Canterbury Papers (32 page)

“Afraid that he would harm me? Not after the first minutes. Those rages of his made him unpredictable, but you may remember he rarely killed anyone while in a rage, not anyone he truly liked. No, I wasn't afraid that he would kill me. But I did think he might send me away.”

“Why? Because you dared to lecture him on his duty to me?”

That strong profile turned toward me now, and with the moonlight coming behind him, I could not read his expression. He moved slightly and leaned against the wall behind him before he answered.

“No. Because he now knew I was aware that his heart was involved with you. And that knowledge made me dangerous.”

“And the others? I suppose they thought I was the king's slut.”

“No one thought of you as a slut,
Princesse.
You always had too much dignity for that. But there was much shaking of heads among the king's counselors over you … uh, always, of course, when the king was not present.”

“What do you mean?”

“By taking you openly as his mistress, Henry had put into risk his entire careful strategy to blend the English and French royal houses. Richard could never marry you after you were known to have a child by his father. And Philippe was going to be furious at the Plantagenets' treatment of his royal sister, whatever happened.”

“Ah, yes,” I murmured. “In the end it all comes down to politics among men, doesn't it? Even wrongs done to me were important only because they disrupted the plans of men.” William said nothing. “But these letters prove that Henry achieved at least one of his goals.” I flicked my finger under the top letter and ruffled it.

“Which was?”

“To drive Eleanor mad. He must have seen that she got news of the child. Else how would she know? How could she have discovered it? Henry held her incommunicado in Old Sarum for nearly fifteen years. She would not have heard unless it was his intention to tell her.”

William proceeded slowly. “Part of the game of wits between Eleanor and Henry was always who could outsmart the other. They were expert chess players. I used to watch them play when I was young, sometimes long into the evening. Henry would move one way, Eleanor another; a pawn would tumble, the bishops would be captured, the knights would leap, the castles be put in jeopardy. But almost always, on the board, the king and queen would survive. There was scarcely ever a checkmate between them. They had equal skill.” He paused. “They did the same in real life. In later years I don't know if they could tell the difference.”

Neither of us spoke for a time. “Are you thinking Henry deliberately used you to hurt Eleanor?” he finally asked, his voice taking on an unaccustomed gentle quality.

I nodded, feeling a sense of defeat and a sudden urge to give way to tears. “What else should I think, reading these? He saw to it that she knew of the child. There was no need for her to know.”

“Ah,” he said softly, moving away from the wall that had supported him. “So you think these letters tell you Henry's motivation in getting you pregnant.” He walked back to the high chest against the wall and poured two goblets of wine from the decanter. In the process he glanced again at the drawings I had made earlier. He brought the goblets back, set one in front of me, and took a chair on the other side of the table.

“Did you love him?”

I looked up, missing a breath. “Why do you ask?” Protesting the impudence would have been useless. We had moved beyond that.

“Because it matters now.”

“I don't understand you.”

He fingered the glass, then took a long draft. “Do you know what happened to your child?”

“The child died, William.” His eyes flicked to mine at my use of his Christian name. I continued carefully, keeping all expression out of my voice. “The king came to me less than a fortnight after the babe was born. He said it had simply been too weak to survive, that the wet nurse had come to him sobbing. The child had died that morning in her arms. He said the babe was gone, that I must be strong and put it behind me.” A taste of sorrel suffused my mouth. I recalled how I had screamed and sobbed at the news, then how they had forced me to drink a sorrel-root tea to quiet me, a root so bitter I choked, drank it until I was limp with the drug. “When I came to my senses, I did as I was told. I put the memory of my child away from me. What choice had I?” I spread my hand, palm up. “Never again did I mention the child to anyone. Nor did the king, ever again, speak of it to me.”

In a while I continued, allowing the bitterness I tasted now to run through me like a river, to warm me with its effect, like a poisonous mulled wine. “After that, the king slept in my bed no longer. I believed that it was because I had produced a sickly boy. He was no longer pleased. He began to make many trips to the far corners of his kingdom, as he had done when he was married to Eleanor, suddenly rising early and rousting his household to accompany him. Nothing planned. Nothing settled. Rarely did he even dine with me. And he made many excuses to cover it all, until finally he went back to the Continent, with orders that I should stay at Winchester. He said he would send for me, but I never saw him again.” I watched my hands clasping and unclasping on the table, as if someone else directed them. “He always made certain I was in a different castle when he came to England. Sometimes they would move me on a moment's notice. He was finished with me.”

The moonlight traveled across the table while we sat there, as if it were alive and part of our conversation. It filled the space as we breathed and was oddly comforting.

“Did you love him?” he repeated after a time.

“Yes, I loved him mightily.” I sighed, as if giving up a burden. There did not seem any need to pretend any longer. “I loved the king. He was a man with passion. He had feelings. He showed them in a world where everyone from the queen on down took such care
not
to show feelings. Even though he had been like my father, I loved him from the time I was a child. And when I was no longer a child, and he wanted me, I loved him like a woman. Only it couldn't last.”

“And what did you expect to happen then?”

“I didn't have any expectations. I went from day to day without much thought. After the queen had been imprisoned, her children scattered. The sons disappeared, and the daughters were sent to other courts, to marriages Henry had hastily arranged for them. Even my sister, Marguerite, found a way to join her husband, who was inventing ever new ways to annoy his father in Normandy. I had no one except the king to hold on to. But I still hoped all would be well when Eleanor was released. I thought I could count on her.”

“As long as she didn't know about Henry and you.”

“As long as she didn't know about the child.”

“So you were relieved when the child died?”

“Don't be stupid,” I said harshly. “I nearly went mad. It was my babe.”

He sipped the wine, saying nothing. I hadn't touched mine.

