Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Look here,” he said, laying it on the heavy wood. “See the pattern in the filigree?”

  I leaned over the table, peering. In truth, though I had often fingered the delicate gold setting, I had never looked closely at it. “It is in a pattern of arabesque, which the Arabs consider symbolic of the search for spiritual clarity. This is a very spiritual piece.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “So someone who knows its true value might also seek it for its spiritual significance.” I was thoughtful as I picked it up from its resting place and fastened it again around my neck.

  “Have you reason to believe someone wants this jewel now?”

  I paused. I was beginning to like this monk, but I still feared to trust anyone with the story of the recent attempts at theft that had been visited upon me. I knew not who could be involved.

  “I … it has recently caught the attention of some and made me wonder as to the cause,” I said, relieved to be able to tell a partial truth.

  He raised his shoulders and lifted his opened hands upward. “So it could be gold, or it could be God.”

  I was amused, thinking this monk could best me in a contest of aphorisms. Then I added, “Or it could be something else.”

  “Which would be?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “Leverage,” I said. “Trading power, with someone who has something else that is wanted.”

  He pursed his lips again. “Ah, yes, I see… You may have something there. I think you should—”

  I was never to know what he thought I should do, because at that moment Brother Dermott appeared from behind Father Alcuin, having come up the back stairs. He appeared rather out of breath.

  “Your Grace, I am sorry to be late. I was to have you at the refectory before the start of dinner, but I was delayed. Father Alcuin, you are to come, too. Prior William wants you at his head table this very afternoon.”

  And that announcement, carrying as it did the full weight of the prior’s authority, ended our exchange. For although the three of us walked together hurriedly through the cloister walks, neither Father Alcuin nor I raised the topic of the pendant again.

  .8.

  A Curious Luncheon

  A clear bell sounded as our little party entered the immense dining hall. A sea of black and brown robes greeted my eyes. The black robes, the monks, were seated at tables arranged in the middle of the hall. The brown garb of the servant brothers circled in the outside tables, making an interesting border of color.

  In the very center was a long polished cedar table positioned on risers, slightly higher than the others. The table was ringed with monks, and Prior William sat at its head. I expected William to preside over the community, since he was the abbot’s replacement. Still, it surprised me to see him in the midst of his men in this way, as if surrounded by a small feudal army all dressed in their lord’s colors. It seemed incongruous with his solitary state at Mass only hours earlier.

  The monks, who had been standing in silence, all sat down at the bell’s sound, and a low murmur began. As I passed through the hall to the high table, the noise increased. I was glad I had dressed in a subdued black gown, with only a simple veil of light cream over my hair. I felt I almost blended with the monks, except for the veil, of course.

  William rose as he saw me approach. Brother Dermott helped me take the single high step up, and I faced the prior. I was again surprised by his height.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing to greet me, as if we had not been in rather intimate conversation not twelve hours earlier. I responded with equal formality. I had been well trained at Eleanor’s court.

  “Father Prior, greetings,” I said as he bent over my hand and then used it to guide me to take the seat on his right. I marveled again at his courtly manners. They could not have been more perfect had he been raised by Eleanor herself. He threw me a strange glance, as if he read my thoughts.

  “Fathers, Brothers.” William raised his voice and extended his arms. The hall fell silent. “Please welcome the Lady Alaïs, princess of the royal house of France.” His public voice was surprisingly resonant. There was a pause, and then all the black and brown robes rose in unison and bowed. “She is our guest these few days. She has come on a pilgrimage to do honor at the martyr’s tomb.”

  Then William motioned me to sit, and he did likewise, as did all at his table. As if on cue, all the benches in the hall scraped the floor as two hundred dark robes resumed their places.

  William introduced the monks around the table, calling each by his religious name. There was Father Basil, Father Anselm, and next to him Brother Francis, the youngest man at table and the only one who wore the brown habit. Then Father Raynulf and Father Rheinhart. Father Alcuin had also taken his place among them. I soon lost track of names. They were twelve or fourteen in number, too many to remember.

  I noticed with some curiosity that two or three bore the same type of marks I had seen on Brother Dermott. One was missing several fingers, and the other had a scar along his face. Yet a third monk came in late and made his way to our table limping, as if he had a wound on his leg that would never fully heal. This monk, a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked as fit (except for his limp) as if he might have been a knight once, mumbled something in Prior William’s ear and then took the one seat that had been vacant at the table. Perhaps many of these men had sought the peace and tranquillity of the monastic life after adventures on crusades or in border wars.

  “Do you not keep silence during meals?” I asked William, as a babble filled the hall. The monks had resumed discourse with one another, which rose like the Channel on a rough day. “What about reading from Scripture?” As a small child, I had spent more than one interminable Sunday at St. Denis before I was sent from Paris.

  “Not on feast days. It is not required,” William said. “There is still a reading after prayers at the opening of the meal, and we keep silence during that. But, with impeccable timing, you managed to miss both prayers and reading.” Uncertain how to respond, I cast an inquiring look in his direction. He leaned toward me.

