“I came home from the fields to find my house burning and Henry’s soldiers tearing through the village. If William Marshal had not seen me trying to rush into our flaming cottage and pulled me up on his horse as he cantered past, I would have died also.”
“And François … who named him?”
“Mathilda.” He added, whimsically, “What would you have named him, Alaïs?”
“I would have called him Henry.” A grin was begging to spread on my water-sogged face.
“Oh, mirabile dictu!” William threw back his head and hooted like a peasant. “That would no doubt have contributed to the child’s safety all through his life! Young Henry was still living then. He would have had fits to have a bastard brother with the same name. And your father, Louis. Could you picture his face when he heard? His older daughter married to the heir of the English throne named Henry and his rebel younger daughter bearing a bastard named Henry, a by-blow of her sister’s father-in-law!”
“Yes, it would have stirred everyone up, for certain. That’s why I thought of it.”
“It was probably when you made that suggestion that Henry decided to send the child away.” He seemed to have relaxed in the past few minutes, daring even this small, if risky, jest. “If you’re not going to throw any more goblets or have another fit, I suggest we get back to the business of our dinner.” He gestured broadly to the feast before us.
“I find I have lost my appetite through your news. But don’t let me hold you back,” I said, settling deeper into my chair.
“Thank you, I won’t,” he said, suddenly interested in the partridge again. And he began tearing it apart, using his strong fingers to make almost delicate motions. “After all, I bring you news of life, not of death. What you had lost many years ago, you now have found. That is cause for celebration, not grief.”
“It’s obvious to me you never bore—nor lost—a child,” I said, unwilling to let go of my tremendous resentment quite yet. “Still, you have reason on your side, if not feelings. I was forced to give up my child and all my hopes for his future.”
William glanced at me again, but this time not in challenge or apprehension. Only with kindness, which I had not expected. “But he is back. Against all odds he has come back to you.” He extended his hand toward mine across the table but made no attempt to touch me.
“A boy who lost his mother can understand a mother who has lost her boy,” he said gently, the glimmer returning to his eyes. “I do understand. And I do not mean to make light of what happened or my own part in it. Only to say the past is done. It is the future that is important. And you have that before you, with all its choices.”
“Yes, I do have choices.” I began to play with my food again. As if reading my mind, he filled another glass with the red Bordeaux. As he did so, I noticed again the black onyx ring on his left hand, a curious and somewhat familiar ring. “You asked me last evening if I wanted François attached to my household?”
“You have probably discerned with that knifelike wit of yours that it is no accident that François has been of the party that has accompanied you these past few days. I wanted you to be together. If you took to each other, I hoped you might be reunited, in whatever way you liked.”
“Does he…?”
“He knows nothing about you, except what he has heard from others about the very difficult Princesse Alaïs Capet, sister of the king of France.”
“Am I known to be difficult, then?”
“Across four countries. Empress Mathilda herself has—or rather had—no more prickly reputation.”
I could not suppress a chuckle at that news and was rewarded by a look that created a different sort of bond between us. “You would know how difficult Mathilda was only if you had worked for Henry. She was the single person, besides Eleanor, who could drive him into towering rage when she was a thousand leagues away. A letter would do it.”
He paused. Then he put his fork down to say this, giving me his full attention: “François is very much like you. When I rode into Chinon the other night, I wasn’t collecting one renegade but two. He had no permission to leave the Montjoie château, not from Earl Graham his commander, nor from me. He was a runaway, like you. You will suit each other well if you take him on.” He wiped his mouth with a serviette. “I would make only the suggestion that he first might be loaned to your household temporarily. You could get to know each other. Afterward you can tell him whatever you wish about yourself.”
“Does Canterbury have any claim on him?”
“No more than myself. He has been attached to the monastery only as a clerk and only for his studies. He has never joined the community.”
“No more a monk than yourself,” I repeated softly. “Yes, well, now we come to it, don’t we? The very difficult and the very mysterious William of Caen. Of the many Williams I have seen, who is the true William of Caen?”
William became reabsorbed in the task of tearing his partridge, giving it far more attention than it demanded. I continued.
“How is it you can play at being prior of Canterbury, can summon servants to open closed houses at the snap of your fingers, can commission fine dinners of many courses in a day’s time, can arrange for money, for escapes, for horses, for men? How is it you have more sources of information than does the king of France, more information about the movements of the king of England than his queen mother does? Explain this to me.” I paused, then added in a quiet voice, “How is it you have maintained secret possession of my son for lo these many years, and not only did I not know of it but it seems no one else knew either?”
He dipped his hands into the finger bowl, then wiped them and pushed his plate aside. He considered me for some time. I was not certain at first that he would answer my question or even treat it with respect. And although I am not in the habit of fearing men, there was a glint in his eyes that reminded me of a scimitar Philippe had brought back from Turkey: a glance that was fine, sharp, and dangerous. But then he spoke, and my fears fled.
“I made a promise. I have kept it to the best of my ability.” His words were quiet but clear.
