Canterbury Papers (28 page)

I then pondered the loss of my Arab jewel. The exchanges at the inn on the subject of the great poet and my conversation with Father Alcuin on the riverbank had brought back a sense of loss over the keepsake. And I puzzled over the jewel. I remembered the search of my room at Havre, and again at Canterbury. Someone, or perhaps more than one person, had been looking for the jewel.

These were not random attempts at theft, nor did I any longer believe that it was the gold and ruby in the pendant that made it desirable. Something else was going on.

I watched the ribbon of road unwind beneath me. I could see it curl down the gentle hill, to the crossroads. One branch continued toward the river and the bridges to Chinon, the way we had come. The other wound its way through the fields toward Fontrevault.

I made a decision in that sudden way of my own. If William did not come within the week, bringing back my letters and their translation, I would leave this place. I'd leave it by night if necessary, and I would take myself to the left at the crossroads in the fields. I would return to Fontrevault and confront Eleanor with or without evidence. I would wring from her the true reason for my errand, the trap she sent me into at Canterbury—for I'd no doubt she had known that John would find me there—and demand as payment for my troubles the truth about the child.

That left one week in which to rest. I eyed my ridiculous new clothes. The worst part was the lack of pockets for my withered hand. I rested my arm on the windowsill now, my hand before me, a useless claw, a private sorrow. The feeling gone from the wrist down. I did not even have a glove to cover it. Sighing, I turned into the room and saw with surprise something I had not seen earlier: Someone had left vellum and charcoal on one of the wooden chests in the corner of the room.

It occurred to me, not for the first time, that life could have been much more miserable if it were my right hand that had withered in my mother's womb rather than my left.

I drew all afternoon, creating sheet after sheet of scenes and events of the past weeks. When I finished those, I drew the faces of Prior William, Earl Graham, the mysterious young François, King John, and his beautiful wife with the thin mouth. I drew the phlegmatic Baron Roger, the apoplectic Richard Glanville, the fine, noble aging face of William Marshal.

Then I began to draw faces from the past: Eleanor when she was young; my sister, Marguerite, and her husband, young Henry; Richard in his teens with his marvelous reddish blond hair flowing. It was as if there was an outpouring from the center of me, some release from memories I did not even know I still held. As I began to fill the last sheet of vellum, the head of King Henry took shape, and I felt tears flowing down my face.

I stopped as the sun was beginning to fade, having used all the vellum and worn the charcoal down to its nub. I discovered then, when finally I paused, that a crashing ache in my head had formed while I was working. I stumbled to the bed, hoping to still the mallet beating inside by lying down. When a servant scratched at the door, I barely lifted my head to respond. I sent him downstairs with my excuses to the others for dinner. I could not say, however, what I knew to be true: The world of my soul was too crowded, and the pain had spilled over into my body. From then on, and for some time, I could scarcely distinguish light from dark. My main companions were the shades of my past, their images swirling in the hollow chamber of my mind.

At the end of the second day, the throbbing eased and the pain began to recede. I had been dimly aware that Earl Graham had stopped to see me, as had the faithful but still-distant Steward Thibault, followed by his wife, the pleasant Petronella, whose aprons smelled always of freshly baked bread, making soothing sounds. They had provided powders, but I had refused them and requested only heated water in which to dissolve the herbs I still carried myself. Finally, on the third day and after a day of my own treatment, I could bear to look at the light. I was returning to myself.

For the first time in recent weeks, I truly wished for another woman for company. I had not been well served by women in my life: starting with my own mother and then, as things turned out, by Queen Eleanor, by the waiting women at my brother's court, and more recently by Isabelle, who'd tried to manipulate me for John. Yet now I longed for Marguerite, the sister of my childhood, or my nurse Francesca. Anyone to talk to but these tiresome knights. I might even rise for dinner tonight, I thought, if I knew women would be there.

