We traveled hard the next day, taking little rest. Father Alcuin had appeared briefly when we broke our fast, but he was pale and seemed preoccupied. Roland never left my side until I was mounted, so I had no time to address my questions to the monk. I was growing worried that an opportunity had not presented itself for a private conversation. If he was indeed on some mission for the abbey in the south, he might depart our company at any time to take a different road.
Sometime after our midday meal, we came upon a small stream. We had to follow it for a while to find a place that could be forded. When I saw this, I felt in my travel sack for the chisel I had brought with me to Canterbury. It had been sharpened to a fine edge, and I pulled it out, careful not to be seen. I quickly began working on the leather thongs that held my saddle to my horse. Within a short time, I had severed the main tie, and my saddle began to slip.
I easily slid to the ground, being both agile and prepared, and the entire party was forced to call a halt. Tom rode up to me as the others waited, and he gave me a quizzical look as he examined the frayed part.
“We shall have to stop for a bit so I can repair this,” he called to Earl Graham.
“Fine,” the earl said, riding over. “Just so you are not harmed, Princesse,” he added with genuine concern.
“Do not trouble, yourself, Earl. I am unharmed and, truth to tell, glad of a respite.”
“I am sorry we have pushed so hard,” he said. “I want badly to get to Montjoie’s by nightfall. But perhaps a short rest will refresh everyone.”
As Tom worked on the saddle, I saw Father Alcuin leave the others and move toward the stream. Blessing my good fortune, I followed, taking care not to appear too deliberate. The large man was kneeling by the water scooping up handfuls when I came upon him from behind. He jumped when I spoke his name.
“I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to startle you,” I said hastily, feeling some guilt to see that the water had splashed down the front of his tunic.
“It’s not a problem, Princesse,” he said, brushing himself off. “I was thinking of other things when you spoke.”
I sat beside him, spreading my cloak first so as not to become damp from the moss covering the ground.
“We were interrupted at Canterbury in our conversation, and I was forced to a hasty departure from the abbey later that night. But I think I would like your further opinion on some things.”
“I’m glad to help, if I can,” he said.
“First, I would like to inquire about the Arab man found dead in the abbey’s herb garden. What did the apothecary say was the cause of his death?”
“The prior later spoke to the entire community about this incident. He said that the stranger’s death was a natural one, a failure of the heart, I believe they said. They could find no evidence of poison nor marks of strangulation, no wound of any kind on his person.” He looked out over the stream. “He was quite elderly.”
“Did they know who he was or why he was there?”
Father Alcuin seemed to pause for a brief second, and then he answered rather firmly. “The monks were not given any information except that the man appeared to have entered the town gates the day of the market, the same day you arrived. He may have entered hiding in one of the farmers’ carts, as the porter monk had no knowledge of him. He had no papers or correspondence on him that would identify him. I believe that the prior’s council had a long discussion about where to bury him, since they thought it not proper—nor respectful of him—to bury him in Christian ground.”
I pondered this matter for some moments, until his voice interrupted my thoughts. “Were there other questions, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Regarding Master Averroës.”
“Master Averroës? The famous scholar?”
“You know him, do you not?”
“I have never met him. But who does not know of him? He is the greatest translator of our age. Without him we would never have had the Aristotelian texts that have now been put into Latin. He is without peer in our lifetime. But surely he is very old now.”
“Indeed, he is ancient. Can you tell me: Has he visited Canterbury of late?”
“Master Averroës?” Father Alcuin appeared to make a genuine effort to consider. “No, not ever to my knowledge. And unless it were a secret meeting, I would no doubt have been involved, since I am one of only three monks in our community who speak and read Arabic. Translators are always useful in such meetings,” he added, as if he had presumed with his assertion.
“Can you think of any reason why the master would forsake his warm country and come north to our brisk season?” I probed, while, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the earl was gathering the knights around the horses. In a moment Tom would come for us.
Father Alcuin frowned. “Master Averroës is known as a man of peace. About five years past, the caliph of Egypt enjoyed a major victory in the Mediterranean Sea over the Christians of Hispania, and a number of Christian knights were captured. There are rumors that the caliph was willing to ransom these knights. If by some remote chance Master Averroës were in the north for any reason, it may connect to those negotiations.”
Tom was at my elbow now, and Father Alcuin made a great show of rising to his feet. “I cannot tell you more,” he whispered, as if to confirm my sense that this conversation was best held in confidence. And, in truth, I felt the very same.
I allowed Tom to take my hand and help me up the riverbank. And he, seasoned agent of kings and queens, asked no questions. Indeed, he was silent, as if to give me space to think.
We mounted then and set out again, the earl seeming to have gained even more strength from our brief respite, as he led us on a hard ride. But I had much to ponder. It was now becoming clear that my jewel had value far greater than I had imagined or, for that matter, than Richard and Eleanor had imagined. And that Master Averroës should come north for ransom negotiations could well connect to the widespread interest in my pendant. But I still puzzled: How was my uncle involved in all this? And what connection could be made to the dead man in the abbey garden outside my guesthouse?
