Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “And how did—”

  “I spit on him. He was rude and lascivious, and he deserved it. I said I’d see us both in hell first.” At this Isabelle’s reserve wavered. Her eyes widened. “Anyway, Richard came home and took back his crown, and John skittered away like a wounded lapdog.”

  I jabbed my finger in her general direction. “Richard forgave him, but John was always faithless. At the end of King Henry’s life, John—the favored son, mind you—was the only one who continued to intrigue against his father.” My tone softened. “I wouldn’t trust your John, if I were you. He’ll do the same to you, if it serves any expedient end.”

  Isabelle sat silent as a rock. The only movement in her face was that of her brown eyes snapping at me.

  “Now, as to the purpose of this conversation.” I became suddenly brisk. “You want to know about the letters. I know no more about these phantom letters—either set—than I knew yesterday. I can tell you no more now than I could then.”

  I broke off as we heard a shuffling on the stairs, clearly the step of a woman. So Robert of Warwick had lied when he said there were no servant women in this place! More intimidation.

  “Place the tray there.” Isabelle gestured toward the table when the girl entered. I noticed the heavy hips, the blunt facial features, the hostile look the girl cast at her mistress as she complied. Probably a local peasant girl pressed into service. I wished I had my charcoal and parchment to draw her face. What a picture of naked resentment. Isabelle watched the girl go, waiting until she disappeared through the door before speaking again.

  “John thinks otherwise. He thinks you know more than you have told.” She turned to face me. “You have all but admitted that his mother sent you to Canterbury. You can hardly deny that it was to collect the letters. And”—she paused, spreading her hands as if to denote her helplessness in the face of overwhelming evidence—“he knows that you would never, ever, in this lifetime, make any pilgrimage to pray at Becket’s tomb.”

  “Apparently everyone knows that.” I pressed my lips against the urge to laugh. “I’ll make you a bargain, Isabelle.” The sight of the food was distracting. I absently wondered if Isabelle were the hostess, or if it was my responsibility to begin the meal. “If you promise to bring me charcoal and parchment so that I can draw, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Charcoal?” Her voice rose. “How strange. Why not a better bargain? Your freedom, for example, in exchange for your information?”

  “I try not to make witless bargains.” I poured the wine into two heavy earthenware cups and handed one across to Isabelle. “You have no authority to free me. But I’m certain you could manage the charcoal if you chose.”

  She raised her goblet to me. “Well said. John told me you were no fool.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t know you well enough yet to return the compliment. Will you send for drawing materials?”

  “Yes. You have my word on it,” she said, purring like a cat. I scanned her face. I could do a lovely portrait of that face, I thought, despite the thin lips. With the full sun on it, perhaps in a garden or by the sea. Yes, by the sea. She would make a long sea journey one day. “Now, tell me what you know,” she continued, unaware of my distance from her.

  I sighed as I moved my attention back to the newly laid tray. Awkward as always with the use of only one hand, I broke off a piece of the brown bread and laid it in front of me. Peeking under the white kitchen cloth, I discovered boiled fruit and scooped some into a small bowl.

  “There is one other condition.” I spoke while managing the bread and without looking her way. “You must tell me why John thinks I know where the child is.”

  She was clearly startled. “Alaïs, you must not pay too much attention to what John says when he is in the grip of anger.”

  I waved away her comment with the knife I had just picked up. “Tell me why he thinks I know the whereabouts of his rival, and I’ll tell you in turn what I do know.” I used the knife to cut the cheese and then put it on the bread, all with my good hand. Isabelle watched me with a detached curiosity.

  She hesitated, weighing the options like turnips. “I can tell you this,” she finally said, her two hands now expertly gathering her own food. “This rumor that a rival claimant to the throne exists is a dangerous one. Whether legitimate or no, if such a man exists—and he is a man by this time—he will attract followers. He may become a rallying point for activities against the king. Indeed, that has already come to pass. The Templars have got wind of this young man’s existence, and we know they are about to threaten John with him.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  “John thinks you may have known the whereabouts of the child all these years.”

  So much for what John knows, I thought. I determined to change the flow of our talk. “But, Isabelle, how could anyone oppose John now? Even Eleanor supports him. All his lawful brothers are dead: William, Henry Court Mantel, Geoffrey, and Richard. Even Arthur is dead.” With satisfaction, I watched her wince. So she did have some suspicion of John’s dark deeds. A picture of John, in the late night, unable to sleep, finding solace in Isabelle’s slim arms passed before me.

  “Arthur was no real threat to John. But he seems to have disappeared anyway in that castle in Brittany where his uncle king had locked him up. Now there is no one to stand between John and England.” I threw a questioning look her way. “Mayhap his own folly has alienated some. But he is surely the last of Eleanor and Henry’s sons with a clear right to the throne.”

  Isabelle shifted her position, turning sideways so I could not see her face clearly. “John’s position is fragile. He believes if the youth appears, things will become even more difficult for him. He knows not where it would end.”

  “Curious. I can’t imagine Eleanor writing any letters that would harm any of her sons, even John.” I paused, then said wickedly, “So tell me: Why doesn’t John just ask Eleanor what the letters reveal?”

