Canterbury Papers (7 page)

I snapped the lid shut and surveyed the room again, but nothing seemed amiss. A quick check of my leather sack showed my few clothes slightly rumpled but all accounted for.

My next act was to throw open the shutters of the window. I felt violated, and I wanted the strange scent gone from my space. I leaned over the sill and looked out onto the harbor, breathing deeply. The rain had abated finally. With the passing of the clouds, the moon had made a delayed appearance. The boats bobbing in the water seemed peacefully oblivious to the recent storm. But my soul was puzzled and very unquiet.

I
knew I should not sleep well that night, but I burrowed under the pile of wool blankets the inn provided with some hope that after the buzz of the events of the evening inside my head diminished, I should receive some surcease in the arms of Morpheus. Alas, it was not to be. But it was not the unsettling meeting with the master nor the mysterious intrusion into my chamber that distracted me. It was the cloudy memory of a long-ago scene with William of Caen that overtook me, almost as if it were summoned.

This kind of imaging has never frightened me. I consider such visitations a gift. As an artist, and one who often draws what is not yet visible, I am not afraid of visions. It matters little whether they be memories of events or scenes of the future. But this night images from my past well nigh overwhelmed me.

I supposed it was triggered by my uncle's news that William of Caen was acting prior at Canterbury. As I closed my eyes, the picture of William of Caen backed onto the stage of my mind. He was just as he had been as a child, short and slight. His face, when he turned toward me, was still covered with a blush so severe it looked like a rash.

I saw him cowering on the field outside of Caen, having watched King Louis's soldiers impale his English father on a spear before his very eyes. He was discovered, it was said, when the knights made a last pass through the field after the battle noise had faded. Of course I was not there. Being only a child myself, I was kept at the castle with Queen Eleanor and her daughters, but now I could see it all: the frightened little boy huddled by his dead father, the tall, commanding William Marshal, Henry's chief knight, impulsively scooping him up into his saddle as he cantered by.

And with the face of that little boy came tumbling the memories of my school days with my sister, Marguerite, and the children of Henry and Eleanor. Especially the princes.

Since the orphan lad didn't know—or was too terrified to tell—his given name, he was named for his savior William Marshal, and the great man became the little boy's patron at court, sort of his
beau-père.
Young William was a terribly bright lad, well mannered beyond his years (some thought), and at the top of his form with the tutors William Marshal provided. Soon even King Harry noticed him and took him into his own household. He began having his lessons with us, and that is when his troubles began.

What drove the young princes wild was William Orphan's constant humility, so different from their own bold approach to life. William never volunteered an answer but was always ready when the masters called upon him. He never came to the Latin lessons without his reading, as the rest did. And when he got a right answer, he seemed more embarrassed than the princes when they had no answer.

The princes' annoyance reached a pinnacle one fine summer afternoon when Master Clement pointed out to the king how good William was at his studies and not very diplomatically compared Richard's and Geoffrey's indifferent performances to that of the orphan. King Henry summoned all of the young princes before him, even John, who was too young to be in school yet, to inform them that William's example was the one to follow. “By God's hair!” he bellowed. (I wasn't there, but later Geoffrey did his usual absolutely accurate rendition of his father's famous rage.) “How can an orphan outperform the sons of a king?” He paused (Geoffrey said), and his sons, lined up before him, hands clasped behind their backs and legs straight apart, waited; then he answered his own question in an even louder voice: “Because they are lazy, arrogant, and stupid.” And he walked down the line and slapped each one lightly across each cheek. Not exactly a knighting.

Geoffrey was all for beating up the little runt after that, but Henry Court Mantel dissuaded him. Prince Henry was the eldest son and had just a touch more common sense than the others. He had learned from an early age that just a bit of restraint helped avoid an even greater punishment in that chaotic household. He did not want to provoke his father's wrath yet again, especially over that pipsqueak. But they all agreed one fateful night, when we met in the barn under the moonlight, that William Orphan was a dreadful creature and should be taught a lesson. I stood in the corner listening and hated William, too, on behalf of my stepbrothers, whom I adored.

