Canterbury Papers

by Judith Koll Healey

  “This is the House of Lyons?” I was incredulous. “It’s so common. And there’s no sign.”

  “It’s not, after all, a public inn, Princesse.” He rapped impatiently three times with his riding crop on the door, not bothering to dismount. “You can hardly expect a lion’s head over the portals.” The door swung wide to admit us, quickly, as if someone had been only waiting for the signal to spring the door open. Then it closed behind us. But there was no one in sight.

  “What a lot of secrets exist in the world,” I murmured as I glanced around the small courtyard banked with assertive weeds. A fountain in the old Roman style—and in some state of disrepair, I might add—settled comfortably amid its dilapidated stones in the middle. No water sprang from the center shaft, although each of the nymphs surrounding the bottom looked heavenward expectantly. It appeared as though there may have been a garden blooming at some previous time, but one couldn’t be certain, since no bud or blossom could be seen now through the tangle of brush. “The Templars must own this house, too,” I added, implying their ownership of all the others of our recent experience. “They seem to have a penchant for the odd place.”

  William said nothing. A moment later a youth with tousled blond hair and clothes that looked as though he had slept in them in the stables came to lead our horses away. I was so distracted by this and wondering where the stables were—since they were not visible from the courtyard—that I missed the entrance of an older man who materialized from one of the many doors opening onto the courtyard. William dismounted with alacrity when he saw the man, and although at first I found nothing in our host out of the ordinary, I did likewise when the young man cupped his hand for my foot.

  The man was old, for certain, but probably not as old as he looked. His body had a certain odd angle to it, as if he had spent too many hours bending over ledgers and had failed to take advantage of the horses the wealthy House of Lyons surely kept for riding and exercise. He had a well-trimmed beard in the pointed style of the Latins, rather full eyebrows matching his white hair, and the garb of a gentleman of means. He wore about his neck a heavy chain of gold with a jeweled medallion dangling from it, very much like those medallions I saw on William’s men at the manor of Sir Roger. The old man’s eye took notice of me and it seemed to me he suppressed a slight start. However, he bowed graciously to each of us as if we both had been expected.

  “Seigneur Carlo, may I present the Princesse Alaïs,” William said, bowing low in return. I was trying to remember the last time I had seen William bow when the old man spoke in his deeply resonant voice.

  “You are both welcome in this house,” he said, motioning for us to follow him.

  Seigneur Carlo led us into a large room that was organized around a huge oval table in the center. Comfortable, carved-oak chairs, well cushioned for long sittings, surrounded the table. There were no other chairs in sight. The usual flowered and hunting tapestries hung on the walls, and scented rushes were scattered on the floor. One unusual piece caught my attention, however. The largest oak armoire I had ever seen, with the most complicated set of forged iron locks and hinges, stood against one wall. The room was much bigger than it seemed at first glance, because this piece took up so much space.

  A good fire roared in the hearth. There was a spring chill on the air in Poitiers, and I was glad of a chance to warm myself. I passed by the table, since I had no part of the business to be done here, and seated myself on a bench against the wall beside the fire.

  “Please, may I send for a comfortable chair, Your Grace?” Seigneur Carlo had a slight stammer, which—together with his bent form and noble voice—endeared him to me on the spot.

  “The princesse waits for no ceremonies, Seigneur Carlo, as you can see for yourself,” William remarked in an acerbic manner, glancing my way.

  “My bench is quite good enough, Seigneur,” I said, plumping the crewel-worked cushions that rested against the wall behind me. “But I would be glad of a small table if you have one. I may draw in charcoal to amuse myself as you attend to your affairs.”

  “But of course, Your Grace,” and the seigneur snapped his fingers. The stableboy appeared and was given orders rapidly in a dialect I did not understand, but after one or two pleasantries, he reappeared with a small table, behind him a woman carrying a tray of mulled wine, some large pitchers that were placed on the long table in the center of the room, and two candles, which were added to my own small corner.

  The table was one of the new kind that fitted over my lap and yet was large enough to allow me to spread several pages of parchment and my charcoals in front of me. Suddenly a smaller table was set beside my bench, and mulled wine and small almond cakes were placed on it.

  I gratefully took a long draft of the wine and pulled my travel-worn leather sack toward me. From it I took out the charcoals, two of which had broken in the journey, and made ready to draw by smoothing the parchment sheets before me and placing two stones at the upper corners. Then I sat still. I was aware that the room was filling, but for the moment I had closed my eyes. The men’s voices were well modulated with that calmness that prevails in houses of finance and banking, no doubt in reverence to all the silver whose whereabouts are known to the men who labor there.

  I waited for a picture to form behind my closed eyes, a vision such as I sometimes saw sleeping or waking, some scene that begged to be drawn. But nothing appeared. Sighing, I opened my eyes and paused, hand poised. It was then I was distracted momentarily by an intense voice coming from the head of the meeting table. I had not heard the words, but the tone was challenging.

  William made the next comment, in tones equally firm, calculated to end the exchange.

  “The princesse is totally in my confidence. You may speak freely in front of her.” A grunt was the only response.

  Now my attention had been joined, and I scanned the faces of the men sitting around the imposing oak table. All thirteen chairs were filled. The men were all mature, two quite elderly. I saw several of them wearing the same medallions worn by the man who had greeted us. And I noticed a number of men with the black onyx ring that belonged to both my uncle and William. The sight of these rings put me in mind again of my own missing jewel, and I pondered William’s reticence in our last conversation to even discuss the matter.

