Canterbury Papers (27 page)

It was no trouble at all to appear a proper audience for this lad, for I was familiar with all of the
chansons de geste
that he knew by his heart and also many of the great troubadours he quoted. He knew de Ventadour, de Born (the perfidious bastard), and he could even quote from Richard's own
sirventes
, which won my heart in an instant.

Needing little encouragement, he soon switched to English tales, recounting the exploits of ancient Saxon heroes. He had somewhere heard all the Arthurian legends and began to tell them. The conversation around us tapered off, as the young man's fellow knights began to listen to his storytelling. He warmed to his audience, rising and gesturing as he acted out the encounter between Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a story that had just come out of the court at Champagne. I felt as if I were watching a very skilled performance. He continued, his speeches punctuated with applause and cries of “More! More!” from his comrades and the thumping of metal scabbards on the floor. Indeed, I joined in these cries, so entertaining was this young man. With the story of the hapless cuckold husband of Nottingham, he had us laughing until the tears came.

Our merriment grew so loud that the innkeeper appeared and begged us to soften our shouts so other guests could sleep. And that announcement brought Earl Graham, who had joined us for the storytelling, to his feet, suddenly recalling his duties as our captain. He ordered us all to bed, the better to be ready for the last length of our voyage early the next morning.

It was only later, when I lay abed with many thoughts crowding my head, that I recalled the dexterity with which the young François had turned my initial questions into an opportunity for himself to entertain us while, incidentally, deflecting any more inquiries from me. Neatly done, young clerk, I thought. But why? And then, gradually, William's face moved before me. There must have been orders, directions given to all the knights who rode with me. Thwarted again by William.

The day had been long, and despite my will, it wasn't many minutes later that I felt my senses lift from me.

O
ur Channel voyage was uneventful, and after one last night near the water, we began the journey south with fresh horses. Truth to tell, my heart was more at rest now that we were back on Norman soil.

We traveled hard the next day, taking little rest. Father Alcuin had appeared briefly when we broke our fast, but he was pale and seemed preoccupied. Roland never left my side until I was mounted, so I had no time to address my questions to the monk. I was growing worried that an opportunity had not presented itself for a private conversation. If he was indeed on some mission for the abbey in the south, he might depart our company at any time to take a different road.

Sometime after our midday meal, we came upon a small stream. We had to follow it for a while to find a place that could be forded. When I saw this, I felt in my travel sack for the chisel I had brought with me to Canterbury. It had been sharpened to a fine edge, and I pulled it out, careful not to be seen. I quickly began working on the leather thongs that held my saddle to my horse. Within a short time, I had severed the main tie, and my saddle began to slip.

I easily slid to the ground, being both agile and prepared, and the entire party was forced to call a halt. Tom rode up to me as the others waited, and he gave me a quizzical look as he examined the frayed part.

“We shall have to stop for a bit so I can repair this,” he called to Earl Graham.

“Fine,” the earl said, riding over. “Just so you are not harmed,
Princesse,”
he added with genuine concern.

“Do not trouble, yourself, Earl. I am unharmed and, truth to tell, glad of a respite.”

“I am sorry we have pushed so hard,” he said. “I want badly to get to Montjoie's by nightfall. But perhaps a short rest will refresh everyone.”

As Tom worked on the saddle, I saw Father Alcuin leave the others and move toward the stream. Blessing my good fortune, I followed, taking care not to appear too deliberate. The large man was kneeling by the water scooping up handfuls when I came upon him from behind. He jumped when I spoke his name.

“I'm sorry, Father. I did not mean to startle you,” I said hastily, feeling some guilt to see that the water had splashed down the front of his tunic.

“It's not a problem,
Princesse,”
he said, brushing himself off. “I was thinking of other things when you spoke.”

I sat beside him, spreading my cloak first so as not to become damp from the moss covering the ground.

“We were interrupted at Canterbury in our conversation, and I was forced to a hasty departure from the abbey later that night. But I think I would like your further opinion on some things.”

“I'm glad to help, if I can,” he said.

“First, I would like to inquire about the Arab man found dead in the abbey's herb garden. What did the apothecary say was the cause of his death?”

“The prior later spoke to the entire community about this incident. He said that the stranger's death was a natural one, a failure of the heart, I believe they said. They could find no evidence of poison nor marks of strangulation, no wound of any kind on his person.” He looked out over the stream. “He was quite elderly.”

“Did they know who he was or why he was there?”

Father Alcuin seemed to pause for a brief second, and then he answered rather firmly. “The monks were not given any information except that the man appeared to have entered the town gates the day of the market, the same day you arrived. He may have entered hiding in one of the farmers' carts, as the porter monk had no knowledge of him. He had no papers or correspondence on him that would identify him. I believe that the prior's council had a long discussion about where to bury him, since they thought it not proper—nor respectful of him—to bury him in Christian ground.”

I pondered this matter for some moments, until his voice interrupted my thoughts. “Were there other questions, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Regarding Master Averroës.”

“Master Averroës? The famous scholar?”

“You know him, do you not?”

“I have never met him. But who does not know of him? He is the greatest translator of our age. Without him we would never have had the Aristotelian texts that have now been put into Latin. He is without peer in our lifetime. But surely he is very old now.”

“Indeed, he is ancient. Can you tell me: Has he visited Canterbury of late?”

“Master Averroës?” Father Alcuin appeared to make a genuine effort to consider. “No, not ever to my knowledge. And unless it were a secret meeting, I would no doubt have been involved, since I am one of only three monks in our community who speak and read Arabic. Translators are always useful in such meetings,” he added, as if he had presumed with his assertion.

“Can you think of any reason why the master would forsake his warm country and come north to our brisk season?” I probed, while, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the earl was gathering the knights around the horses. In a moment Tom would come for us.

