Canterbury Papers (3 page)

I nodded, oddly touched, and again made ready to leave. Then I remembered Tom, but before I could speak, Philippe was already issuing instructions to his guard to find a bed and dinner for “our welcome guest.”

I did not look at Tom, but he stopped me by speaking low as I passed. “My lady, will there be an answer to the queen?”

“Certes,”
I said. “Come to my chambers tomorrow, before the noon hour. You will have your answer then.”

I
moved slowly down the broad, damp stone hall toward my own chambers, careful not to excite the interest of the few courtiers and ladies who passed, bowing. Philippe was wrong, as usual, when he said the court wished me no harm. I was the target of words that came like arrows from every side. The French court resented my outspoken ways and my influence with my brother, the king. And some, because of my deformed left hand, saw me as no more than a witch, with powers they did not understand. I overheard one short, fat, overdressed little toad say once that I made interpretations of dreams and foretold the future. Which was nonsense—well, for the most part.

Turning a corner, I collided with the queen's newest maiden, the raven-haired daughter of the Duc de Berry. I couldn't recall her name, but her wild, uncontrollable bush of dark, curly hair made her stand out among the other young women-in-waiting. She was carrying a bolt of new pale samite, which was so tall in her arms that it completely shielded her face. As a consequence, when she rounded the corner like a young colt, she galloped into me. I nearly toppled backward, only catching myself against the wall at the last minute. The girl dropped her burden.

“Tiens, tiens,”
I scolded, recovering my balance.

“
Excusez-moi
, my lady Alaïs,” she said, making a neat curtsy, as if that made up for nearly knocking me over. “But it is the cloth for my new gown. The queen says we must begin the dresses now or they will never be finished in time for the wedding.” She retrieved her burden, flashed a brilliant smile, and darted off, her vision once again obscured. The wedding, the wedding! Always this wedding.

I was happy to obtain the refuge of my room, where no young women besotted with wedding gowns could career into me at leisure. Mimi and Justine were there, sitting on the floor before the fire. They were so deep in their game of cards they had not noticed that the fire was no longer drawing, and I nearly choked on the musky smell of trapped smoke. They scurried to help, but I waved them out and tended to the draft myself. Then I flung myself into a chair and pulled off my veil. Loosing my braids, I ran my fingers through my hair and allowed currents of rest to flow through me.

My room was the smallest of the royal apartments, but I treasured it. I had surrounded myself with things I loved. Tapestries woven in Toulouse, images of fruits and strange animals worked in burgundy and gold, covered my walls and floors. Manuscripts rolled and bound, some crisp with age, some sent from monasteries as far away as Iona, filled one whole oak table, and on another—and for this I did love Philippe—lay as much parchment for drawing and as much charcoal as I desired. I could flee into my drawing whenever I chose.

Now the fire danced in the open draft, and the flames cast light and shadows on the walls. The oil torches set in the recesses near the chair combined with the firelight and candles to give me enough light for reading. Awkwardly I used my good hand to pull Queen Eleanor's letter from my left side pocket.

At my request all my gowns had pockets sewn into the left side. My left hand had been withered from birth. I kept it hidden as often as I could. And yet it was part of me, so I must accept it, accept a part of me that had no feeling. I had learned to live with it, if not to love it. And, anyway, the pocket had other uses. It could conceal various small items that came to me while in the public rooms: items that were, like Eleanor's letter, private.

I shook open the scroll after I slid my thumbnail under the wax seal. As I did so, a little piece of paper fluttered to the ground. It seemed at first glance to be a diagram of some sort. I retrieved it and set it aside. Then I proceeded to examine the careful writing before me.

Queen Eleanor had not written to me in the seven years I had been back at my brother's court. But the elongated, spidery hand in front of me, the hand I had learned to read as a child at her knee, was unmistakably hers. Even the uncertain night's light did not interfere with my understanding as I carefully made my way through the several heart-stopping pages.

