Then I began walking, restlessly, my fingers searching the golden jeweled pendant I wore. I felt the cool cut of the ruby set deep within it and the gold filigree of the setting. I could make out, too, the fine engraving on the back. Duke William had brought the jewel back from his captivity in Córdoba. It found its way to his granddaughter Eleanor, then to Richard, and then to me. The engraving was one line of Arabic poetry from the great poet Ibn al-Faridh: DEATH THROUGH LOVE IS LIFE. In a way the intensity of the sentiment, its many-layered meaning, reminded me more of Eleanor than of Richard.
A scratch at the door interrupted my reverie and alerted my maids to the arrival of the courier. They scurried to admit him. Tom had to bend his frame to enter, and I could see that Mimi and Justine were impressed by his height and by the mysterious shuttered eye unadorned by any patch.
After I dismissed my maids, I gave Tom my hand to kiss. Then I walked over to the table that contained my beloved manuscripts and, half sitting against it, folded my arms and regarded him well. Tom remained where I had left him, waiting.
“You’ve come for my answer.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Tom was a perfect king’s man. Neither obsequious nor lacking in respect, he simply stood, tall as a lance and just as quiet. He spoke now in the king’s English, no trace of his Celtic origins.
“Do you know what this letter contains?” I asked.
“As to its general contents, yes. As to its particulars, I have not read it.” Tom had the kind of face and demeanor that led one to believe he truly had not broken that royal seal to satisfy his curiosity. But then he had no need to do so if Eleanor had explained the contents to him.
“I understand that your mistress Queen Eleanor is on her way to Hispania right now, to fetch the Princess Blanche for the wedding here in Paris.”
“That is true.”
“Since she is gone, who will receive my answer to this request?” I prodded him, partly in jest.
A ghost of a smile flickered across his lower face.
“If you agree to the task that the queen has set for you, there is no need for a reply. I am instructed to accompany you to England.”
“And if I choose not to undertake this unusual and”—I lifted my brows—“somewhat dangerous task? Who gets that report?”
“In that case I return to Fontrevault Abbey and report to the Abbess Charlotte.”
“My aunt Charlotte? Is she a party to this?” I had no need to pretend surprise.
“I do not know. I only know that Queen Eleanor said if you refused her request, I should inform the abbess.” He coughed here, hesitating. “My lady, as you know, Queen Eleanor has been a guest at Fontrevault Abbey for nearly five winters. During that time the queen and your aunt have become … quite close.”
“I see.” I paced to the window and opened the shutters, looking down on the Seine below. Boatmen, ordinary people bundled in dark cloaks and red scarves, were polling their barges toward the palace docks and calling to one another. Across the river on the right bank, groups gathered on corners near the food stalls as the noon hour approached. The sight of Paris on a common day, going about its business, centered me. In a way it reduced the agitation that had been building since I’d read Eleanor’s letter the night before. I found then the courage to ask my next question.
“I suspect that you do not know the nature of the information your mistress has promised me when I finish her task.” I tried to sound casual, but I could feel my face flush. “Therefore I suppose there is no purpose in asking you for some … that is, … any indication … of what the queen knows?” I stumbled through it, but it had to be asked.
I knew I was presuming on our old friendship. I was taking a risk, but I felt beyond humiliation. If he had given the slightest indication of yielding, of telling me the fate of the child, the fate that Eleanor already knew, I would have thrown myself at his feet to beg.
“Your Grace.” Tom stared at the rushes on the floor, his voice grave, his own cheeks reddening. Then he raised his eyes to mine. “I know only that the queen seems quite beside herself over this situation that threatens the throne of her son. She desperately wants to retrieve her letters before they can be used to wreak further mischief in this wrangle. And because I serve her”—here he paused as if his script required elaboration—“as I serve you”—his look was unwavering—“I have pledged myself to assist in any way I can.”
His candor made me ashamed. I suddenly saw myself in the reflection of his eyes and glanced away.
He paused, and for a long time we said nothing. Then he added, “No one knows better than I how painful that … event … many years ago was for you. If I had answers I could give you, I would have done so then.”
“So if I go to Canterbury, you go with me?” I shifted slightly and began sorting the manuscripts on the table, to hide my emotion from his unbearably sympathetic eyes.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Well, then.” I turned back to him. “Prepare yourself, good Tom, for we leave for Canterbury at dawn on the morrow.”
His broad face broke into a smile so honest and relieved that I had to smile back. Truly, I was amused to see he had expected me to refuse. He clasped his hands behind his back, and his shoulders seemed to lift.
“I’ll have to tell my brother, and I expect he will press a few knights on us for safekeeping.”
He nodded crisply, still grinning. Then, without further ado, he asked leave to go. I gave it to him gladly, for I had much to think about.
In truth, I had surprised myself. When the interview began, I was by no means certain that I would give an assent to this bizarre scheme. I did not react well to the coercion Eleanor was using. And yet if she did have information about the child, I must have it. If the price was doing her bidding and—worse—opening those old wounds that had been long closed, so be it.
