The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  “Joanna, I have made my decision.” I turned to my friend, who had been silent, and who now watched me with apprehension. “I am going to Fontfroide Abbey.”

  If I had said I was going to Jerusalem Joanna could not have looked more surprised.

  “Alaïs, you cannot go to Fontfroide. It is four more days of traveling and you and your knights have scarce rested!” she exclaimed.

  “True, but I will go. There is a reason Amaury left Paris. I cannot help but think it is tied to Francis’s disappearance, and the only way I can discover the connection is to go to Fontfroide and confront Amaury.”

  “Princesse?” The Lady Blanche was looking at me, her expression a mélange of curiosity and concern. “I thought you said you had a message for Lord William. What, in truth, has drawn you to the south?”

  “My search for this young knight, Francis,” I said simply. “I fear for his safety. That concern is more important than finding the Lord William, at least for the present.”

  “This young man. He is very special to you, is he not?” Blanche looked at me keenly.

  “More than I can say,” I replied softly. “And more than that I cannot say.”

  There was a pause, for the space of a heartbeat. Then Blanche spoke again.

  “But to go to Fontfroide, with only four knights, if the abbot means you or this young knight harm…” Blanche had risen to emphasize her words. “This action would put you in danger and do nothing to help the young knight.”

  “I am not afraid,” I retorted. “Please ring for someone to alert my men.”

  “Your courage is not in question, madame,” Blanche said quietly. I turned to look at her, rather astonished that she would speak so to a princesse of France. “Perhaps there is another way.”

  Instead of reprimanding her, which had been my first impulse, I waited to see what else she would say. For I knew she spoke the truth.

  “Why not go in disguise?” Geralda spoke over her shoulder, as she pushed the embers on the hearth into new life. “That way, you can discover what you need to know without putting your own life in danger.”

  “Yes, what a good idea.” Philippa clapped her hands. “We could go as pilgrims, perhaps as women from a religious house. They would have to take us in. We could say we were on our way to Santiago de Compostela.”

  “That is quite the other direction from here.” The practical Geralda stood up, brushing her hands together to rid them of the soot from the fire iron.

  “But the abbey monks won’t know from whence we came,” the woman who had been introduced to me the previous night as Grazide of Montauban murmured without looking up from her needlework. I turned to look at her, a pale-faced retiring young woman who sat on the edge of the circle. Those were the first words she had spoken since I had arrived. “That’s the point of a disguise. You can be anyone.”

  I was thunderstruck. What a wonderful idea. I would never have thought of it. I made a silent pledge to myself to rein in my impatience in the future, and search instead for the most creative plan.

  “Hold a moment,” said the ever-thoughtful Blanche. “Philippa, you cannot go. The Count of Foix would have my head if I allowed that. You know this is not a journey for those of us with graying hair.”

  Philippa frowned, but I could see common sense overcoming her original enthusiasm.

  “But I could go. I have no husband, nor children,” Grazide said.

  “And I too,” Fabrisse of Saissac said. “My father need never know. He thinks I am staying here at Lavaur until he comes to fetch me at Christmastide.”

  “And I could go as well,” Gaillarde echoed.

  “Wait.” Geralda held up her hands. “We must think this through. Gaillarde, your father has entrusted you to me until the spring, when he returns from his own pilgrimage. I cannot allow you to go on this journey. You are too young by far.”

  The younger woman’s face fell. “But you may stay here with my mother Blanche and help her manage my château until I return.”

  Gaillarde’s thin, pale face lit up. “Will I really help manage the household? Will I learn what that is like so that I can surprise my father when he returns?”

  I had to smile myself at her eagerness, and how easily she was turned from one plan to another, a habit of the young.

  “I fear this will mean danger, and I would not put you all at risk.” I felt I must say this. “I think I should make the journey alone.”

  “Nonsense,” Geralda said. “It has already been decided. You and I, Grazide and Fabrisse will go. We will help you as sisters would.” She turned eagerly to her servant. “Guillamette, hurry and find some bolts of black muslin for us. I think we have some in the loft, bought from traveling merchants last Christmastide. I had meant to send it to the monastery at Moissac, but now we can put it to better use.”

  “We cannot take my knights. If Amaury is yet at Fontfroide when we arrive, he would recognize Roland and Tom for certain.” I began to pace. Her excitement was contagious. “So we must leave before dawn tomorrow alone. I will tell my knights that we plan to stay one more day, in order that I may rest. They will think we are moving on to Toulouse.”

  “But when they discover you have left, they will come after you, I fear,” Philippa said. “They can ride faster and would overtake you with only a day’s advantage.”

  “That’s easily prevented. Blanche can tell them that Geralda has been called away by her brother in Montréal, and that I have fallen ill with a fever again. I was recently ill in Poitiers, and they will find that believable for at least two or three days. Then they would have a more difficult time to catch up, even if they knew which direction we had headed.”

  “But what will they do when they discover you have gone?” Gaillarde was no doubt seeing that managing the château might be more challenging than she had thought, with angry knights crashing about the place.

