Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She provided me with one more of her interminable curtsies, bobbing her head slightly. I had the distinct impression she was hiding a broadening smile. Then, going to the large wooden wardrobe against the far wall, she opened the door. I could have done as much, I suppose, without her. The spate of illness had addled my brain.

  “Clothes have been placed here for you. They are the clothes you are used to wearing. We … it took some time for us to get these, so at first you were given some of my own things.” She frowned slightly. “We were not prepared for your arrival. We had only just opened the house ourselves that morning. You were earlier than we expected.”

  “It is your things I require to wear now,” I said, puzzled by her words. The house unoccupied before we came? The servants newly planted here for our benefit? “Or, better still, the clothes of one of the menservants.”

  She looked astonished at my request. I repeated myself, speaking slowly in her native Norman tongue.

  “I would like the clothes a manservant would wear,” I paused to see if she understood. “Can you bring me such clothes now?”

  “Oui, un moment, madame,” she said, suddenly seeing I was in earnest.

  “Are the knights at table yet?” I crossed the room to the chest as I spoke. One of my knees gave way, causing me to stumble, but she was following close behind and neatly caught my elbow. I continued on my way, determined to regain my balance. With each step I felt stronger.

  “Not quite, my lady. They are waiting, out of politesse, I believe, to know if you will join them.”

  “Then go down and tell them I am still too ill to dine and wish to be left alone tonight. After they have gone in to dinner, I shall take the night air alone. I command that you do not tell the knights below I have gone out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” An impish look flooded her face. “I do understand perfectly.”

  “Good. Then bring me the clothes I have requested, even if you have to thieve them. And a cloak of some kind as well.” She turned to go, and I added, “And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  I stopped her one last time. “But only after you have assured my knights that I will not be joining them for dinner. And make certain you are not seen bringing me the clothes.”

  She darted out the door, and I felt certain I had an accomplice who would keep my confidence.

  I was impatient to be off and lost no time once she returned. Outside, the moon was already rising as the last glow of day was fading. The white ball hung in the clear south sky and boded well for my adventure. The night air refreshed me, and after a few minutes, my initial queasiness began to dissipate.

  I headed straight for the stables, staying close to the line of trees that ringed the road. The subdued sound of male voices floated out from the courtyard behind the house, where the knights were no doubt taking the air before dinner. The drone of their male talk was punctuated occasionally by claps of laughter.

  Fortune was my friend this evening. No stray servant loitered at the stable door. The livery servants were likely at supper in the kitchen. I picked the smallest of the horses of our pack, the dappled palfrey I had ridden from Calaïs, and led her silently out of the stables. She came along sweetly now, rested, ready for my adventure. When I was far enough from the manor so that no sound reached me, I mounted and soon broke into a canter. At the fork in the road, I took the right turn to Chinon.

  I knew it was the week for the fair, for I had seen the preparations even as we rode through the town a few days earlier. There was a stage set up in the center of the market, which meant entertainment. Torches were placed all around on pikes, and people were gathering already for the evening festivities as I made my way across the bridge. I looked up at the sky dotted with stars in the deepening dusk, and I felt glad. Then I was lost in the jostling good spirits of the townspeople and forced to dismount and lead my horse into the town square, so great was the collecting crowd.

  Dressed as I was in tunic and hose, with a short cape tossed across my shoulders and a felt cap hiding my long braids, no one took any notice of me. I was passing as a servant, or perhaps a squire. Although my knees were still a bit weak, the cool air was bracing, and I felt better with each passing hour. I was feeling free as a child. And how fitting that it was here, in the shadow of the castle I had loved most growing up, that it should be so.

  I stopped at a booth and stood in line to buy a small roasted hen, which I tore into with gusto, licking my fingers like any peasant. Then I found the wine booth and satisfied my thirst with some dreadful village vintage. After that I made my way toward the center of the square, where benches were crowded around the stage. Whatever was happening there, it was drawing great gusts of laughter from the throng.

  I settled myself on a bench toward the back, where a lucky chance provided a space so that I could see through to the stage. The platform on which the performance was offered was high enough to allow a short person a clear view. I began to listen.

  At once I recognized the play. It was the dialogue between the drunk and the fool, beloved of French country crowds and often performed at court for amusement from what Philippe called—always with a sigh—the peasant offerings. The farce had entertained us royal children as well when we were in Normandy or Anjou. Now I had to smile again, in spite of myself, as the fool whacked the drunk on the head and he fell down, only to trip the fool as he turned to the audience for his bow. No philosophy here, no thought: just a rendering of the stupid human condition.

  Soon the two bouffons exited the stage, and the crowd grew quiet. Most knew what was to follow, for the playbill had been posted.

  Two cowled figures mounted the stage. One wore a white robe, the other black, and I saw we were to be entertained by that old pair of inseparables, the Body and the Soul.

