When his arms went around me to begin lovemaking, I welcomed them. The inexpressible sweetness of the skin of his face, that face I knew so well but had never tasted, astonished me. And the gentleness of his rough hands, callused from holding reins and swinging a sword and hunting, melted my heart. I felt my whole body become water, and in my trust he entered me.
Now it was more than twenty years later, and what I remembered was not a dream. I was here, in Baron Roger’s house in Wiltshire, and alone. I turned my face into the pillow and began to moan softly, wishing I had tears to replace the sound.
My own voice prevented me from hearing a soft tap on the door. It was persistent and eventually worked its way into my realm. I drew myself up from my half-addled state, whether from remembered desire or shame or longing, I could not say.
The dying embers in my hearth gave off an uncertain light. I called out for the servant to enter, hoping it was someone with a pan of hot coals. When I sat up, the cold night air was like a blast, so I burrowed again into the pillow and the furs covering the bed.
“Put the coals on the fire and leave,” I said in the direction of the dark figure.
“Alaïs.” William’s voice came strong, but at a low pitch. He was moving toward the bed. “There’s been a change of plans.”
I sat up again. “What are you doing here?” I remembered I was annoyed with him because of the evening before but couldn’t quite get the details straight. Too much dream and memory had intervened.
“You’re leaving now.” He took a taper to the fire and coaxed it to catch, then began to light the wall torches. He pulled a heavy cloak from the large wooden wardrobe near the bed and flung it onto the bed. “Get up and make haste to be ready. Take no clothes with you. They will be provided. And you must travel lightly.”
I knew I should be angry at his improper intrusion into my private chambers, but somehow it seemed natural, as if he were my older brother rousing me for a family journey.
“You said midday.” I got out of bed and padded to the stained-glass windows but could not make out if it were dawn or still dark outside. “You said we would leave at midday.” I felt stubborn as a child.
“Forget what I said. I’ve had news that compels us to change our plans.” He turned on his heel to leave.
Of a sudden I remembered the information I’d acquired the previous evening. The Knights Templar and the several identities of Prior William. But I sensed now was no time to address these mysteries. He would never pause to give even a cursory explanation. He was operating in his commercial mode: a man with business to do and no time to tarry.
“I’ll await you in the lower hall. Please come immediately.” And he was gone, closing the door firmly, as was his practice. Everything William did was firm, I thought. Pity he didn’t have more indecision. He might enjoy more of life’s many possibilities.
I grumbled to myself as I moved around the chamber, bumping into things in the dim light. No suitable fire. No water with which to wash. I put on the clothes I had been given on my arrival the day before (marvelous how well they fit), took the small bag I carried with my stonecutting weapon and the Book of Psalms Eleanor had given me many years earlier, and, carrying the heavy cloak, prepared to leave. Before I closed the door, I cast a longing look toward the garderobe that held the beautiful velvet gown I had so enjoyed just hours earlier. Then I made my way down the staircase still possessed by the shadows of the preceding night.
Yet another surprise awaited me in the lower hall. There stood Tom of Caedwyd, Roland, and Étienne. I had not seen them since our arrival the day before. Tom looked tired, and Roland, as usual, impatient, but they greeted me right gladly.
Then my young deliverer, the Earl of Chester, appeared, dressed for travel. He came into the room with Prior William, who was talking earnestly, his hand clapped upon the shoulder of the younger man.
“Princesse,” William said as they approached. He gave a formal half bow. Graham of Chester made a deeper bow and took my hand to his lips. I remembered how much I liked this young man’s manners. I must recommend to Roland that he take this young noble as his mentor in the ways of politesse.
I saw that William was not in travel clothes. A suspicion seized me. “You are not going with us?” I tried to keep the concern out of my voice.
“The earl will ride with you to France,” I heard William say, smooth as butter. “He has instructions to take you to a safe place near Chinon. I have business myself in London. I’ll be along later. Oh, by the by, we believe that a small band of knights will be an advantage. We’re sending half a dozen knights and a few other men to accompany you. That guard, together with your own—Ah, here they come.” He broke off and hailed the men who had just entered the hall.
I frowned. “I don’t need all this protection, William. My men and I managed to get across the Channel once. Surely we four could do it again.”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I saw among the new men William’s clerk. That angelic face, diamond-shaped with high noble cheekbones yet sprinkled with freckles like any adolescent with rusty hair, troubled me. Even in its youth, the face held a haunting familiarity.
“William,” I said, catching at his sleeve as the men milled about us, putting on cloaks and talking loudly to one another as men do when they are about to set out on an adventure.
“No, Alaïs, you will not ride alone with your men.” William didn’t look up, occupied as he was with reading a message one of the servants had just handed him.
“No, no. It’s not that.” I moved toward him, bending my head slightly so as not to be heard by the others. He turned for the moment, hand still in the air signaling another servant across the foyer, and leaned down. For just a moment, we were suspended in space, our cheeks nearly touching, my hand still on his arm. “Who is the young monk or knight or whatever he is? The auburn-haired one in the Lincoln-green cloak.”
