The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  I had never come close to making a threat to William before. He looked into my eyes, for now it was I facing the moonshafts. He took my face between his hands, searching as if to discover some secret there, but he did not kiss me again Then, abruptly, he turned and left my chambers.

  .7.

  The King’s Presence Chambers

  The next morning dawned gray and foggy, not a good omen for the tourney to be held that afternoon. But before the entertainment, we were all required to suffer one of those interminable public audiences that royal life demanded. This one would decide the fate of the monks’ mission to obtain men and arms to fight the nobles of the south.

  I had been warned not to be late, so I presented myself in a timely fashion in the awe-inspiring presence chamber of the king of France.

  The liveliness and pageantry of the royal receptions were always appealing, but even more so in the declining days of October, when days were often clouded with mist and rain. And this gathering would not disappoint. The woad blues and madder reds mixed with weld yellows in the festive gowns and capes worn by the courtiers. In one end of the room, the jugglers Philippe found so entertaining were informally tossing balls and standing on their hands, drawing amused onlookers from the small groups crowding into the room.

  Philippe, whatever his personal inclination for privacy, was a master of the public ceremony. His royal guard were lined in rows against the tapestries hanging on both sides of the chamber for warmth. They stood stiffly at attention, and although they were not in chain mail (Philippe was more subtle than that), the Capet emblem was prominently displayed on their tunics. I noted that swords, usually not worn in the royal receiving rooms, were visible in their scabbards. Their presence constituted a fine point of implied power that would not be missed by the papal legates.

  I saw Francis against the far wall, in animated conversation with three other young knights. Young Geoffrey looked up just at that moment and, recognizing me, gave a generous smile which I returned in kind. William came to my side immediately, to escort me to the front of the chamber.

  I moved toward the king’s dais, nodding to the courtiers as I went. It cost me nothing to be pleasant, even though I knew they gossiped about me at every turn. Still, I was pleased to be on William’s arm, as he always created a great stir. As Princesse Royale I stood apart from the others, near the platform that bore the king’s throne. I felt no lack of comfort in my solitary status. The court allowed me solitude, whether from fear of my sharp tongue or because of my closeness to the king, or perhaps out of the old superstition that I was a witch because of my withered hand. I would not be drawn into conversation if I did not signal my desire for it, and today, tired as I was, the respite was welcome. William had left me after a low bow and a murmur of, “We’ll have time alone later, ma chouette,” that (I was thankful) could not be overheard. He joined the two monks as they were standing near the throne, preparing to present their credentials and their suit for men and arms to take to the south.

  Philippe’s vassals and knights stood clustered in groups about the large hall, each in splendid and colorful array of dress, each surrounded by his own men and, in some cases, women as well. Brightly colored pennants with various family emblems were standing in the center of each small group like so many plumed birds, held by pages dressed in their patron’s colors. After the formal part of the program, various groups would mingle. But for now, it was clear the court was organized for a display of power.

  The vast room sparkled, in contrast to the gray October day outside. All the torches were lit, and the huge rings of candles hanging by chains on wooden tiers from the ceiling beams created dancing light. The woven Damascus carpets that Philippe had brought back from the Crusades ran the room from one end to the other, masking the sound of our steps, and muting the rising buzz of talk among the courtiers. The tapestries on the walls, with their fine scenes of the nobility’s hunting and domestic activities, softened noise even while they colored the scene.

  The women without men were there, also, the wives of the nobles and knights gone to war against King John, fighting even now somewhere in the west. Widows of nobles long dead formed a small group of their own, no less formidable for the lack of men, as all who were not still in black were arrayed in the jewels and richly colored velvets of their station.

  Also present were the priests of the court, and some from the city of Paris, in their clerk’s robes. A large group of monks from Cluny were gathered, identifiable by their black Benedictine robes, the tall abbot in their midst marked only by the heavy jeweled cross hanging from the large gold chain around his neck. The abbot of St. Denis in his full, gold-thread-trimmed, purple regalia holding his crozier was talking with the newly appointed bishop of Paris, vying for glitter award with his own glistening trim.

  I was amazed that Philippe could put together such a vast assembly to impress our guests on short notice. But then I had the thought: Their visit must have been timed to be this day, the day of the last tourney before the winter set in. No doubt Philippe had given William private orders as to the very day when he should arrive with his companions, so as to impress the papal legates with the full spectacle of his court.

  Close to the dais on which Philippe’s throne was set, but on the opposite side from where I stood, a cluster of five men had positioned themselves apart from the others. These men were the members of the king’s privy council, his closest advisers. They wore longer robes, not the tunics and hose of the knights, and most were clean shaven, in contrast to the short-bearded style of most Frankish knights. While their robes were of the finest wool, the colors were severe and formal, ranging from forest green to deep burgundy.

  The short, muscular figure at their center, however, was robed to be noticed. He wore deep crimson rimmed in silver, as if to deliberately set himself off from his more sober colleagues. It was the ubiquitous Etienne Chastellain, surveying the room with a sardonic expression on his face. As I recalled how easily he had identified Francis the night before, and how quickly he managed to let me know, my heart chilled. My own gaze went momentarily back to my son, who had now been joined by William and several other knights. I returned my attention to the chief minister.

