Canterbury Papers (24 page)

“Your Grace, I see you recognize Sir William's young clerk.”

I was caught unawares and turned swiftly to Sir Richard. How dare this man observe me? My face must have registered my thought. “I mean no disrespect, my lady,” he added hastily. “I simply saw your glance. The young clerk was taking his orders in the foyer from Sir William when I entered the manor tonight.”

“I don't know him,” I lied. “I've not seen him before. I only heard his laughter, and that drew my notice.”

“Your Grace, I have a question for you, just to satisfy my curiosity.” Sir Richard apparently had collected himself and thought of another way to hold my attention.

“Yes, Sir Richard?” I found that my appetite had fled, and I allowed the servant to take away the silver plate with my roast kid untouched.

His voice was artless, as if he asked about the weather. “How is it you knew that King John was in Wiltshire this fortnight?”

“Why, I saw him myself,” I said, putting on a cheerful countenance. “King John is my kinsman, you must know. It would be a natural thing that we should meet. And Queen Isabelle as well.”

His mouth dropped, but he recovered and made a smile out of the gesture.

“But now I hear he has moved north,” I continued, nodding to the servant who appeared over my shoulder with yet another dish. “Is that not so?”

Like a willing circus bear, the knight responded. “That is secret information, Your Grace. I'm sorry, but I cannot discuss the king's whereabouts.”

“Nonsense. There's no great secret about where King John goes or what he does.” I raised my voice slightly and gestured around the table with the partridge leg in my hand. “Why, the king held me prisoner at Sarum within this fortnight, and I'll wager half the company here knows of it.”

Sir Richard began to choke on the food he was eating. I thought he would fall into a fit, so red did he become. I beckoned to the servants for more wine.

I noticed William, sitting on the other side of Sir Roger, looking at me with reproof.

This entire tableau was interrupted by a dramatic event. The doors of the hall swung open, and in strode a tall man in knightly garb. He was well known to the crowd, for the din abated as people turned to stare at him. He entered alone but with the presence of a man who needed no escort to demand respect. He, unlike most of the others, was wearing his sword. A low murmur seemed to follow him as he made his way toward our end of the great table.

I confess that my eyes are dimming, and it is often difficult for me to see faces at a distance, but I knew immediately who it was.

I rose in my chair as he came closer to me. By God's hair, I thought happily, it was indeed William Marshal. Though he had aged, I knew his figure and face as well as I knew my own brother's. And my heart was glad to see him.

He went straightaway to Baron Roger, bowed with perfunctory grace, and exchanged brief comments with Sir William. Then he moved toward me, and I met him halfway with my arms outstretched.

“
Princesse
,” he said formally. But he embraced me within his strong arms as if I were his own daughter.

“How are you, old friend?” I asked, feeling a mist in my eyes. “I saw your company ride in today. I wondered when you would join us.” He held me at arm's length, and I could see that his noble face was grizzled with age. He wore a short beard now, and that changed his appearance. There were lines around his eyes and thinning hair where before there had been fullness. But still his vigor seemed to emanate from him like a halo in a saint's picture.

Suddenly the choleric Sir Richard, who had also risen, was inserting himself between us. “Earl Marshal,” he said, bowing.

“Sir Richard,” William Marshal said, with a nod and frost on his voice. Then he turned with his arm around my shoulders and guided me slightly away with such grace that Sir Richard scarcely knew he had been slighted.

“Lady Alaïs, I did not intend to be late this evening. William of Caen told me when I arrived this afternoon that you would be here. He said you would be tired and might not stay long at dinner. Before you slip away this evening, I need to have a word with you alone.”

“Of course, Sir William. Or must I now call you Lord Earl?” I teased. He shook his head, but he was smiling. “I was so glad for you when I heard Richard had given you Pembroke's title.”

“Such formality is not necessary between old friends.” His gaze shifted behind me to Sir Richard's back. “Have a care what you say to that knight,” he said in a low voice. “I know John's rash actions. Glanville is John's eyes and ears, and he is sent here to sniff around. Be prudent.”

