As we approached the massive oak doors that opened onto the Great Hall I talked gaily to Francis and Geoffrey, whose heads were bent low to hear me. I was making light of the various modes of flattery that they would shortly observe at the dinner we were about to attend. So engrossed was I in entertaining my young companions with somewhat ruthless imitations of courtiers vying for the king’s attention that I failed to notice a small party approaching from the opposite direction. These men were also deep in conversation, and had the same hurried step. We arrived at the portals at the same moment, and nearly collided under the bright torchlight.
“Your Grace,” exclaimed the man at the head of the group, pulling up short, as startled as I. “Je suis désolé.”
“Chief Minister!” I stared suddenly into the hooded eyes of Etienne Chastellain. Those eyes that gave nothing away. “Good even to you.”
“Your Grace, we beg your forgiveness,” he repeated, as he bowed deeply. “We were discussing an important topic, as you observe, and did not see your party.” He gestured to the two men with him. I recognized one of them from my brother’s conferences, Chastellain’s chief scribe, Eugene. The third man was unknown to me.
Chastellain was a short, stocky man. A stranger could be forgiven for taking him for a peasant. His people were from the Burgundy countryside, I had been told, and his origins showed in his appearance. His balding head and broad shoulders spoke more of the former army captain he had been than of the role of steward, which his father and grandfather had played for years to the dukes of Burgundy. Hence their name, for they were the castellans of the dukes. Chastellain had risen in the ranks, however, through his military service to my brother, and eventually had been knighted. This, and a certain male bravado, gave him stature among the other ministers and their assistants.
The men with him tonight were lean, ascetic-looking clerics, trained in the law at Rome and later transplanted to the court of Paris. Chastellain’s secretary, Eugene, in contrast to his master, was tall and thin, a floating sort of clerk with a permanent expression of disdain on his narrow, pale face, perhaps the result of having to look down on most people who approached him.
“And to the young men, greetings.” Chastellain was bowing again, excessively polite to the young knights. When he had finished, he examined Francis closely. “Ah, I see you wear the insignia of the household of Lord William. You must be François, his former secretary and now, I hear, a knight of his household.”
A chill swept over me at these words. I felt like a mother sparrow watching a raptor sweep past my nest. Certes, Chastellain knew all the secrets of the court. Francis had visited Paris with William at Christmastide, so the spymaster would have made it his business to know about him. The comment could be only a passing and casual reference. Still, I liked not his remark and liked still less the familiarity with which the minister dared to address those in my company. And then a new and dangerous thought appeared: Could the chief minister have a hint that Francis was of my own blood?
A quizzical smile played on Francis’s lips. He appeared surprised that the king’s minister could call him by name. When he bowed and seemed about to respond, I intervened hastily.
“As you can see, Sir Etienne, we are late for the affair.” I smiled and nodded as I motioned to the guards, and they immediately flung the doors wide. “We may not dally, as tardiness annoys my brother, the king.” I edged Francis forward into the room, and Geoffrey trailed after us, looking over his shoulder with curiosity at the small group of men who followed us at a respectful distance.
As we swept into the Great Hall the trumpets sounded to announce my arrival. Everyone turned at the signal of the horn’s high notes. I was so proud to be on the arm of Francis, who looked every inch the knight he had become. Tall and auburn haired, he seemed to have developed the regal bearing that came naturally to the Angevins. In his manner he was so like his natural father, King Henry.
The company was splendid, as befitted the court of Paris the day before a royal audience and tourney. The miracle of Bruges dye had created a panoply of color around the room, the dark reds and blues vying for dominance as the court women had the first opportunity to wear their new finery this autumn. Deep-colored wools, the woad blue and weld yellow dyes, and the new brushed fabric called velvet, were everywhere. The silk veils of the women floated after them as they turned their heads, clouds of pleasing color.
