Canterbury Papers (6 page)

I paused a moment before speaking. “So if Hugh Walter is in Rome, who is in charge at the abbey?”

“Someone I think you once knew when you were a child at Henry and Eleanor's court. You must recall a lad called William of Caen, also raised there.”

“William of Caen?” My eyes popped open. “William of Caen, that young prig who had his lessons with us royal children? The favorite of King Henry? We couldn't stand the sight of him.”

Duke Robert flashed a look of unaccustomed humor. “The very same. I thought you might remember.”

“He has risen in the world if he is running Canterbury Abbey,” I said. “We called him William Orphan when we were young. He was insufferable. Always prepared for our tutors—”

“No doubt he was,” the duke interrupted. “He has a reputation for brilliance, although I understand he was a little mite when he was young.”

“Yes, that's it exactly.” I laughed. “A mite. I remember him as a skinny lad, always ducking and blushing. He was always apologizing when he knew his lessons and the princes didn't. And King Henry was always holding him up as an example to his sons, which didn't help him one bit with them when the king wasn't around.” I caught myself. “Of course, we were all children then. I suppose we could be excused for our unkindness. Children are dreadful.”

“It's quite a different matter now, Alaïs.” The duke's tone was suddenly serious. “If you are going to stay at Canterbury, you will have to deal with Prior William. Take care. In his way, William is every bit as weighty as Abbot Hugh … in his way,” he repeated.

Suddenly the doors I had entered a short time earlier were flung open again. What a busy inn for an out-of-the-way-place, I thought. But I was startled when I saw my uncle not only attending the distraction but rising.

“Who…?” But my question was voiced to the air as my uncle left me to stride forward, arms outstretched, toward his newest visitor. I struggled to see the face through the dim torchlight and caught a startling glimpse of a slight figure robed—no, rather I should say swathed—in white fabric from head to toe. Three men, in pale robes, clustered around him, and when my uncle reached the little group, he embraced the man in white and bowed low to the others.

They engaged in intense conversation for long moments as I watched, uncertain of how to proceed. Just when it seemed my uncle had forgotten me altogether, he turned and led the white-robed figure to me. I rose, although protocol did not demand it. Something about these men was different.

“Alaïs, permit me to make you acquainted with my longtime friend and teacher, Averroës of Córdoba. Master Averroës, this is my niece, Alaïs, daughter of my late brother King Louis and Constance of Castile, your countrywoman.”

The man bowed low to me, and I returned the gesture. I seemed to be under the sway of a feeling such as animals experience, that causes movement without thought or plan. When I stood again, I saw that the master was my height and looking directly into my eyes. His own were deep-set, dark pools in a face of leather that bespoke a lifetime in the blazing sun.

“Master Averroës,” I echoed, of a sudden recalling the name Eleanor had often invoked when teaching us. The Arab master of philosophy and medicine, who knew as much astronomy as he did language, here in this cold, sodden port city of the northern border! And meeting, not by accident it appeared, with my very own uncle.

I bowed again to the master and to each of his men in turn. I then received their homage.

“Indeed, a pleasure to meet the
princesse
who carries the blood of the royal houses of France and Castile.” The voice was parched and thin, like desert air or leaves underfoot in late autumn. He must be ancient now, I mused, and he smiled as if he could see into my thoughts.

“You are not rain-soaked, Master,” I offered, noting with interest the dry robes of all of the new arrivals. “It is fortunate that you are not in the elements this evening.”

“Indeed so,” the master said, his quick eyes catching the flickering light. Almost, I might have thought, he was entertained. “You have a gift of observing what is around you. Not everyone can claim that gift.” He paused. “I have been in this place for two days. I must needs travel tomorrow, but they say the storm will clear before morning.”

“Alaïs, you must excuse us. Master Averroës and I have some letters to exchange,” my uncle said in his direct manner.