  “I will leave them a note, telling them to join William in Toulouse, and that I will soon be with them.” I grinned. “What can they do at that point but obey?” William will be furious, I thought, but it would be just deserts for him. He should have taken me with him when he left Paris, as I had demanded.

  “And we have the day to stitch the simple garments we need. The black of the Benedictines, and their white wimples, will hide our identity even as we leave this castle.” The young Fabrisse was becoming excited as well. A bold spirit seemed to fill the room, even as the sun invaded through the windows.

  “I wish you well on your search, Your Grace,” Guillabert said, rising and bowing. “We also must be going, as we may not stay in any one place too long.”

  “Will you bless us before you go, Brothers?” Blanche asked, with great dignity.

  “But of course,” Benedict said. “Since time is short, we will read from the gospel of our beloved Saint John. That will suffice for this time. We will be back within the month, and hope that you will have returned by that time.”

  “Can you not stay one more day?” I asked suddenly. “I feel my friends have been cheated of your visit because of my interruption.”

  “No, Princesse, do not think it. We must always be on the move. It is dangerous to stay more than one night in any place.” Guillabert looked at me with great kindness. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and I felt more than saw that his black eyes mirrored eternity. “Your coming to this place has meant a great deal to these women, and friendship is one of the greatest blessings we can have.”

  Then he seemed to come to himself and quickly removed his hand from my shoulder, bowing as he did so. “I pray your mission will be successful, Princesse,” he said.

  I placed my own hand on his arm, to reassure him I had taken no offense at his familiarity. “And yours, also, my Brother.”

  And so this amazing scene concluded with all of us seated in a semicircle while Guillabert, standing before us, read the gospel of St. John in his deep baritone, accompanied by the birds twittering outside the open windows. All the while the deep autumn
sunshine washed over us. And I listened as I had never listened to the words, opening my heart to the meanings behind them, as I thought about the rescue of my son:

  In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God…And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.

  .19.

  A Pilgrim Hostel Near Verdun

  Our leave-taking the following morning, well before the November sun had peered over the horizon, had all the character of a furtive, criminal act. Although I could scarce sleep for the excitement of taking action to find my son, I also felt compunction at deceiving my knights, and something else, a vague sense of lurking danger. It was not for myself that I feared, but for Geralda and the young women who would accompany me.

  And there was one niggling thought that I did my best to keep at bay, but it persisted in rising to the fore: What would William say to all this when next we met?

  But then I thought of Amaury, how nonchalant he was after young Geoffrey was killed in the tournament, and his small, glittering eyes the last night as he challenged me to show him my gift if I dared. I thought of his veiled threat against Francis and my growing certainty that he had abducted my son and I stiffened my resolve.

  Joanna bit her lip and hugged me, and Blanche and Philippa cried, and even the aged Ermengarde, who had risen from her sleep to send us off on our great adventure, sniffled. I was pained to part from Joanna, feeling that I had just found her again. But she was bound for Fontevraud Abbey and a reunion with her mother, Queen Eleanor, and in no condition to join our adventure, though she desired it. I bade her farewell with a sad heart, knowing we might never meet again.

  Our little troupe looked like a flock of ravens in our Benedictine black, our heads wound tightly in white wimples that had been cobbled together from the cloth of the serving girls’ aprons. Our cloaks were black as well, and our horses were soberly covered in the darkest and most ragged blankets they could find in the stables, so that we would appear as the poor pilgrims we pretended to be.

  Our story was that we had joined the crowd at the theological debates in Narbonne before continuing on our pilgrimage. We would say that the horses we rode had been loaned to us by the Trencavel viscount in Béziers, so that we would pray and offer reparations for any misdeeds he had committed or might commit in the future. This last seemed particularly odd to me, but Blanche reassured me that it was quite a common prayer for the nobles of the south. They were a turbulent group, apparently, and wanted to achieve heaven without the necessity of changing their improvident actions here on earth.

  Our plan was to approach Fontfroide and ask for hospitality, saying that the ride had tired us. We even decided to offer to work in the abbey in exchange for our bread and a roof over our heads. That was Geralda’s idea, as it would provide an excuse to roam the abbey grounds, listening for any clues to the fate of Francis.

  We led our horses down the hill from the château at Lavaur until we were well out of earshot and then all of us mounted and cantered onward.

  The trip was less arduous than I had thought it would be. The Knights Templar, who for the past one hundred years had encouraged pilgrims to journey to the Holy Land, also provided hostels for pilgrims who were bound for the sacred shrine of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, in the northwesternmost part of Hispania.

  We took the less-traveled roads, and passed by the towns of Montgey, St. Felix, and then east to Verdun. After that we dropped down to travel along the Aude River and came to the town of Alaric. We looked for Templar hostels and stayed in them when we could. Our story for these good monks was that we were on a journey to the Holy Land, for we were making our way east at this time.

