.3.
PARIS
The Palace of Philippe Auguste
I left my brother’s chambers that morning with the promise that I would help him discover the secrets that lay behind the mysterious actions of our aunt, Constance. In truth, I knew not how I would do this, but I had confidence that an opportunity would present itself where I might inquire of her, without raising suspicion, about her son and his lands. Perhaps I could make a casual comment about receiving a letter from Joanna, and convey her best wishes to her good-mother (though not the part where my friend instructed me to keep Constance safely in Paris to ensure Raymond’s continued good humor!).
Several days passed uneventfully, and my aunt was nowhere to be seen. I was beginning to believe I would have to create an excuse to visit her chambers, when certain events pushed all thought of Constance and the murder from my mind.
The following Friday the court came alive. It was the day before the last tourney of autumn, a grand event that drew knights and nobles from far and wide. The castle had been humming for days with preparations for the many visitors. It was on that morning that I had one of my rare premonitions, a “visitation” as William called my visions. My sleep had been fitfull all night, and toward dawn I started suddenly, sitting upright as if to defend myself. My active dreams had returned, those vivid pageants that came to me from time to time with warnings lodged in their peculiar images. This time I had seen gryphons flying about a room, and an elderly man who insisted that I help capture them and restore them to the glass bowl.
I sat still for a moment, remaining under the spell of those fabulous creatures. I considered whence they might have come, how I had encountered them before. But I could not remember.
Suddenly, without warning, a flash of light flooded the room. I was aware of a throbbing in my head, and felt my palms dampen with fear. I was frightened, wished to flee yet was powerless to resist. I dared not even lie back against my pillows.
The outline of a room was revealed, dimly at first as if there were a lifting fog. I felt the warm air of the south wafting over me and slowly, emerging from the brightness, an oval of thirteen standing men took form. Ten were dressed alike in scarlet robes with wide-brimmed hats of the same color perched on their heads while the other three wore only white. Two figures stood at the head of the oval, like the clasp on a necklace. All faces were turned toward them. In front of each man was a lighted taper, standing in a black wrought-iron holder reaching up from the floor. These candles were like sentinels, forming an inner ring to the circle. The flames licked the air with a smoky hunger.
I peered at the leaders, fascinated in spite of myself. One stood tall with his white hair flowing away from his bronze face, the aristocratic nose marking him as the figure from my gryphon dream. He was wearing the papal tiara, a white, beehive-shaped crown trimmed in gold and jewels, so tall that it would diminish a lesser man. But it only added to this amazing man’s force.
The man next to him was unfamiliar, never before seen in my dreams or my visitations. He was robed in white, too, but in a simple style, in the white wool robe of the Cistercian order. His cowl was pulled forward.
As I watched, a tall, slender figure gradually took shape on the other side of this monk. His face became visible and my heart nearly stopped. It was Francis, garbed as a Cistercian, standing silently with a look of wonder on his face.
Suddenly the mysterious monk pushed back his cowl and revealed his face. It was long and fleshy with a chin that jutted out, as if to invite battle. His eyes glittered and the reflection of light off his brow threw into relief the ruddy tone of his face, a contrast to the deep tan of the man beside him and to my son. He had a focused, rapacious expression and I shuddered when he casually placed his hand on Francis’s shoulder.
Then the bronze-faced man swung a bell up once, strongly, and at the sound and with one accord all of the scarlet-robed men pulled the tapers from their holders, turned them upside down and plunged them into the dust with a final and vicious gesture of annihilation. The vision darkened and I fell back into my pillows.
I lay there with my eyes closed for some time, captive to the echoes of the bell sound that had triggered the final eclipse of light. That sound seemed to recur in concert with a pulsing inside my head. Eventually both the sound and the throb receded and I was left to such peace as I could muster. I slept again, dreamless this time.
And so my servants found me some hours later. Mignonne, who alone knew of my visitations, made excuses to the others for my dazed state, and fed me watered wine, which revived me. After that, I was able to take some brown bread and fruit sweetened with honey. And I came more into myself.
I spent the morning quietly in my chambers, declining to join the king for his noonday dinner when he sent a note to summon me. I made an excuse of illness, although the ache in my head had ceased after I partook of some nourishment. Instead, I sat at my table, now reading some of the poetry from the south that I loved, now working in a desultory fashion at my charcoal and vellum, trying to draw the form of the fabulous birds who had flown around the room of my dreams.
After I had little success with that task I found myself drawing what I could remember of the scene where the red-robed men plunged their tapers into the sand. I was captivated by the memory of the man with the flowing white hair, and the other man beside him, the one with the fleshy, venal face. Yes, his face was easy to recall. I had it in a couple of strokes. I looked at what I had drawn and was both attracted and repulsed by it. It was a face interested in power, and earthly pleasures. It was the face of strength, and perhaps the face of a killer. But why had this face been sent to me? And what place had Francis in the company of such men? And who or what was to be extinguished? For that was the clear meaning of their ceremony.