Like a spring his whole body lifted away from mine. He merely shook his head, looking down, and murmured, “Just a young brother of Canterbury, François by name, loaned to me by Hugh Walter for the business of the moment.” I stared at him. “He’s just my clerk, Princesse.”
“But he reminds me of someone. Who were his people?” My hand didn’t release him.
“No one you would know.” William was already turning away, though he was too polite to shake loose from my hand. Then he turned back and added, as an afterthought, “You only think he looks familiar because you saw him at Canterbury. He sat at my table at the noon meal the day of your vigil.” Then he gently drew away from my hand and busied himself in conversation with Earl Graham a few feet away, leaving me still standing with my head bent as if to hear more, as if to prolong the moment when I thought William would tell me something that would clear my sight and memory around this youth.
I shook the cobwebs from my head and threw on my own heavy black travel cloak. We all stepped into the chill air to find our horses saddled and pawing the ground fitfully, held in place by the manor’s servants. Baron Roger was nowhere to be seen.
Tom was suddenly by my side, holding my stirrup. I swung up and, on impulse, threw my leg over the horse. It was always easier to ride like a man. I heard Tom chuckle softly.
And then we were off to France.
I was not looking for company when the earl fell in beside me. We had been traveling no longer than an hour. I was not particularly easy with the young lord—he was too intense for my taste—but he seemed to be making an effort to be amiable. We chatted for some time about his family, and then I asked about our companions. He became suddenly very reticent.
“The knights are connected to Sir William.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Most of them were with him years ago in the Holy Land. The others are from your household in Paris, are they not? They rode with us from Canterbury two days ago.”
I was not to be distracted. “Do the knights belong to William’s household? Or are they attached in some way to Canterbury? And there are more t
han just the knights. I thought I recognized Father Alcuin, the librarian at Canterbury, among them.”
“Most of the knights are attached to William’s household. A few, like myself, join him from time to time. I believe that Father Alcuin is riding with us because he is destined for an abbey in the south. Some correspondence, I believe, must be delivered.” The young earl was looking around as if to find something he’d temporarily misplaced. “I never know with William. He has so many connections. Excuse me, but I must check our lead knights. I’ll return soon.” And he applied his spurs and moved forward. He rode like the wind, I’ll say that for him, when he wanted to get away from questions. I thought he must also be very good in battle. But he was a poor dissembler in conversation, and I could tell that his nonchalant air was assumed. He was not going to give me any information worth having. Soon I was too taken up with the hard riding to worry more about the mysterious young clerk.
I did resolve, though, to find some time for conversation alone with Father Alcuin. For one thing, I wanted to know about the Arab found dead in the herb garden near the guesthouse where I stayed. And I knew he might be helpful with more information on the Arab poets. I had not forgotten my quest to find the reason for such interest in my jewel, just because it no longer hung around my neck. Indeed, my curiosity was now all the more intense.
That night we had comfortable beds at an inn near the waterfront. We would sail the next morning, and everyone was glad for an early dinner. We had a private room with two tables and a great feast. The innkeeper did his best to please us, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he knew the earl, perhaps from earlier crossings to France. Where was the money coming from for all of this lavish feast, I wondered, as course after course was placed in front of us: The rabbit, the mutton, the fine breads and good stews and platters of legumes seemed endless.
Roland—who became uncharacteristically jovial with the wine—Tom, Earl Graham, and I sat at the small table nearest the fire. It had been laid with white linen in honor, I supposed, of the lady present. I was hoping that Father Alcuin would sit with us and that I would have a chance to explore further the elements surrounding my Arab jewel. But word had been sent that he was indisposed and preferred to dine alone in his room that eve.
I noticed the young auburn-haired knight with his companions at the other end of the room. As the seemingly endless meal drew to a close, I rose as if to ease my legs.
Roland, who sat next to me, began to lift himself out of his chair, but I shook my head. He must be under instructions not to let me walk alone, I thought, as he was dogging my every step. But at this moment I had no need of his service. I was not going out the door of the inn, but only to sit at the other table. I had decided to take the direct approach. Since neither William nor the earl would tell me about the background of the familiar-looking François, I would put my questions to the young man himself.
He was sitting quietly, his eyes lowered in thought, while around him his comrades were laughing at some joke. The laughter subsided as I approached the table, but I signaled for them to continue their conversation. After a brief rise and respectful head duckings all around, they did just that, although their merriment was more subdued. I sat in the vacant bench on the end, the young man to my right. We formed a small, sober island there, in the midst of the merriment. He had glanced up at me as he made his obligatory rise and then sat again, looking at his empty plate. Whether from shyness or an intense sense of privacy, he did not invite conversation.
“Were you not at Canterbury when I visited recently?” I asked. He looked up.
“Yes, I was there.” He produced a sudden, generous smile. “I remember you well. We don’t often have royal guests, and scarcely ever French ones … and never before a true French princess.” His eyes flashed my way for a moment but were quickly lowered again. “I was in Prior William’s chambers when you and the lady abbess came to dine with him.”