Even as I was thinking these thoughts, lying on the large bed watching the sun's setting rays play on the wall tapestry, a gentle scratch came again to the door. This time, without a wait for my leave, it opened.

It was Mistress Petronella, she of the cherubic face and perfect cheeks and bobbing curtsy. I had noticed her beauty in the melee of our arrival, but now the sun caught her full, lively face as she stood quietly inside the door, and I saw she was intelligent-looking as well.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice cracking like a dried board.

“Is there anything Your Grace desires?” she asked, without much deference in her voice this time, at least none that I could distinguish.

I sat up and leaned on one elbow, the better to see her. I listened for the pain in my head with the movement, but none came. I said, on impulse, “Yes. I would like my clothes. And a cloak, if you please.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. Still no pain. I was weak, but I was free.

“Your Grace is feeling better. Will you come to dinner?”

“No. Please make my excuses to Earl Graham and the other knights. But I am going out to take the air.”

“I'll tell the earl. He said to be sure to let him know when you felt better.”

“Don't, under any circumstances, tell the earl I feel better,” I said sharply. “Just get my clothes and a cloak and tell them all I'm still too ill to join them for dinner.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Come here, Mistress Thibault.” The young woman came closer, hands clasped behind her back, eyes straight on to mine. She still retained that interesting air of independence in her demeanor. Clearly, she was not cowed by my station. “I sorely desire fresh air. I think it will improve my condition. But I don't want to trouble anyone with my whims. I prefer to be alone. Do you understand?” The village idiot would have understood.

She nodded, smiling.

“Do you know who I am?”

She tossed her head. The gesture could have been interpreted as affirmation or sauciness.

“If you help me, I'll reward you with silver. If you do not do as I ask, it will not go well with you.” Vague threats were often much more powerful than real ones, I had discovered at court. Real threats had defined limits, but vague threats played on the imagination. The field was infinite for each person.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She provided me with one more of her interminable curtsies, bobbing her head slightly. I had the distinct impression she was hiding a broadening smile. Then, going to the large wooden wardrobe against the far wall, she opened the door. I could have done as much, I suppose, without her. The spate of illness had addled my brain.

“Clothes have been placed here for you. They are the clothes you are used to wearing. We … it took some time for us to get these, so at first you were given some of my own things.” She frowned slightly. “We were not prepared for your arrival. We had only just opened the house ourselves that morning. You were earlier than we expected.”

“It is your things I require to wear now,” I said, puzzled by her words. The house unoccupied before we came? The servants newly planted here for our benefit? “Or, better still, the clothes of one of the menservants.”

She looked astonished at my request. I repeated myself, speaking slowly in her native Norman tongue.

“I would like the clothes a manservant would wear,” I paused to see if she understood. “Can you bring me such clothes now?”

“Oui, un moment, madame,”
she said, suddenly seeing I was in earnest.

“Are the knights at table yet?” I crossed the room to the chest as I spoke. One of my knees gave way, causing me to stumble, but she was following close behind and neatly caught my elbow. I continued on my way, determined to regain my balance. With each step I felt stronger.

“Not quite, my lady. They are waiting, out of
politesse
, I believe, to know if you will join them.”

“Then go down and tell them I am still too ill to dine and wish to be left alone tonight. After they have gone in to dinner, I shall take the night air alone. I command that you do not tell the knights below I have gone out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” An impish look flooded her face. “I do understand perfectly.”

“Good. Then bring me the clothes I have requested, even if you have to thieve them. And a cloak of some kind as well.” She turned to go, and I added, “And be quick about it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

I stopped her one last time. “But only after you have assured my knights that I will not be joining them for dinner. And make certain you are not seen bringing me the clothes.”

She darted out the door, and I felt certain I had an accomplice who would keep my confidence.

I was impatient to be off and lost no time once she returned. Outside, the moon was already rising as the last glow of day was fading. The white ball hung in the clear south sky and boded well for my adventure. The night air refreshed me, and after a few minutes, my initial queasiness began to dissipate.