  But on the third night that we sought hospitality, I was heartily surprised. We were lodged in a hostel near Verdun, a group of wooden and stone buildings that had once been a small monastery. It had a large room at the center of two wings, sufficient to serve dinner to the pilgrims who were gathered that night. We were always offered a hot meal of some kind, before the hospitaler showed us to the dormitories that were designated separately for men and women. I knew the sleeping would be cold as the night deepened, so I resolved to savor the heat of the refectory fireplace.

  As we sat demurely at the wooden trestle tables, without cloths, eating stew from ordinary trenchers like peasants, and listening to the reading of the holy epistles, a monk approached our table. I watched him advance with purpose, but his hood prevented sight of his face. There were thirty or more of us at that evening meal. The monk who sought me out surprised me, and I started when he called me by name.

  “Princesse Alaïs.” Though he spoke my name softly and close to my ear, I uttered a small cry of surprise.

  “Sweet Jesus’ crown of thorns,” I said under my breath. “What are you doing here, Pierre of Castelnau?”

  “Do not say more. I must talk with you, but not here where we may be seen. I will leave this room now. In a moment, rise and follow me. There is an alcove outside in the cloister walk where I am certain we will not be disturbed. Turn left when you have come through the door.”

  I had never before taken an order from a monk, but what he recommended seemed a good plan if we were to talk. Once I recovered from my surprise at seeing him, I was ravenous with curiosity to discover what he, a papal legate, was doing in a Templar’s pilgrim hostel.

  I leaned over to Geralda, who had become my good companion and who, I had discovered, had a remarkable sense of humor, and murmured to her: “I have been identified by a monk of my acquaintance. I must speak with him and ensure that we remain anonymous.”

  Geralda nodded, rightly assessing that we should have a minimum of whispering while the holy lecture was read. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves. But I could not resist one more comment.

  “Please bring an extra cake for me, if any is offered at the end of the meal.”

  She cast me the look I deserved for that, and returned her attention to the reader, and the epistle to the Corinthians, leaving me to slip off the edge of the bench and drift toward the door Pierre of Castelnau had indicated.

  “Princesse Alaïs.” The familiar voice came from the shadows just outside the door.

  “Pierre de Castelnau,” I said, “what are you doing here? Why are you staying at a simple pilgrim’s hostel when you are a papal legate?”

  “And I might ask the same question of a princesse of France,” he replied, chuckling softly. “And why in a nun’s habit?”

  It was an unexpected flash of lightness and I replied: “Well said. It seems we are both traveling in disguise. Shall we each leave the explanations for another day?”

  “Yes, we have more important things to discuss,” he said, now serious of tone. “It is a stroke of luck to find you here. I have been anxious to talk with you ever since we parted in Paris.”

  “Whither are you bound?”

  “I go now to Toulouse. I have just come from the religious debates in Narbonne. I prefer to travel alone in these uncertain days. I attract less attention that way.” I heard a note of fear in his voice. “Amaury likes to tout the fact that he represents the pope, and he travels with a retinue that could storm Jerusalem, but I have other inclinations.”

  “Tempers seem to run high over religion in this region,” I said, in some sympathy with the papal legate’s position. “By the by,” I said, attempting to sound offhand, “where is your colleague, Abbé Amaury, now?”

  “He has decided to visit the monastery of Fontfroide where he was formerly abbot. I encouraged him to come to Toulouse with me, but he was adamant. He seemed to have some business at the monastery that he did not want to discuss with me.”

  The blood surged to my cheeks, and I was glad for the shadows that hid my color. So I had made the right decision. If Amaury would not even tell his fellow legate why he must go to Fontfroide, his purpose must be sinister indeed. Perhaps something very like concealing an abduction.

  “We are to have a high co
nference in Toulouse.” Pierre’s words continued to fill the silence created by my interior reflections. “I have instructions to confront Count Raymond and receive assurances from him that he will purge the heretics from his lands.”

  “And the Lord William?” I asked, wondering irritably just how much time William had spent in the south searching for my son and how much attending to the business of the pope and the king of France. “Is he to be present at this important meeting?”

  “He is to be our moderator, assigned by the Holy Father as an informal diplomat. I hope he can aid me to make Raymond see reason.” The shadows around us wavered, as the door opened again and torchlight and breeze flooded our area. But the pilgrim who emerged paid no heed to our dark corner as he made his way along the corridor to the large room with pallets for sleeping.

  “Père Pierre, surely you did not summon me from the refectory to discuss politics?” I was growing wary, and felt I should return to my companions. Above all, I did not want to be noticed. “Neither you nor I want to draw attention to ourselves. We must not appear to be conspiring in this place of hospitality.”

  “I was glad to see you tonight.” He stepped closer to me, and I caught an odor, not unpleasant, like that of mixed, dried herbs. I wondered if I was imagining an odor of sanctity. “I had wanted to see you before I left Paris, but Amaury insisted on an abrupt departure. I wanted to tell you more of the politics of our mission. Amaury’s actions are, in part, caused by his desire, nay, his obsession with success in bringing Count Raymond to heel. This imminent meeting will be the summit of his efforts.”