Canterbury Papers (11 page)

She even took up the story. “Eventually the dreadful man died. The count's son from a previous marriage took over his father's
château
and, it was said, the mistress and tower as well. I was sent back to Paris posthaste and with little ceremony, like a rejected package.”

“Charlotte returned to Paris a stronger woman than she had left,” I stated. “She announced to her father that if his plans for her included another marriage, she wanted none of it. When he tried to arrange other marriage contracts for her and brought forth suitors, she produced prodigious tantrums, screamed and tore her hair, and so frightened the nobles, old and young, that they all fled. After a time the word in France and Normandy, and as far down as Gascony, was to avoid overtures from King Louis about marriage with his daughter—at all costs.”

“Oh, no, surely not as far as Gascony,” she murmured, easing her plate away from her.

“Finally, in desperation,” I continued, “my grandfather endowed the abbey at Fontrevault with enough money to buy the seat of the abbess. He told Charlotte to go there and run it, and not to come to court again unless he summoned her.”

At that the abbess laughed out loud, a hearty sound for such a refined woman.

“Is this true?” The prior raised his fork in question to our companion.

“Close enough,” she admitted. “I would have embroidered the story somewhat. It sounds dull in the telling.”

“I am astonished,” William said, looking not at all astonished. “It was clearly the Paris court's loss, Abbess,” he said, signaling for the servants. “I will show proper respect from this point. Such a forceful will should inspire only awe.”

“Speaking of forceful wills,” I interjected, “I understand there is trouble here in England with King John's use of coercion against the abbeys.”

A swift look passed between my companions. It was William who answered. “What sort of trouble?”

“I'm not sure. I simply heard rumors that John is pressing the abbeys for silver and that there is resentment building here on the island and in Rome with his current policies.”

“We hear the same rumors, although Canterbury has been spared his importuning,” William said, leaning back in his chair. His long body seemed restless after sitting for a period of time. “That must be another benefit of having the martyr's tomb here. Even King John does not want to disturb the ghost of the archbishop and raise the specter of another fight between church and state, one that might well lead to another episcopal murder.” He turned toward the abbess. “But others, especially the Benedictine abbeys in the north, have been pressed. And they are not happy.”

I wondered if the proposed convocation of the heads of the large monasteries across the north country had anything to do with John's campaign.

“And, of course, John could always turn in this direction.” He spoke as if to himself.

Suddenly I recalled my thought to find an Islamic scholar at this abbey, who could tell me more about Ibn al-Faridh.

“Prior William, I have another errand, besides the prayers I wish to say at the martyr's altar. You must have many scholars here who have traveled or studied in the south.”

He tilted his head and frowned. “Ye-es, there are a few who have been for some years in Italy. But travel is dangerous of late, if one is not a knight on crusade with an army alongside. So we have been restricting our scholars. What is it you seek?”

“I'd like to talk with someone who knows Arab poetry, one who could tell me something about this jewel and its history.” I fingered the pendant lightly.

“It's a handsome piece. I noticed it earlier. It appears quite rare.” At the mention of jewels, my aunt became interested, leaning forward to look more closely.

“I believe so, too. The man who made it was a poet as well as a jewelsmith. There is one line of a poem on the back of this, and I would like to know more about the entire work.” I made every effort to appear nonchalant. I had no intentions of telling my companions of the intense interest expressed by Master Averroës in my gem nor of the strange sack of my chamber in Havre.

William rose and went to his writing table, there to make a note on an open parchment. “I think the man you want is Father Alcuin. He spent many years in the Benedictine abbey in Sicily, near Cefalù. He speaks Arabic and can probably quote the poem you want.” He grinned. “He also speaks English and French, so you won't have to guess what he is telling you. I'll have Dermott take you to him tomorrow, sometime before the dinner hour.”

He didn't return to the table but extended his arms to the cushioned chairs near the fire. “Abbess, Princess, please let us remove ourselves to the hearth. Sitting too long at table is difficult for me.”