I scanned the room quickly looking for William but then my attention was drawn by a small cluster of noble ladies close to the giant hearth. It was the curious headdress of one in the center of the group that captivated me. Her veil was extended in height by the use of a beautiful jeweled comb, the way that my mother wore her veil in my earliest memories. I had not seen this look in Paris since, excepting only my aunt Constance of Toulouse. I wondered who this visitor was. To judge from her dress, the woman must have come from somewhere in the south.
William was standing with the king on the other side of the largest open hearth. A small circle of knights and nobles ringed them, listening to the king who was talking with great animation. I saw my beloved look up at the bustle that surrounded our entrance, pleasure spreading across his face when his glance caught mine. The crowd, which had paused only briefly in its conversation as we made our way toward the group around the king, resumed their chatter. The hubbub began to mount.
Philippe was in the midst of telling one of his hunting stories, which he felt compelled to illustrate with sweeping hand gestures. The men appeared riveted. Several faces were familiar to me, nobles from surrounding counties who had come for the tournament. Others, appearing tanned from the sun, must have ridden in with William’s party earlier that day.
As I neared the group those facing me gradually took their eyes from the king and followed my progress. The largest of the men, garbed in a deep maroon tunic edged in gold, had his broad back to me. He turned to see what distracted his companions and I momentarily recoiled. I recovered quickly, but not before I saw his heavy eyebrows rise slightly in response.
For, indeed, at this moment I looked upon the face of the man central to my morning visitation, one of the two leaders in the strange ritual I had been shown. His was the figure I had seen at the head of the circle of men as they plunged their tapers into darkness, the cowled monk whose long and fleshy face was revealed to me just before the darkness fell, the man who put his hand with such familiarity on Francis’s shoulder. And the eyes that stared at me now were anything but friendly.
As I approached I noted the same jutting, aggressive chin I had seen earlier, the same ruddy skin and jowls. Now I saw the unruly tonsure which had been hidden by the cowl in my vision: the short, thick black hair curling around the bald spot as if in protest against the cloister’s demands. The heavy brows framed rather small eyes that glittered as I drew closer, catching the light in a sinister way. Joanna’s letter and my vision came together. This man and I were born to be enemies.
“Abbé Amaury,” I said with a clear voice, moving now without hesitation to where he stood. I offered my right hand and he took it with his own flaccid paw, oddly soft for so renowned a warrior. I tucked my withered left hand into the pocket I had sewn into all my garments especially for that purpose.
“Of course, the famous Princesse Alaïs,” he drawled, his deep, raspy voice rippling with authority. He bowed low and I felt the brush of his full, wet lips on my hand. I suppressed a brief desire to shudder. When he raised his head I removed myself from his touch though I met his gaze without flinching.
“So, you know me even without my monk’s robes?” His gaze was searching. “Yet I do not think we have met before.”
“No, I should remember if we had,” I answered.
“Sister, welcome,” my brother said, more quickly than seemed necessary. He sensed something uneasy in the air. “Then you already know the abbot of Cîteaux?” I could tell he was puzzled, no doubt recalling our afternoon conversation in which I had appeared ignorant of the abbott and hi
s mission.
“Only by reputation.” I smiled, striving for a dazzling effect. “Abbé, we are honored by your presence here. I have heard stories from many of your remarkable valour in opposing heresy.” I kept all irony out of my voice, but William, sensing mischief about to happen, hurriedly intervened. He moved with lithe steps across the space of the circle to edge himself between my person and the abbot.
“And you must also meet Pierre de Castelnau, Princesse, Abbé Amaury’s companion in service to the pope, and the court’s good guest.” He gestured to the ascetic-looking man in the Cistercian monk’s white robes with whom he had been in deep conversation when I entered the hall. This man moved forward and it was with relief that I noted he, at least, had not played a role in my morning vision. Then I looked into his remarkable face and was astonished. The wide eyes of Pierre de Castelnau were deep and dark, and seemed to me glowing with pain. Suddenly I realized how occupied I had been with the person of Arnaud Amaury, with never a thought to his companion. His demeanor was humble as he bowed deeply to me. I gave him my hand without reserve.
