“Or Eleanor’s,” I murmured. I looked at William as if seeing him for the first time. “Unlike John, you don’t seem to have any fears, William of Caen.”
It seemed as though he would speak, but he only shook his head slowly. Then, after a minute, he said, looking over my left shoulder as if he could see the past woven into the tapestries that hung behind me, “For years I had nightmares so severe I woke screaming, in a cold sweat. I had them when I was a child—a burning cottage, a clash of steel, the pounding of hooves. They increased when I was in Outremer, killing Saracens.”
“And now?”
He looked at me. “They left me when you arrived at Canterbury.”
There arose a silence so large that it seemed to take up all the available air. I waited until I could successfully breathe again.
“Templars are celibate.”
“Ah, yes.” He glanced heavenward, as if for aid. “That was the ideal of the founders. But things have changed in a hundred years. For some of us. We are now, after all, not defending citadels against infidels but managing the banking of Europe. Celibacy shrinks in importance.”
“Are you, then, after all, no different than the old king?” I asked softly, fearing the answer.
“I am only a man, as King Harry was only a man. But it is different between you and me. We are grown now, not children. And we are of equal power. With me, now, you have a choice.”
He reached across the table and this time took my hand gently in his. I felt my whole body stiffen. “Whatever your choice, Princesse, you cannot deny that the room is filled with angels at this moment.”
He was right. Something in my heart was cracking open, so loudly I thought surely the sound, would expand beyond bearing. I let go his hand and stood, then walked slowly around the table. He followed my every step, until I was close enough to touch him. But of course I did not touch him. He rose yet made no move toward me, as if to give me one last chance to withdraw. But there are some times in our lives when we know we are carried forward on a tide larger than anything reason can explain. My last coherent thought was this: Why should I not, for once, follow my own desires?
As I moved to him, he opened his arms. My body drifted into his until I could feel no separation at all. His arms wound around me, pressing me to him, and his cheek rested upon my hair, and I heard him murmur softly, “A room filled with angels and a queen.”
I made no move to stop him as he pulled the laces of my bodice and loosed my gown. Indeed, I helped him with my good hand, but still my fingers fumbled. His seemed quick and sure, and my gown slipped from me. When I stood in my chemise, he put me at arm’s length. He seemed almost to drink me in, and I only knew that his body would welcome mine as mine would gladly host his. I stepped out of my chemise in an easy movement and began to undo his own shirt laces as he cast his doublet aside.
When we reached the bed, there seemed no more question of the past or the future. There was only the urgent present. Our first coupling was immediate, and when I felt him inside me, my body responded so quickly we rose to a climax within minutes. My breath mingled with his in perfect rhythm. Moments later I opened my eyes to find his open as well. I felt him still within me, and without pause we began again, more slowly and rhythmically. This time his hands moved over me, seeking those places that would make me moan with pleasure, and mine responded, wandering over the back of his body. We knew each other in a new way in those moments. And I heard him murmur, “Caressa mia,” over and over. Then we rested for some time, lying on our sides, talking of nothing but each other. And soon, in the manner of men, he led me back into our intimacy in new ways that pleased us both. And then it was my turn. My memory of the rest of the events of that night is clouded with both pleasure and release, for at last I had found my true wedding partner.
The storm outside that had built during the night did not abate until after dawn. Then a peacefulness descended. As I drifted off into sleep, I saw through the window the moon emerging from behind a cloud.
.22.
The Jewel’s Value
It seemed only minutes later that I felt someone shaking me. I tried to respond, but I kept sinking back into sleep, reaching for the warmth I had felt beside me through the night.
The bed, however, was growing colder and the shaking of my shoulder more insistent. I opened one eye to find William, fully dressed for travel, sitting on the side of the bed.
“Why are you out there and not in here with me, taking your rightful due from me—yet again?” I murmured, stretching out my arm and encircling his thigh.
“Come, my wanton princesse. You must rise. We have an appointment.”
“Appointment? I have nothing to do today.” I rolled over and stretched my entire body as far north and south as it would go. “I am recovering from a long, stormy night wherein my sleep was disturbed constantly. And if you were any kind of gentleman”—I lifted my head over the featherbedding and leered—“you would follow the man who used me so and chastise him for keeping me awake so rudely.”
“That man will never be caught. He has already been up for hours, written and sent off by courier six letters, seen that breakfast was laid for Your Grace, and given four sets of instructions on horses and our party for the day.” He was back in his battle-commander mode, I could see.
“I can’t help it if you are cursed with a need for activity, like a Sufi dervish,” I replied, sitting up and wriggling under his arm, with some aid from him. “It’s obvious that you have an imbalance of tempers. You must be choleric to be so active so early,” and I pulled his hand to my cheek.
He only laughed and ran his fingers down under my gown and over my breast, and I felt my blood run. But then he moved gently away and left the bed.
“This will not be our only night, I promise you. It is our beginning. But the day has arrived, and we must attend to it. Come, lazy Highness. Take a look. The sun shines on all our enterprises.”