“I remember,” I said softly. Then I couldn’t resist adding: “But Canterbury has had a visit from a true French princesse before. This very princesse visited the abbey with Henry of England many years ago.” He looked up, tilting his head expectantly toward me. “But that was before you were born, I believe.”
He smiled, twirling a goblet between his hands before he lifted it to his lips. His eyes watched me over the rim, as if he were the cat and I were the field mouse. It was a most adult look, and so disconcerted me.
“Your name, I’ve been told, is François.”
He nodded. My question had caught him midway as he took a long draft of ale, so for the moment he was relieved of the obligation to speak. Then he said, “I prefer the English Francis, but I answer to both.”
“And have you been at Canterbury long?”
He smiled again, putting down his flagon. “I am personal secretary to Sir William of Caen, who has been prior pro tem of Canterbury while Abbot Hugh Walter was in Rome. I may enter the novitiate at Canterbury and make a church career, but that hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Decided by whom? You or the abbey?”
“Not either one.” He sought refuge in another draft of ale. “It is Sir William’s decision.” After a moment he added, “I am attached to his household.”
“Ah,” was all I said. No need to comment on the impatience in his voice or the slight pause again over William’s title. His eyes met mine.
“And your wishes for the future?”
He shrugged. “As I said, it is not my decision. I will do what I am ordered.”
After a moment of silence, I tried another tack.
“You travel with Sir William, then, wherever he goes?” He bit his lip. I could see that my aggressive pursuit threatened his need for privacy. Nothing was decided about this young man’s life, and he was impatient. Only his respect for his elders and my royal station held him captive to my questioning. With his pale cheeks dotted now with the red of the ale and his auburn hair above, he was like a bright butterfly pinned by my attention. He squirmed slightly, still smiling in that distant, maddening way only the young can manage.
“Most of the time.” His voice was softer than I expected in a grown man. His eyes met mine, however, without any sign of timidity.
Indeed, after engaging the youth for a few minutes of conversation, I found myself revising my earlier conclusions about him quite rapidly. Far from an adolescent, this young man was well into adulthood. He had nearly twenty years at the least. And far from the shy young monk he appeared to be at a distance, he was articulate and easy in his dialogue, and very careful.
Our conversation took a more public turn. Upon another question about his studies, he opened like a flower. I discovered he had a love of the Greeks; as well did I. He had studied philosophy at the University of Paris and debated with the masters, he said, without perceptible modesty. He had never seen the great Abelard, of course; he was too young. But he had been taught by men who had been taught by the master. And I could see he had somehow acquired what I understood to be Abelard’s greatest gift in public discourse: style.
He was well versed in Arabic, too, and knew all the great poets of that tongue. As the subject shifted to poetry, his eyes lit and his face became animated, a half smile leaping frequently to his lips, his russet eyebrows lifting as he expounded. I asked him if he had ever heard of Ibn al-Faridh, to which question he replied by quoting the entire poem that contained the line inscribed on my lost pendant. If only I still had it. François went on to wax eloquent on the life of the great poet and the favor he enjoyed from the caliphs of Toledo and then Córdoba until the end of his days.
It was no trouble at all to appear a proper audience for this lad, for I was familiar with all of the chansons de geste that he knew by his heart and also many of the great troubadours he quoted. He knew de Ventadour, de Born (the perfidious bastard), and he could even quote from Richard’s own sirventes, which won my heart in an instant.
Needing little encouragement, he soon switched to English tales, recoun
ting the exploits of ancient Saxon heroes. He had somewhere heard all the Arthurian legends and began to tell them. The conversation around us tapered off, as the young man’s fellow knights began to listen to his storytelling. He warmed to his audience, rising and gesturing as he acted out the encounter between Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a story that had just come out of the court at Champagne. I felt as if I were watching a very skilled performance. He continued, his speeches punctuated with applause and cries of “More! More!” from his comrades and the thumping of metal scabbards on the floor. Indeed, I joined in these cries, so entertaining was this young man. With the story of the hapless cuckold husband of Nottingham, he had us laughing until the tears came.
Our merriment grew so loud that the innkeeper appeared and begged us to soften our shouts so other guests could sleep. And that announcement brought Earl Graham, who had joined us for the storytelling, to his feet, suddenly recalling his duties as our captain. He ordered us all to bed, the better to be ready for the last length of our voyage early the next morning.
It was only later, when I lay abed with many thoughts crowding my head, that I recalled the dexterity with which the young François had turned my initial questions into an opportunity for himself to entertain us while, incidentally, deflecting any more inquiries from me. Neatly done, young clerk, I thought. But why? And then, gradually, William’s face moved before me. There must have been orders, directions given to all the knights who rode with me. Thwarted again by William.
The day had been long, and despite my will, it wasn’t many minutes later that I felt my senses lift from me.
Our Channel voyage was uneventful, and after one last night near the water, we began the journey south with fresh horses. Truth to tell, my heart was more at rest now that we were back on Norman soil.
Canterbury Papers Page 20
