Canterbury Papers (37 page)

“Did you not enjoy the
‘Débat entre le corps et l'esprit,'
Your Grace?” he was asking.

“Our night out in Chinon? Indeed I did. Are you looking for accolades for your performance?”

“But no, not exactly.” Across his face, fleetingly, traveled that dry whisper of humor Henry would sometimes assume, the corners of his mouth held down to check the smile that sprang instead to his eyes. “We were debating the merits of acting when you came in. My comrades here believe that theater is a waste of time. They say that the only life worth living is that of the knight and fighting.”

“It's true. The only honor in life for a man is to be a knight and fight for his liege,” Roland said. I had forgotten how given to high-sounding pronouncements he was.

“That may be an honorable life,” I replied, biting hard into the stiff brown bread, “but it's usually also the shortest.” After I had chewed a morsel, I looked up to find them all watching me with expectation.

“You are all yet young. When you have seen the pallets dragged into the courtyard covered with men bleeding from fighting, as I have, you will not think the fighting life such high romance. And when it is your brother or your son, when you wish it could be you in his stead but it is not, the pain is even greater.” They were very still.

“Besides,” I added, attending to my food again with more interest than I felt, “acting is an honorable profession. Even the highborn are adept. I have never yet seen a king or queen of any consequence who was not a supremely confident actor.”

William had come in behind me and heard only my last statement. He broke into laughter, and the tension lifted.

“You are all free for the day. The princess and I have business here in Poitiers. But report back tonight before dinner, for we may move early in the morning.” William's directives were terse but popular. There were several huzzahs at the thought of a day for leisure, and the company broke up in good cheer.

William and I departed soon after. He set a good pace, and I kept up with him well, which I know pleased him. I thought we would go immediately to the House of Lyons, but instead he took the road that skirted the city walls. I resisted the urge to question him and followed with untoward meekness.

I was troubled and had in mind to ask him certain questions when the time presented itself. Finally he pulled the horses up near a field and carefully picked his way into the woods that rimmed the road. He gestured for me to follow.

He had bread, of course, and cheese and good wine. We threw our cloaks onto the carpet of pine needles that welcomed us and sat in companionable silence, listening to the slight wind play the tree-tops like a lute. Truth to tell, although we had just spent the previous evening making love, I now felt close to him in some other way, as though he must know my thoughts.

After a silence, in which I leaned back against him matching the length of my legs to his, I began. “William, I would have some comment from you.”

“On what matter?” He was still chewing the bread.

“What was the judgment on the man who died in the garden outside my guesthouse in Canterbury? Father Alcuin seemed to think it was a natural death.”

“Not a foul death, if that's what you are thinking. My medical monks could find no marks on his body, nor wound of any kind. They concluded that his death was a matter of the heart.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it
is
rather disconcerting to have a man die right outside one's window,” I said in a huff. Men were often blind.

“Princesse
, as I recall, you were not in the guesthouse at the time.” He now concentrated on destroying an apple he had picked from a nearby tree before we sat down.

“Nevertheless,” I said, “it is of interest to me. I think it connects to other events that have occurred recently.”

“Such as?”

“I met my uncle of Orléans at Havre on my way to Canterbury. He was in a country inn at a rendezvous with company most interesting.”

I could feel William stiffen slightly. “I recall that you said at the time you had seen the man before. Whom did your uncle meet?”

“Master Averroës of Córdoba.”

“How do you know this?”

“My uncle introduced us. He was there expressly to meet the master. The duke had just come from Canterbury. You must have known something of this meeting.”

William was silent, so I continued.

“Further, the master was most interested in the pendant that I always wore, the Arab jewel that Eleanor gave to Richard, who passed it to me.”

“But you do not have it now.”

“No, it was taken from me when I was abducted from Canterbury. But because the master was so interested in it, I could not help thinking that the man who died, who I am certain I saw with the master at Havre, was sent to steal the jewel.”

“Why would Master Averroës want your jewel? He is a jewel of his own. His school in Toledo gives him everything he wants. He is master of teaching the skills of translation of any in our world.”

“I don't know why. But I think it has to do with the Christian knights who were captured in a battle in the Middle Sea some five years ago.”

“In what way?” Again that slight physical tremor and an ever so slight tightening of the voice.

“It has occurred to me that one or another of these caliphs, whether from Córdoba or Egypt, might want this jewel. And even might be willing to trade Christian prisoners for this treasure.”

“Alaïs, you are falling under the spell of those Arthurian tales coming out of your sister's court in Troyes.”

“Marie is only my half sister.”

“Bah. You have romantic imaginings.” He brushed the remains of the bread from his lap and made to rise, tipping me off balance. I nearly spilled onto the ground.

“William, I will be taken seriously.” I righted myself and looked up at him. “Someone sacked my rooms at Havre and Canterbury, and someone has stolen my jewel. Do you not care to help me find out why?”

“
Princesse
.” He was standing now, and his hands covered his face in weariness. “When I complete the work I have to do with the financiers, after we have confronted Eleanor, and when we have safely returned you to your brother's court, I shall turn my attention to the purloined jewel. But you must admit, it cannot be first on the list of things for us right now.”

I already knew that William was a difficult man. I sighed and took the hand he offered—belatedly, I must say—to help me from the ground.

“As you will, for the moment,” I said. But inwardly I resolved not to rest until I had my answers. And I thought William a trifle quick to dismiss my concerns. Mayhap he knew more than he was willing to say, at least at the present. He helped me mount and, with an air of preoccupation that discouraged conversation, led me a merry ride into the city straight to our destination.