  The figure in white took the lead in the exchange: “Do you not realize how your intemperance endangers your eternal life?” he thundered from under the safety of his voluminous hood. But the abstract spirituality of the white one was no match for the earthiness and vitality of the Body. This fellow, dressed completely in black with his hood sheltering his face so we could not see his expression, was easily the crowd’s favorite. He had all the witty lines, some I suspected made up on the spot, and soon the cheering for him was interrupting the Soul’s ponderous responses. It was as if this serious dialogue on eternal matters had been infected by the levity of the fool and the drunk that preceded it.

  I myself was laughing so hard that my sides were shaking. The actors were improvising marvelously on the traditional arguments, creating comedy that warmed the villagers. No wonder the bishops railed against the theater. Laughter was probably the greatest danger to orthodoxy. Just underneath all of our assumed piety was this layer of irreverence. How delightful to have it erupt among us on this star-marked night. And good for the actors!

  “But what assurance can you give me that if I give up my neighbor’s wife now, there will be any future reward? Will my own wife stop nagging me?” the black-hooded figure called out in a clear, young voice. The audience roared again, but my attention was caught for another reason. The actor’s voice had a familiar ring.

  “He’s good, isn’t he?” said an even more familiar voice close to my left ear. I started, turning quickly. William’s keen eyes were watching the stage, even as he spoke to me. He was crouching behind me, having to bend his tall frame slightly to put his head close to mine.

  “What are you doing here?” I nearly fell off the bench, but he steadied me with a strong hand in the middle of my back.

  “Following you. What else would I be doing at a county fair watching nonsense on a stage under a full moon?” he said, clipping his words in a martial way. Around us, people were straining to hear the actors. They hissed in our direction for silence.

  “When did you…?” I began.

  He put his elbow under my arm and half pulled me from the bench, drawing me firmly toward the
edges of the standing crowd, which parted reluctantly to let us through. Conquering the impulse to resist, I moved with him as one.

  When we arrived at the crowd’s edge, he did not release my arm but tightened his grip as he bent his face close to mine.

  “Now to answer all your questions at once and get it over: I arrived this afternoon. I didn’t send to your room because I understood that you were not well. I didn’t want to disturb you until you felt better, foolish fellow that I am. So much for courtoisie. But the steward’s young wife came to us as we were going in to supper and reported that you had escaped on a lark of your own.”

  “God’s teeth!” I said ruefully. “Buying another man’s servant is fool’s work.”

  “And that little message forced me to forgo the fire and an early bed and chase back across this rotting river to find you.” He stopped. “And to your next question, as yet unasked, the answer is yes, I have broken the code on your purloined letters. You may have the translation tonight.”

  “Mother of God!” I had almost forgotten the letters. In my glee, I clapped his arm with my good hand. “I’m very glad for it. But can they wait until the Body and Soul finish their debate? When you arrived, the Body was winning the encounter handily, and that pleased me no end. If his advantage holds, my conduct in the future may be affected.”

  “You can’t be serious!” His heavy brows lifted. “You of all people? You love the stage?” He started to laugh aloud. People near us turned with rude comments, which he happily ignored.

  “I love the stage, I love crowds, I love the open air, and I love game hens cooked on a spit,” I said, licking the grease that lingered on the tips of the fingers of my right hand, feeling the sensuous movement of my tongue. “I love all the things of ordinary life, the things no one ever let me have as a child, and I love them the more because of it.” I pointed to the booths with their hens trussed and turning on spits like a company of well-trained soldiers. As if on cue, a breeze blew our way, wafting the good scent of roasting garlic. “Try some, since you missed dinner at Montjoie’s. I guarantee that the food will put you in a much better mood.”

  “No thanks.” He grimaced. “Hens flavored with dust is a dinner I won’t eat unless I am in the field, and even then only if I’m ravenous. I’ll be treated to Thibault’s best farm pigeon at dinner when I return.”

  “On my word, these rough hens taste better,” I said, but William had already turned back toward the stage and did not hear me. The Body and Soul had finished their debate, and the hoods of the actors were tossed back as they took their bows to the cheering crowds. In the torchlight I could see the black-robed figure bow, his smile merry as the applause showed him clearly the favorite. He lifted his arms and his face upward to the light as his hood fell back. It was the diamond-shaped face of the young clerk, François.

  “As soon as he joins us, we’ll be off,” William said, shifting his gaze from the stage to me. There was a searching quality to his look, I thought, but I might have imagined it in the dim light.

  We walked away from the stage and toward one of the many passageways between the stone buildings that led out from the town square down to the river. When we reached the bridge, William paused, then turned to me and asked, without preamble: “Did you have conversation with François in your journey from Wiltshire?”

  “We talked at dinner and some while riding.”

  “And what do you think of him?” The question seemed casual enough.

  “A fine young clerk—or knight or monk, or whatever you and your men are,” I answered, but then I felt his eyes still on me.

  “Would you like such a man in your service?” he asked. It did not sound like a question put lightly.