The master waited, saying nothing but continuing to look at me with an unwavering gaze. I could think of no excuse, diplomatic or otherwise, to prolong the exchange, given my uncle's thinly masked impatience. Surprisingly, it was the master himself who delayed my departure. His eyes had moved to the pendant I wore around my neck, now fully revealed because I had shed my cloak and the wrap that had kept me warm in the public room. My gown came over my shoulders in the new fashion with a deep cut down the center. I knew that the pendant rested between my throat and my breast.

“That is a remarkable jeweled piece you are wearing,” he said unexpectedly. “May I see it more closely?” He motioned a page to come nearer with a torch.

“Yes, of course, Master.” I moved forward so that I was standing in front of him. I could smell his sweet breath, which reminded me of the figs my mother used to receive as gifts from her own mother in faraway Castile.

“You must excuse me. I do not see as well as in former times,” he said in his sere voice, and he bent over the jewel. He lifted it by its cord and turned it in his hand, being careful all the while not to touch my skin. I could feel the warmth of his breath, though, and I made an effort to hold myself absolutely still, looking over his bent head.

I saw my uncle watching us. He had moved back and slightly behind the master. His eyes met mine, and he seemed to be signaling me in some way, but I could not divine what message he wanted to convey.

“This is a jewel created by Omar Ibn al-Faridh of Toledo, is it not?” the master asked when at last he straightened. “He worked for the caliph in Córdoba when I lived there as a young man, many years ago.”

“I believe you are correct.” I was still ramrod straight and breathing carefully. “Ibn al-Faridh was a great poet and a master jeweler as well.”

“You know our culture well, for a northerner.” He smiled. Was he trifling with me, or was it a compliment? “How did you come by this? Was it in your mother's family?”

“No, it came as a betrothal gift from Richard Coeur de Lion. His mother was given it by her grandfather, who brought it back from his captivity in your land.”

“Ah, yes, the famous Duke William of Aquitaine.” The master paused, his expression inscrutable. “He spent some time in Seville after he was captured in
Outremer.
He was a great favorite of al-Mu'tamid. He must have been given the jewel as a farewell present.” He spoke as if Duke William had paid a social visit to southern Hispania.

“I had no idea this jewel is so well known,” I said, and I could not keep a frown from forming. I did not care for notoriety of any sort.

“I remember Eleanor wore that pendant on the day she and Louis were married,” my uncle offered, as if to break a rising tension.

“Did she so?” I murmured as I pulled my wrap around my bosom and flung one end over my shoulder. A page scrambled to pick up the cloak that had slipped to the floor. “It was a gift from Eleanor to her favored son, Richard. And then from him to me,” I said. And then, for the benefit of the master, who seemed far too interested in my jewel, I added, “It never leaves me.”

My words filled the air for a long moment. We all seemed frozen in private thought. It was the master himself who turned to my uncle and said softly, “I believe you have documents for me.” He executed yet another elaborate bow in my direction. “Forgive these old men who must forgo your charming company to do our business.”

“It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master,” and again I bowed. It was not obligation but a recognition of his great learning and his ancient eyes that moved me. “Perhaps one day I may come to Toledo and visit the school that you and Gerard of Cremona have created.”

“Ah, you know about that? We would welcome you most gladly,” he said, speaking in English heavily inflected with the music of the Arabic language.

“Alaïs, will I see you in the morn?” My uncle came forward and took me by the elbow to steer me toward the door. “We could perhaps break bread together before you board ship.”

“No, Uncle, my party must move swiftly tomorrow. My men have arranged a passage at dawn, if the storm has passed. We must waste no time.”

“Ah, I regret that we cannot spend more time together. You must come to Blois at the first opportunity.”

I smiled at that sally. “I must, if I am to see you. You never come to Paris now.”

“Philippe can manage without his uncle's counsel. And I find myself extremely harried these days.”

I wanted to ask him why he should be so busy when he was well past the age where he had to gather troops and lead battles. But I could sense an impatience to return to his conversation with Averroës.