We rode the last ten leagues quickly, down through Chinon on the Vienne River, past the castle that housed so many of my childhood memories, through the marketplace in the center of town, and across the bridge that still spanned the river, the same bridge I had ridden with young Henry and Marguerite and Richard when we raced horses as children.
We traveled the road along the south side of the river for some miles and then turned off to move en masse along a road cut through the fields of wheat, a road so white and perfect, lightened by the sun that also beat down upon the golden wheat on either side of us, that I thought I must somehow be riding through heaven. It was a perfect day on the edge of spring.
I could see the manor of the Norman Chevalier Armand Montjoie, for I had been informed by Earl Chester that this man would be our host well before we came within shouting distance of the place. The building sat on a small hill that seemed to rise straight up out of the flat field land we rode across. The manor was a tall, broad, powerful clean piece of work in white stone. Totally without frills, it was so like the Angevin personality I knew as King Henry of England. How fitting that this edifice was the home of one of his liege men.
As we approached the manor, my fatigue began to recede. I felt a ripple within me, a strange sense of elation, almost as if I were coming close to touching something important. But what, exactly, it was eluded me. Mayhap, I thought, it is only a temporary feeling of well-being, naturally connected to a return to the place of my childhood. Or mayhap the memory of the ugly incident with John was dispelled by the sun. Whatever it was, I welcomed the feeling as a harbinger of hope.
.17.
A Minor Adventure
Our little party of knights and travelers—we made only a dozen in all, counting myself—made our way down the wide entrance road lined with stately cypress trees. We were cantering two and three abreast, talking and laughing as we came, so
that at first we scarcely noticed the silent party assembled in front of the entrance.
We sobered somewhat on seeing the small group dressed in black that awaited us. A man and his dame and three or four servants stood watching. There was something odd about them; they seemed to be less a group than a tableau of several individuals thrown accidentally together for the occasion. They neither talked nor looked at one another as we came toward them. The man at the center held the lead of a large hound that was sitting on his haunches and surveying us as we approached.
“Well,” said young François, who had ridden up to my side when we entered the long drive of the estate, “our welcoming party looks rather somber.” And I could not but agree.
The man who greeted us was a far cry from the urbane Sir Roger who had gathered us into his manor in Wiltshire as if we were King John himself with all his court. This man announced himself Thibault, our faithful servant, and made the obligatory bow, but I sensed a small resentment blooming under his well-cut doublet. This was not an assignment he had undertaken gladly.
He was not, he said, Armand Montjoie but Sir Armand’s steward, Thibault of Limoges. Sir Armand was away on business, but Thibault and his wife, Petronella—he indicated her with a swift motion of his head—would do their best to make us comfortable in their master’s absence.
As he made this speech, civil enough but not warm, the others nodded in agreement. Suddenly the woman by his side came to life at the sound of her name. She had black hair and blue eyes and a perfectly round face, round as the apples that dotted her cheeks. I saw her eyes sparkle as I came closer. She wore the shirred, bulky peasant clothes of the country, but on her slim figure the muslin dirndl skirt and brightly embroidered blouse only enhanced her charms. She curtsied in the French manner and then raised her eyes to mine without coyness. Although she did not speak a word, we had a communication between us of the kind only women can create in silence.
And then the moment passed, and Steward Thibault reclaimed my attention. He swept us into the house and up the stairs to our quarters with formidable efficiency. Earl Graham, being a good sort, made a foray at conversation to put the man at ease. It must have been with an effort, however, for when I glanced at his face as we arrived at my door, I saw the marks of fatigue etched thereon and knew that the earl had found the ride as tiring as I myself had.
The day was so glorious it beckoned me, but I knew that my first chore was to settle my few belongings and wash the dust from my body, despite my fatigue. Fresh clothes and water for washing had been brought for me. I could see that the garments were French country clothes made of rough muslin, gathered skirts and a bodice, not the beautiful wools given to me in Wiltshire. These clothes were not exactly my style, but there you are: The trip had been long, and the gown I wore could doubtless stand on its own with acquired grit, so I shed it.
After refreshing myself, I opened the shutters, leaned on the deep window casement, and looked down the road that spilled away from the château. Questions chattered in my head, despite my best efforts to think only of the sun warming my arms. How long would I stay in this place? Was Eleanor back at Fontrevault by now? Why had I let William coerce me into coming here? Would Earl Graham attempt to stop me if I tried to leave? William had said, “Later, when things are resolved, you may be able to return safely to Philippe’s court.” What things needed to be resolved?
I then pondered the loss of my Arab jewel. The exchanges at the inn on the subject of the great poet and my conversation with Father Alcuin on the riverbank had brought back a sense of loss over the keepsake. And I puzzled over the jewel. I remembered the search of my room at Havre, and again at Canterbury. Someone, or perhaps more than one person, had been looking for the jewel.
These were not random attempts at theft, nor did I any longer believe that it was the gold and ruby in the pendant that made it desirable. Something else was going on.
I watched the ribbon of road unwind beneath me. I could see it curl down the gentle hill, to the crossroads. One branch continued toward the river and the bridges to Chinon, the way we had come. The other wound its way through the fields toward Fontrevault.
