Canterbury Papers (15 page)

An evening supper was brought to my guesthouse, but I could do no more than pick at the breads on the tray. I sampled the wine but found I had no taste for it. I occupied myself with my drawing and my thoughts until the light in my guesthouse faded entirely.

When the bells rang for Compline, I put on warm woolen wraps for my legs and folded a wool scarf around my shoulders under my cloak, should I need a covering for my head in that dank cathedral. I dreaded the bone-soaking cold more than the loneliness of the vigil, but I could think of no other way to get the hidden letters.

Brother Dermott arrived soon after to escort me to evening prayers. As we walked through the night air, I told him of my desire to stay and pray alone for an hour at the tomb of the martyr, since I had now been forbidden my all-night watch. After a moment of thought, he agreed to leave me alone for a short time for prayer and contemplation. I wondered what William would say to this if he heard, but I was happy to take what I could get from Brother Dermott.

I asked him about the result of the apothecary's examination of the man from the south. He said, “He found no trace of foul play. He thinks that perhaps his heart gave out. But no one knows what he was doing in the abbey at all, nor how he got past the porter at the town gates. No one saw him before his death, yet his clothing clearly marks him as a stranger.” Dermott shook his head. “It is a mystery.”

“Will Prior William be at Compline this even?” I was already preparing myself for interference from William in my revised plan, should he discover it.

“No, Prior William has left for London on urgent business. He won't return until tomorrow nightfall.”

I was oddly disconcerted at this piece of news. Now I would not see William again, as I was determined to leave this abbey early in the morn. Somehow our brief encounter after all these years seemed incomplete.

Brother Dermott accompanied me into the darkened cathedral. It was mysterious to be in a church at night, especially one so cavernous. The candles carried by the monks cast sporadic light in the recesses of the side altars. The drafts caused wavering shadows as the monks made their orderly procession into their choir stalls. The chanting began. First the clear voice of the cantor rang out like an alto bell, then the musical rumble of the monks as they answered one another, like dueling choirs of black-robed angels. I marked the beauty of the chant, all simple, all rational, a sea of musical worship filled with light. In spite of all this, I was possessed of a dark foreboding.

Dermott escorted me to a place of honor in the nave near the choir. I knew he would return at the end of the prayer and lead me to the martyr's altar. As the last strains of plainsong fell and the echo from the cathedral's stone walls likewise drifted off, one by one the monks filed out with their candles. Brother Dermott appeared at my side with, wonder of wonders, two torches. He handed one to me and motioned me to follow.

When we arrived at Becket's Chapel, he lit the tall tallow candles in the holders on the altar from the torch fire he carried. He placed several more candles beside me on the stone steps, as if provisioning me for a long journey. Then he placed both of the torches we carried in the sconces on the wall.

I had brought a small pillow for my knees, and he smiled slightly when I pulled it out from under my cloak. It struck me that Brother Dermott might be close to my age and have aches of his own. I grinned at him amiably. Still, even after I was settled kneeling on the
prie-dieu
, he seemed to linger. Finally I asked, “Yes, Brother? What is it?”

He demurred. “If you should want for anything, Your Grace, I leave this bell for you. Just ring it. Someone will hear. There's a fearsome echo in this church. And a warden monk is always sleeping in the passageway between the church and the cloister. I'll return within the hour.”

“Thank you, Brother. I'm right grateful for your thought.” I truly was touched, although my impatience for him to be gone was mounting. I wanted to get to my task before my time disappeared. “I will await your return.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and jammed his hands into the sleeves of his habit, in that way monks have. Then he faded noiselessly away, leaving me to marvel how a Lincoln man could speak so smoothly when he chose, almost like a Parisian courtier. It must have been Richard's influence.

The great cathedral had darkened now, except for the pool of light in my small chapel area. It had much the same feel at the end of Maundy Thursday when the pomp and ceremony of the bishops' washing of feet was over. As a child I always feared the moment when we faithful, putting on our shoes again and taking up our staffs, departed. Our footsteps echoed mournfully as one by one the torches and candles were doused to signify the end of Christ's life.

