Canterbury Papers (25 page)

It took a moment for me to grasp this piece of news.

“What?” I felt stupid.

“One last time, Princess.” William Marshal's voice assumed an urgency. “Heed my words. One of the young knights promised to the Templars in the Holy Land at Avranches was Henry's young clerk, William of Caen. He who is standing over there near the hearth with young Chester as we speak. He who was my namesake.”

“Are you telling me Prior William is a Templar, not a monk of Canterbury?”

“Yes. And I'm telling you that you appear to have fallen into the middle of a developing storm here in England between the king and the Knights. The Templars are powerful men, and I don't want you to be used as a pawn by either party.”

“If William is not a monk of Canterbury, what was he doing there as prior?”

“The Templars have deep connections with Canterbury. Some say Hugh Walter himself is a Templar, although I doubt it. He has always seemed to me a quintessential Benedictine. But I know for a fact that William was never ordained a priest, and when he is at Canterbury now, it is usually because the Templars and Hugh Walter want him there.”

I recalled the Mass over which William did not preside and understood now what I saw then.

“But William has offered to help me get back to France. Should I not trust him?”

“I am certain William means you no harm. But be aware that he has other allegiances. He may not always make decisions that place your interests first.” He paused. “My information is that he holds high office with the Templars in England and Normandy.”

I considered this statement with a sinking heart. The letters in code I had given Prior William earlier that evening flashed before my eyes. No wonder at all that he had contacts who could decipher them. I could feel my hands becoming damp. What information did they contain that the Knights Templar might use to find my son?

“Alaïs.” William moved closer to me and I noticed the stiffness of the old warrior's body as he did so. “I don't believe that the Templars are evil or unsafe. It's just that they have consolidated enormous power in recent years. And if they decide John is unworthy to rule England, they can bring him down. You'd best stay out of this quarrel.”

I listened to these words as I looked straight ahead, watching through the velvet curtains while that very same William of Caen worked his way steadily through the vibrant colors of the crowd toward our alcove. His strong face with its prominent nose and deep lines exuded social grace at the moment. He was nodding and passing pleasantries to all, but he was moving inexorably toward me. It was not a casual course he took, I noted, despite his frequent stops. Of a sudden I had a new view on my childhood acquaintance. Well, well, a warrior monk, not a child of the rule of St. Benedict after all. And his motives for helping me, it now seemed, were not just for the sake of childhood friendship.

“William Marshal. I say my good-byes now. We may not meet in the morning.”

Sir William, as I was now to think of him, was speaking as he entered the alcove. The older man rose, and the two embraced. As they parted, I could see a hint of softening pass over the younger man's chiseled face. Then he turned my way, bowing briefly, speaking as if we had not seen each other in intimate circumstances that very afternoon. “Princess, I trust that your stay in this house goes well, and that your evening has been a pleasant one.”

“Sir William. Thanks for your kind thoughts. Sir Richard Glanville and I had a lively talk, as you supposed we might.”

“I noticed. He almost had my sympathy by the end of it.” He spoke with not a trace of irony. “But you must grow tired. You nearly didn't come to the feast at all, so burdened with fatigue were you when I saw you this afternoon. Shall I have someone see you to your chamber?”

“Thank you, Sir William, but I believe I can find my way to the sleeping chambers in this manor without assistance.”

I embraced William Marshal heartily, pressing my cheek against his shoulder, for who knew when we would meet again or whether I would see him anymore in this life?

“Give my regards to John,” I said mischievously, “and tell him I am well, no thanks to him. And take care for yourself.” I turned once more to look at him when I reached the center of the great hall, wishing I had taken the opportunity when we were alone to ask him the one question I had not the courage to ask. Years ago, when Henry and Eleanor's eldest son, Henry Court Mantel, expelled the marshal in anger from his traveling court in Normandy, were the rumors true? Had William Marshal possessed my sister Marguerite's heart, even for a short period? Now perhaps I would never know.

