The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  “Dear God in heaven,” I thought, recalling the vivacity of the adventuresome young women who left Lavaur with me weeks earlier and shared the danger of my trip to Fontfroide.

  “Princesse, the one who was killed wore your cloak with the insignia of the royal house of France,” the count said gravely. “There is no question that those who attacked thought it was yourself.”

  “Amaury!” William exploded. “How dare he.”

  Yes, I murmured, indeed. But I knew how he dared. The man was possessed by a devil of power and anger. My heart was sore for Grazide, who took my cloak so innocently. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, for I had urged her to take it, though I thought to ensure her safety with it, not her demise.

  “But there is other news, even more grave,” the count was continuing. “There has been an unfortunate incident, William. It will affect all of us. I only heard about it this morning, as we were lodged overnight near Montgiscard. Pierre de Castelnau, the pope’s legate, left Toulouse after a quarrel with Count Raymond two nights past. It was the day of your conference. Pierre swore he would spend not one more night under Raymond’s roof.”

  “I know that,” William said. “He left while I was still at Raymond’s court.”

  “His party crossed the Garonne and camped on the other side. The next morning two horsemen caught up with them and rode in with swords up. They killed Pierre and one of his monks and rode off. No one has been able to identify the killers.”

  “God’s bones.” William spoke in awe. “This will do it. Now the excuse for Amaury to invade the south is overwhelming.”

  “It’s like Thomas à Becket’s murder all over again,” I murmured to myself, recalling all that I had lived through as a child as King Henry’s ward when that tragedy occurred. I noticed no one asked if Raymond had ordered the killing. It mattered not. The charge was all that was necessary to set in motion events that could never be called back. And this time, I knew from my visitation, flames would engulf everyone.

  “Raymond will be accused, of course. No one will believe he did not order this. Every noble in the south is already making ready for war.”

  “I must leave for Paris immediately. Philippe must be told what has happened here.” William was buckling on his sword even as he spoke.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, beginning to rise from my chair, albeit with difficulty.

  “No.” William gently pressed my shoulder and I acquiesced in the movement, for I felt a sharp stab of pain. “Paris is more dangerous for you than the south, at least for the present. We need to clean out that nest of vipers surrounding Philippe, the very ones who mean you harm.” He stood looking down at me, emotions flickering across his face that made me yearn to put my body against his. “Besides, you are in no condition to ride.”

  He read the displeasure on my face, for suddenly his demeanor changed and the arrogance disappeared from his face. “Please, Princesse,” he pleaded in a voice I had not heard before. “I beg of you.” I must have registered surprise, for he gave me a most winning smile, as would a boy who had just won the prize for learning!

  Suddenly an unexpected voice intervened.

  “Princesse Alaïs should stay here, with us,” Philippa said, in a surprisingly commanding voice. “We can protect her. Southern women have many resources, and safe places that are not known to others, not even to our men. And we gather frequently. Even this day, several of the women who were at Lavaur are on their way here. If it seems unsafe, we shall move the princesse to another castle. It’s easily done.”

  This caused her lord and husband to cast a sharp glance her way, as he muttered, “Not known to your men?” William and I exchanged raised eyebrows. But the interlude was momentary, as we all turned our minds back to the very real threats of the present.

  “Will the princesse be safe? She could be taken hostage.” Raymond-Roger frowned as he spoke. William stroked his chin as he listened.

  “There is no problem. Our group of women weavers will congregate here in the next few days. When they leave, we will see that the princesse goes with Geralda, back to Lavaur. There is a small house of women outside of Lavaur. Princesse Alaïs can convalesce there. If danger comes, we can move her again. No one will think to look for her among the daughters and sisters of the petits nobles here in the Toulousain. When she is strong enough to ride, you can come to fetch her.”

  I felt like a ball in a field game as my head moved from one speaker to the next while they discussed my fate, but the plan made sense.