  Chastellain looked formidable this morning in his opulent robes, the brilliant red silk sash of his office crossing his broad chest. That, and his commanding look as he scanned the room, set him apart from the crowd of ministers.

  Etienne Chastellain, chief minister to the king and his known confidant. The court called him “the wizard” behind his back because, it was said, he could make people disappear. I think he knew this name and was pleased with the notoriety. When he saw me he nodded slowly, as if somehow we shared something. Not quite a bow, I thought, but more than a passing glance. I forced a slight nod in return, while I pondered the king’s rising lack of trust in this counselor. Then I turned my attention again to the assembly.

  And, mirabile visu, not twenty paces away stood my uncle Robert, Duke of Orleans, marked by his height and the way he carried himself. I knew him even before he turned around to look at me, and gave me his most dazzling smile. The grand master of the Knights Templar in France, my uncle rarely came to court unless summoned by Philippe. He cared little for my brother’s current counselors, and today he stood apart from them, but equally near the throne. He was surrounded by his men, who provided a great contrast to the pale-faced ministers. Duke Robert’s men, hardened by travel, had faces bronzed by the sun. They were boisterously regaling one another with tales that generated shouts of laughter that made even me smile.

  As my gaze swept across the room’s tableau I spied my aunt Constance, standing with a group of women off to the side opposite me. I was astonished to see her wearing a magnificent green and gold silk headdress. It was quite tall and held up with jeweled combs, according to the southern style that had crept into Toulouse from Navarre. The Paris ladies, with their hair bound and covered by uninspired veils held in place with golden circlets, h
ad no match for it. Her dress, too, appeared nothing like her ordinary modest apparel, being made of a rich green wool trimmed in matching velvet at the neck and lining the long, pointed sleeves. What was the occasion that prompted her to cast off her usual drab garments?

  As I watched my aunt, I recalled the strange look on her face the previous Sunday, at St. Denis, when the chalice had been raised, and I wondered again at the source of her interest. Suddenly someone standing in front of her moved slightly to the side, and I had a better view.

  Even though her eyes were downcast, I could see her wizened face folded into an expression of pain and boredom. She tapped her closed fan against her hand as if waiting for it all to end. She had grown stout and was unhappy and her finery could not make up for all of that.

  The women about her were mostly her own retainers, brought with her when she returned to the court of Paris, and their dark, southern faces were somewhat familiar. But when Constance leaned forward at that moment to murmur something to a companion, her fan opened to keep the words close between them, I saw the beautiful young woman who seemed to hold appeal for Francis the previous evening.

  This young woman appeared even more attractive in the light of day. She wore no distinctive headdress now, indeed no headdress at all. Her hair, piled on her head in the fashion of the Occitan, was laced with jewels. So also sparkling stones decorated the points of the fan she carried so that when it opened they caught the reflected light of the hanging candles. Her vibrant clothes and jewels identified her as nobility, her style of dress as a stranger in this northern court, her dark skin as a woman of the south.

  Then I saw my son, Francis, detach himself from a group of young knights and move toward the bevy of women who surrounded my aunt Constance. I was puzzled by this, for I did not know that Francis and my aunt were acquainted. But the object of his real attentions soon became clear. He gave the countess a perfunctory bow, kissed her ring, and quickly proceeded to turn his charm in the direction of the little beauty by her side.

  “Your Grace, I was asked to deliver this message to you.” My thoughts were interrupted before I had time to enjoy again the slight mother’s jealousy that had pricked me the evening before. One of my brother’s personal servants, tall, slender, and composed, stood before me. I nodded my thanks as I took the note in my right hand but before I could inquire from whence it came he melted off into the crowd.

  I saw my brother nearing, as he slowly made his way down a center aisle marked by the royal carpet. He was bowing to this and that knight or group, and his progress was slow, but I had only a moment to decide whether to examine the message I had been given before I need speak to him. My curiosity overcame me.

  I worked the wax seal open as quickly as I could with my good hand and glanced down to see a single line scrawled. While I could not be certain, it appeared to be the same spidery hand that penned the note that had so upset my brother at our recent conference. I read the short phrase with astonishment:

  If you would understand the mysteries of this court,

  follow the golden thread to the south.

  I stuffed the note into the pocket on the left side of my gown (always awkward to cross the right hand over and find the opening), and slipped my withered hand back into the space as well, further crushing the parchment.

  The king was now mounting the dais to assume his throne. I tried to look unconcerned, despite the flush I knew suffused my face. In the name of the Virgin’s mantle! What was the meaning of these bizarre warnings and who was behind them?

  The queen’s throne, next to the king’s but on a slightly lower level, was empty. The court had grown used to seeing it so, since Ingeborg had not once taken the chair since her return. This was her way to show her displeasure with Philippe, and no doubt the whole of France. Still, the kingdom churned onward, doing its business despite her absence. And so it was this day.