I rose and walked to the window for air, tossing the drawings under other scrolls so that Mignonne would not see them when she came in with my bath. My small black cat, Minuit, rubbed against my leg, but I was in no mood for play. I waited. Suddenly a strong urge rose, an inner voice commanding me to leave my chamber.
What moved me I cannot say. These restless feelings sometimes came over me. I accepted these callings just as I accepted that my left hand had been withered from birth, and that I was specially marked in some way. Some said I had the gift of second sight. Not as a witch, as sometimes the Parisian court whispered, but still there were things about myself even I did not understand. Odd dreams, visions, inner movements that gave me direction, such as the one I felt now to go to the highest point of the castle. My feet flew along the hall to the tower at the end, and I climbed the steps quickly, rather more like a girl than the woman I was.
I emerged at the top onto the stone parapet just in time to see a bizarre picture spread before me. Looking down, I gazed upon an extended, winding human snake outlined against the distant meadows. I leaned out between the crenellations to better observe.
The line looked for a moment like a long, colorful, mythical serpent created for the amusement of onlookers at a festival, but soon the flags carried in the front became visible, and the many wagons bringing up the rear rolled into view. The serpent broadened and the moving tableau was defined as an ordinary company of knights and their entourage. With all the adjacent baggage and the many foot soldiers and attendants, it was clearly the train of someone very important.
“You have recovered from your malady?” The deep, rather hoarse voice at my shoulder startled me. Philippe had come upon me with no warning. He stood so close I could sense the heat from his climb up the stairwell. I looked at him, but he remained staring straight ahead at the advancing group, frowning and pursing his lips. I saw he did not expect an answer to his question, for he continued: “So they called you to come, as well.”
“No,” I said, “no one summoned me.”
“Another of your premonitions?” he asked, his brows rising slightly. He didn’t take his eyes from the colored autumn fields on the west bank across the Seine, and I tu
rned back to watch with him.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that. Who comes below?”
“It’s too early to see for certain,” Philippe answered, and for the first time I detected a light note in his voice. “But I suspect we will see the pennants bearing the insignia of the Templars among those in the front rank.”
“Philippe”—my heart stuttered in joyful surprise—“William is in this train!”
“So said the advance courier who arrived sweating like a drenched bird only an hour past.”
“But why did you not tell me immediately?” A storm of feelings was taking me over, my anger at William for his absence in conflict with my rising joy to see him again. And the happiness that now, finally, I could tell my son the truth about his blood bond to me. I clutched the iron ring attached to the stone rim and leaned farther out, determined to get a better view. “It’s been eight long months. I should have prepared.”
“Softly, my sister.” Philippe took my arm and pulled me slowly away from the edge. “How could we explain to the grand master of the Templars in England that his dearest love fell over the parapet in plain sight of her beloved’s train and within reach of her own brother’s hand? That incident could start a war!”
“Philippe!” I turned to face him again, only to see him grinning like a schoolboy. Philippe never mentioned my seven-year liaison with the Templar Grand Master William of Caen. What could possess him to show wit about it now?
But he only shrugged and tossed the locks of his dark hair back from his forehead. “Well, all the court talks of you and the Lord William. I suppose we can acknowledge it when you and I are in private.”
“Oh, the court again,” I said, pressing my fingers to my temples in mock-fury. “Always the court and their endless chatter.”
“How now, Sister.” Philippe took my hand lightly in his own. “Do not distress yourself. If my courtiers speak of you at all, it is with kindness and with some awe. After all, a man as famous and handsome as the Lord William will draw attention, even if you in your retiring manner do not seek it.”
I shook my head, but I could not allow the mention of the silly court to distract me now from the startling news: William, coming home at last! I cast my gaze back to the brilliantly colored train and was astonished to see the group’s speedy progress. The front riders were now quite close to the bridges of the Île de la Cité. The colors were coming into view, and I could make out four distinct flags.
“I see the Templars’ flag now, the white with the red cross, and the brilliant blue—that would be William’s house. But there are two I don’t recognize.”
Philippe squinted against the late afternoon sun, shading his eyes with his hand. “You would not. They are seldom seen in Paris. This pair of flags signals little good. They represent the pope of Rome and the abbey of Cîteaux. They announce the two monks I told you of, those who come to persuade me to war.”
“Cîteaux, the Cistercian abbey?” My eyes closed as I saw once again the sinister white-robed Cistercian monk of my visitation, and my son Francis standing next to him. “You did not say they were Cistercians.”
“The leader is called Arnaud Amaury. He is abbot of Cîteaux. The other, the lesser in power I think, is named Pierre of Castelnau.” My brother continued to watch the advancing party, even as he spoke. “Why the interest? Have you heard these names before?”
I shook my head, for in truth Joanna had not mentioned the names of the monks. But there was no doubt in my mind. These were the two bent on mischief in the lands of Toulouse. “Mere curiosity, Brother. Nothing more.” I paused. “And why does William ride with their party?”