  “Alaïs, will you agree?” William now knew better than to order me. The lessons of our exchange in Paris and its disastrous results for all our family were still fresh.

  “Yes, I agree. It seems a good plan. But what of Francis?” For the first time, all eyes turned to my son, who had been standing within our circle of conversation silently following it.

  “I should go to Béziers, as you ordered a moment ago.” He spoke firmly, but I shook my head in his direction.

  “What need is there for a trip to Béziers?” The count looked alert, ever ready, mayhap, to see conspiracy against his countrymen.

  “We need to have something carried to Beatrice of Béziers. It is a sacred object, and it was the last wish of Pierre de Castelnau that it be delivered to her. But I do not think Francis should take it.”

  William caught my glance. “No,” he said quickly. “Francis must come with me to Paris. He is, after all, still my secretary, even if he is a knight. And I have need of his translation skills.”

  “If something needs to be taken to Béziers, I can do it.” The young, frizzy-haired son of our host spoke up, for the first time. His voice was as strong as his father’s and we all turned to look.

  “This is a relic of a sort. It may be sought by some who know of it, for its value. But if you can ride swiftly, you may outdistance those who would find and take it,” I said.

  “Beatrice of Béziers is our kinswoman and a dear cousin of my wife,” Raymond-Roger said. “Raymond-Guillaume knows all the back roads. He has loyal young men who can ride with him. This relic would reach its goal, I can assure you.”

  “Then it’s done,” William said firmly. “Francis, prepare to depart for Paris within the hour. Alaïs, give the cup to Raymond-Guillaume, please, and he can start now as well. The entire south will become one fortress when the news of Pierre’s death is known. We must move quickly. And now,” he said in his commanding way, “I would like a word with the princesse, alone.”

  The hosts of Foix bowed and withdrew without another word, as did their son and the two servants who had entered with them. Francis came to me and leaned down to kiss my hand, but I drew him to me in a full embrace. “My son,” I whispered, “you are dearer to me than life itself. Safe home to you. We will see each other soon.”

  Esclarmonde had hesitated to leave until Francis had bidden his adieu to me. She stood now, next to the chair, although her hand was on the back as if to steady herself. She was waiting to see what Francis would do.

  He came to her, looked down from his height, and then solemnly offered her his arm on which to lean. She took it and her expression was of such blinding relief that I was assured they would have much to discuss after the doors had closed behind them.

  William raised me from the chair into his arms and held me, gingerly it seemed. “My dearest love, do not worry for Francis. He will be safe with me. And you will be safe with these good women, until you can make the journey back to Paris. I will come for you within a fortnight.”

  “William, are we never to be together in an ordinary time? I have just found you, my love, and now you are gone again.”

  He put a finger under my chin and turned my face up to his. “I only ask this. Do not put your life in danger again. There has been no woman for me but you since I found you again at Canterbury. And, in truth, not since I saw you at Henry’s court all those years ago. And there will be no one for me in the future but you. If anything should happen to you, I know not what
would become of me.”

  I nodded, and was ashamed that tears were coming. “What will happen now?”

  “Now, my love, you will see a vicious war the length and breadth of this land, unless a miracle happens.” He sighed and wearily leaned down to put his forehead against mine. “The fanatics of religion have won. War will come.”

  “And Raymond, our cousin?”

  “Alas, this crime, whether he did it or not, will be the final excuse to excommunicate him. Then they will use that as a bargaining chip to get him into the camp of the army that is sure to come from the north.”

  “And afterward? How will it end?”

  “There is no way it will end happily for the Count of Toulouse.” He held me close for a long time, resting his chin on my head. I could hear his heart beating and feel the warmth of him through our clothes. But we both knew there was no time for lovemaking now.

  Then William picked me up as if I were a feather and brought me gently to the bed.

  “William,” I said, my voice hoarse with my returning fatigue and a leave-taking sorrow that would not be denied. “I pray for the day we will be together.”

