Canterbury Papers (19 page)

A recollection of Eleanor seated at this desk years ago formed. This same desk. And the picture of her talking to me: “Come here, young Alaïs. I shall show you a great secret. This is a very special desk.”

I sat again on the chair and pulled the top of the desk toward me. It opened as I remembered, making a writing ledge. The inside was as dusty as the legs had been before my feet crushed the webs. I ran my finger along the inside, pulled it out, and saw a neat row of dust along my index finger.

I pulled out the drawer, placed three fingers of my right hand along the inside wall of the desk frame, and pressed, repeating this as I moved along the length of the desk. Suddenly I heard the slight sound of a spring. The side gave way, falling outward, and I felt a hollow of some significant space under my fingers. I let out a breath of satisfaction.

I explored this area, my fingers edging as far as they could stretch. I wasn't certain what I expected to find, but an excitement began to course through me. What if…?

And I was rewarded. A torn edge of parchment touched my searching fingers. I wiggled them, trying to coax the page closer, to capture it. But a sudden noise distracted me.

I quickly pushed the sidepiece up until I heard it snap into place, replaced the drawer, and then sat with my hands folded upon the top of the desk. There was a faint shuffle just outside the door that led to the tower stairs.

I was looking out the small aperture near the desk, turning slowly, when I heard the noise of someone on the threshold.

There, outlined in the golden afternoon light, breathing heavily from her climb, was the lovely Queen Isabelle. I didn't have to feign surprise.

I
thought good Robert of Warwick told me John had departed this fortress.”

She stood in the doorway, poised for a dramatic entrance and doubtless pleased to see me look so startled. She appeared changed, though I couldn't quite place the difference. Perhaps her eyes, rimmed now with dark half-moons, small pouches of fluid under them marring her high, aristocratic cheekbones. I did not rise.

“And so he has.” Despite her deep breathing, she appeared insouciant as she entered my chamber without an invitation. “The king left at sunset last evening. He was in a terrible temper.” She strolled across the room and seated herself in the chair John had favored on their earlier visit. She crossed her arms and leaned casually forward on the table. Gradually her rapid breathing eased, while a slight dew formed on her upper lip. “I spent the night in the royal apartments next door,” she added.

“Please sit down.” Now I rose, curtsied, and gestured to the chair she had already taken. She only smiled. “And as long as you're here, why not ask the guards to bring in some bread and wine? It's getting late in the day.”

“In fact, I have already done so,” she said. “They still keep a fine cellar here, and I thought good wine might aid our conversation.” Isabelle seemed to have several persons at her disposal. The one who just spoke was the chatelaine, the
grande dame
, thoughtful and bountiful.

“And what is our topic to be?” I was put in mind of Isabelle's southern roots. The Aquitaine produced poets and diplomats and florid speechmakers. They never liked straight talk as the plain-speaking English did. If Isabelle controlled it, this could be an interminable interview.

“I don't know why you're pouting,” she said. “I thought you'd be glad of the company.”

I did not want Isabelle asking questions about the writing desk so I crossed to the table, where she sat, taking the chair opposite her.

“Did John depart so quickly that he left his queen behind?” I deliberately made it sound like an oversight.

“John never sleeps at Sarum.” She was unruffled. “He prefers Clarendon. He says his own father would never stay here after he brought Queen Eleanor to this place.”

“And you? Why are you still here if John is gone?”

“I wanted to talk with you one last time.”

“You stayed behind on my account? How touching.” I felt drug fatigue creep back into my bones. “Just a friendly talk
entre nous.”
I leaned my head against the high back of the heavy chair. The late-afternoon western light was casting golden shafts across the floor through the wall slits.

“Isabelle,” I began, putting my fingers to my temples to ward off the ache I felt return just behind my eyes, “I appreciate your position. If I were married to John, I'd do what he ordered, as you do. He is unreliable, given to fits of temper, crafty, and dangerous.”

