Canterbury Papers (18 page)

As William Marshal recounted this history, I noticed Eleanor just in front of us. She appeared to be lost in thoughts of her own, not turning around once. William Marshal had been assigned the queen's personal guardian on this journey, but it was her choice to ride alone. The king was far ahead with his high knights, and many others rode behind us.

When we reached the crest of the hill, we could see masons laying a stone wall that coiled like a serpent around Sarum. It appeared the wall would encompass the entire settlement, including Bishop Roger's great cathedral that sprawled to the north of the royal buildings.

Eleanor must have jerked her reins when the wall came in sight, for her horse suddenly shied and bucked. William Marshal spurred his own mount to come even with her and placed his hand on her bridle to steady the animal. He leaned close to her and spoke low. Her shoulders, which had remained firm through all of this ordeal, slipped slightly, as if she released a long-held breath. And for the remainder of the climb to Sarum, her head was down. He left her and returned to my side.

“Perhaps the queen would be glad of my company,” I suggested when he was again in earshot. “Shall I ride with her?”

“Aye, she will need your company right enough, but for now she must be alone.” He sighed. “It was left to me to tell her—she will be lodged in the keep, not in the royal apartments.”

“In the keep? The king is going to make her stay in the old keep?” I was astonished. “I've heard that's practically a dungeon.”

“Non, non.”
He reverted momentarily to the Norman French he so often spoke with the king.
“La tour est très haute. Il y a beaucoup de lumière à l'intérieur.”
Then he caught himself. “It's been made comfortable enough, I understand. But still…” His voice drifted off as he searched the landscape ahead of us.

“William Marshal, how long will the queen have to stay there? What is this quarrel between the king and queen about?”

He shook his head and said nothing. I looked into his face and could read only sadness, etched in lines that crossed his forehead and sprang from the corners of his kind eyes. I remember wondering how old he was and how much more sadness he would see.

William Marshal led the queen up the tower stairs to her rooms, and I trudged behind, with the maidservants bringing up the rear. The rest of the cavalcade had ridden on, leaving only a few knights to accompany the marshal. They followed us.

The maids chattered behind us as we silently climbed the circular stairs to the upper chambers. Even their voices stilled eventually. Then the only sounds were our echoing footsteps and our guards' swords striking the sides of the narrow stairwell.

Although high in the tower, the room was white and clean. Indeed, a fire burned in the grate, and the queen's accustomed furs covered the beds. There were provisions made for her two maids in an anteroom, and much of her wardrobe had been assembled from her English castles. It was clear that someone had made an effort to see to her comfort. But still, a reigning queen of England imprisoned in a castle keep!

It was only after the queen was settled in a high-backed chair, sipping the broth the servants had prepared and staring out the narrow window, that William Marshal beckoned me away. In the tower stairwell, placing his hand under my chin and tilting my face up toward his, he told me I must make ready to go. I was not to be allowed to stay with the queen. I must instead go to Clarendon Palace, where the king was lodged. It was the king's order.

When we came back into the room, Eleanor had been watching the fire. She raised her head. “He's taking Alaïs, isn't he?” Her tone was bitter. “This is the final insult.”

William Marshal's hand fell to the queen's shoulder, but she shook it off and turned away from us. She refused even to embrace me, although I had done nothing to hurt her. I resisted crying in front of the queen, but I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face as William and I descended the tower stairs. I had no illusions about the future. I was fifteen years of age, and I had already lost two mothers. Life held bleak promise.

Now it was years later, and I was back at Sarum. This time it was I who was in the keep and John who had brought me here. William Marshal, I mused, faithful to the queen, but above all faithful to the king. How I wished he were here to advise me. I had heard he was now Earl of Pembroke, lifted to the nobility by Richard before he died. William Marshal still in the service of the Plantagenet kings. I wondered how he was dealing with John. The thought nearly brought a smile.