I knew I had to wait until all likelihood of being discovered had passed before I could begin. It was difficult. I was known for my patience when I was young, but the habit had departed. Perhaps the uncertainties of living with Henry and Eleanor had left their mark on me. I wanted now to accomplish my task as quickly as possible. But I knew if some stray monk should chance on me while I was loosening the bricks behind the altar, I should have much to explain. Pilgrim indeed! And while William might wink should he hear such a tale, there was no telling who else was in the abbey. The memory of my eyes meeting those of the young brother at the end of the table at lunch still unsettled me. Could he be connected to John?

My hip began to pain me again. I could scarcely wait for my task to be accomplished and thought with longing of my cozy guesthouse.

I tried to call up pictures from my childhood. There were such marvels that came to mind from time to time. Riding hard in Normandy, across the plains south of Rouen. Christmas in Chinon Castle, with Henry and Eleanor getting along for once and a goose larger than any I had ever seen brought into the hall for our Christmas dinner. Languid summers in Poitiers, where we all read and wrote to our hearts' ease, taking delight in each other's
poésie.
Richard was always the best. He knew how to put into words what we others thought. He had his mother's gift that way. I fingered my pendant, the only thing I still carried with me from those magical years. The shadow of Henry's wrath hovered over us, but I was too young to know it fully. It was only later that I learned.

Memories flitted through my mind like fireflies. Had I my charcoal with me in this cold cathedral, I could not have drawn one picture from my musings. Not one image stayed in my head, only the feeling of those times. Wind on my face, freedom, joy in a celebration, quiet happiness of being near my first love.

I caught myself as I nearly fell forward. I must have been asleep on my knees. Surely now it was late enough for me to act. I listened for a long moment. There was not a sound, not even the small scurrying of a cathedral mouse. I could proceed to search for the packet without fear of discovery.

My last feelings, just before the hands seized me, were of my cold limbs. My last memory before darkness was of a trivial nature. I recall noticing the torches lining the cathedral walls and the leaping shadows that sprang from their fire to perform a macabre dance as if for my entertainment. They reminded me of a traveling dance troupe from Venice I once saw, tall, thin figures garbed in black cloaks and doublets, rising and falling like shafts of dark water in rhythm. The cold gusts of air feeding the torches seemed to increase as I watched, as if doors had opened somewhere. I should have been warned, but instead I paid no attention.

So engaged was I in that arduous task of rising that I failed to hear the slight sound behind me that would have signaled my fate. Instead I was taken completely by surprise. The only thing I felt was a strong arm around my neck, another around my waist and—before I could cry out—I smelled the thick, sweet scent of a mandrake-soaked cloth. Unforgiving hands clapped it against my face, and all went dark.

 

I
seemed to be struggling upward with a heavy heart. I could see far below, into a valley. There was snow, a whiteness that was nearly blinding. Then I found what I sought. A small child, a dot of red on the snow, using a pine bough to stave off howling animals that surrounded him.

There was no one to help, no other sign of color on the ground below. I was the only one. Would I give up this loved child to these wolves? I knew I was wounded, but I stretched my wings wide. I felt the power of the black wingspan as the cold air invaded my lungs, and I knew I could do this thing. If only I had the sight in both my eyes again, as once I did. If only the snow were not so white. I circled twice and made ready to dive.

But someone held me back. There were hands on me, and a shaking that was not caused by the wind. I resisted and fell back into my dreams, but the flight was ended. The snow and the child had faded.

Now it was summer. I knew because I could smell the scent. I could feel the summer breeze, and before me young Richard sprang over a low wall. He had the start of a fuzzy red beard on his chin, and we were surrounded by the garden flowers of Poitou. He stood gazing down at me. The flower scent was powerful, unusual. A bee, or many bees, were buzzing around us, creating a sound that grew in my ears. The sunlight fashioned a halo around his head. The aura expanded. Light was taking over.

