“Then, since we seem to be the only adults involved here, perhaps you and I can manage the situation. Can you explain why I have been brought here?”
She had just opened her mouth to answer when John reappeared at the foot of the bed, this time with a goblet of Armagnac. I could smell the brandy on his breath from where I lay.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” he blurted out after a deep draft, leaning on the carved bedpost. “You can tell me what you know, or you can resign yourself to starving in a damp tower in England.”
“John, follow my thoughts, please, if you can.” I spoke with immense care. “Suppose I did go to Canterbury to find your mother’s letters. It’s obvious I thought they were there. If I didn’t have them on my person when your men took me, I didn’t get them. Why think you I would know where they are now?”
“Because these letters are of more concern to you than to me. You want them as much as I do. And I know you, Alex. You will do anything to get what you want.”
His voice had the winter feel of Henry’s when he was crossed. For the first time in this exchange, his words gave me pause. I recalled my drugged vision of the little boy in the snow, and I could feel my heartbeat hasten. I had to proceed carefully.
“I do not have a care about your mother’s letters to Becket,” I said, feigning exasperation. “What is it about your family, that you all think I want to be involved in your intrigues? Why could I possibly want to put my hands on some musty old letters to the archbishop, written when I was barely a tot? I tell you I know nothing of them. Now, let me out of this absurd tower.” I struggled to put my feet over the edge of the high bed and stand to face John.
As I heaved myself to my feet, the room reeled and his face receded. I backed my leg against the bed to keep from falling. Suddenly Isabelle was there to support me. She gently pressed me to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and sat down beside me. My strength dissolving, I allowed it.
“Will you stop this bickering?” She spoke firmly, as if we were children. “If you are both interested in recovering the letters, should we not try to find them? Working together, as family ought to do?”
I quelled my astonishment and looked at her. I was not quite able to match her firm, rational tone when I spoke. “Of course. You are quite right, Isabelle. As a family. Now, can you explain why these letters to Becket are so almighty important?”
John made an aggressive noise, but Isabelle simply turned her back on him and faced me. She was silent for a moment, as if considering some decision. Then she began to speak in a low, comforting voice, as if I were a hysterical child. “It is thought that Eleanor wrote some letters years ago—important, personal letters. Letters to Thomas à Becket, as you say, and written at a time when Henry and the archbishop were quarreling.”
“I know this,” I said, gently easing aside her arm, which still encircled my waist with an alarming familiarity. I replaced it on her lap. “Eleanor told me. She is afraid the letters will be used to embarrass John, raising all the old rumors of Becket and the queen’s intriguing behind Henry’s back. Possibly raising issues of John’s parentage.”
I thought I might have gone too far, but then I saw that John, in his relentless pacing, was out of earshot.
“Ah, but there is more. It’s true that certain of these letters may have been addressed to Becket and may prove momentarily embarrassing. But it is rumored there are others of the queen’s letters bundled with them, letters written later, while she was imprisoned here at Old Sarum.” Isabelle gestured. “Letters written in this very room, I understand, but never sent. Letters she entrusted to a monk to hide for her.”
“Go on,” I said. She had my attention at last. Two sets of letters. It seems Eleanor had omitted crucial information when she had pressed me to undertake this search.
“We … are not certain of the subject of these later letters, nor to whom they were addressed.” Isabelle cast a look over her shoulder at John, who watched her morosely, swilling his brandy. “They couldn’t have been to Becket, because he was long dead by then. We have information that some of these letters may contain vital information, proof in the queen’s own hand of the existence of a rival claimant to the throne. And whoever has possession of these letters—Queen Eleanor, the Knights Templar, John, or you…” Her voice trailed off.
“Has the power,” I said, looking into the distance.
“Exactly so. And if the letters fall into the hands of the Templars, they could use them to force John—” She stopped abruptly.
“Force John to do what?”
“Oh.” She brushed the air with her hand. “Make certain concessions.”
“Minor concessions, such as giving up the throne?” I just couldn’t restrain myself.
Isabelle glanced sharply in my direction. “Such as giving the powerful abbeys relief from the taxes they owe the crown,” she snapped. “Such as making the king of England their private pawn.”
But I was losing myself, despite the interest I had in this conversation. My eyes were heavy again, and I ached to sleep. “If such letters were written when she was captive here at Old Sarum, how could she ever have thought they would find their way out into the world? The queen was under heavy guard.”
“It’s not at all clear the letters were even sent when they were written,” Isabelle said. “At first Eleanor was quite shut off from the world. Later, though, she had much more opportunity. Henry was soft of heart where Eleanor was concerned, and he granted her most of what she wanted in the end.”
“Except, of course, her greatest desire. Her liberty,” I pointed out. Nevertheless, I knew that what the English queen said was true.
Isabelle took no notice, as she continued. “If she had been unable to send these letters, she may have decided they represented a danger to her if they were found. She may have decided to have them hidden on the outside. They could have been smuggled out in any number of ways. She ordered cloth for new dresses, doubtless sent things back to merchants. The pipe rolls show many such transactions, so we know there were merchants in and out of Old Sarum constantly.”