“You have no—”

“Oh, yes, I do.” I sat forward and slapped my open hand on the table. “They almost forced me to marry that … marry John, once. When Richard was captured by the Hoenstauffen crowd on the way home from the crusades. My brother was intriguing with John to steal England from Richard while he was away. Did you know they offered to pay Leopold and the emperor one thousand silver marks for every month they kept Richard captive? Just so they could carve up his kingdom.” I leaned forward on my right elbow. “John himself came to the castle at Rouen where Eleanor confined me after King Henry died, and gloated over the fact that he would soon wed me, and that our son would rule over both England and France.”

“And how did—”

“I spit on him. He was rude and lascivious, and he deserved it. I said I'd see us both in hell first.” At this Isabelle's reserve wavered. Her eyes widened. “Anyway, Richard came home and took back his crown, and John skittered away like a wounded lapdog.”

I jabbed my finger in her general direction. “Richard forgave him, but John was always faithless. At the end of King Henry's life, John—the favored son, mind you—was the only one who continued to intrigue against his father.” My tone softened. “I wouldn't trust your John, if I were you. He'll do the same to you, if it serves any expedient end.”

Isabelle sat silent as a rock. The only movement in her face was that of her brown eyes snapping at me.

“Now, as to the purpose of this conversation.” I became suddenly brisk. “You want to know about the letters. I know no more about these phantom letters—either set—than I knew yesterday. I can tell you no more now than I could then.”

I broke off as we heard a shuffling on the stairs, clearly the step of a woman. So Robert of Warwick had lied when he said there were no servant women in this place! More intimidation.

“Place the tray there.” Isabelle gestured toward the table when the girl entered. I noticed the heavy hips, the blunt facial features, the hostile look the girl cast at her mistress as she complied. Probably a local peasant girl pressed into service. I wished I had my charcoal and parchment to draw her face. What a picture of naked resentment. Isabelle watched the girl go, waiting until she disappeared through the door before speaking again.

“John thinks otherwise. He thinks you know more than you have told.” She turned to face me. “You have all but admitted that his mother sent you to Canterbury. You can hardly deny that it was to collect the letters. And”—she paused, spreading her hands as if to denote her helplessness in the face of overwhelming evidence—“he knows that you would never, ever, in this lifetime, make any pilgrimage to pray at Becket's tomb.”

“Apparently everyone knows that.” I pressed my lips against the urge to laugh. “I'll make you a bargain, Isabelle.” The sight of the food was distracting. I absently wondered if Isabelle were the hostess, or if it was my responsibility to begin the meal. “If you promise to bring me charcoal and parchment so that I can draw, I'll tell you what I know.”

“Charcoal?” Her voice rose. “How strange. Why not a better bargain? Your freedom, for example, in exchange for your information?”

“I try not to make witless bargains.” I poured the wine into two heavy earthenware cups and handed one across to Isabelle. “You have no authority to free me. But I'm certain you could manage the charcoal if you chose.”

She raised her goblet to me. “Well said. John told me you were no fool.”

“I'm sorry I don't know you well enough yet to return the compliment. Will you send for drawing materials?”

“Yes. You have my word on it,” she said, purring like a cat. I scanned her face. I could do a lovely portrait of that face, I thought, despite the thin lips. With the full sun on it, perhaps in a garden or by the sea. Yes, by the sea. She would make a long sea journey one day. “Now, tell me what you know,” she continued, unaware of my distance from her.

I sighed as I moved my attention back to the newly laid tray. Awkward as always with the use of only one hand, I broke off a piece of the brown bread and laid it in front of me. Peeking under the white kitchen cloth, I discovered boiled fruit and scooped some into a small bowl.

“There is one other condition.” I spoke while managing the bread and without looking her way. “You must tell me why John thinks I know where the child is.”

She was clearly startled. “Alaïs, you must not pay too much attention to what John says when he is in the grip of anger.”

I waved away her comment with the knife I had just picked up. “Tell me why he thinks I know the whereabouts of his rival, and I'll tell you in turn what I do know.” I used the knife to cut the cheese and then put it on the bread, all with my good hand. Isabelle watched me with a detached curiosity.