  “He has,” Isabelle rejoined, picking at her food with a silver fork. I was ravenously gulping my portion. “Eleanor will tell him nothing. She claims there were no letters at all written at Old Sarum. But his sources tell him otherwise. He flew into a rage when he had her reply. You saw him yesterday when you brought the subject up.”

  Yes, out of control, I thought.

  “She doesn’t much like John, does she? He doesn’t know why.”

  “Of course he does.” I took a long draft of wine, carefully blotting my lips with the serviette. “First of all, she didn’t want him when he was born, and he knows that. She and King Henry were already estranged. So she left him to be raised by Henry, who then spoiled him to spite Eleanor. John’s revenge on everyone was to behave badly all ’round. How could anyone like him? Sorry,” I added, but when I looked up Isabelle only met my eyes with a mildly reproving look. In truth, what did I expect? After all, he’d given her a crown. How could she do otherwise than support him?

  “Now you must keep your part of the bargain.” Isabelle spoke suddenly, her tone firm, her gaze direct. The woman narrowed her cat’s eyes, searching my face. “What did Eleanor promise you in return for retrieving her letters?”

  “I went because I was bored at the French court,” I announced, dipping my fingers in the bowl of water the servant had placed with our food. I carefully twisted the linen between them. My left hand remained in my lap. “Everyone is obsessed with the coming royal wedding. I was eager for the excuse to get free.”

  “Do you tell me that it was only a whim sent you to England in this cold spring weather?” Her mocking laughter ricocheted around the room. “Come now! I know that Eleanor promised you something!”

  I solemnly shook my head and held up one hand, as if taking an oath. “Just an adventure.”

  Isabelle watched me with a thoughtful expression on her pretty face. Then, all at once she became coy, plucking her skirts. She spoke hesitantly. “The second set of letters—we think they may include letters written by Eleanor
to your father.”

  “King Louis?” I was jolted, in spite of myself. “Surely after Eleanor’s divorce from him there was no correspondence between them. He was exceedingly bitter about her quick marriage to Henry. Everyone knew that.” All the servants in the kitchen at Chinon knew it, I recalled.

  “Yes, he was especially bitter when Henry went off and took the English throne the following year.” Isabelle flashed a look my way, but I busied myself pouring more wine. “We do know that after the early years with Henry, Eleanor went back to intriguing against him with Louis. Her letters undoubtedly would be treasonous, if for no other reason than that they were addressed to Henry’s prime enemy.”

  I was quiet for a moment. Before my inner eyes floated my father’s face when last I had seen it. I was with Henry when the two kings had their final meeting in this life. My father’s face was crumpled with the strain of age. He was strangely formal, as if my association with Henry had separated us in some unforgivable and final way.

  I found myself staring out one of the openings in the wall, as if I could find answers in the air beyond. Dusk was approaching, and the rolling mists hid the spring-green valley below.

  Isabelle’s tone was honeyed as she continued. “Eleanor was expert at treason. John says the entire family was savage.”

  I grew weary of this conversation and weary of Isabelle.

  “I’m certain John thinks of his family as savage, with all the fighting among sons and father. But John participated fully and with less honor than any of them, switching sides at every opportunity. He was the best loved of his father.” I saw the image of Henry, old and ill and wounded, lying in a drafty castle in northern France. When he looked at the list of those against him, John’s name was at the top. They said when he saw that, he turned his face to the wall and cried. “He broke his father’s heart at the end.”

  “You sound bitter. I thought you cared not for this family.” She had a needle in her, this English queen.

  “I loved the old king,” I said, letting down my guard for one moment. “Despite everything. He died alone and friendless, Richard and Geoffrey and John victorious, his queen imprisoned. Only the old bastard son of his youth, Geoffrey, and William Marshal were with him at the end. Even the servants deserted, stripping his dead body and stealing his belongings before they ran off like rats to join his pursuers. A sad end for a great king.”

  “If you cared for him so much, why weren’t you there with him?”

  “Because I was in England at the time, by the king’s orders. I could help no one.” I touched the linen to my lips again to hide my emotion. “Now I find that I am very tired, and I would like to be alone.” I stood and brushed the crumbs that had gathered in my green wool lap. “Yes, Eleanor sent me to Canterbury. I owed her a favor from long ago, so I agreed to retrieve her letters. But as you know, I was not successful. I know nothing of any letters to my father and nothing on the whereabouts of the infant son of Henry and myself. I thought he was dead.”

  I spoke to her over my shoulder. “Tell John that even the dreariness of my brother’s court is preferable to the tower at Old Sarum. Tell him I would like a safe conduct and some servants to help me make my way back to Paris.” I walked across the room with some effort, catching the white stone wall with my hand at one point.

  “I’ll tell him,” she said rising, pulling her cloak about her. “I don’t know if he’ll believe me.”

  “God’s breath, why should he not?” My patience snapped. “All of these things happened years ago. They have nothing to do with me now. I can’t see how John thinks I can harm him.”