“A promise to whom? About what?” But I already knew.
“I promised Henry I would be the guardian of the child. And that if the child lived, and you lived, someday I would reunite you.”
My breath and my voice failed me for the second time that night. William saw it but continued, in a voice for once lacking all irony. “As I was trying to tell you earlier, it was days after our quarrel, after I had confronted him about his relationship with you, when he called me in to tell me I was to take the babe to Anjou. The babe was not yet born, but he had settled on this plan.”
“And what did the king have to say, exactly, when he called you to tell you this?” I felt a need to participate in this story, if only by asking questions.
“He said if I was so concerned about this babe, and about its mother, I could take the responsibility.” A fleeting smile passed over his face. “I suppose it’s no consolation to you now, but he cared deeply, for both you and the babe. He could see that the situation was impossible and the babe in great danger of becoming someone’s pawn. Or worse, someone’s victim. The list of suspects who might use him was long.”
“But why you?”
William eased his large frame out of his chair again. I was beginning to realize that every time there was a difficult part to our conversation, I could count on William to start pacing. It was an effective technique to avoid eye contact.
“He trusted me. From the time I was a young student in his household, he had chosen me for his secretary. For what reason, I don’t know.”
“Well,” I said, trying to be helpful, “you were terribly bright as a child. Henry liked people around who thought quickly and had the right answers.” I paused. “Funny. We royal children hated you when we were small. You showed us all up at our lessons. And you were such a strange little dark-haired thin person, always ducking your head when someone spoke to you.”<
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He had reached the far wall with his pacing and turned to come back toward me. I was aware of his height, his broad, somewhat bent shoulders, that strong face, not ducking now. I thought he might be angry, but as he came closer, I saw that he was not.
“Some children grow more slowly than others,” he said thoughtfully. “I was young and shy for a long time. Henry saw what I might become. And at the end, when he gave me my assignment of the child’s care, he thought I was up to it.” He looked at me. “He knew also that I cared deeply for you.” A heartbeat passed between us.
“Cared for me?” I forced myself now to lightness of tone, though I could feel a flush rising.
“Why else would I have had the temerity to lecture the king about his treatment of his young mistress?”
“I remember you at Oxford. I always thought I read disapproval in your eyes, for my relationship with the king.”
He shook his head slowly. “I thought you were so beautiful, with your raven hair and green eyes, that you had somehow a timeless look in the midst of your vibrant youth. And I was fascinated by your wit that flashed like silver, used on anyone who crossed you. Even Henry was not exempt from your sharp, funny gibes.” William paused, then said more softly, “I always thought that you should have been Richard’s wife and queen of England. And when I saw that Henry had been unable to resist the opportunity to have you himself instead, it seemed to me a dreadful injustice.” He shook his head at some private thought.
“What else, then?” I asked.
“Truth to tell—and with the advantage of viewing the situation now from age and maturity—I was probably only jealous of the king.” He had stopped pacing and stood, hands clasped behind his back, scanning my face. It demands effort to give no reaction in such circumstances, and I managed it only by looking down at my cold hare, now hopelessly congealed in its cheese.
William abruptly sat down opposite me. “You must forgive me for my arrogance at that time. Of course, I know now it was always your life, not for me to say what should or should not be for you. And truly, a grand passion, one such as I now understand you and Henry had for each other… Perhaps if such a passion arrives for someone, it is worth every sacrifice—even a crown.”
“Even a child?” I could barely speak. Then, without waiting, for the question was more for myself, I spoke again. “You may be right about grand passion.” A light danced in his eyes again, no more than the reflection of the torches. “Have you had such a grand passion, Sir William? Is it unrequited love, then, that drove you into a life of celibacy?”
He didn’t respond, his face grave. I checked my tongue, of a sudden afraid of what he might say, and switched to a lighter topic. “And how did you manage to carry off your many disguises? Did the monks at Canterbury know you were not one of them as you sat in Hugh Walter’s chair?” I couldn’t keep the dry edge from my voice. I, who so prided myself on observation as an artist, had been thoroughly hoodwinked.
“Most did. They didn’t care. As long as I was appointed as the abbot’s vicar, they accepted me. I lived often at Canterbury over the years. I have taken Hugh Walter’s place before. When I was there, the monks would invite me to participate in the liturgical ceremonies. I did so on high feast days, but I always chose not to consecrate the host, since I myself have not been consecrated into that priestly service.”
“But there must be some reason you gained such acceptance in a community when you are not even ordained? Not even, it seems, a permanent member of the community.”
William once again pushed his chair away from the table, propping his feet against a table leaf and crossing his hands easily behind his head, as if resting his back.
“You asked me some questions about my past several nights ago. Canterbury is a part of that past. I was attached to Canterbury as a young man, first for studies because I was of Becket’s household, and then, during Becket’s exile, I was sent there because Henry wanted me even better educated. But I never chose holy orders. Henry had other plans for me.”
“Let me guess,” I said unnecessarily. “The Order of the Knights of the Holy Temple.” I was relieved that our conversation had left the personal and reverted to the much safer topic of politics. “You were among the men Henry sent to the Knights after Avranches.”