Father Alcuin frowned. “Master Averroës is known as a man of peace. About five years past, the caliph of Egypt enjoyed a major victory in the Mediterranean Sea over the Christians of Hispania, and a number of Christian knights were captured. There are rumors that the caliph was willing to ransom these knights. If by some remote chance Master Averroës were in the north for any reason, it may connect to those negotiations.”

Tom was at my elbow now, and Father Alcuin made a great show of rising to his feet. “I cannot tell you more,” he whispered, as if to confirm my sense that this conversation was best held in confidence. And, in truth, I felt the very same.

I allowed Tom to take my hand and help me up the riverbank. And he, seasoned agent of kings and queens, asked no questions. Indeed, he was silent, as if to give me space to think.

We mounted then and set out again, the earl seeming to have gained even more strength from our brief respite, as he led us on a hard ride. But I had much to ponder. It was now becoming clear that my jewel had value far greater than I had imagined or, for that matter, than Richard and Eleanor had imagined. And that Master Averroës should come north for ransom negotiations could well connect to the widespread interest in my pendant. But I still puzzled: How was my uncle involved in all this? And what connection could be made to the dead man in the abbey garden outside my guesthouse?

We rode the last ten leagues quickly, down through Chinon on the Vienne River, past the castle that housed so many of my childhood memories, through the marketplace in the center of town, and across the bridge that still spanned the river, the same bridge I had ridden with young Henry and Marguerite and Richard when we raced horses as children.

We traveled the road along the south side of the river for some miles and then turned off to move
en masse
along a road cut through the fields of wheat, a road so white and perfect, lightened by the sun that also beat down upon the golden wheat on either side of us, that I thought I must somehow be riding through heaven. It was a perfect day on the edge of spring.

I could see the manor of the Norman Chevalier Armand Montjoie, for I had been informed by Earl Chester that this man would be our host well before we came within shouting distance of the place. The building sat on a small hill that seemed to rise straight up out of the flat field land we rode across. The manor was a tall, broad, powerful clean piece of work in white stone. Totally without frills, it was so like the Angevin personality I knew as King Henry of England. How fitting that this edifice was the home of one of his liege men.

As we approached the manor, my fatigue began to recede. I felt a ripple within me, a strange sense of elation, almost as if I were coming close to touching something important. But what, exactly, it was eluded me. Mayhap, I thought, it is only a temporary feeling of well-being, naturally connected to a return to the place of my childhood. Or mayhap the memory of the ugly incident with John was dispelled by the sun. Whatever it was, I welcomed the feeling as a harbinger of hope.

O
ur little party of knights and travelers—we made only a dozen in all, counting myself—made our way down the wide entrance road lined with stately cypress trees. We were cantering two and three abreast, talking and laughing as we came, so that at first we scarcely noticed the silent party assembled in front of the entrance.

We sobered somewhat on seeing the small group dressed in black that awaited us. A man and his dame and three or four servants stood watching. There was something odd about them; they seemed to be less a group than a tableau of several individuals thrown accidentally together for the occasion. They neither talked nor looked at one another as we came toward them. The man at the center held the lead of a large hound that was sitting on his haunches and surveying us as we approached.

“Well,” said young François, who had ridden up to my side when we entered the long drive of the estate, “our welcoming party looks rather somber.” And I could not but agree.

The man who greeted us was a far cry from the urbane Sir Roger who had gathered us into his manor in Wiltshire as if we were King John himself with all his court. This man announced himself Thibault, our faithful servant, and made the obligatory bow, but I sensed a small resentment blooming under his well-cut doublet. This was not an assignment he had undertaken gladly.

He was not, he said, Armand Montjoie but Sir Armand's steward, Thibault of Limoges. Sir Armand was away on business, but Thibault and his wife, Petronella—he indicated her with a swift motion of his head—would do their best to make us comfortable in their master's absence.

As he made this speech, civil enough but not warm, the others nodded in agreement. Suddenly the woman by his side came to life at the sound of her name. She had black hair and blue eyes and a perfectly round face, round as the apples that dotted her cheeks. I saw her eyes sparkle as I came closer. She wore the shirred, bulky peasant clothes of the country, but on her slim figure the muslin dirndl skirt and brightly embroidered blouse only enhanced her charms. She curtsied in the French manner and then raised her eyes to mine without coyness. Although she did not speak a word, we had a communication between us of the kind only women can create in silence.

And then the moment passed, and Steward Thibault reclaimed my attention. He swept us into the house and up the stairs to our quarters with formidable efficiency. Earl Graham, being a good sort, made a foray at conversation to put the man at ease. It must have been with an effort, however, for when I glanced at his face as we arrived at my door, I saw the marks of fatigue etched thereon and knew that the earl had found the ride as tiring as I myself had.

The day was so glorious it beckoned me, but I knew that my first chore was to settle my few belongings and wash the dust from my body, despite my fatigue. Fresh clothes and water for washing had been brought for me. I could see that the garments were French country clothes made of rough muslin, gathered skirts and a bodice, not the beautiful wools given to me in Wiltshire. These clothes were not exactly my style, but there you are: The trip had been long, and the gown I wore could doubtless stand on its own with acquired grit, so I shed it.

After refreshing myself, I opened the shutters, leaned on the deep window casement, and looked down the road that spilled away from the
château.
Questions chattered in my head, despite my best efforts to think only of the sun warming my arms. How long would I stay in this place? Was Eleanor back at Fontrevault by now? Why had I let William coerce me into coming here? Would Earl Graham attempt to stop me if I tried to leave? William had said, “Later, when things are resolved, you may be able to return safely to Philippe's court.” What things needed to be resolved?