“I suggest, Your Majesty, that we move to table now that the Princesse has arrived. I know my companions”—and William gestured to several of the men, including the abbot and the monk Pierre in his sweep—“are as famished as I from our long journey.” He looked expectantly at the king, and Philippe, his chain of thought from the previous conversation now firmly broken, shrugged and nodded. The king offered me his hand, and I placed mine on his in the manner of courtesy. We moved toward the dais.
Francis and Geoffrey had disappeared from my side as I was absorbed into the king’s circle, and I noticed that they had attached themselves to a group of younger courtiers standing near a trestle table, one of whom was the petite woman of the remarkable headdress. My son was in deep conversation with her. The woman, uncommonly beautiful, drew my brother’s attention as well when we passed.
“We regret that the queen is not able to be with us tonight.” The king was speaking to his companions, even as his glance lingered on the young woman. We advanced through the parting crowds to the high table where the plates of silver were already set out. “She would welcome you herself, but a recent illness has left her weak and she begs your forgiveness for her absence.”
“Your Grace,” William responded, “since there is a place set at the high table that the queen will not occupy, perhaps you would indulge me and allow my squire and knight, young Francis of York, to sit with us.” He smiled winningly in my direction. “Princesse Alaïs is quite taken with his manners, they tell me.”
Philippe nodded good-naturedly as we began our ascent of the stone steps. “But of course, if you wish it.”
William scanned the room and located young Francis. I followed his glance and saw that my son had just seated himself next to the young woman in the unusual veil arrangement, and their heads were already bent together. Young Geoff was on the other side of the woman, engaged in intense conversation with yet another lovely maid. It amused me that my brother’s court lacked no opportunity for young love to blossom.
William snapped his fingers and a page appeared, bending to hear the murmured order. The youth, his short cape a streak of burgundy, ran through the tables to where Francis was sitting. A brief exchange brought the young knight swiftly to his feet and he looked up in my direction. Our glances met, or so it seemed to me. Francis reached our party as we mounted the dais, attaching himself to William as if waiting the next instruction. I was touched by his quick response, and wondered, briefly, if it were for me or for William that he came with such alacrity.
“The queen’s presence would have graced us, surely,” Pierre de Castelnau was saying with no trace of irony in his voice, when I returned my attention to our group. “We hope for her improved health.”
The abbot of Cîteaux grunted in agreement. He must be wondering how Pope Innocent’s interference in the king’s marriage could damage their request for his help.
At my brother’s direction, I took the chair to the right of the king, the one usually designated for the queen. Philippe motioned for William to sit next to me, but then the king turned away. William directed Francis to take that seat instead. As always, he knew what to do and how to do it.
The abbot of Cîteaux set himself down heavily on the other side of Francis and William took the place next to his, while Pierre de Castelnau took the last seat in the line, beside William. To my brother’s left side sat his current favorites, the Duc de Brabant and the Count of Champagne, the latter a former enemy with whom a satisfactory peace had recently been concluded. Philippe turned his attention to his nobles with a jest that caused them to laugh uproariously. It appeared that those of us sitting to the right of the king would be left to our own conversational devices. I guessed Philippe desired no casual dinner conversation with his monastic guests prior to tomorrow’s audience.
After the king had seated himself, the others in the crowded hall took their places at the long tables laid out below the royal dais. Cushioned chairs and benches for the nobility were provided at tapestry-covered trestles on the lower level, and farther down the grand hall the lesser knights and their ladies who made up the bulk of the court were seated in slightly more crowded, if still festive, table arrangements. From our perch above it all I saw that they created a colorful panoply of deeply dyed blue and red wool, of silver threads and forest-green capes, of rubies and emeralds occasionally flashing in the light of a thousand torches and candles. The assembled court appeared to be a flock of exotic birds gathered for the king’s royal entertainment.