She hesitated, weighing the options like turnips. “I can tell you this,” she finally said, her two hands now expertly gathering her own food. “This rumor that a rival claimant to the throne exists is a dangerous one. Whether legitimate or no, if such a man exists—and he is a man by this time—he will attract followers. He may become a rallying point for activities against the king. Indeed, that has already come to pass. The Templars have got wind of this young man's existence, and we know they are about to threaten John with him.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“John thinks you may have known the whereabouts of the child all these years.”

So much for what John knows, I thought. I determined to change the flow of our talk. “But, Isabelle, how could anyone oppose John now? Even Eleanor supports him. All his lawful brothers are dead: William, Henry Court Mantel, Geoffrey, and Richard. Even Arthur is dead.” With satisfaction, I watched her wince. So she did have some suspicion of John's dark deeds. A picture of John, in the late night, unable to sleep, finding solace in Isabelle's slim arms passed before me.

“Arthur was no real threat to John. But he seems to have disappeared anyway in that castle in Brittany where his uncle king had locked him up. Now there is no one to stand between John and England.” I threw a questioning look her way. “Mayhap his own folly has alienated some. But he is surely the last of Eleanor and Henry's sons with a clear right to the throne.”

Isabelle shifted her position, turning sideways so I could not see her face clearly. “John's position is fragile. He believes if the youth appears, things will become even more difficult for him. He knows not where it would end.”

“Curious. I can't imagine Eleanor writing any letters that would harm any of her sons, even John.” I paused, then said wickedly, “So tell me: Why doesn't John just ask Eleanor what the letters reveal?”

“He has,” Isabelle rejoined, picking at her food with a silver fork. I was ravenously gulping my portion. “Eleanor will tell him nothing. She claims there were no letters at all written at Old Sarum. But his sources tell him otherwise. He flew into a rage when he had her reply. You saw him yesterday when you brought the subject up.”

Yes, out of control, I thought.

“She doesn't much like John, does she? He doesn't know why.”

“Of course he does.” I took a long draft of wine, carefully blotting my lips with the
serviette.
“First of all, she didn't want him when he was born, and he knows that. She and King Henry were already estranged. So she left him to be raised by Henry, who then spoiled him to spite Eleanor. John's revenge on everyone was to behave badly all 'round. How could anyone like him? Sorry,” I added, but when I looked up Isabelle only met my eyes with a mildly reproving look. In truth, what did I expect? After all, he'd given her a crown. How could she do otherwise than support him?

“Now you must keep your part of the bargain.” Isabelle spoke suddenly, her tone firm, her gaze direct. The woman narrowed her cat's eyes, searching my face. “What did Eleanor promise you in return for retrieving her letters?”

“I went because I was bored at the French court,” I announced, dipping my fingers in the bowl of water the servant had placed with our food. I carefully twisted the linen between them. My left hand remained in my lap. “Everyone is obsessed with the coming royal wedding. I was eager for the excuse to get free.”

“Do you tell me that it was only a whim sent you to England in this cold spring weather?” Her mocking laughter ricocheted around the room. “Come now! I know that Eleanor promised you something!”

I solemnly shook my head and held up one hand, as if taking an oath. “Just an adventure.”

Isabelle watched me with a thoughtful expression on her pretty face. Then, all at once she became coy, plucking her skirts. She spoke hesitantly. “The second set of letters—we think they may include letters written by Eleanor to your father.”

“King Louis?” I was jolted, in spite of myself. “Surely after Eleanor's divorce from him there was no correspondence between them. He was exceedingly bitter about her quick marriage to Henry. Everyone knew that.” All the servants in the kitchen at Chinon knew it, I recalled.

“Yes, he was especially bitter when Henry went off and took the English throne the following year.” Isabelle flashed a look my way, but I busied myself pouring more wine. “We do know that after the early years with Henry, Eleanor went back to intriguing against him with Louis. Her letters undoubtedly would be treasonous, if for no other reason than that they were addressed to Henry's prime enemy.”