  He held me close for a long time.

  “I have to go,” he murmured.

  “You are always going,” I whispered in his ear.

  He pulled away from me and looked at my face. “And you, my dearest love, you are always with me. And I will come back to you soon, no matter what happens.”

  I had no words for this parting, no more to express to him than what I had just said with my body. I closed my eyes. He kissed me once more and I felt him close. Then his hands brushed the length of my body down under the fur, as if that touch could rouse my spirit to trail after him as he departed.

  After the sound of the closing door reached me I recalled the dream and vision I had the day William came to Paris, only a few short weeks earlier.

  And now I saw a new meaning unfold before me. The excommunication in the vision was that of Raymond of Toulouse. Pierre’s murder would be the cause and Amaury would be the hammer, standing at the side of the pontiff, just as he had in my vision. And Francis was in the vision because Amaury had taken him prisoner. But thank the heavens, he was now restored to William and to me.

  Then I pondered the dream of the gryphons.

  My task in the dream at the start of this adventure was to retrieve the gryphons and to put them back into the glass bowl. But the relevance to these events leading up to war still eluded me. Perhaps I was only meant to play this small part, with the aid of Pierre de Castelnau. It was with my help that the St. John Cup would be returned to those who would value its spiritual meaning, not its jewels or its bargaining power. If that was the purpose, I had played my part well. If there were a larger task assigned to me, it would be revealed.

  My body, though sore, was warm and safe under the fur. There was a sense of William being with me still and that feeling stayed with me as I slipped into new dreams.

  Afterword

  THE ROMANCE

  These stories of Princesse Alaïs of France, of the house of Capet, are set at the beginning of the thirteenth century. They could be called of the genre of romance, not the romance of bodice ripper fame (so-called for the partially disrobed, sexy females in costume on the covers), but the true romance stories of which the grail series, begun by Chrétien de Troyes at this very time, was the initial and still greatest model.

  The characteristics of the romance are several: stories of faraway people and events (the original Arthurian legends, written in the twelfth century, were about the exploits of fifth-century knights), stories concerning mystery, heroes, quests, adventures, passion, and sometimes even death.

  The modern detective story has many of the elements of the romance about it. A hero, a quest, a death, perhaps a love interest. While some may call it escapist literature, it satisfies a need we have for reaching out into another life, another time, and a story beyond ourselves.

  These stories of Alaïs Capet are such tales of adventure, mystery, and love.

  THE HISTORY

  Many of the characters and events in this story are real. Others are fictional. Part of the challenge of writing historical fiction is to decide how true one ought to remain to the actual history while weaving a fictional story through it.

  The chapter of the Albigensian Crusade (sometimes called the Cathar Crusade) is one of the most bloody and vicious of European history. The wars wiped out an entire culture in the south of what is now France. It changed the map of Europe forever. And it was the first crusade proclaimed by the Christian church against its own members. This book is a story set against the run-up to this war.

  On the side of history, I have telescoped a number of events that actually extended over three or four years. Pope Innocent III sent to Philippe of France three times to beg him to intervene in the south. The king refused each time, although later his son, Louis, led the second crusade against the south.

  Arnaud Amaury’s portrait in history is close to what I have described in this novel. While I have invented his words, his actions are recorded and speak for themselves. There was indeed a circle of women in the south at this time who were the mainstay of the initial Cathar movement. Many of their names survive, and I have woven them as characters in the tapestry of this novel. As for Pierre of Castelnau, he did exist and was Amaury’s co-legate. There also lived a Beatrice of Béziers who was rumored to be an early Cathar, but there is no evidence, and it is unlikely that she and Pierre were at all related. Finally, it was indeed the murder of Pierre de Castelnau in January 1208 on the banks of the Garonne that set off the bloodletting in the south.