The sun was warming the room, so I threw back the bedcovers and stretched like a great cat. I felt better than I had since my abduction, and suddenly I had a need to move around. The spare chamber contained minimal furniture: the bed, the chair Isabelle had used in the interview of the day before, the table and chair John had favored in the far side of the room. Then I saw something I had missed the previous day. I rose from the bed, albeit a bit unsteadily, and walked over to a small, elegant writing desk.

On closer inspection I saw that it was beautifully carved in the Italian fashion, with small legs that ended in little claws. The dark oak top had been so smoothed and oiled at one time that a writer's quill would fly over parchment without a snag.

Suddenly I remembered where I had seen the desk before. It once rested in Eleanor's bedchamber at the ducal palace in Poitiers. Her private rooms were a favored place of mine in those years. On many a sunny morning like this, I would run into her chamber without announcement to find her settled at this little desk, writing her verses or reading a letter just delivered by some breathless courier.

Eleanor adored words, and writing was her particular joy, especially after she and the king parted. It seemed she was always writing something that must be finished before she could be persuaded to come sit in on our Courts of Love, our gentle assizes where the knights would compete for our favor through poetry rather than swords.

King Harry must have ordered the desk to be brought over by ship at Eleanor's request. As Isabelle had reminded me, the king had softened toward the queen in later years. She must have persuaded him to bring her this dear table. I had heard some rumors that writing and reading poetry were her main diversions in those years of captivity.

Someone had recently wiped the top of the desk free of dust, but the legs had been overlooked. Whoever had received John's order to prepare the chamber for me must have been in a hurry. A blanket of cobwebs stretched from one leg to another underneath, and my foot broke through it as I pulled the small chair forward to sit at the desk.

A clatter on the stairs interrupted my thoughts. I turned quickly, my hand going to the purse with its sharp tool. Then I steadied myself. I stood, not wanting to call attention to the desk.

A short, burly man entered the room, followed by a large hound. He wore the lions of England on his tunic. A beard well trimmed, his dark hair cut short, and the sword at his side indicated a businesslike approach to his job. The dog stood next to him, no less commanding.

“Your Grace.” A bow, the minimal courtesy. “Robert of Warwick, at your service.”

“Are you so?” I raised my eyebrows.

He continued as if he hadn't heard. “I have the assignment of your safekeeping while you are King John's guest here. If you have need of anything, hang this red wool cloth out the opening. I will always have two men stationed below, watching.”

“Very kind,” I said dryly.

“You will have food brought to you in the morning and again at night. The king sends wishes for your safety and your health.”

“I'm sure,” I murmured. “And what does the king want from me in return?”

“He has said to me that when you are ready to give him the information he seeks, he will be glad to see you.”

“The king resides here then, at Sarum?” I remembered the royal apartments next door and hoped the water still poured into the royal bedchamber when the spring rains came. Henry had been drenched more than once when he slept there, cursing Bishop Roger and his architect every time.

“The king has left Sarum for the time being. He is lodging at Clarendon. He has given me command of his men here. If you want to send him a message, he is less than a half day's ride.” Robert of Warwick continued to talk as if reading a royal proclamation, without any emotion whatsoever.

“Is there no maid to serve me?” Suddenly it seemed ominous that only men and dogs surrounded me.

“No, Your Grace. This is a garrison now. There are no women here.”

“Then I have another request. I'd like some drawing materials.”

“We have no pens and parchment here. We're soldiers.” He assumed a dogged look.

I turned away. I did not want to encourage him further. If he became insolent, I had no recourse.

“One more thing, my lady,” the man added. I waited. “King John urges you to honor his request for information before he loses his patience.”

“And did the king give some indication of when that unhappy event might occur?”

“He said he would expect you would send for him within the week.”

“Otherwise what?” I turned to look at him.

For the first time, the man seemed to hesitate.

“Well, come on. Out with it.”