I made a decision in that sudden way of my own. If William did not come within the week, bringing back my letters and their translation, I would leave this place. I’d leave it by night if necessary, and I would take myself to the left at the crossroads in the fields. I would return to Fontrevault and confront Eleanor with or without evidence. I would wring from her the true reason for my errand, the trap she sent me into at Canterbury—for I’d no doubt she had known that John would find me there—and demand as payment for my troubles the truth about the child.
That left one week in which to rest. I eyed my ridiculous new clothes. The worst part was the lack of pockets for my withered hand. I rested my arm on the windowsill now, my hand before me, a useless claw, a private sorrow. The feeling gone from the wrist down. I did not even have a glove to cover it. Sighing, I turned into the room and saw with surprise something I had not seen earlier: Someone had left vellum and charcoal on one of the wooden chests in the corner of the room.
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that life could have been much more miserable if it were my right hand that had withered in my mother’s womb rather than my left.
I drew all afternoon, creating sheet after sheet of scenes and events of the past weeks. When I finished those, I drew the faces of Prior William, Earl Graham, the mysterious young François, King John, and his beautiful wife with the thin mouth. I drew the phlegmatic Baron Roger, the apoplectic Richard Glanville, the fine, noble aging face of William Marshal.
Then I began to draw faces from the past: Eleanor when she was young; my sister, Marguerite, and her husband, young Henry; Richard in his teens with his marvelous reddish blond hair flowing. It was as if there was an outpouring from the center of me, some release from memories I did not even know I still held. As I began to fill the last sheet of vellum, the head of King Henry took shape, and I felt tears flowing down my face.
I stopped as the sun was beginning to fade, having used all the vellum and worn the charcoal down to its nub. I discovered then, when finally I paused, that a crashing ache in my head had formed while I was working. I stumbled to the bed, hoping to still the mallet beating inside by lying down. When a servant scratched at the door, I barely lifted my head to respond. I sent him downstairs with my excuses to the others for dinner. I could not say, however, what I knew to be true: The world of my soul was too crowded, and the pain had spilled over into my body. From then on, and for some time, I could scarcely distinguish light from dark. My main companions were the shades of my past, their images swirling in the hollow chamber of my mind.
At the end of the second day, the throbbing eased and the pain began to recede. I had been dimly aware that Earl Graham had stopped to see me, as had the faithful but still-distant Steward Thibault, followed by his wife, the pleasant Petronella, whose aprons smelled always of freshly baked bread, making soothing sounds. They had provided powders, but I had refused them and requested only heated water in which to dissolve the herbs I still carried myself. Finally, on the third day and after a day of my own treatment, I could bear to look at the light. I was returning to myself.
For the first time in recent weeks, I truly wished for another woman for company. I had not been well served by women in my life: starting with my own mother and then, as things turned out, by Queen Eleanor, by the waiting women at my brother’s court, and more recently by Isabelle, who’d tried to manipulate me for John. Yet now I longed for Marguerite, the sister of my childhood, or my nurse Francesca. Anyone to talk to but these tiresome knights. I might even rise for dinner tonight, I thought, if I knew women would be there.
Even as I was thinking these thoughts, lying on the large bed watching the sun’s setting rays play on the wall tapestry, a gentle scratch came again to the door. This time, without a wait for my leave, it opened.
It was Mistress Petronella,
she of the cherubic face and perfect cheeks and bobbing curtsy. I had noticed her beauty in the melee of our arrival, but now the sun caught her full, lively face as she stood quietly inside the door, and I saw she was intelligent-looking as well.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice cracking like a dried board.
“Is there anything Your Grace desires?” she asked, without much deference in her voice this time, at least none that I could distinguish.
I sat up and leaned on one elbow, the better to see her. I listened for the pain in my head with the movement, but none came. I said, on impulse, “Yes. I would like my clothes. And a cloak, if you please.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. Still no pain. I was weak, but I was free.
“Your Grace is feeling better. Will you come to dinner?”
“No. Please make my excuses to Earl Graham and the other knights. But I am going out to take the air.”
“I’ll tell the earl. He said to be sure to let him know when you felt better.”
“Don’t, under any circumstances, tell the earl I feel better,” I said sharply. “Just get my clothes and a cloak and tell them all I’m still too ill to join them for dinner.”
“But, Your Grace—”
“Come here, Mistress Thibault.” The young woman came closer, hands clasped behind her back, eyes straight on to mine. She still retained that interesting air of independence in her demeanor. Clearly, she was not cowed by my station. “I sorely desire fresh air. I think it will improve my condition. But I don’t want to trouble anyone with my whims. I prefer to be alone. Do you understand?” The village idiot would have understood.
She nodded, smiling.
“Do you know who I am?”
She tossed her head. The gesture could have been interpreted as affirmation or sauciness.
“If you help me, I’ll reward you with silver. If you do not do as I ask, it will not go well with you.” Vague threats were often much more powerful than real ones, I had discovered at court. Real threats had defined limits, but vague threats played on the imagination. The field was infinite for each person.
Canterbury Papers Page 21