After he formally embraced me, bending his tall frame to mine to brush each of my cheeks, he did an odd thing. He gently pulled my dead hand from out of my left pocket and pressed his lips to it. This embarrassed me. I am intensely private about my hand and rarely expose it. If it had been anyone but my uncle Robert, my bile would have risen. Then he withdrew a step and regarded me with his deep gaze.

“You look much like your mother, Alaïs. You have her coal-black hair and green eyes. It is a great pleasure for me to see you, and to see you well.”

I was so startled by Duke Robert's sudden change of mood that I fear my mouth gaped. Then he continued.

“But, niece, take a warning. Please have a care about your person. Do not expose your jewels in these public houses. Thieves lurk everywhere.”

I began to form a rejoinder when his mood slid yet again and became quite military.

“I shall order two of my men to see you to your room.”

“Uncle, be sensible!” I said, finally voicing my exasperation. “I have come safely all the way from Paris with four good men, and I can certainly see myself to my room in this inn without assistance from the army of the Duke of Orléans.”

He began to protest but then saw that I was serious and shook his head, speaking with a chuckle. “All right. And I see you are right to trust them. Is that not your man waiting over there?” He pointed across the room as the large doors swung open. There was Roland, propped up against the wall, his head drooping. It snapped up at the sound of the doors, and he hurried to my side.

“Good-bye then, Uncle. And Godspeed,” I said, murmuring inwardly that I would give much to know where God would speed him next, and for what purpose.

“That was a long conversation,” Roland said, falling into step beside me.

“You took it well,” I joked. “I see you are finally growing tired.”

“Tom said if I could not wait, then he would do it, but he was already nodding when the three of us sat by the fire, so I packed him off to bed.”

There was a silence. I dared not laugh. As we made our way to the stairwell leading to our cramped but whitewashed rooms, we passed a small group of men who sat at an oak table in the corner with trenchers of ox stew and goblets of red wine.

I would have passed them by, intent as I was to lay my head on a pillow, but their garb caught my eye. Although there was a roaring fire in the grate and the place was warm with the sweat of the men shouting and gaming in the opposite corner, these men still wore their cloaks and hoods even as they dined.

As I passed, one turned to talk to his mate, and his hood fell back momentarily. In the torchlight I saw the outline of a high forehead, a strong nose broken at one time, and full lips. As if aware of being observed, the man made a quick gesture to pull the hood forward.

I didn't pause but took note of all. There were three of them, and I bethought myself of the three mounted men I had seen on the Île de la Cité as we rode out from my brother's Paris castle.

My mind was still on these men as I entered my chamber, drawing the heavy bolt behind me. A wall torch still flickered, and for a moment I stood perfectly still. There was something in the room, some scent that was not familiar. A musky scent of male sweat.

I lifted high the tallow candle I was carrying and swung the light into all the corners. Everything seemed as I had left it. The basin half full of washing water, my travel sack on the floor near the bed, my cloak tossed across the chair in one corner.

Then I saw it. My small casket of jewels lay inside the leather fold of my travel sack. I always packed this casket at the bottom, as I rarely pulled out jewels when I journeyed, unless I needed them to exchange for silver. The casket was less likely to fall out and get lost if it were tucked away safely under my clothes.

So someone had removed this casket and examined it. He must have been in a hurry to be so careless in replacing the item. Or he was an inept thief who didn't know how to forestall suspicion.

I stooped and picked it up. The small oval box had been a gift from Eleanor's daughter Joanna when I returned to the court at Paris, and I treasured it for that reason. Also the fanciful design of the colorful gemstones on the lid pleased me. I noticed now they were untouched, though they would have been easy enough to pry off. The small lock that held the lid to the box had been twisted and broken, however. Setting the casket on the rough oak side table, I flicked open the lid, expecting to see an empty box. To my surprise, the few jewels I had brought with me lay peacefully on the bottom: the jewels to twine in my hair (should I ever reach civilization again!), a necklace that Philippe had given me, a brooch that was a favorite, a ring that was my mother's, all nestled against the scarlet velvet lining.