I headed straight for the stables, staying close to the line of trees that ringed the road. The subdued sound of male voices floated out from the courtyard behind the house, where the knights were no doubt taking the air before dinner. The drone of their male talk was punctuated occasionally by claps of laughter.

Fortune was my friend this evening. No stray servant loitered at the stable door. The livery servants were likely at supper in the kitchen. I picked the smallest of the horses of our pack, the dappled palfrey I had ridden from Calaïs, and led her silently out of the stables. She came along sweetly now, rested, ready for my adventure. When I was far enough from the manor so that no sound reached me, I mounted and soon broke into a canter. At the fork in the road, I took the right turn to Chinon.

I knew it was the week for the fair, for I had seen the preparations even as we rode through the town a few days earlier. There was a stage set up in the center of the market, which meant entertainment. Torches were placed all around on pikes, and people were gathering already for the evening festivities as I made my way across the bridge. I looked up at the sky dotted with stars in the deepening dusk, and I felt glad. Then I was lost in the jostling good spirits of the townspeople and forced to dismount and lead my horse into the town square, so great was the collecting crowd.

Dressed as I was in tunic and hose, with a short cape tossed across my shoulders and a felt cap hiding my long braids, no one took any notice of me. I was passing as a servant, or perhaps a squire. Although my knees were still a bit weak, the cool air was bracing, and I felt better with each passing hour. I was feeling free as a child. And how fitting that it was here, in the shadow of the castle I had loved most growing up, that it should be so.

I stopped at a booth and stood in line to buy a small roasted hen, which I tore into with gusto, licking my fingers like any peasant. Then I found the wine booth and satisfied my thirst with some dreadful village vintage. After that I made my way toward the center of the square, where benches were crowded around the stage. Whatever was happening there, it was drawing great gusts of laughter from the throng.

I settled myself on a bench toward the back, where a lucky chance provided a space so that I could see through to the stage. The platform on which the performance was offered was high enough to allow a short person a clear view. I began to listen.

At once I recognized the play. It was the dialogue between the drunk and the fool, beloved of French country crowds and often performed at court for amusement from what Philippe called—always with a sigh—the peasant offerings. The farce had entertained us royal children as well when we were in Normandy or Anjou. Now I had to smile again, in spite of myself, as the fool whacked the drunk on the head and he fell down, only to trip the fool as he turned to the audience for his bow. No philosophy here, no thought: just a rendering of the stupid human condition.

Soon the two
bouffons
exited the stage, and the crowd grew quiet. Most knew what was to follow, for the playbill had been posted.

Two cowled figures mounted the stage. One wore a white robe, the other black, and I saw we were to be entertained by that old pair of inseparables, the Body and the Soul.

The figure in white took the lead in the exchange: “Do you not realize how your intemperance endangers your eternal life?” he thundered from under the safety of his voluminous hood. But the abstract spirituality of the white one was no match for the earthiness and vitality of the Body. This fellow, dressed completely in black with his hood sheltering his face so we could not see his expression, was easily the crowd's favorite. He had all the witty lines, some I suspected made up on the spot, and soon the cheering for him was interrupting the Soul's ponderous responses. It was as if this serious dialogue on eternal matters had been infected by the levity of the fool and the drunk that preceded it.

I myself was laughing so hard that my sides were shaking. The actors were improvising marvelously on the traditional arguments, creating comedy that warmed the villagers. No wonder the bishops railed against the theater. Laughter was probably the greatest danger to orthodoxy. Just underneath all of our assumed piety was this layer of irreverence. How delightful to have it erupt among us on this star-marked night. And good for the actors!

“But what assurance can you give me that if I give up my neighbor's wife now, there will be any future reward? Will my own wife stop nagging me?” the black-hooded figure called out in a clear, young voice. The audience roared again, but my attention was caught for another reason. The actor's voice had a familiar ring.