“What if the child had lived?”

“I was prepared to go away with it. I suggested the plan before ever the child was born. At first Henry seemed to agree. He said the child would not be safe with the intrigues at court, but perhaps I could live in Scotland. He talked from time to time of a castle just over the border, out of reach of Eleanor and of my own jealous family. Henry's relations with William the Lion were always strong. With the king of Scotland's protection, the child and I would be safe.” Finally I lifted the goblet to my parched lips. “But it was always a dream. I knew it would never come to pass.”

“It certainly would have been awkward for you and the child if you had stayed and Henry had released Eleanor from Sarum to come again to live at court,” William stated, with that gift for irony that occasionally laced his words and made them like spears. “What would you and Henry have done then?”

“But she didn't come out of Sarum, did she?” I said. “So there was no need to create a plan or an explanation. And why was it just now that you asked twice if I loved the king?”

He shook his head and stood so abruptly that his chair teetered backward. He steadied it with his foot. “Enough for one night. I have things to think on myself. I suggest we talk tomorrow, when we are fresh. For now, sleep beckons.” He leaned over and scooped up the letters, stuffing them back into the leather pouch.

“Are you keeping those?” I protested.

“For your own well-being,
Princesse.”

“But they are mine.”

“And so I shall return them to you in good time.” He swung the leather strap over his shoulder. “These are not the original letters. I have those. It will do no one any good to have copies floating about.” He eyed me as he moved toward the door. I rose and followed. “A word of warning,
Princesse.
Do not be so trusting. Everyone does not wish you well.”

“A cryptic statement, Sir William. Please embroider it.”

“Only take care. Watch about you. Trust few.”

After I opened the door, unable to keep from frowning at what he had said, I extended my good hand to him. He bent over it, like the practiced courtier he was. His lips were warm, and they lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. When he rose, his eyes met mine, again with that unsettling directness. I saw with surprise the slight scar on his cheekbone, just under his left eye, the scar from Henry's ring. How strange that such a small detail can raise subtle fingers of feeling. It was the first time that I saw this brisk, strange, guarded man as vulnerable as I myself.

“So what happens next?” The words were mine; the voice seemed to belong to someone else.

“Well, we have two choices. For one, we could do as you did after your child died, simply live from now on day to day without much thought or hope.”

“And the other?”

“I have information that Eleanor is back from Spain. I reckoned perhaps you and I could pay her a visit. Mayhap we can ask her about these mysteries. However did she find out about the child? And were these letters you found at Old Sarum copies or were they the undelivered originals? And why did she send you, of all people, to retrieve her ancient letters to Becket from their hiding place in Canterbury?”

“Eleanor back from Spain,” I echoed. “Yes, I would like very much to see her. I have many questions of my own to ask.”

“Indeed.” He rested his hand on the doorframe, propping his body against it. “I might even be persuaded to give her the letters she wrote to Becket so long ago, the letters that she hoped you could bring her from Canterbury.”

“You have those letters?” My voice jumped.

“Did I neglect to tell you that?” He was brazen. “I found them years ago. They have been safe with me. I thought they might be useful one day.”

I stared at him, speechless.

He ducked his head, comically, as in mock fear that I might strike him, a look of pure mischief on his face. And before I could say more, he slipped through the door. I sat down, my own head spinning.

I reflected on the many surprises of Prior/Sir William and tried my best to work up anger over his deception to me on the Canterbury letters. But somehow it seemed not important enough. Instead I nursed the peculiar, new, warm feeling within me that our conversation had produced. Was the cause of this tingling the final unburdening for me, of the long-stilled love I had once felt for the father of my child? Or was it something much more in the present, concerned with the man who had just departed but whose sharp, male scent yet hung on the night air in my room?

Sleep teased me with a dance but did not settle on me until light oozed through the crack between the shutters, which I had closed against the chill night wind. And with the dim light came the rain.

W
hen I descended the staircase the next morning, I was thoroughly out of sorts. The servant's knock on the door had come just after I had fallen into a deep sleep, or so it seemed. I mumbled from under the bedcovers, but the voice on the other side of the door responded sharply. I realized that it was William and rolled out of bed, but by the time I opened the door, he was nowhere in sight. The voice had been peremptory. He obviously wanted me to make ready with speed for the day's journey. He must have his martial-commander mask on this morning, I thought grimly, preparing myself for a long, tiring ride.

The weather matched my mood. Gone was the sun of the past few days. As I reached the lower stairs, I could feel the sharp air and see, through the open door, the mists and fog rolling in.

William stood at the bottom of the stairs, true to form, busily directing servants and knights. There seemed to be an increase in the number of men rushing in and out of the receiving hall. Of course, I thought, he must have brought his own party with him when he arrived yesterday. Slipping out for my adventures last evening and returning late, I would not have seen them.

He cast an impersonal glance my way, and the incipient smile faded on my lips. Gone was any sign of the familiar, almost teasing quality of his exit from my room last evening. Gone also the air of intimacy that overhung our entire conversation as we sat at the old wooden table in my chamber. Now he was someone else, our leader, the head of these men, arranger of safe houses, a mysterious knight/ monk. Today he was in total control and out of my realm entirely. He merely gave me a curt nod and a few words.

“Break your fast now, please,
Princesse.
We leave within the hour.” His tone was brusque. Without waiting for any response from me, he turned to a small circle of four knights and began speaking.

I wandered into the dining hall and experienced a household in chaos. Servants ran to and fro, packing dishes, putting linens in chests. I sat at the only place with a
serviette
, and someone suddenly materialized with bread and a cup of mulled wine. A few minutes later, some apples and a bowl of cooked grain, accompanied by warm almond milk in a pitcher, appeared at my elbow.