I rang for my servants. By the time they appeared, I had already begun the note that would be taken to my brother, requesting permission for the journey. I had to call upon all my diplomatic skills to give a convincing explanation of what I was about to do, and why. And of course I did not, exactly, tell the full story.
.3.
Tales of the Deaths of Children
We rode hard out of the Île de la Cité at dawn the next morning, Tom and I and the escort of three knights that Philippe had pressed upon us. We paused before the bridge over the Seine, Tom examining the river for boats. I turned to take a last look at the cluster of gray stone that formed the buildings called home to the Paris court. As I did so, I noted three figures on horseback some distance behind us on the road. They were well mounted, with swords catching the early light, and so must be knights, but they had no other identification. They each wore the same nondescript gray cloak, and their hoods were raised. They pulled up their horses when we did, and I was disquieted for a moment. They seemed to turn sideways as I looked. Odd, too, that such a small party rode alone at dawn.
Perhaps Philippe had provided an unannounced escort for us, not trusting our safety to such small numbers. We would see. I spurred my horse forward, and Tom and my other knights followed.
The wind was up as we crossed the bridge, and a fine mist hit our faces as we headed southwest on the royal road. The sounds of the masons working on Sully’s great cathedral behind our backs followed us. More than thirty years had passed since my father had commissioned this enormous church. They said it was to be named after Our Lady, that it would be a great monument to her motherhood of God’s Son. But I didn’t think we would see it completed in my lifetime. When Sully spoke of his church as a spiritual quest, I knew that meant it would take a long time to build and cost France a lot of silver.
My brother Philippe walked in the footprints of my father. He was always beginning excessive public works, like that donjon on the right bank he called the Louvre. He even talked of moving our court to live there. These massive projects, the cathedral and the Louvre, came dearly and were a sore point with the nobles, who had othe
r plans for the wealth of France. More horses and more armor, no doubt.
I had my own thoughts on the matter. The wealth of France’s nobles might better be spent to feed the peasants and protect widows and children than in outfitting every castle owner for the next grinding siege. But my brother and the men around him were not interested in such talk.
We were a motley group of travelers that morn. Sir Owain of Caedwyd, my dear friend Tom, was my special guardian on this trip. Since Eleanor had given him the assignment, I knew he would hover over me until we were safely back in Paris. And since he was Welsh, cousin to the great Llewelyn Fawr, he was a guardian to be valued. Marcel and Étienne, both liege men who had served me during the time after Henry’s death when Eleanor had confined me at Rouen, were faithful to the core. Marcel played a lute so sweetly, it lifted my heart. And I was touched when Philippe pressed Roland, his current most-favored knight, on me for this journey. Roland was one of the most impressive riders and swordsmen I had ever seen in tourneys. I knew by this gift how much Philippe desired my safety.
Roland, he of the innocent face and the billows of black curls on his head, he who was so young he scarcely had any hair to remove from his face, had no connection to me, as had the others. He was Philippe’s knight through and through. I later decided that he was persuaded to undertake this journey because of his obsession with the crusades. Étienne, a grisly old-timer, had served my father, King Louis, on the second crusade. Roland was tempted by the possibility of evenings with Étienne, telling tales of knightly valor in the Holy Land as we sat around the campfires.
By late afternoon of the second day, we were in sight of the port. Even though dusk approached, we had hoped to make the journey across the Channel immediately, since we had money enough to pay the price for special service. But as we neared the huts on the outskirts of town, we could see that the sky promised trouble. Mountains of darkening clouds were forming in the north. Old Tom shook his head.
“Thou’rt not thinking still of crossing yet today?” He looked my way as we paused on a slight rise overlooking the town. Our horses were tired and pawed the ground, making impatient noises. I noticed, as our journey progressed, that Tom had fallen intermittently into Celtic speech and his old habit of addressing me in the familiar. As if I were still the child he had known decades before. I did not reprove him. “The Channel sky must have looked just this way the night the White Ship went down.”
“Mm. And all of England’s hopes sunk, too,” I murmured, thinking of that night long before I was born when the only son of the first King Henry died at sea. Because of that death, England had endured years of civil war. The death of any king’s child was, in every event, significant. But some deaths were, perforce, more significant than others. And who would know this better than I?
“No,” I said, looking heavenward. “I was not thinking of crossing under that sky. Only a fool would brave those storm-laden clouds. Whatever Queen Eleanor wants, it can wait for another day. Canterbury Cathedral isn’t going to move.”
Roland said nothing, but I noticed a smile forming on his broad mouth. No doubt the thought of a bed at an inn with a cheery hearth appealed to his youthful soul more than did a soaking on the uncertain waters of the stormy Channel.
And so we found such an inn, not difficult in a town with as brisk a harbor trade as Havre. We entered under the newly painted sign of the Boar’s Head Inn, complete with a somewhat frightening picture of the boar snarling in an unseemly way for a place of hospitality. I was—truth to tell—as glad as Roland to be heading to a warm dinner and a bed of any sort, be it only clean.
A short, smiling man met us at the door and immediately inspired my confidence. He was fat, indicating that the food was good, and his apron was clean. These signs boded well for the hot meal and clean bed I desired.