“He, uh, didn't say directly.” Robert of Warwick stared at a point on the wall behind my left shoulder.

I shook my head and made my way back to the bed. I was hungry and needed drink, but I was too annoyed to raise the subject with this lout. I sat down heavily.

“There is no message for the king.”

Robert of Warwick stood still until I looked up at him. “Go on, man. It's not your problem.” He bowed stiffly, somewhat lower than the perfunctory bob he had made on his arrival, and left without another word.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, lay back, and rested, thinking again of my years at Poitiers. The wind was always gentle there, never the damp, cutting weather of England. How was it we had come to the south, after years of knocking around in the Plantagenets' castles in cold England and damp Normandy? I remembered suddenly. I was only twelve summers when Richard's sister Joanna came dashing into my chamber one morning.

“Alaïs, make ready. We are to start for the south tomorrow with Queen Eleanor.”

“What? Have they had another quarrel?”

“No, it's nothing like that. They called Richard and Geoffrey in this morning and said we were all to depart in haste. The king has decreed that the queen must establish a court at Poitiers to quell the rebellious Gascognes. The king says he is tired of their antics and they are the queen's subjects anyway. We're all to go with her, and we'll stay for a long time. ‘As long as it takes to straighten them out,' the king said when Richard asked.”

“Poitiers. In the south,” I murmured. Perhaps, I remember thinking, if we were all to go, Richard might finally pay attention to me. We
were
to be married one day, although the king and queen would not say when. Just that week my sister, Marguerite, who was living at court again, had been in my chamber when I undressed for bed. She noticed the slight swelling in my chest, which she pointed out to me. She said I was becoming a woman. When I pressed her for details, she said our nurse Francesca would explain what came next.

Four years later, when King Henry descended on us like the furies, the swelling in my chest had flowered. And my hopes were coming true. Finally Richard was taking notice of me—when he had time, that is. He was mightily occupied in those years with his hunting and his fighting and his
poésie.

Despite his youth, Richard seemed to want to learn how to govern, for Henry had agreed that he would inherit the Aquitaine. He was an eager student. He would spend hours locked with his mother and her counselors in the privy chambers of the ducal palace, looking at maps or reading correspondence. He talked earnestly with his tutors or closeted himself with the couriers the king sent with alarming frequency.

But slowly things changed. Richard began to absent himself from Eleanor's court a great deal, riding out often late at night and back days later when least expected. I can still hear his voice as I lay in my bedchamber watching the reflection of the torches play on the ceiling. He would summon the grooms as he rode in late at night, calling for help with the horses. “Ho, grooms.
Ecoutez. Aidezmoi, immédiatement! Vite, vite!”

Oh, he could be gentle, and he was sometimes. And always polite. Everlastingly polite. Bending over my hand, bowing like the courtier his mother had trained him to be.

Sometimes in the evening, when our meal was done, the entire court would sit outside the palace, in the sweet scented gardens dotted warmly by our many torches. Richard would read his
sirventes
, those poems he had composed while he had been traveling, and we would all listen. At the end he would bow to me—to me,
Princesse
Alaïs, his future bride. And once, when we were alone … but it does no good to remember.

If I had not resigned myself so many years ago to my fate, I could bring myself to cry for lost hopes. But of what use is that maudlin pursuit?

I thought about the rooms in the ducal palace at Poitiers. My own chamber, that of my sister, Marguerite, and her husband (until the king wrote that he wanted his son Henry posthaste back in London), the queen's antechamber and bedchamber, hung with the green and blue Toulouse tapestries she so admired. And the writing desk.

Suddenly a half memory inspired me and I started to sit up. The movement sent a shot of pain up the back of my neck. The aftereffects of mandrake. I quietly cursed John.

With more care I tried again and this time was able to rise. Through the openings in the walls I could see that the sun had circled the chamber. I must have dozed. It was now well into the afternoon. Since it was early spring it would be dark in a few more hours. I moved toward the desk.