The jongleurs and minstrels were filing into the hall now, bowing to left and right as they threaded their way among the tables. Conversation fell to a low buzz. When the serving began, there was a pause that allowed Philippe to turn to our side. He seemed puzzled to see the seating arrangement that William had reordered. Little did my brother know why I rejoiced to have the young knight seated next to me.
A small stage was set up for the jongleurs’ performance, near to the main hearth and opposite and slightly below the royal dais. I spied a familiar face at the place of honor nearest that stage.
“Look, Francis, there below in the bright yellow cloak.” The young knight followed my gesture. “That is Gace Brulé, the king’s new favorite trouvère. Lately he has been performing his own songs for the court, and I suspect he will sing this eve.”
“Is that the man from Nanteuil lès Meaux?” He peered over the crowd. “I heard his name, in Toulouse. He is nearly a legend. I am pleased to see him in the flesh.”
I had to smile. “You will be even more delighted when you hear him. I understand the nobles from the south cannot believe we in the north have songs of courtoisie in our own langue d’oïl. They tend to think their troubadours are the only performers of this fine art. You must correct this impression when you travel there with Lord William.”
“Do your trouvères sing their own songs?” Francis was still interested in things aesthetic, I noted with pleasure.
“The maker of the song always sings for the king, if he is present. Philippe expects it as a mark of respect to the crown. Is it not also done in the courts of the south these days?” It had been many years since I had spent summers in Poitiers with my stepmother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. Sometimes I sighed for the gracious life there, especially when the winters in the north grew long.
Francis smiled. “Lord William and I were in Toulouse only for a short time in the autumn. But at the court of Raymond, the troubadours who were not of noble blood performed regularly. I heard myself the plaintive and beautiful poems of Pierre Vidal, ‘le protégé du Comte Raimond soi-même,’ as he titles himself. They were exquisite songs of love.” A look of pleasure crossed my son’s face, as he bent forward to hear the plaintive love lyrics of the sweet-voiced singer.
I thought again of the young woman in the elaborate headdress and, without considering the consequences, I asked Francis: “Who was that young beauty sittin
g next you when William sent for you to join us? The one with the jeweled comb holding the veil, in the southern mode of dress.”
Francis couldn’t hide his sudden discomfort, visible to me in the light of the torches. I instantly regretted my overly direct question. He responded gamely, however.
“She is the sister of the Count of Foix, a small viscounty south of Toulouse.” A smile spread slowly across his serious face. “Her name is Esclarmonde. It means ‘light of the world.’”
I wanted to say I knew the Latin, but forbore to speak, so serious was the youth’s expression.
“She is most interesting,” he continued, absently stroking his chin in an unthinking imitation of William in deep thought. “Not like other maids I have known.”
“How so?” I asked, now carried along by the conversation. I was driven by the prick of envy that defined me as the mother of a son old enough to love other women, and yet I was mildly amused by it withal.
“She talks of important things, not court gossip. She is concerned for the safety of her brother’s land in the south. She is here to beg the king to resist interfering with her family’s rightful heritage.” He paused, his earnest words labored. “She has such intense beliefs. It is unusual in a woman and…”—he paused, glancing my way—“when she speaks with her great passion, her beauty shines forth.”
The young man’s candor and obvious feeling made me suddenly blush to question his private life. To cover my feelings I turned my attention back to the stage below. A simple murmur directing his attention to the revelers ended this portion of our conversation.
The servants had begun to serve the food and conversation had fallen to a low buzz to allow the music of the minstrels to be heard. My attention strayed as a Breton lai was begun, telling a new, albeit short, story of the adventures of King Arthur’s knights. The lute’s plaintive notes fell on the air as I contemplated the profiles of the monks seated near me.
The Rebel Princess Page 7