But I found myself quite suddenly without energy to sustain further conversation. I mumbled my excuses and prepared instead to depart, looking around for my cloak. William reached the bell pull to call for Brother Dermott, but the abbess forestalled him.

“I can walk with my niece, William. My guesthouse is next to hers, and I will see her safely home.” I wondered if I had enough strength left to endure a private exchange with Charlotte.

A servant brother had just presented the prior with my cloak, and he was casually placing it around my shoulders when suddenly I remembered my vigil and turned to face him. We were now quite close, and I was forced to look up.

“Prior, I nearly forgot. It is proper that I ask for your formal permission for my vigil of penance at Becket's altar tomorrow even. I intend to keep watch through the night, alone. I hope you will agree.”

“At Becket's altar, did you say?” He moved slightly away from me and leaned against the wall on one shoulder. “Why not the tomb? You perhaps do not know that we moved his body after the great fire. It is no longer buried under the altar.” He chuckled. “It's quite a grand tomb.”

“I'm certain it is, but I prefer the altar. It has a more direct connection to my past.” I gathered the collar of the cloak about me. “As I have explained this evening.”

He glanced over my shoulder at my aunt and then shrugged. “Yes, if you insist. In memory of Becket—and Henry, too—I give you permission. Though I warn you, it will be a cold vigil. Your bones might resist. None of us is a child, as we once were.” There was an air of impudence about his tone that did not sit well with me.

“Prior, speak for yourself. I feel quite up to the challenge, despite what you consider my advanced years.”

He only laughed and brushed his lips to my hand, like any courtier. He did the same to the abbess, and then he lifted a small lantern from its wall hanging. But my aunt protested. She said that there was no need for him to see us down the stone stairs; she was quite capable of finding her way out as she had already found her way in. She took the lantern from him smartly, and we gathered our cloaks about us.

When I turned back for one last look before the door closed, I caught the prior still standing with his hand on the ornate hearth mantel, watching us thoughtfully and without a trace of any smile.

Our cloaks flew out behind us like falcons' wings as we moved quickly along the darkened cloister walk. The abbess had the lantern in one hand and the other on my elbow in an iron grip. I was not certain if it was for her aid in walking or to bind us more closely in conversation. There was a footfall behind us, and I slowed, would have turned, but with her hand she pressured me on.

“The prior will have sent us an escort, despite my protests,” she said, as if she could read my very thoughts. “He has a mind of his own. And he wants to be sure of our safety. Should he misplace two women of the royal house of France, he would have a lot to answer for.”

“Misplace?”

“A jest, niece. I meant if anything untoward should happen to us here.”

“But we are in Canterbury's walls. Are we not safe here?”

“One would suppose. But Becket thought the same thing, and you see what can befall you when you have a false sense of security. Now, tell me, what are you really doing here?”

I pondered the question for a moment, then decided. Let her reveal her hand first. How did I know what Eleanor had confided in her?

“For exactly the reason I told you and the prior. I am here to do penance at Becket's tomb, in memory of Henry and for myself.”

She was silent a moment. I felt as though we were in a duel, each pausing to size up the other between thrusts, each basing our next remark on our opponent's last point.

“I think it's a bad idea.”

“What? Doing penance?”

“Oh, not that exactly. I'm generally in favor of doing penance for those who feel a need for it. No, I think keeping a vigil inside the cathedral tomorrow night is a bad idea.”

“Why so?” I was feeling comfortable. If my responses were kept to a minimum, my aunt would have the burden in this exchange.

“Mm … the great church is drafty at night. And it's dark. You'll be alone. And even if we are inside the cathedral close, there is always the possibility of rogue monks or thieves. No, you definitely should not undertake this mad all-night vigil.” We entered now the paths through the herb garden, and our skirts brushed the low plants on either side. I could still hear soft footfalls behind us.

“My advice is to say some prayers in daylight at the martyr's tomb tomorrow. And call an end to your pilgrimage. You don't have enough sins in your past to justify this atonement scheme.”