“I shall indeed,” I murmured.

“Immediately the party disperses, meet me in the back of the hall. There are several alcoves, and I believe we can talk undisturbed there. I have information you must know.”

I nodded and drifted back to my chair. I was curious about the urgency in the marshal's voice. It was going to be twice as difficult now to sustain any conversation with Sir Richard.

After many more courses and toasts, Sir Roger and Lady Margaret rose and signaled the end of the dinner. I, too, stood and bade Sir Richard Godspeed. I heard with relief his plans to leave at dawn, delighted that I would not have to encounter him the next day, even by chance, in the hallways of the manor.

I gave my thanks to Lady Margaret and made my way to a place in the back of the great hall. There I found the marshal examining one of the hall's huge tapestries, the one with the unicorn at bay and the hounds raging at it, teeth bared and jaws dripping. He turned when he sensed my presence.

“This has always been my favorite of the unicorn scenes.”

I was surprised. “I thought you would have preferred some that were less bloody,” I said.

“This scene is a good reminder of the fortunes of war. If a man forgets what it feels like to be brought to bay by enemies, he is in danger from that point to the end of his life.”

We paced together to a small alcove and sat easily on the cushioned benches, half hidden by velvet hangings from the view of those who remained in the great hall still talking. He gazed across the crowd, as if looking for someone.

“I hope Lady Pembroke is well,” I said.

“Indeed she is. Only the recent birth of our daughter prevented her from accompanying me here.” He chuckled. “Imagine. A child again at my age.” Then he turned back to me. “But what of yourself, Alaïs? Are you well? I was concerned when I heard of John's rash abduction of you. He shall hear from me about this, you may depend on it.”

“I survived the experience, with only my dignity damaged. But it was stupid of him. It was the act of a desperate man. Are you in his service now?” I remembered the last time I had seen William Marshal. It was ten years earlier, just after King Henry had died. Queen Eleanor would have no one but the marshal accompany her back to Fontrevault to bury the king. Then he came briefly to Rouen, where she had already interned me.

“Yes, I serve John,” he remarked, looking down briefly and then back to meet my eyes. “You know, Princess, I serve the house of Plantagenet, not the man. I was faithful to old King Henry, to the young king when I was with him, and then to Richard. John has asked me for help, and, even though he is”—here he paused and sighed—“not quite the man his father was, nor his elder brothers, he has a call on my loyalty.”

“John is a fool,” I said.

“Hush, Alaïs. Such talk is treason.” William Marshal glanced around. “And not only unwise but simplistic,” he added, bringing color to my own cheeks.

“You may be right.” I marveled at how William Marshal, in his dignity, still had the power to make me feel ashamed of a slighting remark about John that I knew he entirely deserved. “But John forced me through an ordeal that I'll not soon forgive. He acted in bad faith, and he will regret it.”

“Perhaps.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “His actions were foolish beyond measure, but John is beside himself. He has been persuaded—”

“I know,” I cut in. “He thinks there is a bastard of Henry's somewhere who threatens his throne.” I was amazed at how easily I tossed off this phrase and how little the ever-present knot in my stomach tightened. “Truly, William Marshal, even if there were such a person, we both know it matters not. No bastard will ever rule England.”

“Don't rush to judgment, Princess.” William frowned at me, and, as ever, it had the effect of slowing down my tongue. “Remember that William the Conqueror was a bastard.”

“But that was years ago.”

He held up his hand. “And as well consider this: John is the last of Henry's direct descendants. Arthur has died in a Brittany dungeon.”

“We all know who was responsible for that.”

“And John is childless so far. There is no other son of any Plantagenet living.” William Marshal continued. “England would surely not take one of the daughters as ruler. The memory of the civil war Mathilda created is too fresh. And besides, the Plantagenet daughters are all married elsewhere. Why would they come home? So that leaves the possibility—if anything ever happened to John—of an illegitimate son of Henry's ruling England. If one had ever survived. And could be found.” These last words seemed to be afterthoughts.