Isabelle, still sitting companionably beside me, bent her head toward me so that I became aware of the musky scent that her body gave off, like an attractive animal. I thought I might be sick again from the sweetness. “There were many avenues through which to distribute treasonous correspondence,” she murmured. “We just don’t know what happened—”
“Isabelle,” John cut in. He had repositioned himself once again at the table against the far wall.
“It’s right, John, for Alex to know the truth about the letters. I don’t think Eleanor has been completely candid with her.”
And those, I thought grimly, may be the truest words spoken by any of us today.
“Isabelle, dear Isabelle, could you help me rest against the pillow. I do feel faint. John, what did your men use on me? That dreadful mandrake root, I suppose. Pity it’s so easily available in England. They say its effects last for days.” As the buzzing returned, the room seemed to grow smaller. “I’m afraid I can talk no longer in the present moment.”
I sank back against the pillows as Isabelle rose and lifted my legs onto the bed, remembering as I did that there were herbs in my small purse that might do well for me. I was beginning to experience a dreadful thirst. Hang the risk of poison. I was forced to ask for water.
“Isabelle, please, water, if you would, from the hearth pot. I have need of something to still my head.” I paused, fighting the nausea rising within me again. When it had passed, I steadied my voice. “What are the supposed contents of this second set of letters?”
The king and queen exchanged a long look as Isabelle rose. “They may contain merely personal news, or mayhap Queen Eleanor’s opinions of state matters.” Isabelle’s nonchalant voice belied her next words as she bent over the fire to take water from the kettle. “But we have been told the Templars believe that these letters contain information confirming a rival claimant to the k
ingship of England. Information that could topple John’s throne.”
I wanted to say that the throne would stand, it was John who would topple, but the time for any levity had long since passed.
I pulled my purse out from under the coverlet and undid the binding. The small packet of herbs was still intact, inside a cheesecloth with a drawstring. I took several of the longer leaves out and soaked them in the steaming pewter cup Isabelle handed me.
“What are you drinking?” John left his chair and shot across the room, nearly knocking the cup from my hand in his effort to peer into it.
“Not poison, if that’s what you fear,” I took a long draft of the tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.
“I believe that you know where my mother’s letters are.” John’s voice was intense but not loud. “I know that my mother told you where to look. And I think you know why the Templars want those letters also.”
“John, she’s your mother.” The light that had filled the room was lessening, time itself was moving, and we three in this room spent our time in witless exchanges. “Why don’t you send to ask her what instructions she gave me? And while you are at it, ask her what these many letters contain, words that could be turned on you now. Surely she wouldn’t deny your request. She always loved you so.”
John knocked the cup from my hand, and I watched it skitter across the room. It came to rest beside the body of the little white dog.
“Alaïs, the game is over. You can rot in this tower, for all I care.” I thought he would strike me, but he only stood looking down at me, his jaw working before he spoke again. “I know that those letters are proof you had a bastard child with my father. My mother knew it, and she wrote about it.” His lips tightened grimly. “And I think you know where that child is now.”
Checkmate.
I had to swallow twice to keep from making any noise at all. I summoned all my guardian spirits to hold my body still. I looked at him, saying nothing.
Still watching me, he lifted his arm in a half wave to his wife. “Isabelle, we leave.” He picked up his wife’s ermine cloak, which had slipped to the floor, and tossed it to her without even looking at her.
“But—”
“I said now.” He leaned over me once again, his face close enough for me to see the pores on his nose. “Think this over, Alex. You are our guest here and remain here at our pleasure. For the time being, we will see that you have wood for your fire and food and drink. But our patience may grow short.” He suddenly dropped his royal persona. “I want those letters in my possession, and, by God’s blood, you’ll not get in my way. You know something about this, and I’ll have your knowledge before long.” His eyes narrowed like a whippet’s in sunlight. “Or you’ll pay a heavy price, princesse or no.”
He stopped by the door and threw over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you the dog for company.”
Isabelle was standing next to John as he finished. Something close to sympathy fluttered across her face as she looked down on me, merely the brush of a bird’s wing. I thought for a moment she would speak, but she gathered her skirts and followed him out. I closed my eyes and slid down into the warmth of the bed.
Christ above. Only one thing could cause such an uproar. The child had lived after all. Eleanor, John, the Templars—everyone knew it but me. Only now I knew also. John had just told me. And now I must reconsider all my plans.
I had just seen John revealed as he truly was: a dangerous man, and unstable. I thought of his bizarre smile after he had kicked the little terrier. Not a man in control of himself. Not a man to trust at all. And he wanted desperately to know the whereabouts of my child, a son who would now be a grown man. A son who posed a danger to the man who had not hesitated to kill his own nephew, young Arthur.
The drugs captured me once again, and I drifted off to dream of many little boys lost in the great hall of an unknown castle, all running around trying to find their mothers. Small white dogs snapped at their heels.