I mounted the staircase feeling weary. Despite my bravado in front of William of Caen, I was hard put to find the chamber assigned to me in the dim torchlight. After a wrong turn, I retraced my steps and reached a door I recognized by the bronze lion knocker. I entered and closed the door behind me on the demands of the world. I was weary to death. And I was sore confused.

I
woke before dawn in a sweat. There had been a dream, an odd set of scenes in which so many of those who had peopled my past years appeared, but in roles so bizarre I could only wonder.

I reached back into the mists of my sleep, burrowing deeper into my pillow, as if that could retrieve the fading scenes. There had been a kind of rectangle as a backdrop, and we were in a kitchen of sorts. A huge fire burned in the grate, and there were kettles hanging over it, with soups or stews boiling.

Henry was ranging through the kitchen in his customary way, his leonine head thrust out, his hands behind his back. He wore the rough hunting clothes he favored all his life, and he was laughing hard as he peered in the pots, then moving on, pacing, coming 'round again. Eleanor sat by the fire writing something, while the women around her were polishing swords. Richard and Geoffrey as young boys were off to the side, rolling on the ground, locked either in play or mortal combat. Marguerite, my sister, was doing a slow dance on the other side of the hearth, while her husband, Henry Court Mantel, leaned on the mantel, looking useless. Almost a ghost, so faint a figure was he.

Then in the dream, Eleanor called me to her. I came running from somewhere all out of breath and stood before her. Suddenly she rose and slapped me hard across the face. Henry stopped his incessant pacing and in one minute had come to my side. I thought he would strike his queen, and I held his arm. But he only shook me off. Then he pulled Eleanor to him and began to dance with her, and they moved away from me.

I woke again. All was dark about me. I had a profound sense of loss. It was true. I had lost both of them, and all of their children. I had lost my own sister, Marguerite. She had disowned me when I became Henry's mistress, viewing it as a threat to her own husband and the children they might have. But it was a futile fear, for young Henry died even before his father and before there were any children from the marriage. And after that, Marguerite was married off to a German prince. I was alone now.

Against my will, scenes came again, but this time, because I was awake, the pain of remembrance was exquisite. I remembered Henry, shouting at Eleanor as he rode to the front of the caravan that led us out of that beautiful place, Poitiers, “You will regret what you have done, woman! Turning a man's sons against him is unnatural. I will strip you of what is dearest to you!” And she, furious, berating him in front of his men. And I, only fifteen, watching, stunned at the powerful anger of the two people I loved most, next to Richard.

Then followed another scene, the inevitable one. After Eleanor had been locked away at Old Sarum's tower and I was resigned to a life in Henry's household, such as it was when he was not moving, I was sitting by the fire one night late. We were staying at Laxton, an old Norman keep in the north, one of Henry's favorites but never one of mine. It was solid and grim, a soldier's fortress, with little comfort to recommend it. I longed for almost any of his other castles—Chinon, Rouen, Oxford; even Winchester was better than this.

I was drawing in charcoal that night. At least I always had drawing supplies, a kindness I knew was taken at the king's direction. And because I was only fifteen, I had two ladies in waiting to assist me, who went everywhere with us when the court moved. They sat near me now, Ragnhild's lined face bent over her needlework, her fingers nimble despite her age. And Annette, across from me, with her plain broad face lit by the fire, stared into space. Her sewing lay neglected in her lap as she entertained her own daydreams. Alas, that was all we had in Norfolk that bitter autumn.

The king came pacing past the fire, on his way back from his usual nightly inspection of the keep's guard. He stopped some steps from me and stood in silence, watching all three of us. I was aware of him but wanted to finish the figure I was making. Finally I looked up.

“Your Grace?” I asked.

He did not respond but continued staring at me.

“Do you want me?” I asked again.

“Yes,” he said. I waited, but that was all. He turned and walked away.