  I was just musing that Philippe and Ingeborg were in accord on at least one item, her regular absence from his court, when I saw the king turn and beckon to me, clearly meaning me to mount the royal dais after him. Puzzled, I advanced slowly. I had no desire to be singled out, but the royal gesture could not be ignored. Conversation slowed as the court shifted its attention to me.

  I made a low ceremonial courtesy before the king. He then reached down to take my right hand, and guided me to the throne at his side. A quiet descended over the murmuring court from the front to the back, like a cloud, as courtiers strained to see what was occurring. Philippe carelessly dropped into his own, larger throne, resting his elbow on the arm and his chin on his hand, as was his wont, his right foot thrust casually out in front as he spoke to the court in his strong voice.

  “As you see, the queen is unable to attend our court. I have asked my sister, Princesse Alaïs, who is renowned for her—uh—wisdom to aid me in considering the requests that are presented here today.”

  No one could have been more surprised than I at that moment. Although the king had often sought my advice over the years, such meetings were always in private. I suspected that he feared my withered left hand might cast a shadow over my counsel, even that he might be accused of consulting a witch. Why he should choose now, and the occasion of the visit of these bothersome monks, to indicate that he listened to me was not clear. I assumed an expression of benign indifference as I sank into the chair of the absent queen, hiding my sense of excitement. Chance had given me the opportunity to aid Joanna in a way I had not anticipated.

  The herald announced the petitions that would be heard, and the formal audience began. Chastellain and his coterie stood off to the side, watching. An air of expectation had settled over the room.

  At first there was much droning, beginning with formal introductions of the dignitaries made by the court herald. Then Amaury and William each presented a scroll of credentials. Chastellain stepped forward and took these, as the king’s chief minister. There was more bowing on both sides through this part. Chastellain then brought these scrolls to Philippe, who merely glanced at them and waved them away.

  William, tall and regal-looking in his black tunic with his short cloak of matching wool and fox tossed carelessly across one shoulder, nodded to Amaury to begin. A wise stratagem, I thought, since it would give William the final word of the audience.

  The court herald called in a loud voice: “The papal legates Pierre de Castelnau and Arnaud Amaury, abbé of Cîteaux, request permission to address the king of France.”

  “I understand you have letters from the pontiff in Rome with a request for me,” Philippe said. “You have permission to speak.”

  The two monks moved forward, with Amaury a few steps ahead of his comrade.

  “Your Majesty.” Amaury’s bow was low, but then his voice lifted for all to hear. That sonorous churchman’s voice again. Observing him from the side as I did, I could see his jowls quivering, but whether from fear or passion I could not tell. Certes, he did not seem to be a man who would be possessed by fear, even in front of the king of France.

  “We carry a request from the pontiff to aid him in correcting the grave situation in the south. You have already heard from us how the Cathar heresy is spreading. Christianity itself is in peril. The pope asks, nay insists, that you commit men and money to stop the spread of this plague.” Amaury stopped and ran his tongue over his lips. A few courtiers took the opportunity to cough.

  “Our holy father says events are even more ominous than when he wrote you last year. He both begs and commands your material support to put this disease to rest.” Here the abbot paused again, as if gathering strength.

  Then he resumed in a voice that echoed in the rafters of the hall: “He asks that you lead an army alongside us to the south, to threaten the Cathars and their protectors with extermination if they do not give up their heretical beliefs and practices.” Amaury stepped back, extending his hand to his companion, yielding the attention to him. “And so says my brother in Christ, Pierre de Castelnau.”

  Pierre d
e Castelnau had no choice but to move forward and speak as well. His words, however, were delivered in lower tones calculated to be heard only by the king and those standing closest to him. When he spoke, his comments were surprisingly restrained.

  “Your Grace, we beg you to consider our request. Use your best judgment as to the worthiness of our cause. We stand for honor and for the best interpretation of the gospels of Christ Jesus our Lord.”

  The monk of Castelnau then stepped back beside his partner, who cast a quick, fierce look in his direction, obviously displeased with his colleague’s vague and passionless statement. Both men bowed again to the king, as court protocol demanded.

  Phlippe nodded brusquely to the two monks and then motioned them aside. He gestured to William, who had remained standing respectfully at a distance.

  “Lord William, we will hear you now.” The king sat forward, his hands firmly placed on the arms of his throne, indicating to all that his full attention was given.

  A slight whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves, ran through the room when the herald called out, “Lord William of Caen, grand master of the Knights Templar of England.” The whisper gradually turned into an audible buzz. While many courtiers knew of William’s visits to the court, or had seen him in the company of the king, few except the king’s counselors knew he was grand master of the Knights Templar in England. Still fewer knew he was also a lord in his own right, with lands in England granted by King Henry when he was still living. Yet no one but I knew that the lands were a reward to William for keeping my son Francis safe for all the years of his youth, years when I thought the boy had died.

  William did not often promote his title, but he was not above using it when needed to add to his diplomatic weight. Clever William. Clever Philippe. I had an utter certainty that Philippe already knew what William was about to say. It seemed as though I were watching a carefully scripted morality play.