He showed no surprise but instead responded genially. “Yes, I’ve been a Knight Templar since I was twenty years of age. I was terrified when Henry sent me, but it didn’t turn out so badly. I became a member of the Order of Templars in the king’s stead and am so to this day.” He paused. “In a way, in the early years, I was Henry’s eyes and ears within the Templars.”
“You were a spy?” I was nonplussed. Would the revelations never end?
“Oh, not exactly that. The Templars knew I was Henry’s man. But it suited everyone to have that alliance. And when Henry would call me back into service, the Knights were happy to lend me to him. Or perhaps it was the other way around.”
I shook my head. The arrangement made me dizzy. I didn’t want to probe further. I had no idea what Aristotle or Marcus Aurelius would say about the ethics of all this.
“But can you deny that the Templars have now decided finally to bring John’s term as king to a close? And to use whatever means at hand to do it?”
His feet fell to the floor, and the chair made a clatter as it, too, hit the wood. His surprise was genuine. “Who told you that?”
“I’ve surmised it from all the responses that have come from everyone every time the conflict between John and the Templars comes up. And trust me, it has come up with wild frequency nearly every time someone addresses me! You and my aunt Charlotte hinted at it, and Isabelle, John’s queen, also in the tower. And then William Marshal, at Sir Roger’s estates. When he told me you were a Templar,”—I pushed away from the table and stood up, looking at him steadily—“he also warned me of you. He said I had stumbled into the middle of the quarrel between the Templars and John and that either side would use me for its own ends, including even yourself.”
“William Marshal knows better than that.” The flat of William’s hand hit the table. “He must be losing his wits in his old age. He knows I would guard you from harm, no matter what the political intrigue. It’s true that I am a Templar. Their grand master in England. But that has no bearing on my intentions toward you.”
I stood looking down at him, torn between my doubt and my need to believe. Suddenly I was distracted. I recalled where I had seen such a ring before. On the finger of my uncle at the inn at Havre.
“That is the very ring of the Templars, is it not?”
He looked startled. “How do you know that?”
I pressed forward. “And now do you answer my question, for this surely has to do with me. Do the Templars intend throwing John off the throne of England and replacing him with my son?”
William rose and faced me, forcing me to look up to him. “I am bound by blood oath to Henry to protect François. I would never allow him to be used as a pawn by the Templars or anyone else.” He reached across the table and grabbed my wrist, only the second time he had touched me in haste. “Do you understand me?”
Then he loosed his fingers, and I pulled my hand away.
“Then how did—”
“England must not have another civil war. The cost is too great. All sensible men know that. But it will have such a war if John doesn’t stop raiding the treasuries of the great abbeys to pay for his ill-designed adventures in northern France.” He sat again, as if he had discovered a momentary lapse of manners in his lunge toward me.
“But how did John get information that my son was living?” I spoke so intensely that my teeth barely parted. “How could he have known? It must be from the Templars.”
Now it was William’s turn to confront me once again. “The Templars need not resort to using threats against children to manage their diplomacy. How do you suppose John learned of your son?” I didn’t answer. He asked again. “Have you learned nothing in the past we
eks to answer that question?”
“Eleanor?” I questioned first, in disbelief. Then repeated with absolute certainty, “Of course, Eleanor!”
William’s face lightened. “Yes! Eleanor. She began this current stir by getting wind of the Templars’ refusal to lend John any more money until he stopped pressuring the abbeys. She wrote John before she went to Spain, reviving all those rumors about the bastard Henry supposedly had with some southern princess. She told him she had information that the boy might have lived, that the Templars knew about this child, and that John should beware antagonizing them, for they might use the child against him. Apparently the news had an effect opposite to that intended, of settling John down. Instead, John set out to find the boy himself and put an end to the threat. You must remember,” he added with his customary irony, “John frightens easily.”
“But why did she send me to Canterbury? So John could kidnap me?”
“You’ll have to ask her that, if we ever get to see her in person. The answer may be less draconian than you think. It may just be that she truly wanted her Becket letters and—just as she told you—thought you were the one person who could safely retrieve them. She must have known where Becket hid them years ago. That was his special altar, and that’s where Henry’s rogue knights found him in prayer when they came to kill him. She may have honestly thought that if the letters came to light, they would cast a further shadow over John’s throne. Or that if John got his hands on them, he might do something foolish that would harm his own cause even more.”
“Like revealing them to protect himself?”
“Exactly.” Amusement spread across his face. “Or at the very least, embarrassing her in her older years.”
I considered this information for a moment. “When did you find them?”
“About fifteen years ago. When we redid the masonry at the side altars after the great fire.” He grinned. “I always kept them myself, because I thought they might be useful someday. Charlotte knew I had them. So did a few others. She trusted me not to use them against the Plantagenet house. But she also knew I would not give them up without reason. They were one more check held against John’s baser instincts.”
Canterbury Papers Page 27