He reached down and pulled me off the bed and toward the window with his hand around my waist, and, to tell the truth, I couldn’t resist following. It occurred to me that I might regret making one so strong a familiar. But for now I enjoyed his lead.
He guided me to the window, where he threw open the shutters, making a great clatter. Outside, a recently drenched world seemed to sparkle in the welcoming sun. A riot of blooming flowers met my eyes. The royal purple of the bluet and the bright red coquelicot were growing wild, all over the border of the inn’s courtyard. Casques de Jupiter grew beside the stables, I could see, and the bright yellow of gaillardes with their rust interior stood in clumps around the door to the inn, below my window.
I wondered how long it had been since I had noticed the brilliance of the color of flowers. How many spring seasons had passed since I had thought to count their names?
“You see, the world is busy. It has no time for slugabeds. Come, dress and breakfast with me.”
“I’ll have it as I am,” I said, reaching for my robe to throw around me.
“As you will. But you may be embarrassed in front of the other knights and the servants,” he said with great cheer.
“We’ll not eat in this chamber?”
“Ah, no. I want you to breakfast with our little company. I want to see you lay eyes on François now that you know.”
“Oh, God’s breath.” I pulled back, startled. The night of lovemaking had thrown into the background all thought of the conversation about François. “I don’t know … perhaps it’s best if I wait…”
“Nonsense,” William said, in that priorish way he had. “Come, they are waiting. And after I want you to accompany me to the House of Lyons.”
“The financiers?”
“Yes. There are some transactions that require my approval.” He paused, then stood once again, towering over me. “Alaïs, it’s best if you don’t postpone an encounter with François. Trust me on this.” He regarded me with a grave expression, one that reminded me of him as I saw him at Canterbury. He must have see
n something in my response that softened him. “But if you require time, know that he need not ride with us to the Lyons. We can make that journey alone, if you like.”
I was touched. In spite of my resistance, I understood the wisdom of seeing my son without delay, before I had thoughts of avoiding it altogether. I nodded and turned to dress. William kissed the top of my head, smoothed my hair, and then left the room with that catlike walk of his. A moment later a gentlewoman appeared to help me with my toilette. Once again William had thought of everything, I realized, with mixed feelings.
The company looked up as I entered the breakfast room. They were still the same familiar faces, but now my gaze skimmed over Roland and the other young knight, whose name I kept forgetting, and came to rest on François. All of the young men were eating heartily, although as I entered, they scrambled to their feet. After they made cursory bows, I gestured for them to resume their seats. Their attention quickly returned to their meal.
I studied François from my place at the head of their small table. It was the same face I had watched for some days now, but I saw it newly. I looked for traces of Henry and found them shining through the now-obvious-to-me resemblance to Mathilda. How had I missed it? Although the face was diamond-shaped, the jaw had shadow lines of that definite square that all Henry’s sons showed. That auburn hair was but a shade darker than the hair I remembered seeing on the king when I was a young girl. And those eyes, if one looked closely, although not Henry’s icy, inscrutable gray, had the same steady gaze, which I saw now as he raised them to mine.
“Did you not enjoy the ‘Débat entre le corps et l’esprit,’ Your Grace?” he was asking.
“Our night out in Chinon? Indeed I did. Are you looking for accolades for your performance?”
“But no, not exactly.” Across his face, fleetingly, traveled that dry whisper of humor Henry would sometimes assume, the corners of his mouth held down to check the smile that sprang instead to his eyes. “We were debating the merits of acting when you came in. My comrades here believe that theater is a waste of time. They say that the only life worth living is that of the knight and fighting.”
“It’s true. The only honor in life for a man is to be a knight and fight for his liege,” Roland said. I had forgotten how given to high-sounding pronouncements he was.
“That may be an honorable life,” I replied, biting hard into the stiff brown bread, “but it’s usually also the shortest.” After I had chewed a morsel, I looked up to find them all watching me with expectation.
“You are all yet young. When you have seen the pallets dragged into the courtyard covered with men bleeding from fighting, as I have, you will not think the fighting life such high romance. And when it is your brother or your son, when you wish it could be you in his stead but it is not, the pain is even greater.” They were very still.
“Besides,” I added, attending to my food again with more interest than I felt, “acting is an honorable profession. Even the highborn are adept. I have never yet seen a king or queen of any consequence who was not a supremely confident actor.”
William had come in behind me and heard only my last statement. He broke into laughter, and the tension lifted.
“You are all free for the day. The princess and I have business here in Poitiers. But report back tonight before dinner, for we may move early in the morning.” William’s directives were terse but popular. There were several huzzahs at the thought of a day for leisure, and the company broke up in good cheer.
William and I departed soon after. He set a good pace, and I kept up with him well, which I know pleased him. I thought we would go immediately to the House of Lyons, but instead he took the road that skirted the city walls. I resisted the urge to question him and followed with untoward meekness.
I was troubled and had in mind to ask him certain questions when the time presented itself. Finally he pulled the horses up near a field and carefully picked his way into the woods that rimmed the road. He gestured for me to follow.