“
Princesse
Alaïs, can you hear me?” A voice reached me from afar. It seemed to be a woman calling.

“
Princesse
, I think you are waking now. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

Something in the voice caught at me, like the siren calling Odysseus. I could not refuse. I began a movement toward the voice, leaving behind first the images, then the buzzing, moving always toward the voice, which seemed to be in the light. I felt now as if I were coming up from a deep well. Only the smell, those unusual flowers, followed, a trailing, bittersweet fog.

“Please open your eyes if you can hear me.”

I had been summoned. I did as I was bidden, for some reason seeming to have no will of my own. The sight that met my eyes was a small face quite close to my own, with wide brown eyes, a pert nose, and the dark skin of a woman from the South of France. In the background low voices murmured.

I closed my eyes, hoping the rich, sweet, familiar scent that hung around me still would subside before I became sick.

Then I opened them again, slowly. The face no longer hovered over me, but a woman's voice spoke. “I think she is finally coming 'round.”

“It's about time.” A man spoke from across the room. I could hear his impatience. The voice had a familiar ring, but the identity was just out of reach. The murmuring stopped.

The canopy over me wavered. My unsteady gaze traveled around the heavily curtained bed hung with wine-colored velvet pulled back and tied at each corner. Through the wide triangle between the curtains, I saw a room of whiteness. The ceiling was white, the walls coming down from it were white, and a white light filled the room. There must be many wall openings to allow such light. My head throbbed, but gently. Little by little the bright light became bearable. Forms and shapes attached themselves to voices.

My right elbow pressed into the bed, I began the considerable task of raising my body to better see where I was. As I attempted to steady myself, I heard a rustle and felt a small but strong arm slip under my shoulders. I was surprised that someone wished me well enough for that gesture. For I did not imagine for a moment, even in my confused state, that I was among friends.

When I had attained a sitting position, I had to fight another wave of blurred lines, but then my vision began to clear. Someone placed pillows behind my back and adjusted the fur rugs over my lap.

I tried to make sense of the present. I seemed to be in layers of clothing, more than I had need of, even though the air in the room was chill and the wind whistled outside the narrow openings in the wall. The maroon wool cloak lined in fox that lay around my shoulders and the spring-green wool gown under it were my own. In the grate a fire burned. I could feel wool wraps around my legs and wondered briefly why I would be wearing such extra clothing. I had no memory of putting these things on nor indeed of anything that had happened to bring me here.

Then I surveyed the room, or what I could see of it. It appeared to be a large rectangle made entirely of whitewashed stone, with my bed at one end and a large table up against the wall at the other. The stones were clean and smooth. I focused on the intricate way they had been arranged, as if each had been specially cut and polished for its particular place. The room gave the impression of spaciousness, although I judged that it was in truth no larger than the dressing room of my apartments in Paris. Many long, slender openings in the wall allowed light to come in, but the openings were situated in such a way that I knew I was in a fortress. The place seemed familiar. Had I been here before? Or just dreamed it?

“Is she awake enough to answer questions?” The importunate man spoke again. There was a strange, regular noise, like a cork popping from a bottle.

My eyes drifted across the room to the source of the voice. I squinted to improve my vision. A slender, dark-haired man sat at the far table, playing with a jewel-handled dagger. He flipped it over, the jewels glinting in the morning light. There was another popping sound as the point stuck in the table. The jewels swayed. When he looked my way and saw me watching, he stood up and jerked the dagger from the table, jamming it into his belt as he came across the room. A small white terrier followed this lanky form, happily wagging its stunted tail.

“Oh, no.” The words slipped out as he came near. “Not you.”

He was older now, and leaner than I remembered him, but it was unmistakably John Plantagenet, he whom his brothers had called Lackland. The strong chin jutting forward clearly marked him a Plantagenet, while the insistent eyebrows, growing into a perpetual frown in the middle of his forehead, and his small eyes set him apart from his handsome brothers.