watch my words.”
“If I were you, I’d take the same advice.” I pulled my arm away as his fingers relaxed slightly. “I am not without the means to avenge wrongs done to me.” In his face I saw a flicker of the old fear that he used to show whenever I called his bluff as a child. But, being John, he pressed on with mindless courage.
“Sister, dear, you haven’t asked me what I want with you.” He leaned over me, his forearms jammed on either side of my body, his garlic-laden breath dusting my face.
“No doubt you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” I folded my arms across my chest and rubbed the sore spot. I held his eyes without flinching.
As John tried to stare me down, he was betrayed by that old nervous tic in his right eye. It had always given his gaze a certain instability. As if he could read my thoughts, he flung himself away from me and paced back across the room. Several of the knights leaning against the wall shifted as John passed. Twice he turned his head to look at me, as if I were a bad dream that might disappear if he were lucky. Suddenly I had a vision of John in a meadow, a green meadow, walking to a makeshift table in the sunlight, turning around, just like this, looking back at a ring of murmuring men as if uncertain what to do. His confusion touched me. I shook my head slightly to clear the image.
“Do not dare to shake your head at me, Princess,” he bellowed from across the room.
“All right, John.” I spread my hands in an exaggerated gesture. “You win. I’ll play your game. What is it that you want from me?”
He came toward me. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, tell me straight: Where are the letters you were trying to steal at Canterbury?”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t trying to steal any letters. I was keeping a vigil at the altar of the martyr Becket. I was in the sanctuary of the church, John. Which you have violated.” I stabbed my finger forward in the air to make my points. “And not only the sanctuary of the cathedral but the very altar of the martyr. You should fear for your eternal salvation, King John.” I lowered my voice to a stage whisper.
“Bosh. I care not a fig for salvation.” He snapped his finger on the word “fig.” “When I’m ready, I’ll have gold to bribe a bishop for my ticket into heaven.” He was standing again in front of my bed, his voice loud enough to impress his knights.
“Be careful, John,” I warned. “The bishop may cooperate, but God may not get the message. And I doubt the bishop will want to accompany you to clarify things.”
The knights stopped fidgeting in the background and moved as one slightly closer to our scene. They sensed that battle was joined. They would likely lay bets if they didn’t think the king would notice.
“Where have you brought me, John?” I asked quietly as he moved closer.
“You are in the keep at Old Sarum.” So I had been here before! Well did I remember it. “This is the tower where King Henry kept my mother captive for sixteen long years. I thought you might enjoy the surroundings, since you were so close to her.” Honey dripped from his words.
As John intended (was he really as simple as I had thought? Mayhap I had underestimated him), the name of his father brought my thoughts into focus. My sharp intake of breath betrayed me.
“I’m not in the mood to trade family memories with you,” I muttered. The waves of nausea were starting again deep in my body. “And anyway, what did you care for your mother? Your father was the one who raised you. You didn’t care a fig, as you are so fond of saying, for your mother or her captivity.”
“I cared more for my mother than you, who took to his bed so easily once she was his prisoner,” he hissed, leaning over me once again. I turned my face away.
“God’s blood, John. Don’t add hypocrisy to your blasphemy. Do you think I have no memory? I heard your raucous laughter at supper the night we returned to Clarendon Palace, after he locked your mother here in this very tower. I lost the stepmother of all my childhood years that day. My betrothed, your brother Richard, had just declared war on his father. I cried myself to sleep that night.” I turned my face back to look at him. “Even your father was somber. But you—you drank and laughed all night with the king’s men.”
John’s face paled, and he clasped his hands behind his back. I closed my eyes to escape the sight of him. But before either of us could continue, nature intervened. Suddenly billows rose from my deepest insides. “I need a basin. I’m sick.”
Isabelle suddenly sprang to life. “Ho!” she shouted at the knights. “Call the servants from the next room. Now!” Even in my extreme distress, I could tell that she was used to being obeyed. The knights departed swiftly, en masse. In minutes the servants were there with basins and water. Afterward I lay back on the cushions as they wiped my brow. Then, on some secret signal from Isabelle, they scattered as quickly as they had come, taking their basins and their comforting, cool cloths.
Isabelle stood next to John at the side of the bed. I saw her casual glance graze my withered hand. I quickly slid it under the bedcovers.
“Why were you trying to steal my mother’s letters from Canterbury when my knights found you?” John was standing with feet apart, a hand on his sword, in the same threatening way he used to stand as a young man when he tried to intimidate the servants. “What is in those letters that you want?”
“I already told you, I was praying at the tomb of the martyr.” It was difficult to talk through my raw throat. I could feel sweat beading my brow.
“How amusing. But it won’t work, Alex. I know what you are up to.”
“You’ve been misinformed, John.” Despite my weak state, I was determined not to let this man bully me. “I was making a pilgrimage.”
“You’re a liar, Alex, as you were wont to be when it suited your convenience.”
“Or someone else has lied to you and you have been made a gull again, as you were wont always to be.”
The little white dog chose that moment to bark. John’s reaction was swift and brutal. He turned and administered a vicious kick. The animal flew across the room and landed in an inert mass of curly white fur. It did not move.
“Christ above, John,” I whispered. “It was just a dumb animal.”
When his face turned back to mine a moment later, a smile spread across it. “You may want to reconsider cooperating with me, sister. I’ve always had such a bad temper.” The tic in his eye returned.
I looked at Isabelle, who sat beside the bed once again. She had tented her fingers, and they tapped noiselessly against each other. Her face registered no emotion.
I bit my lip and thought for a long moment of the danger facing me before I replied. “Perhaps Philippe understands fraternal love better than you do, John. What do you know of such things? I wonder what your brother Geoffrey would say about your notion of familial devotion if he were here. Or young Arthur.”
“You are not one to talk about loyalty,” John snapped.
“I have never betrayed those I loved.”
“What about my mother?”
“What about your fath
er?” I countered in a whisper only he could hear. “Your beloved father who raised you?” His face contracted as if a hearth pot of hot soup had been overturned on him.
“You dare not—” He caught himself, but I saw instantly my advantage. I could hide my feelings about the past, but John could not.
“I dare not speak of your father?” I baited him. “Just because you betrayed him doesn’t mean that I did. And”—I pushed myself up on my elbow toward him—“just because you failed to please him doesn’t mean I failed.”
His hand shot out before Isabelle could act and caught my cheek in a slap that was more like a punch. It knocked me back against the pillows. I could feel the stinging imprint of John’s seal ring on my face. My eyes were filled instantly, but it was small payment for the satisfaction I felt. I had found the touchstone. For John it was always jealousy.
The king turned away from me, his hand pressing his brow, and he moved out of my line of vision. I could hear the knights’ low voices, talking to cover their embarrassment. Isabelle continued to observe John solemnly from her chair. Eventually her crisp voice broke the silence.
“John, if your goal is to get information from Alaïs, I don’t think you are going about it in quite the right way.”
I struggled to sit up again and turned to face her. She was not two sword lengths away from me. When her clear, slightly elevated voice had rung out, the murmuring knights fell silent.
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I said. “I am the Princesse Alaïs of France. You must be the new queen of England.” I gestured to John, aware of the rising welt on my cheek. “You must forgive our little family fights.”
“I am Isabelle of Angoulême,” she said. “And I know well enough who you are.” She pinched her mouth for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, her thin lips curled upward in amusement. “You won’t provoke me, Alaïs Capet. John may revert to childish actions around you, but you have no such power over me.”
Canterbury Papers Page 12