“So what are you telling me?” I parried. “That John has reason to fear for his throne should a bastard of Henry's have survived?”

“Yes.” He nodded in my direction. “I don't excuse his behavior to you, his kinswoman. But there is a true threat that he must meet.”

“From what quarter?”

“The Knights Templar are upset with John.”

“So I've heard.” I paused. “And with good reason, I understand.”

“There are various reasons for their anger. But the Templars have enormous, hidden strength here in England.” He glanced around again, a careful man. “They may use it to unseat John. All that's lacking is a real-life, in-the-flesh candidate of royal blood to replace him.”

“And John, at least, thinks the Templars have found one.”

The marshal nodded. “I don't think it will come to that. I have the confidence of the Templars as well as the king. I have been trying to mediate their disagreement. John has given the good knights reason to want him off the throne. They are considering their course of action. But they haven't made a decision yet.”

“Do you think the Knights Templar would kill a king?” I watched his face.

“I'm not saying that at all.” William Marshal spoke with the deliberation of a canon lawyer. “I am only trying to give you a context for what is happening. You have somehow been caught up in a complex intrigue, Alaïs. You should get away from England.”

“Oh, I fully intend to do that. I'm to leave for France tomorrow.”

“Under some protection? Because it would not be wise for you to travel alone.”

“I can scarcely bear the thought that I need protection in England. I was supposed to be queen of this land once.” I couldn't keep the bitter note from my voice. William Marshal laid a hand on my shoulder, and I was moved by his sense of my loss.

“Nevertheless, how will you travel?” he persisted.

“Prior William—Sir William—has promised me aid returning to France. He seems to have”—I paused, searching—“connections.” It sounded odd in the telling, more mysterious than I had previously considered.

“Alaïs, I want to tell you something.” William Marshal leaned forward and glanced out the alcove to his left and right. Apparently he was satisfied, for he leaned his back against the tapestried wall behind us, stretching his legs as only a man will who has been on his horse more hours of his life than on the ground. “I want you to listen carefully. You only need to know this information. You need not act on it.”

I leaned toward him, for I could scarce catch his words, so low had his voice dropped.

“Do you remember when Henry did penance at Avranches in '72 for the murder of Becket? Two years before he made his public display at Canterbury?”

“I heard some story. Of course, none of us were at Avranches when it occurred. We children were at Eleanor's court at Poitiers in those years. But I remember Eleanor telling some version of those events to Richard and Geoffrey.” I was curious. “Why do you ask?”

“Listen well. I was there, at Avranches. It was right before the king assigned me to watch over Henry Court Mantel. At Avranches, Henry agreed to a number of actions as part of his penance for being the indirect cause of Becket's death. One was to send ten knights to join the Templars in the Holy Land.”

“Oh, yes.” I laughed, my head sinking back against the cushions. “And another was to take the cross and go himself, but he later got out of that by founding three abbeys. I remember it well. Henry once told me he never had any intention of going to the Holy Land. He said it was beastly hot there, and he never could tolerate the heat.”

William smiled.

“And he thought it the greatest waste of English manhood to go off batting about the Holy Land on a useless mission, getting oneself killed by infidels far more valiant than the Christians, and all for the pope's politics. I still hear the echo of his voice shouting one night at Oxford, after drinking too much good English ale, ‘England is my holy land. There will I spend myself.'”

At this William laughed aloud. He had known King Henry well. He knew all his warts and faults, and still, none had loved him as much.

“He prevented Richard from going as well at that time,” I added. “To take the cross was Richard's fondest dream.”

“Yes, well, Richard eventually had his fill of the Holy Land.” William Marshal had little romance left in his soul. “But did you mark what I said just now? You seemed to be in a dream.”

“I'm sorry. What is it you said?”

“One of the ten knights King Henry sent to the Holy Land was your friend William of Caen, recently acting prior of Canterbury.”