The House of Lyons was one of the larger banking houses in France, although it had its origins in Lombardy. True to form as Italian financiers, this mighty house backed both the English and French indiscriminately in their constant struggles. At the French court, it was rumored that they were connected to, mayhap even owned by, the Knights Templar as part of their vast Continental banking operations. Whatever the truth of that allegation, The Lyons, as they were called, continued to keep a separate name and establishment.

Thus it was with some interest that I noted the modest exterior of the building we approached by horseback not an hour later. Whether the house was owned by the Templars or was an independent house of finance, the owners seemed to desire a minimum of public attention. The building in which they conducted their business affairs was one of nondescript stone typical of all common houses in Poitou, with the peculiar roof of shingles, peaks, and little top nobs Eleanor's subjects had begun to build. These roofs were derided in the north as reflecting the excessive taste for decoration that existed in the south, but I rather liked them. Paris was too stern for my taste. I had more of Eleanor in me than I liked to admit. Perhaps I had been born to the wrong wife of my father.

We came upon the door to their business almost, it seemed to me, by accident. We had been cantering down a narrow lane, William as usual in the forefront, not bothering about whether I could keep up—did he still remember those childhood horse races we had with the Plantagenet children, where I won my fair share of prizes?—when he suddenly reined in his horse. I pulled my reins in sharply to avoid running into him, and I saw then that we were in front of a single battered old wooden door.

“This is the House of Lyons?” I was incredulous. “It's so common. And there's no sign.”

“It's not, after all, a public inn,
Princesse.”
He rapped impatiently three times with his riding crop on the door, not bothering to dismount. “You can hardly expect a lion's head over the portals.” The door swung wide to admit us, quickly, as if someone had been only waiting for the signal to spring the door open. Then it closed behind us. But there was no one in sight.

“What a lot of secrets exist in the world,” I murmured as I glanced around the small courtyard banked with assertive weeds. A fountain in the old Roman style—and in some state of disrepair, I might add—settled comfortably amid its dilapidated stones in the middle. No water sprang from the center shaft, although each of the nymphs surrounding the bottom looked heavenward expectantly. It appeared as though there may have been a garden blooming at some previous time, but one couldn't be certain, since no bud or blossom could be seen now through the tangle of brush. “The Templars must own this house, too,” I added, implying their ownership of all the others of our recent experience. “They seem to have a penchant for the odd place.”

William said nothing. A moment later a youth with tousled blond hair and clothes that looked as though he had slept in them in the stables came to lead our horses away. I was so distracted by this and wondering where the stables were—since they were not visible from the courtyard—that I missed the entrance of an older man who materialized from one of the many doors opening onto the courtyard. William dismounted with alacrity when he saw the man, and although at first I found nothing in our host out of the ordinary, I did likewise when the young man cupped his hand for my foot.

The man was old, for certain, but probably not as old as he looked. His body had a certain odd angle to it, as if he had spent too many hours bending over ledgers and had failed to take advantage of the horses the wealthy House of Lyons surely kept for riding and exercise. He had a well-trimmed beard in the pointed style of the Latins, rather full eyebrows matching his white hair, and the garb of a gentleman of means. He wore about his neck a heavy chain of gold with a jeweled medallion dangling from it, very much like those medallions I saw on William's men at the manor of Sir Roger. The old man's eye took notice of me and it seemed to me he suppressed a slight start. However, he bowed graciously to each of us as if we both had been expected.

“Seigneur Carlo, may I present the
Princesse
Alaïs,” William said, bowing low in return. I was trying to remember the last time I had seen William bow when the old man spoke in his deeply resonant voice.

“You are both welcome in this house,” he said, motioning for us to follow him.

Seigneur Carlo led us into a large room that was organized around a huge oval table in the center. Comfortable, carved-oak chairs, well cushioned for long sittings, surrounded the table. There were no other chairs in sight. The usual flowered and hunting tapestries hung on the walls, and scented rushes were scattered on the floor. One unusual piece caught my attention, however. The largest oak armoire I had ever seen, with the most complicated set of forged iron locks and hinges, stood against one wall. The room was much bigger than it seemed at first glance, because this piece took up so much space.

A good fire roared in the hearth. There was a spring chill on the air in Poitiers, and I was glad of a chance to warm myself. I passed by the table, since I had no part of the business to be done here, and seated myself on a bench against the wall beside the fire.

“Please, may I send for a comfortable chair, Your Grace?” Seigneur Carlo had a slight stammer, which—together with his bent form and noble voice—endeared him to me on the spot.

“The
princesse
waits for no ceremonies, Seigneur Carlo, as you can see for yourself,” William remarked in an acerbic manner, glancing my way.

“My bench is quite good enough, Seigneur,” I said, plumping the crewel-worked cushions that rested against the wall behind me. “But I would be glad of a small table if you have one. I may draw in charcoal to amuse myself as you attend to your affairs.”

“But of course, Your Grace,” and the seigneur snapped his fingers. The stableboy appeared and was given orders rapidly in a dialect I did not understand, but after one or two pleasantries, he reappeared with a small table, behind him a woman carrying a tray of mulled wine, some large pitchers that were placed on the long table in the center of the room, and two candles, which were added to my own small corner.

The table was one of the new kind that fitted over my lap and yet was large enough to allow me to spread several pages of parchment and my charcoals in front of me. Suddenly a smaller table was set beside my bench, and mulled wine and small almond cakes were placed on it.

I gratefully took a long draft of the wine and pulled my travel-worn leather sack toward me. From it I took out the charcoals, two of which had broken in the journey, and made ready to draw by smoothing the parchment sheets before me and placing two stones at the upper corners. Then I sat still. I was aware that the room was filling, but for the moment I had closed my eyes. The men's voices were well modulated with that calmness that prevails in houses of finance and banking, no doubt in reverence to all the silver whose whereabouts are known to the men who labor there.