Much later I woke to find that someone had lit a fire in the small hearth. Wood was laid by it, and in the glow I could see a tray of food. The body of the dog was gone.
It took me some minutes to adjust my eyes to the dim light, still longer to realize that my head no longer felt like a large drum. And the roiling stomach I had experienced all through the conversation with John and Isabelle had disappeared.
I raised my stiff body awkwardly from the bed. I was still wearing the woolen leggings I had put on to fend off the cold in the cathedral, and I was warm and uncomfortable. I slipped off the cloak and divested myself of my shift, which had been drenched with sweat. I was glad to be free of it. The leggings came next, and I put my gown back on.
I padded to the fire, feeling lighter of heart. The tray held simple enough food: two shepherd’s pies, still agreeably warm, some bread and ale. The smell of the meal made water start in my mouth, and I settled myself quickly as near to the blaze as I could. I discovered I was ravenous. As I chewed, I thought. I had to lay my plans. And I still knew not those I could trust.
Not Eleanor, who had withheld the truth of the letters from me. Not John, nor Isabelle, who would stop at nothing to secure the throne. Not the faceless Knights Templar, who wanted my son only to use as a pawn in their power game.
The image of William rose before me, but I pushed the thought away. He was in London on important abbey business. He might not even know of my abduction. And, even if he were of good will toward me, which was by no means certain, how could he help, with only a bunch of monks for assistants?
The fire was settling now, and I threw another piece of the small woodpile onto it. Outside, the wind made a terrible noise. It reminded me of something. The howling of wild animals or perhaps the angry sea. I remember what Eleanor once told me. She swore that when she was captive in this very tower, she could hear the sea when the wind was up, even this far inland. Of course, that was impossible. She must have imagined it.
Eleanor. I stared into the fire. What did she write when she was kept in this tower so long ago? She knew about my child. And she wrote of it to others. I buried my head in my hands, but then I bethought myself of the child. I would find a way out of this tower, and I would find that child. I would make certain, no matter the cost, of his safety. No matter the cost to anyone.
.11.
Entertainments in the Keep
I soon crawled back to bed and fell into a fitful sleep. When next I opened my eyes, light again filled the room. Eleanor’s room. For the first time, I was alone in daylight, and I had the leisure to ponder my last visit here. It had been more than twenty-odd summers since Henry swooped down on Eleanor’s court at Poitiers chasing his rebellious sons. When he finished closing the court, he dragged Eleanor back to England, and he brought me along with her.
Our family was taken entirely by surprise one damp spring afternoon when the king descended on us. We had only an hour’s warning. A messenger, soaked with rain, had blown into the courtyard like a battered bird with the news that Henry was not ten leagues away, riding hard with an army at his back. And he was in a fury. The king had discovered that Eleanor and his sons were plotting with my father, King Louis, behind his back. He was riding for blood.
There was just enough time for Richard and Geoffrey to dash to the stables and throw themselves on two horses. They rode out in a panic, desperate to escape the wrath of their father. Eleanor watched them go, shading her fine hazel eyes against the sun. Then she pulled me by the hand so that I fairly flew into the great hall after her. If I close my eyes, I can still see her and hear her words winging around in my memory.
“Come, Alaïs. We will dress as men, and follow Richard. We still have an hour’s start, if we go now.”
“But what is happening?” I bleated like a lost lamb. “What will become of us?” She only said she would explain later, as we dashed to her chambers. We threw on the clothes of our pages, brought quickly at her sharp command.
It was too late. Even as we pulled
cloaks from her armoire, we heard the hoofbeats of the king’s company. I trailed the queen to the parapet to look down below at the great sweaty fuss of the personal guard of the king of England. They rode into our courtyard with Henry at their head, still spurring his horse. William Marshal rode at his side.
We had a rough crossing back to England. The Channel waters were whipped by high winds, but the king was in such a rush that he refused to wait for the weather to shift. We were crossing anyway, he shouted, flying into one of his famous rages. His men complied.
He wanted Eleanor, we discovered, safely locked away in Old Sarum tower. Her days of intrigue against him were over. He wanted to slam the door on her for good.
The day we arrived at Sarum, the weather had finally broken, and a watery English sun covered our caravan. Because the family had spent so much time in Normandy while I was growing up, I was not familiar with the Plantagenets’ English castles. William Marshal explained Sarum’s history to me as we rode up the hill toward the tower. King Henry had never favored Sarum and had rarely stayed there. It had been a fortified keep a hundred years earlier, built for strength, not comfort, by King William, he who was called the Conqueror.
The original building was the keep itself, containing a royal bedchamber, receiving rooms, and a vestibule with a small chapel over it. Later Bishop Roger of Salisbury, who built the great cathedral, had attached more comfortable royal apartments, a large receiving hall, two more chapels, and the great kitchen.
As William Marshal recounted this history, I noticed Eleanor just in front of us. She appeared to be lost in thoughts of her own, not turning around once. William Marshal had been assigned the queen’s personal guardian on this journey, but it was her choice to ride alone. The king was far ahead with his high knights, and many others rode behind us.
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