As I read, my fingers out of old habit toyed with the jeweled pendant that hung on a thin silk cord around my neck. Richard's betrothal gift to me. It had once been Eleanor's.

To Alaïs, daughter of my own heart

From Eleanor, by the Grace of God Duchess of the Aquitaine and once Queen of England and Lady of All the British Isles:

We have not corresponded for some time. I will be direct with you now and not waste our time on recriminations for past events.

I write to ask you to favor me with an errand, one which will not take much of your time but is of the utmost importance. There are certain letters that are hidden at Canterbury Abbey, in the cathedral. These are my letters, written to Archbishop Becket many decades ago, in the days when he and the king were estranged. They are my property.

I put the letter down. It was a curious opening. And I was amused remembering Eleanor's habit of always referring to Henry of England, her second husband, as “the king,” as if there were only one king. But whenever she referred to her first husband, my father, she would call him by his full name and title: King Louis of France, as if he—unlike Henry—needed further identification. Then I read on, and all amusement faded.

I want you to retrieve these letters for me. A friend hid them years ago, so they would not fall into the wrong hands. They rest behind the altar where Becket was slain. I enclose a diagram to show you exactly the place. Retrieving them will be a simple matter.

You are the only one who can do this. You can travel to England without exciting suspicion, especially under the guise of making a pilgrimage to the martyr's tomb. You are of French royal blood, formerly of the English king's household. Even with a small escort, you would not be harmed by the English nor held back by the Normans. You can traverse both sides of the Channel safely.

I am certain that you still love England, for the sake of our family, if for no other reason. For the sake of Henry, and Richard, if not for my own. Upon these few letters hangs the fate of that kingdom. The Knights Templar are intriguing against John's throne. They claim he has unfairly pressed the abbeys to help him pay his debts.

I stopped again, anger rising within me. John had always gouged his subjects, especially the abbeys. Everyone at court knew he was in great need of silver, and to him the abbeys sat across the land like fat little pigeons, ready for the plucking. He needed money for the mounting costs of recovering Eire. If only he had behaved in the first place, when Henry sent him there years ago, Ireland might still be linked to Britain. Now his mother wanted me to provide his bail. I returned to her words, shaking my head.

If John's enemies find these letters, they will use them to destroy the king's—and my own—reputation with the good people of England.

If there is a rebellion against John, a civil war would most likely follow, and once again we'll see suffering and destruction in England. I cannot allow civil war if it is in my power to prevent it.
Aide-moi maintenant.

I know you may be tempted to disregard my request. But if you help me, your reward will be great. I have certain information in my possession, information about a child born many years ago. This child disappeared and was supposed dead. I think you were interested in the welfare of this boy. If you want the information I have, I will most willingly give it to you. But first you must help me in this crucial business of the letters.

I have been told that your anger with me over the past continues. That you blame me for preventing your marriage to Richard. I swear to you on the tears of Christ that I had no part in those events that occurred after Henry separated us and imprisoned me. Please believe me when I tell you that it was not myself who prevented your marriage to our son, Richard.

I call you now to your responsibilities as my daughter. I will reward you well if you help me. If you choose not to help, your punishment will be your own unquiet conscience.

Eleanor R.

I reread the letter, my hand trembling as if with the palsy. I was torn between anger and shock, like a rag shaken in the teeth of a lion. Gone was my cool head. The lines blurred fiercely as I reread the script. How long had she known about the child? Why had she never told me? And how dare she of all people use my child's fate as a carrot to lure me to her witless task?

I picked up the silver wine goblet next to my chair and hurled it against the wall, watching the red liquid run down the tapestried wall like blood, feeling my wrath ooze from me. And then I rested my head on the back of the chair, giving up my spirit to whatever feelings came.

I slept poorly that night. My dreams were all of the Plantagenet family. They were on a tournament field. Eleanor, tall, regal, straight-backed and porcelain-skinned as when she was young. Richard, her favored son, tall, auburn-haired like his mother, and beautifully formed, with burgeoning shoulders on his slender, adolescent figure. And of course there was Henry, large, broad-shouldered, gruff, in rough, stained clothes and smelling of horses and the outdoors. In the sheer mass of his figure and his blunt, aggressive features, his power overshadowed the others. They faded from my presence, one by one. All except Henry.