He had bread, of course, and cheese and good wine. We threw our cloaks onto the carpet of pine needles that welcomed us and sat in companionable silence, listening to the slight wind play the tree-tops like a lute. Truth to tell, although we had just spent the previous evening making love, I now felt close to him in some other way, as though he must know my thoughts.
After a silence, in which I leaned back against him matching the length of my legs to his, I began. “William, I would have some comment from you.”
“On what matter?” He was still chewing the bread.
“What was the judgment on the man who died in the garden outside my guesthouse in Canterbury? Father Alcuin seemed to think it was a natural death.”
“Not a foul death, if that’s what you are thinking. My medical monks could find no marks on his body, nor wound of any kind. They concluded that his death was a matter of the heart.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, it is rather disconcerting to have a man die right outside one’s window,” I said in a huff. Men were often blind.
“Princesse, as I recall, you were not in the guesthouse at the time.” He now concentrated on destroying an apple he had picked from a nearby tree before we sat down.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “it is of interest to me. I think it connects to other events that have occurred recently.”
“Such as?”
“I met my uncle of Orléans at Havre on my way to Canterbury. He was in a country inn at a rendezvous with company most interesting.”
I could feel William stiffen slightly. “I recall that you said at the time you had seen the man before. Whom did your uncle meet?”
“Master Averroës of Córdoba.”
“How do you know this?”
“My uncle introduced us. He was there expressly to meet the master. The duke had just come from Canterbury. You must have known something of this meeting.”
William was silent, so I continued.
“Further, the master was most interested in the pendant that I always wore, the Arab jewel that Eleanor gave to Richard, who passed it to me.”
“But you do not have it now.”
“No, it was taken from me when I was abducted from Canterbury. But because the master was so interested in it, I could not help thinking that the man who died, who I am certain I saw with the master at Havre, was sent to steal the jewel.”
“Why would Master Averroës want your jewel? He is a jewel of his own. His school in Toledo gives him everything he wants. He is master of teaching the skills of translation of any in our world.”
“I don’t know why. But I think it has to do with the Christian knights who were captured in a battle in the Middle Sea some five years ago.”
“In what way?” Again that slight physical tremor and an ever so slight tightening of the voice.
“It has occurred to me that one or another of these caliphs, whether from Córdoba or Egypt, might want this jewel. And even might be willing to trade Christian prisoners for this treasure.”
“Alaïs, you are falling under the spell of those Arthurian tales coming out of your sister’s court in Troyes.”
“Marie is only my half sister.”
“Bah. You have romantic imaginings.” He brushed the remains of the bread from his lap and made to rise, tipping me off balance. I nearly spilled onto the ground.
“William, I will be taken seriously.” I righted myself and looked up at him. “Someone sacked my rooms at Havre and Canterbury, and someone has stolen my jewel. Do you not care to help me find out why?”
“Princesse.” He was standing now, and his hands covered his face in weariness. “When I complete the work I have to do with the financiers, after we have confronted Eleanor, and when we have safely returned you to your brother’s court, I shall turn my attention to the purloined jewel. But you must admit, it cannot be first on the list of things for us right now.”
I already knew that William was a difficult man. I sighed and took the han
d he offered—belatedly, I must say—to help me from the ground.
“As you will, for the moment,” I said. But inwardly I resolved not to rest until I had my answers. And I thought William a trifle quick to dismiss my concerns. Mayhap he knew more than he was willing to say, at least at the present. He helped me mount and, with an air of preoccupation that discouraged conversation, led me a merry ride into the city straight to our destination.
The House of Lyons was one of the larger banking houses in France, although it had its origins in Lombardy. True to form as Italian financiers, this mighty house backed both the English and French indiscriminately in their constant struggles. At the French court, it was rumored that they were connected to, mayhap even owned by, the Knights Templar as part of their vast Continental banking operations. Whatever the truth of that allegation, The Lyons, as they were called, continued to keep a separate name and establishment.
Thus it was with some interest that I noted the modest exterior of the building we approached by horseback not an hour later. Whether the house was owned by the Templars or was an independent house of finance, the owners seemed to desire a minimum of public attention. The building in which they conducted their business affairs was one of nondescript stone typical of all common houses in Poitou, with the peculiar roof of shingles, peaks, and little top nobs Eleanor’s subjects had begun to build. These roofs were derided in the north as reflecting the excessive taste for decoration that existed in the south, but I rather liked them. Paris was too stern for my taste. I had more of Eleanor in me than I liked to admit. Perhaps I had been born to the wrong wife of my father.
We came upon the door to their business almost, it seemed to me, by accident. We had been cantering down a narrow lane, William as usual in the forefront, not bothering about whether I could keep up—did he still remember those childhood horse races we had with the Plantagenet children, where I won my fair share of prizes?—when he suddenly reined in his horse. I pulled my reins in sharply to avoid running into him, and I saw then that we were in front of a single battered old wooden door.
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