I could still summon William's voice from the incident that happened the next day. Young William had taken the prize in Latin, hanging his head shyly as he always did when he won. The young princes were sorely put out. They lured him to the barn to play, then blindfolded him and, turning him till he was dizzy, pushed him from one to the other while he screamed in fear. I cheered my heroes on from a safe distance.

William Marshal himself happened to be passing and heard the screams. He stuck his head in the door and put a stop to the teasing with one intimidating bark. The young princes fell back in chagrin, and the marshal himself whipped the blindfold off the beleaguered boy. Then he stalked out of the barn without a word, and the young princes dispersed just as quickly. I was rooted in the corner, where I had fled when the marshal appeared.

William Orphan stood in the middle of the barn turning about with a slightly dazed air. When he finally stood still and saw me, I held my breath. Silence draped over us, like a heavy fog. He stared at me, and his eyes locked with mine. His look was not so much blaming as quizzing me, and somehow that embarrassed me more. At that moment I wished I could say I was sorry, but instead I simply ran past him and out into the open.

That night at supper, the king was angry. We knew that William Marshal would report the incident. Nevertheless, when the king called young William to him and asked for an account of the bullying scene, we all became very quiet. Although we could see his skinny legs shaking beneath his tunic, to William Orphan's credit he would not give evidence against his tormentors. He said in his high child's voice, “It was only a game, Your Grace. The princes meant no harm.” Henry said to his shamefaced sons, “This young orphan knows more about the kingly gesture than you do.” There was no need for a slap on the cheek this time. The burning, quiet words of the king were enough.

After these events marched through my mind, I began to search for other images in my quest for sleep. But I kept seeing only the scrawny little boy bravely facing the king. And I knew I must draw him one day. Finally even he faded.

The last thought I had before sleep overtook me was an odd one. There must be more to the history of my jeweled pendant than I knew, to have it attract the attention of Master Averroës. Where could I find more information on the inscription? But then I knew: Was I not headed for the center of all learning in England, Canterbury Abbey? Of course! Prior William could send me to the best scholar on Islam at the abbey. Perhaps there was a monk who would know why the work of Ibn al-Faridh was so compelling. Because I was becoming increasingly certain that the master was not the only person interested in my jewel. Someone else had sought it in my chamber this very eve, and been sorely disappointed.

T
here were no strangers in evidence the next morning when our small party gathered at the appointed hour at the inn's hostelry. I tried to put the disturbing incidents of the night before out of my mind, but they kept picking at me like impatient insects. For some obscure reason, I forbore to mention either the encounter with Averroës or the ransacked chamber to Tom. Perhaps prompted by a concern for his quiet mind.

When we reached Canterbury two days later, the sun was settling into the trees, leaving that complicated rosy-yellow smear against the western sky that spring evenings sometimes offer in Kent. The color put me in mind of some dimly remembered feeling from my youth, some formless yearning. I paused to study the sky as if it were a work by a friendly artist.

My companions pulled alongside my horse. Tom, sensing my mood, waited. Roland spoke, looking upward. “Rain tomorrow, there's no doubt.” He turned to me. “My father was raised by a fisherman off the south coast of Brittany. He taught me how to read the sky at sunset when I was only seven summers.”

I sighed. I didn't want to discourage the lad, but I wondered when it was that young men ever got the hang of the blessing of silence at moments like these. I looked over at Tom and saw that he followed my thoughts. He grinned. Our sharp exchange at the Boar's Head Inn had been forgotten, and I was grateful.

Within the hour we cantered up to the imposing gates of the town. The high stone wall extended nearly as far as we could see, but the iron gates that tied it together were more formidable by far. The gates were composed of high vertical spikes that were attached to two equally long horizontal spikes, and all could swing open only if someone inside undid the huge lock. But as I gazed through the guesthouse window inside the gate, I saw that the porter appeared to be dozing on his chair. He did not look as if he had any particular interest in our small cluster of dusty travelers.