The innkeeper surveyed us from head to toe and then offered the ledger in which we were to write our names by the dim light of a candle. Tom and Roland could write, of course, and I wrote names for the others. The names were false, but, like all experienced innkeepers, our host asked no questions. Our heavy travel cloaks and good horses told him we had silver, and that satisfied his only concern.
I was pleased when I saw my small chamber. Blue muslin curtains had been hung in the window, and fresh water for washing was set in the basin; these were niceties I had not expected in a town that serviced mostly sailors.
After a good dinner of (what else?) roast boar served in a large, noisy public room, our small party arranged itself around the inn’s commons, choosing feathered cushions in front of the snapping fire. The expected storm hammered the roof of the inn, and we congratulated ourselves on the wise decision we had taken at nightfall.
We had already been plied with the best wine the Loire Valley had sent to this city, and now we were moving on, taking up our busy host’s recommendation of his cellar stock of Armagnac. I was sitting with my back against several of the pillows, while Roland was sprawled beside me and Tom sat next to him, cross-legged, partially facing us across the corner of the hearth. The other guests had moved to the back of the room for what appeared to be a rousing game of dice, and Marcel and Étienne had joined them willingly.
I noted Tom’s fatigue in the fire’s light, signaled by the drooping of his good eyelid. Roland, however, with the typical insensitivity of the young, paid no heed to this sign. He only knew he wanted more tales from the old knight.
When there was a pause, I took pity on Tom and steered the conversation elsewhere: “Where were you born, Roland?”
“In south Brittany, near Quimper. Where you can smell the sea all the day through.” His face seized with a sudden look of longing so poignant that I had to hold back from placing my hand on his arm.
“How did you come into my brother’s service in Paris?”
“My father died when I was ten. For a time I was squire to Count Geoffrey’s chief guard. When Count Geoffrey died, my mother sent me to her brother in Paris. I came to the attention of the captain of the guards for my swordsmanship and was promoted into the service of the king.” He paused. “My mum was afraid there would be trouble in Brittany at the time, and she wanted me away.”
“Trouble? Of what sort?”
“There were rumors that Count Arthur, Geoffrey’s son, was too demanding of his uncle John, king of England. After his mother the countess died the next year, there was no one to protect young Arthur.” Roland looked beyond me, as if drawing on memory lurking in the shadows of our common room.
“John has no children,” I said, munching an apple I had picked from the common bowl on the table. “Neither did Richard. So Arthur was the only heir to the throne of England if anything happened to John.”
Roland nodded, frowning. But he didn’t speak.
“And did good King John come to visit his nephew Arthur to offer his condolences on the death of the young count’s mother?” I prompted.
Roland turned suddenly and looked at me straight on. “How did you know?” he asked, his face carrying that expression of true surprise that only the young and inexperienced can summon successfully.
“Ah. A lucky guess.” I tossed the core of the apple into the fire, where it sizzled briefly before curling into ashes.
“King John stayed in Rennes for some weeks … to offer Arthur his protection, it was said, now that both his father and mother were gone. But after about a fortnight, he left without warning. The castle steward told the foresters who were hunting daily for the king’s dinner, ‘No need for more venison for King John. He’s back to England.’”
Roland chewed his inner lip, and for a moment I thought he would not continue. But then he did.
“It was rumored that Count Arthur had displeased his uncle by being too forward and demanding about his patrimony. He thought he would rule Brittany after Count Geoffrey’s death, even though he was so young. But his uncle wanted to appoint a regent for the land. The servants said that the king and the young count quarreled loudly one night, a
nd as a result Arthur was confined to the dungeon in the bowels of his own castle. When Count Arthur hadn’t been seen for some days, there was grumbling in the village, loose talk of storming the castle to see if he was all right.”
Roland reached for another tankard of ale, which a buxom serving wench had set before him. Tom and I sat very still. A kind of sadness swirled around our corner of the tavern. “People were worried, you see. The young count—he was still a lad of only fourteen summers—had always been known for his social ways. He loved to walk about and talk to his father’s subjects.” He gave me here a look of such blinding innocence I had to close down all expression in my own face, lest I betray my own cynicism. For I already knew well the end of the tale.
“But then folks thought the better of it,” he continued. “What chance would the townspeople have against the armed guards of the king of England? After that, as I said, the king left suddenly, and the young count was not seen again. It was said he died of a fever, still in the dungeon.” Roland paused and took a long drink of ale from the cup that he cradled absently in his hand. “They said he was buried by his servants. His grave is unmarked. The villagers thought that dark deeds were done, but no one could prove anything. And, anyway, who would they turn to? The line is ended, and King John has appointed someone to govern Brittany for him.”
I watched the profile of my young friend in the rising and falling light of the fire. His full lips were pressed, his throat working.
“Is your mother still living?” I asked in the silence that followed.
“No, she passed over. It has been two years now.” His voice altered with the memory. “I never saw her after my last visit, when she told me the story of young Count Arthur.”
Canterbury Papers Page 3