The sun, already high in the sky, sent a ray across my face. I stirred. Returning to this world, my thoughts flew immediately to the child. What was it that Eleanor could tell me that I did not already know? What gem of information could she offer that would change the past? Or the future? The child was dead.

I sat up suddenly. What if, by some incredible chance, the child had survived? If there was any possibility at all … if Eleanor had such news, it was my right to have it. And have it I would!

I moved now with purpose but also with a heavy head, albeit one cooler than was the case the night before. My two timid maids, after tentatively peeking inward to the chamber, advanced slowly toward my bed and helped me rise and dress. They chattered as they brought me cheese and bread and wine for my morning meal. I answered pleasantly enough, but all the while I was considering Eleanor's strange request. While I waited for Tom of Caedwyd to appear, I riffled absently through a few of the new manuscripts that had come in from Córdoba. It was from Eleanor that I had learned to love the poetry of the Arabs in Hispania.

Then I began walking, restlessly, my fingers searching the golden jeweled pendant I wore. I felt the cool cut of the ruby set deep within it and the gold filigree of the setting. I could make out, too, the fine engraving on the back. Duke William had brought the jewel back from his captivity in Córdoba. It found its way to his granddaughter Eleanor, then to Richard, and then to me. The engraving was one line of Arabic poetry from the great poet Ibn al-Faridh:
DEATH THROUGH LOVE IS LIFE.
In a way the intensity of the sentiment, its many-layered meaning, reminded me more of Eleanor than of Richard.

A scratch at the door interrupted my reverie and alerted my maids to the arrival of the courier. They scurried to admit him. Tom had to bend his frame to enter, and I could see that Mimi and Justine were impressed by his height and by the mysterious shuttered eye unadorned by any patch.

After I dismissed my maids, I gave Tom my hand to kiss. Then I walked over to the table that contained my beloved manuscripts and, half sitting against it, folded my arms and regarded him well. Tom remained where I had left him, waiting.

“You've come for my answer.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Tom was a perfect king's man. Neither obsequious nor lacking in respect, he simply stood, tall as a lance and just as quiet. He spoke now in the king's English, no trace of his Celtic origins.

“Do you know what this letter contains?” I asked.

“As to its general contents, yes. As to its particulars, I have not read it.” Tom had the kind of face and demeanor that led one to believe he truly had not broken that royal seal to satisfy his curiosity. But then he had no need to do so if Eleanor had explained the contents to him.

“I understand that your mistress Queen Eleanor is on her way to Hispania right now, to fetch the Princess Blanche for the wedding here in Paris.”

“That is true.”

“Since she is gone, who will receive my answer to this request?” I prodded him, partly in jest.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lower face.

“If you agree to the task that the queen has set for you, there is no need for a reply. I am instructed to accompany you to England.”

“And if I choose not to undertake this unusual and”—I lifted my brows—“somewhat dangerous task? Who gets that report?”

“In that case I return to Fontrevault Abbey and report to the Abbess Charlotte.”

“My aunt Charlotte? Is she a party to this?” I had no need to pretend surprise.

“I do not know. I only know that Queen Eleanor said if you refused her request, I should inform the abbess.” He coughed here, hesitating. “My lady, as you know, Queen Eleanor has been a guest at Fontrevault Abbey for nearly five winters. During that time the queen and your aunt have become … quite close.”

“I see.” I paced to the window and opened the shutters, looking down on the Seine below. Boatmen, ordinary people bundled in dark cloaks and red scarves, were polling their barges toward the palace docks and calling to one another. Across the river on the right bank, groups gathered on corners near the food stalls as the noon hour approached. The sight of Paris on a common day, going about its business, centered me. In a way it reduced the agitation that had been building since I'd read Eleanor's letter the night before. I found then the courage to ask my next question.