“Ho, porter, we come as pilgrims to visit the tomb of the martyr!” Tom shouted through the gates, with impressive authority. “The Lady Alaïs is a princess of France and wishes entrance to the abbey.”

With that the porter came alive, jumping from his chair. He emerged from his little house, rattling his keys.

“Sorry, sir knight. Sorry, milady. Prior William knows of your coming. Brother Dermott, the abbey's hosteler, is even now on his way to receive you.” He gestured up the hill.

A tall, brown-robed figure could be seen hurrying down the worn path from the looming cathedral, the cord around his waist flapping. He was struggling to hold his cowl forward against the wind that had come up with the sunset. “I'll wager this is Brother Dermott,” Tom offered dryly, shading his eyes with his hand.

I turned my attention to the scene around me. A large clump of stone buildings stood directly uphill from the road leading in from the gate: the cathedral and the abbey cloisters. Between us and the cathedral complex, there lay a broad dirt commons filled with the busyness of town life. Tradesmen had set up their stalls ringing the inside of the town walls. A huge market was just being dismantled, and voices still bantered on the dusk air. Men and women called to one another across space filled with little children, a cacophony of pleasant, human discourse. Two horsemen cantered by, their saddlebags bulging with the fruits of their afternoon's efforts and another old cart laden with one farmer's goods waited to be let out of the town gates. The rich smell of roasted birds that had fed many a customer this day still hung over all. I suddenly bethought myself of my own hunger.

The grand cathedral on the rise of land dominated the scene, surveying the surrounds like the haughty noblewoman that she was. Augustine's cathedral. Becket's cathedral. Seven hundred years old. Seat of all ecclesial power in England, greater even than York. And attached to her sides, like extended arms, were the long, windowless, rectangular stone buildings of the abbey. I had been to Canterbury. I knew that on the other side of those blind walls lived an entirely different world: quiet cloister walks, herb gardens, grass and bushes and contemplative silence. So different from the busy town that lay before us.

“Welcome, welcome, noble knights.” Brother Dermott was huffing as he reached us. “Princess Alaïs of France, the abbey welcomes you especially, on your pilgrimage to the martyr Becket's tomb. Prior William has instructed that I bring you to him upon your arrival—after, of course, you have been shown your room and refreshed yourself.” He was a long, thin monk, ascetic-looking for a hosteler.

“How is it Prior William knew of our coming?” I was puzzled. Who would have sent couriers? Philippe? It seemed unlikely. Queen Eleanor herself? Brother Dermott chose not to hear my question.

“Indeed, my lady, your aunt, Abbess Charlotte of Fontrevault, also awaits your coming.” Now I was genuinely startled.

“Charlotte! Here? And they expect us?”

“Prior William has arranged for the knights to stay in the village at the Lion's Paw Inn, Your Grace.” Brother Dermott seemed skilled socially beyond his station, and this news was imparted with a combination of courtesy and firmness that brooked no resistance.

I turned to him to protest, but before I could speak, he cleared his throat. “Ah, in recent years, since the death of the archbishop, armed knights are not allowed to stay overnight in the abbey.”

“You mean I am to stay without the protection of my knights?” I was outraged. And of a sudden, for the first time on this remarkable journey, I felt a cold finger of fear.

I collected myself immediately. It has always been my practice to heed feelings of fear but not to be overcome by them. Besides, the martyr's death. How could I protest? “I understand,” I said.

Tom appeared even more unsettled by this news than I. He handed my horse to the brother groom who came forward for the reins, conferred for a moment with the other knights, and then turned to me.

“Please, do not concern yourselves,” I said, before he could speak. “I have nothing to fear in this abbey. Prior William will guarantee my safety. And after all, my aunt Charlotte is here. There is no need for worry.”

“How long will Your Grace remain with us?” Brother Dermott asked as the grooms pulled my dusty bags from the horse's back.