  Constance of Toulouse was married to Count Raymond V and had a bad time of it. Her son was Raymond VI and he was, in fact, excommunicated as the story relates. Joanna, favorite sister of Richard Lion-Hearted was married to the Count of Toulouse and she did leave her husband to go north to Eleanor when she was ready to give birth and died there. However, in historical real time it was actually in 1199 that this occurred. Charlotte of Fontevraud is entirely a figment of my imagination. It pleased me to make her royal and an abbess. Fontevraud Abbey has an interesting history of its own. It was founded by a man, Robert d’Abrissol, more than a century earlier. The abbey had religious houses for men and women, as well as a hospital and poorhouse. It was the first abbey in Europe to have a woman abbess rule over men.

  Hervé de Donzy, Count of Nevers, and Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, were among the first knights to go to the south to fight a few years after my story, with Philippe Auguste’s acquiescence, but not his support. They went in search of land and fortune.

  Alaïs, sometimes called Alix in the genealogies, was a real person and the story recounted in the first book of her adventures, The Canterbury Papers, was based on the chronicles of the time, which hinted at her alleged affair with King Henry II of England, and the child that was supposed to have been born to them both. That son, Francis, figures in this story. There is no record, however, of his survival in real history, nor of Alaïs’s intervention in the “matter of the south” as I have related here. Still, it makes a good story.

  THE CATHAR CRUSADE

  The Albigensian Crusade of the early thirteenth century was one of the bloodiest in history. It also gave rise to what has become known as “the Inquisition,” not one of Christianity’s finest hours (or centuries). Saint Dominic rose to prominence at this time; it was his idea to institute the “inquisition” to determine heresy, and to root out the enemies of God. The Inquisition later came to be associated especially with the persecution of the Jews and Moors in Spain. Indeed, some histories have it that it was Dominic’s accidental meeting with Pierre de Castelnau and Arnaud Amaury outside of Marseille, while traveling with his bishop from Spain, that caused the papal legates to revise their strategy to win back the south for Rome.

  The Cathars (a term generally thought to be from the Greek, “to purify”) did have the practices outlined in this novel. They als
o had a special devotion to Saint John the Evangelist. While many scholars consider them dualists theologically, I am indebted to Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, famous French scholar and former director of the Bibliotheque Nationale, who spent some pleasant hours with me explaining patiently that the new scholarship (since 1950) indicates that the Cathars were more Christian than Manichean, and were the first of a long line of “reformers,” forerunners of Martin Luther and John Calvin. They were purifiers (hence their name) intending to return the Roman church to its original state of grace, found in the early Christian period.

  The Cathars had their own brand of nuttiness, but they were, overall, treated brutally not only by Rome but by the knights of northern France. The gracious culture of the people of the langue d’oc disappeared under the sword of Abbot Amaury and his followers.

  For those interested in Cathar history of this period, I recommend Jonathon Sumption’s The Albigensian Crusade, Malcolm Barber’s The Cathars, and the best popular history which talks about all the women, Stephen O’Shea’s The Perfect Heresy. For those who want to delve deeper, I found Henry Lea’s nineteenth-century work The Inquisition of the Middle Ages very useful, and also Sir Stephen Runciman’s The Medieval Manichee, which has a good theological background.

  The Cathars were a movement among the nobility when it became prominent enough to attract the attention of Rome in the early thirteenth century. A hundred years later, after many wars and much bloodshed, the only credentes who remained were in the hill country and villages. For a look at Catharism in its waning years, readers might like to read Montaillou, by Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, The Yellow Crosses by Rene Weiss, and the great other classic, Montségur, by Zoe Oldendorf.

  Finally for popular history, and sheer fun (think The da Vinci Code) take a look at Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Henry Leigh et al., and a more serious work, Coming to Our Senses by Morris Berman. On page 303, the Princesse tells the abbots an old Arabic fable. This is an adaptation of a fable given in one of Dorothy Dunnett’s marvelous stories in her historical series, The Lymond Chronicles.