  “My recollection of you,” he murmured, speaking with his head close to mine, “from our time together at the court of King Henry, is that you had a positive aversion to holy liturgy. I remember that you created false illness one year so as to avoid the long service on Holy Saturday eve.” A tremor danced around the corners of his lips.

  I did not know whether to be offended or amused. Was the prior of Canterbury having a jest? Or was the remark intended to be a reprimand on my Christian lapses? The only certain thing was that this William was altogether unlike the shy youth of my childhood memories. I decided that it would be best not to take offense.

  “Not fair, Prior. Brother Dermott was late in fetching me from the interview with Father Alcuin.” I gestured with my head in his direction. “You cannot blame me for the abbey’s scheduling problems.”

  This rejoinder brought another good-natured laugh.

  Suddenly a plate was set before me by a serving brother. It was a riot of salad, herbs and radishes and lettuces all jumbled together. “I’m impressed, Prior William, to see parsley and fresh chickweed and lettuces at this time of year. And the fennel looks fresh as well.” I could scarcely wait until he had given a signal to eat, so accustomed had I become in the past few days to the hard bread and tough beef stew of the traveler.

  When all at the table had been served, William raised his fork to the other monks as a signal to begin. Then he looked my way and responded, “Princess, this is Canterbury, after all. What we can’t buy and keep, we grow here even in the winter, in covered gardens.”

  I pondered without comment the vast resources of Mother Church. Her larder seemed as bountiful as that of the Paris court. William turned to talk with the monk on his other side, a rough-looking man with a Roman nose and shoulders that could challenge a bull. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place where I had seen him nor whom he put me
in mind of. The monk on my right was engaged in some kind of theological debate with another across the table, citing Peter Abelard twice that I heard. I withdrew into myself and mused on how I would draw this strange ensemble of men, if I but had the charcoal in my hand.

  We had scarcely begun to eat the salad when a second dish was set in front of the prior and then passed to me. One after another the platters appeared: pork pie, chicken smothered in a sauce replete with mushrooms and brightened with a red coriander dust, grilled bream with a pale accompaniment that proved to have a ginger bite to it, a large cut of honest red beef (that English staple that the French court spurned), spiced meatballs that had been sautéed with nuts, and finally a large platter of mouton, undisguised.

  While I was grateful for the first dishes, I soon tired of both the amount of food and the variety. When I shook my head at the mouton, William noticed and turned casually back my way.

  “What, not hungry, Princess? And after such a long journey, too.” It rankled me to have him comment on my habits. It seemed overly familiar.

  “Your hospitality is quite overwhelming, Father Prior. There is more food here than a mere woman can manage.” I couldn’t resist going further. “The venerable fathers must fast often to warrant this kind of feast on a saint’s day.”

  “Mm, yes. Many days pass with little food,” he said, unruffled. “It is a delight to see the men enjoy themselves. The regular work schedule is suspended for today, you know. Mass, of course, took longer.”

  “I noticed,” I murmured.

  “And we are never such depraved gluttons as the legendary monks of St. Swithin’s. When I was secretary to King Henry, they appealed to him to rescind an order their bishops had placed suppressing three of their usual number of courses at table.”

  “Did they so?” I did not recall hearing this story.

  “Yes, but they made a huge mistake. They did not count on offending against the royal prerogatives. Henry asked how many courses the poor deprived monks had at a meal, and the answer was ten. He immediately flew into a royal rage at this great number and demanded they reduce their courses to fewer than those served at his own royal table.”

  I felt a great ball of laughter gathering within me. William’s eyes were shining, but he maintained a grave expression. “They never complained to him again. Please, at least try this delicacy,” he said without a pause. “It’s a specialty of our abbey.” He motioned with his hand, and before I could protest, a serving brother had placed two large spoonfuls of some congealed, lumpy white sauce on my plate.

  “What, pray, is it?” I eyed the stuff as if it were still alive. I had never fancied all those thick sauces my brother found so appealing.

  “Such a favorite of the community on meatless days that we order it on feasts, too. They call it Welsh partridge. The Welsh prefer it, we are told. One of our brothers in the kitchen has family there.”

  “Is it game, then, smothered under all that sauce?”

  “No, no. It’s bread. It just looks as though it might be game. And with all the cheese sauce on it, it could be anything.” He cocked his head and raised his finger, as if making a point to his student monks. “Try it. You may find it quite appealing.”

  I tasted a small bit of the gluey stuff, immediately laying down my fork. At least they had forks. Thank God for Italian ingenuity. Ties with Rome were useful in many ways. Canterbury was certain to be the local outlet of inventions from the south, with all that ecclesial intercourse.

  “You are still intent on holding your vigil at Thomas’s shrine this night?” William’s tone remained casual, so the sharp change of topic took me by surprise. He signaled the servant brother who stood behind me to fill my goblet and then took a draft of his own ale.

  “Yes, of course.” I took one more taste of the cheese mess to hide my surprise. “It’s the reason for my visit. But, Prior William, I remind you once again,” I spoke with painstaking patience, “I will stay at the very altar of his execution. Not at the tomb.”