  “Alaïs.” Suddenly Isabelle was at my side in one quick move, her hand staying my arm. “There is another way you can help. And you should take it. If those letters to Louis are found, it will embarrass Eleanor more than I can say. It is your chance to get back at Eleanor for all she has done to you in life.”

  I whirled on her. “Do not presume—”

  “It is rumored you have the gift of second sight. Use it to help us find the missing youth.”

  “How dare you ask me to use my powers for such a vain effort!” I jerked my arm from her grasp.

  “The throne of England is at stake,” she persisted, like a dogged robin pulling at a worm in the ground. “You owe the Plantagenets something. They were your family. You could not want to see the throne of England pass from them.”

  “To my son? The son of King Henry?”

  “Your son is not the lawful king.”

  Now it was my turn to lay a hand on her, and I did so with the iron strength of my good right hand. I held her wrist and twisted it quickly behind her with all the fear I felt within myself. She let out a sharp cry like a caught animal and then began to whimper, close to tears. I loosed the pressure on her arm slightly, keeping her wrist still enclosed with my fingers.

  “Go back to John and give him this message: Not for you, not for him, not for the godforsaken Knights Templar, nor for anyone else in this wretched world would I ever give up my son.” I dropped her arm and watched her gather her cloak around her. She cast a baleful look in my direction, but my face was set in stone. I heard her footsteps on the stairwell grow faint.

  She left me alone with one chilling thought. There was not much time. The wolves were closing in. I must find the child before they did. As always in a time of worry, my fingers crept to my throat to seek reassurance from my talisman. But my throat was bare. The pendant was gone. It had been stolen while I was groggy with the mandrake. And there was no doubt who had it now: Isabelle.

  .13.

  Out of the Keep and Back on the Road

  Torn as I was between dread and anger, it was some time before the drugs finally overpowered me once more and I slept. Even then I drifted in and out, and when I woke finally, I was surprised to find that my head had cleared. Light from the rising moon filtered in and lay in careless ribbons across the floor. Most of the chamber rested in shadow, but I could make out the dim outlines of the writing desk and the chairs Isabelle and I had occupied. The fire had gone out completely. I wagered with myself there was no tray of food brought in as before. John and Isabelle were going to let me languish here as I had languished in Rouen. As if, somehow, I could be browbeaten into submission.

  I thought of the jewel and how many people seemed intent on possessing it, and I still had no clues as to why. Then I remembered my discovery of the writing desk just before Isabelle’s visit. I crept from the bed and began to make my way quietly across the room. Although I could hear no sound, I did not want to give the guards any signal that I was stirring.

  I bumped into the chair and was able to drag it over to the writing desk. After I sat, I located the top of the desk, and opened it carefully. The room vacillated between light and dark as the moon played hide-and-seek through the narrow slits. I pulled out the drawer, as before, found the spring, and the side dropped. My fingertips explored carefully and finally located the rough edge of the parchment. The cache I had discovered appeared to be several flat papers stretched out under the thin piece of wood that separated the hidden part from the rest of the drawer.

  They felt dry to my touch. It took some time to figure out how to retrieve them without damage. They seemed to be more fragile than parchment. Perhaps they were this new paper that had come from the south, made from wood pulp and not skins at all. When we were at Poitiers, Eleanor had been fascinated with the new paper, though she was able to obtain only a few sheets at a time from the queen of Navarre. I remembered that paper tore more easily than parchment and fingered these sheets carefully.

  Someone had taken care that these papers would not be easily removed, even if the false drawer were discovered. Whoever had hidden them could not know the task would be made even more difficult because I could use only one hand. I worked my fingers gradually around the edges of the false bottom and discovered that the left side could be raised higher than the right, leaving a small opening through which I could slide the papers. With
care I did so, using my left hand as a prop and extracting the layers one by one with my live hand. One, two, three, four—that seemed to be all. Then I felt a fifth and teased it out. I didn’t want any of them to drift to the floor, to be discovered in the morning by whoever brought my food, if any should come.

  A slight noise behind the wall that ran opposite the bed distracted me. By now the room was completely dark. The noise, at first like the sound of a small field animal, grew louder and more complex. As I watched with astonishment, the entire stone wall opposite the bed began to move. I hurriedly snapped up the false side of the desk, replaced the drawer, and managed to roll the letters. Stuffing them into the top of my gown, I moved away from the desk.

  An entire section of the wall swung open, just missing the oak table by two feet. Lights glimmered in the cavity now yawning where the wall had been. Several men entered noiselessly, the lead carrying a torch. He swung it around the room until it discovered me, standing behind the chair Isabelle had occupied the night before.

  “This must be the chamber,” said the last one to enter. “Desolate place this, with no fire on this bitter May evening. Ho!” He raised his voice slightly when he saw me. “Princess Alaïs. Is that yourself?”

  “Yes, of course it is the Princess Alaïs. Who else would be here in the tower? King John?” Despite my pleasure at seeing someone who approached as a friend, I felt owlish with surprise. I began moving toward the arc of light cast by the torches. “The question is, who are you? And why are you here?”