  I covered my surprise as best I could, and honesty made me hesitate before I replied, “William, it’s not clear to me where my service would lead. I cannot say yes or no at this time, for I haven’t decided whether or not I will return to Philippe’s court.” I thought for a minute. Perhaps I had misunderstood. “Are you offering him to me?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied. But then our opaque conversation was cut short, as the young man in question caught up with us, panting hard from running, his black-hooded robe slung over his shoulder. It was only then that I saw he had purloined a Benedictine habit as his costume for the morality play. He showed no surprise at seeing either of us, nodding to William first and then bowing quickly in my direction.

  “You acquitted yourself well,” William said to the disheveled young man, cocking one strong eyebrow quizzically. “You may have missed your calling. Mayhap you should forget aspiring to a knighthood or the church and follow the stage.”

  “I was surprised to get your note,” the young man said, with a remarkable demonstration of sangfroid. “Thanks for letting me go on.”

  He bobbed his head in my direction, then said, “What brought you here tonight?” The question was directed to William. Apparently he had little interest in what I was doing at the scene. The young face had revealed no surprise when he saw me, but then I had just seen a fine demonstration of his acting ability onstage.

  “Chasing after you, you young rake. What will Hugh Walter say if I tell him his best classics student spends his free time frolicking on the stage?” William reached out to ruffle the burnt auburn hair, but François ducked with expert timing. “And making a comedy out of the very serious debate between the body and soul. The church does not take her mission to save souls lightly, young man, I can promise you. You should have learned at least that in your years at Canterbury.”

  “You promised I wouldn’t have to go back if—” François was laughing so hard he could hardly speak, but he stopped abruptly when he saw William’s expression alter at his words.

  “Later,” William said, with that occasional and sudden curtness and change of mood that left one wondering if he ever truly relaxed for more than ten heartbeats.

  “My horse is over here.” François recovered gravity and gestured with his head back toward the stage, making the transition in the conversation with admirable grace. Again I thought, He has the makings of a formidable actor.

  “Not anymore it isn’t,” William replied, continuing to lead us in the opposite direction. “It seemed sensible to have all of our horses in one place, close to the river, so that we could leave before the crowds tire of their entertainment.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw another play just beginning. We were among a handful of people leaving the square. From the shadows now deepening around us, five more knights materialized on horses, three of them leading ours. How did he do it? I wondered, shaking my head in the dark. It was as if he had a secret kingdom at his beck and call. And we all mounted and rode off.

  .18.

  Misunderstandings

  William himself saw me to my chamber. I paused with my hand on the door latch. I expected that he would want to discuss the translation of my letters, but he did not make any move to prolong our conversation or to come into my chamber. As if he read my thoughts, with that uncanny energy that flowed between us, he merely said, “We are all tired. In the morning, after we’ve broken our fast, we’ll talk. I’ll bring the letters then.”

  “But you lead such a mysterious and peripatetic life,” I countered, with as much lightness as I could summon. “What if you get called away suddenly in the midst of the night? My letters will go with you. And there will go also the answers I believe might alter my life.”

  “Or might not,” he said, jamming his thumbs into his belt. The hall torches shadowed his face, but they illumined mine. “Alaïs, trust that nothing will take me away from this house tonight, not before we discuss your letters.” His voice was as hard as iron.

  Suddenly I became aware that we were standing close together. My back was leaning against the door to my chamber, my face to William in front of me. He seemed to be blocking my way, although it was I who stood against my own door. His gaze, framed by those remarkable brows, was directly on me in that pecu
liar, intense way of his. I placed my hand on the latch behind me. He might enter my room if I opened the door—he already had demonstrated a penchant for entering my private chambers at will—and it would be easier to face him in my chamber than as we were now. In my own room, I could put space between us. From this intimate position, I felt oddly vulnerable.

  Without warning, he stepped back and turned about without saying a bonne nuit. Before I could speak, he disappeared around the corner. A confusion of feelings overtook me, both release and chagrin. I pressed the latch and entered my chamber.

  There was new vellum on the table next to the chest. The torches were lit, and the room was filled with wavering light. There was no chance for sleep the way I felt at that moment, so I sat to sketch. Perhaps I could capture some of the joy of the hours just past while the night scenes in the Chinon town square were still in my mind’s eye. But that was not to be. I made one try after another to draw the stage, Body and Soul in their debate, even the townspeople lurking on the outskirts of the crowd, which I usually found so fertile as subjects, but the charcoal did not cooperate as it usually did.

  The face of William kept interfering. Finally I gave in and sketched that face. First the face I saw on the high altar at Canterbury—uplifted, distant, arrogant—then the busy host at Baron Roger’s dinner party—social, charming. Next the face of the man who embraced me when I cried in my chamber at Wiltshire, a softer face, and then the laughing, ironic face, so full of fun, so essentially human, that caught me unawares in the town square in Chinon this very evening. Finally the impassive, preoccupied face of the William who had just left me so abruptly. I sketched all, a whole parchment full of Williams, and once I had finished, I looked down with satisfaction. I almost liked him when I contemplated those pictures. Or perhaps I should say I almost liked them, for there was a collection of people on my sheet of parchment. If I did not like one, I could take another.