I was afraid I had offended him, and it cast me down. He truly was good to me, and I knew he was sad at what had befallen his family. He loved the queen, although he could not live with her. And when his sons turned on him, he blamed her, although I knew it was as much their impatience and greed that caused the wars as anything the queen had done. Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey wanted their share of the kingdom, and the king kept it all to himself and doled out meager resources to the young men. The king was like that, always in control, and blind as well, not seeing the consequences of his approach.

Other times in these long nights, the king would ask me to read to him, and I often read the lovely poetry of the south, as I remembered Eleanor reading to him when we children were young. Although the king could read well enough himself, he often said he loved to hear women's voices reading poetry.

But on this night he asked for nothing; he simply turned and walked away.

I sighed and put up my drawing materials. I bade my women good night and went to my chamber. I slipped off my gown and hung it up and was standing in my shift when the door opened and the king came in without warning.

He had never entered my chamber since the years when I was a child and he would sometimes burst into the nurseries seeking the queen. Now he and I faced each other. My known world hung for a moment in space, then fell apart as he came for me.

He swung me up easily and carried me to the bed, where he laid me gently down. He wore no sword, only a tunic and hose and his cape held by a jewel at the neck. He unclasped it and tossed the garment onto the bed beside me. He said, gazing down at me, “You look stricken, like a wounded doe. How can I take you if you look so?”

I said, “You are my father,” my heart beating in my ears like the hooves of running horses.

He said, “You are mistaken. Louis is your father, always and still.”

I said, “It is only because you hate the queen that you want me.”

He said, “No. If it were so, I couldn't take you, because it would also harm you. It is you. It is your coal hair and your dark skin and your green eyes.” He leaned forward over me, bracing himself on his strong, short arms, so close over me I could feel the whisper of his warm breath.

He frowned, as if bent on solving a powerful problem, and shook his head. “No, neither is that true. It's only… I want you because you see things none of the rest of us sees.” He smiled, a rueful flicker. “And with that gift you possess the world. Whilst I only have these disorderly kingdoms.”

A sound of some kind escaped me, but I made no move away, no turning under him. I think if I had, he would have left me alone. But I lay still, watching. Then I stretched my arms upward in a gesture I could never undo, and he came down to meet me.

When his arms went around me to begin lovemaking, I welcomed them. The inexpressible sweetness of the skin of his face, that face I knew so well but had never tasted, astonished me. And the gentleness of his rough hands, callused from holding reins and swinging a sword and hunting, melted my heart. I felt my whole body become water, and in my trust he entered me.

Now it was more than twenty years later, and what I remembered was not a dream. I was here, in Baron Roger's house in Wiltshire, and alone. I turned my face into the pillow and began to moan softly, wishing I had tears to replace the sound.

My own voice prevented me from hearing a soft tap on the door. It was persistent and eventually worked its way into my realm. I drew myself up from my half-addled state, whether from remembered desire or shame or longing, I could not say.

The dying embers in my hearth gave off an uncertain light. I called out for the servant to enter, hoping it was someone with a pan of hot coals. When I sat up, the cold night air was like a blast, so I burrowed again into the pillow and the furs covering the bed.

“Put the coals on the fire and leave,” I said in the direction of the dark figure.

“Alaïs.” William's voice came strong, but at a low pitch. He was moving toward the bed. “There's been a change of plans.”

I sat up again. “What are you doing here?” I remembered I was annoyed with him because of the evening before but couldn't quite get the details straight. Too much dream and memory had intervened.

“You're leaving now.” He took a taper to the fire and coaxed it to catch, then began to light the wall torches. He pulled a heavy cloak from the large wooden wardrobe near the bed and flung it onto the bed. “Get up and make haste to be ready. Take no clothes with you. They will be provided. And you must travel lightly.”

I knew I should be angry at his improper intrusion into my private chambers, but somehow it seemed natural, as if he were my older brother rousing me for a family journey.