Philippe sighed and turned toward me, casting a baleful glance in my direction.
“God himself only knows, but the sense of the letter delivered only an hour past from William’s advance courier is that he met the monks’ party just north of Poitiers and made it his business to travel with them to Paris. No doubt he intended to garner information on the journey, under the pretense that they were both coming to our court to discuss the same problem…”
“Namely, the heretics in the south,” I interjected. He nodded, and turned away again, saying no more.
I knew better than to press the subject, and waited a moment, watching the progress of the colorful snake as it made its way across the bridge onto our little island. When next the king spoke, his tone became more agreeable.
“I did not ask you when we met: Have you had news from William recently?”
“I’ve not had anything since Whitsun. Last December the pope promised to release William from his Templar vows so that we might marry after he performed one final mission. When I agreed to this, I did not know that final mission would take the rest of his natural life! I will be glad of heart to see his diplomacy end soon.” I didn’t bother to keep the irritation from my voice.
Philippe motioned to me as he moved toward the opening of the narrow stairwell that led down the turret. I followed him, as the passage was too narrow to accommodate both of us. He kept talking over his shoulder as we descended. The steps were so steep and rough that I nearly tripped when a small cat ran across my path. They were slippery as well, and I had need of the iron rings in the wall from time to time to steady myself. The moss growing on the walls added to the gloom.
“William has confided in me his plan to marry you and return to Ponthieu as soon as he concludes his present business.” He paused, one jeweled, slippered foot rotating on the white stone step, and turned upward to me. His voice held an uncharacteristic softness as he continued: “I told him he had my permission and my blessing.” I was oddly moved, for the second time in this interview, by my brother’s affection. I placed my hand on his shoulder, which he touched briefly before continuing his descent.
“When did you have this conversation, Brother?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
The king, never one to show emotion for long, resumed his brisk tone. “William was with me when I met with Count Raymond in Blois these few weeks past.”
“You did not say!” I burst out. “Why did you not tell me William would be meeting you? I would have come!”
“I did not wish to raise your hopes. Until the very last, he was not certain he could be in Blois in time for the conference.” The king paused and cast a look upward at me. “It was William’s request that I meet with Raymond in Blois. And his direction that I not tell you the purpose of my journey. You must ask him why.” He spoke with finality, as if disposing of a troublesome diplomatic situation by delegating responsibility to someone else, which of course he was.
When he turned to make his way down the remaining steps, I was grateful that my brother could not see the dismay that spread over my face at his words and guess at my deep consternation. It was not William’s habit to keep secrets from me, and that alone was disquieting. It seemed our relationship was changing, that the distance between us in miles was reflected in our spirits. How would this affect my son, who was so attached to William?
We fell silent for a few moments, though the echo of our voices continued to bounce off the rocks of the tower stairwell. Each of us was occupied with our own thoughts.
At last we reached the bottom of the winding stairs, and the broad white-stone expanse that led to the oak doors of the Great Hall. The porticos were empty now, except for the occasional page leaning over the balustrade to watch the melee in the courtyard below. To one side we could see what appeared to be the entire palace population milling about in the courtyard below us, noisy with the preparations and excitement of welcoming the grand train of visitors.
We stood in front of two arched openings in the wall facing the west, and I saw that the sun was racing toward the horizon. The busy courtyard below would soon lie in shadows, perhaps even before William’s party arrived. Philippe put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to him.
“It was William who told me about the treachery in my own court. When we met at Blois, we had private conversation, as well. He ha
d information from the Templar network that John knows every move my armies make in advance. John’s captain recently set up an ambush west of the Vexin that lost me threescore men, key archers from the Berry region.” Philippe ran his hand through his black hair, a habit of distress since he was a child. “The devil of it is, I am not certain who is involved in leaking this information, nor how widespread this treason is among my courtiers.”
Before I could reply, my brother moved closer to me. He looked around before speaking. “Have you thought further on our conversation of mid-week? About Constance? What is your plan?”
I looked past his shoulder, speaking in a low voice to match his. “I am waiting for the right time to speak with her. I have not seen her in these days, and I did not want to seek her out.” I could feel his breath falling on my cheek in measured waves as he leaned closer, now his voice nearly a whisper.
“There will no doubt be opportunity enough in the next days. Two state dinners, a tourney, important guests.” He gripped my shoulder. “She has to appear sometime!”
It was not a request, it was a command. “Yes, you are right,” I said. “These days will provide the opportunity.” Then, just as suddenly, his mood changed.
As he released my shoulder, he gently tapped my chin with his knuckle, in a teasing gesture only a brother would make. “Meanwhile, you will want to prepare yourself for William. If we tarry here in the corridor our guests are in danger of descending upon us as we are. They are nearly at our gates as we stand here chattering.”
The Rebel Princess Page 4