“My thanks, Aunt,” I said, highly amused. “If you run your Fontrevault Abbey with such human concern, I trust it prospers.”

We had reached my door. She stopped and turned to me, her face flickering in the uneven light. “I am only half in jest, niece. These are uncertain times. We must all beware. Why take unnecessary chances?”

“Then come with me,” I said. “We'll keep the vigil together.”

I said this to tease her. She was half again as old as I, her magnificent raven hair now disappearing under gray wings at her temples. Besides, she did not revere Becket, and the prior knew it. She would never consent to accompany me on my night vigil. But I threw the gauntlet down to end the duel.

The moon was nearly full, and its light covered the ground around us like cream. It stopped only at the invisible line of the shadow of the great cathedral from which we had just emerged. As my aunt faced me, the moonlight fell on her features.

“I think your mission is futile,” she said, her lively voice suddenly toneless. In the white light, her grave expression reminded me of a death mask on an ancient tomb. “You are taking a serious risk for nothing.”

She took her free hand and bent my head to hers, kissing my lips briefly. “I leave tomorrow early. I am sorry not to speak with you further now. Perhaps we will meet soon again in France. I would like to know you better. But, oh, my dear, be careful.” And then, before I could respond, she whipped away, my unvoiced questions trailing after her like her beautiful, rustling, silk-lined cloak.

Still puzzling, I opened the door. The first thing that met my eyes was the fire, which had been well tended and blazed heartily. And then I scanned the rest of the room and had to hold a hand to my mouth to stifle the cry that came. All my belongings had been tossed into the center of the room, the travel sack emptied, the furs from my bed—all heaped onto a huge pile. Even the cushions from the chair had been added, giving the immediate impression of a preparation for a huge bonfire.

Sweet Jesu, dear God, I prayed, for once King Henry's oaths failing me. For an instant I thought of calling out to my aunt, who had just moved on to her own guesthouse. But I caught myself and instead stepped quickly into the room, closing the door and shooting the bolt. I must reflect, I said to myself. I must not act, not yet.

I moved to the chair next to the fire, now bereft of its cushion, and sat down. It was not the pile of goods that stunned me; it was the implication of a bonfire, a sacrificial fire. I knew stories from my father's court, even stories that had drifted into England's court, about the heretics that had been burned in Lyons, in Flanders years earlier. Was this some kind of message? Who was following me, and why was he—or they—threatening in this way?

After some time I moved to straighten the room, beginning with the chair and the bedcovers. As I put away the things on the top of the pile, I saw that my clothes had been pulled hither and thither and that the jewel casket was once again toppled and askew, on the floor at the bottom.

I picked it up but had no need this time to raise the lid to know that it would now be empty. As it was, I set it down carefully on the small table next to the bed and looked at it.

I was not a fool. If those who had disturbed my room now wished me harm, so be it. But they could not have been the same as the men who had entered my room at Havre. At Havre all the jewels could have been taken, but they were not. The thieves were searching for something special, something they did not find. But here the jewels
were
gone, and a great fuss had been made to distract me.

It did not require a canon lawyer to arrive at the conclusion that these were not the same thieves. I bethought myself as I slowly continued to restore the chamber that the first set of thieves had sought something they did not find, while the second had found something they did not seek. The muscles around my shoulders were beginning to soften, and I was aware that my fears were receding like a chastened tiger. Whoever had been in my room had been here to deliver a message, perhaps to frighten me. The jewels were merely a bonus for them. But I did not think they would return.

I
heard Mass early the next morning in Becket's Chapel, as it had come to be called since his murder. Brother Dermott came for me before dawn, for it was the custom in this abbey for the monks to say their Masses at the various altars of the cathedral immediately after Matins. I decided not to report the theft of the previous evening to the hosteler. In truth, until I knew those whom I could trust in this abbey, I would tell nothing. And I knew that if William heard that my chamber had been ransacked, it would be the end of any permission to keep my vigil this evening and retrieve Eleanor's letters.