  “Princess, I have given more thought to this request of yours,” he said, propping one elbow on the table to rest his chin in his hand and turning his face toward me. “You will be alone all night. The cathedral will be cold. There is no one present between Compline and Matins. I am concerned somewhat for your safety if you insist on going forward with this … adventure.” He paused.

  I frowned. “You seemed to have changed your position since our conversation of last evening.”

  He made a noncommittal noise in response.

  “You need not concern yourself with my weal.” I put a breezy note into my voice, feigning an ease I did not feel. “A pilgrim must accept such conditions. What is the point of penance if it doesn’t create some discomfort?” I took a draft of the dark wine and waited. We were speaking in low voices, but even so I noticed that his gaze moved around the table to be certain no one was listening.

  “Are you deliberately not hearing me, Princess?” His voice hardened. “I advise against your plan.”

  I glanced sideways at him, while appearing to be absorbed in dabbing my lips with my linen.

  “That’s odd. My aunt had exactly the same arguments, and the very same advice, for me last evening,” I murmured. “Have you discussed this with her, by chance?”

  “I think it’s a mistake, especially tonight,” he said, ignoring my question. He was looking down the long head table as he spoke.

  I followed his lead but saw only a monk and the brown-robed brother engaged in an intense exchange. It seemed to be about the food, as one gestured to the fish on the other’s plate. Father Anselm and … what was his name? Ah, yes. Brother Francis. An odd pair: Father Anselm with a long, scholar’s face, his bony finger tapping on the table in front of him, making some point to his companion; Brother Francis as young as his companion was old, peach down barely brushing his soft cheeks, listening intently. What was such a young man doing at the prior’s table? He could not be twenty summers. And a brother at that.

  Of a sudden I recognized the boy by his reddish hair. He was the young man who had been taking dictation when I arrived at William’s chambers the previous evening, William’s young secretary. Then, as if by some invisible transfer of my thoughts, the youth looked up and saw me watching him. His curious gray eyes with sandy lashes, visible even from this distance, met mine. I started. I had seen this young man before, in some other context, but it was impossible to place where. Even the diamond shape of his face, the outline of his head seemed familiar. I waited for a picture to form in my mind, some clue to tell me the source of this mysterious feeling. But nothing came. After a time the young brother turned back to his neighbor. At that very moment I realized William was speaking rapidly, close to my ear, reclaiming my attention.

  “You may be aware that the shrine has a troubled history. There are many who come here to pray at the martyr’s tomb, but others come who have motives less pure.” At his words I turned full to look at him, only to find him still watching his young secretary, even while speaking to me. “I have reason to believe we may soon have a visit from the latter group. I would be distraught if that visit occurred tonight, or if any harm should befall you because of it.”

  “Prior William, why should I fear anything? Do you tell me that a princesse of France raised by the royal house of England has anything to fear? In an English cathedral?” I paused. As soon as the words had left my mouth, the specter of the fallen Becket rose before my eyes. Chastened by the image, I continued, but in a more subdued voice. “Has the peace of the kingdom broken down so far under John that even royal persons must fear for life in the very churches of God? Or”—now I watched his face closely—“should I have a fear particular to this church?”

  William leaned back in his high oak chair, working his shoulders absently for a moment, before signaling the head serving brother. Plates of tarts and sweets were now set before us and the awful cheese stuff taken away, God be praised. But I found that my appetite had totally disappeared
.

  “I would say that the fear is not just particular to this cathedral. Rather, particular to this cathedral, to this time, to this person. To you.”

  “Are you telling me someone means me harm?” I kept my voice level, but I could hear the hard tones of Henry at his most intense creeping in. “Tell me what you know, Prior. I am not a child to be protected from knowledge about my own well-being.”

  “After you left last night, I had a visit from two knights, men I trust well. They had just come from London. They claimed that John is on his way to Canterbury to pay a visit to the martyr’s tomb, or so he says.” William shook his head, one corner of his mouth pulled back in irony. “The last time John paid his respects to the martyr is beyond the memory of anyone in this abbey. I fear that his visit has other than sacred purposes and that it bodes ill for someone, church sanctuary or no.”

  “What is the source of this information?” I sounded like King Henry quizzing his lieutenants.

  “As you know, there is trouble between John and the great barons as well as John and the abbeys. The barons’ leadership is friendly to Canterbury.” William put two small berry tarts into his mouth before he answered. He was expert. The only stain from the berries lay on his fingers, like small blots of blood. He wiped his hands fastidiously on the linen. “The knights who arrived in such haste last night were sent by Baron Simon.”

  “Hah. There is no surprise in the barons’ rebellion. It’s about time they woke up. John couldn’t govern a peat bog. He is an incompetent. Always has been since he was a child.” I toyed with the sweet cake the servants had placed on my plate. Sugar spilled over my fingers. I raised it up, then put it down without a taste.

  “It is a pure shame that he is the only one left of all the Angevin eaglets,” I continued. William leaned toward me. “He is the least able to hold the royal kingdom together. It is ironic, John’s being king now, at the end of it all. You must remember that at one time his brothers called him ‘Lackland,’ because they all had a patrimony from their father and he had none.”