  Seigneur Carlo sat at one end of the table and, not unexpectedly, William at the other. I sought the face of the man who had challenged my presence. He was sitting next to Seigneur Carlo and opposite me. By shifting slightly I could see his face well. He looked familiar, in a way I could not place. I wondered what had sparked his objection to me. Perhaps only a routine fear; those who handle large amounts of other people’s money are known always to be guarded.

  The men droned on, discussing items in several large, leather-bound volumes that were passed from hand to hand. Absent other inspiration, I began to draw my antagonist, for so I had begun to look upon him.

  The form took shape quickly: a large head, florid cheeks, a strong nose that appeared to have been broken at one time. Then the high forehead, the—Suddenly I stopped. How could I have not seen! The nose, the forehead. I began to sketch feverishly. But instead of the shock of gray hair I saw before me, I filled in the lines for the hood of the gray cloak this man had worn the last time I saw him.

  For it was indeed he, one of the three men who had followed me from Paris and whose hood had fallen back as I passed him in the inn at Havre the very night my room had been sacked. Now he sat here with the financiers and the Templar leaders, before my wide eyes. No wonder it was that he wanted me away from this room or that he would not meet my glance. What game did he play? Why the mystery? Could he have anything to do with the missing talisman?

  My imagination told me the two were linked. Memory, images, connections, as the Greeks knew. Don’t sort too quickly, keep moving, keep reaching. Keep drawing.

  To expand my thoughts, I knew I had to consider many possibilities. Who had a stake in obtaining my pendant? Tr
ue, it was valuable, but no more so than others. Why would it cause someone to go to all the trouble of stealing from the king’s sister?

  And there was the troubling issue of the theft at Canterbury. The thieves had evidently been searching for the same pendant. But when they did not find it, why did they steal my other jewels?

  As I chased these questions, I was already drawing a circle on the next parchment, glancing from time to time at the man who was now looking increasingly annoyed with the world. He was slumped back in his chair, disconsolately tapping his ring on the edge of the oak table, his full lower lip thrust out.

  What next? I began a circle of faces, sketching anyone who might have wanted my talisman. Isabelle was the most obvious to suspect. The lines fell on the paper, her oval face, her pert nose, her rather mean mouth. But what about John? It was his men who’d abducted me from Canterbury. They also had the opportunity to thieve it, and John might have reason to do this. The jewel, after all, was gold and ruby. And John was in dire need of silver. I quickly lined in the face of John, as I remembered it after he kicked the dog, the sickly, mean, defiant smile on his face.

  Then there was the pouting financier, or whatever he might be, sitting opposite me. I sketched him as I saw him now, in his Brabant wool robe, wearing the fur-lined cape that currently graced the high back of his chair; and Eleanor, who might want her jewel back but might also doubt that I would give it to her; and Charlotte, who loved jewels, any jewels.

  Why would someone want my jewel? Not for the market price it would bring. It must have some other value.

  For a long moment, I held the charcoal, then began to draw the pendant. I remembered every line of it, for it had been my most cherished possession for years after Richard gave it to me. The graceful gold filigree of the setting, the oval ruby in the center, the tiny flashing gems that surrounded it. Then next to it I drew the back, the gold oval on which was etched the line of poésie from Ibn al-Faridh: “Death through love is life.”

  I, who so recently found life through love, was not prepared to contemplate death as part of the affair. But the thought of love reminded me that there was one face conspicuously absent from my circle, one other actor in this drama. And I filled in the last circle of faces of those I suspected with that of the man who sat at the head of the table, the grand master Knight Templar in England, the man who had become my lover but whose depths were still unknown to me.

  It was rather a good picture, if I did say so to myself. William, the ultimate arranger, the cleric, the resourceful man, the man of the world. Survivor and politician. Suddenly I had a thought that, not examined too closely, seemed brilliant. I remembered the ancients’ description of drama: inventio, memorio, actio. Inventio—the creation of the new idea; memorio—the rehearsing of it; and actio—the presentation with vigor.

  At nearly the same moment, the room began to rustle with movement. I looked up and was surprised to see most of the men around the table closing their large books and rising to their feet. There was no time for memorio, but I had the idea, and I moved with it. My quarry was already up and speaking quickly to the venerable man who had welcomed us, who seemed to have a position equal to William’s in this gathering.

  William himself was at the opposite end of the table, gathering some papers and stuffing them into his leather travel sack. Several others stood around the table in groups of two or three, talking in urgent murmurs. It was now or never, I decided.

  I stood so suddenly that the small pine lap table turned over, scattering parchment and charcoal and creating a noise that drew everyone’s attention. All conversation stopped. Every eye came my way, which was exactly what I desired.

  I moved that table aside with my foot and walked quickly forward, ignoring William, who—how knew I this?—would move toward me as soon as he recovered.

  “A word, sir, before you leave,” I said loudly to the man with the large nose.

  He had already pulled his cloak from the back of his chair and was swinging it over his shoulders in a deft motion. He did not meet my eyes but mumbled something as he turned to go. I stepped deliberately in front of him. I heard William say my name, but I pressed on with my event.

  “Hold, sir. I said I want a word with you.” My voice was as hard and demanding as years of royal training could make it. Now I knew that the others were all regarding us. The man looked like a deer confronted by Henry’s hunting party. Short of knocking me down to get to the door, he must attend.

  “Madam, this meeting is over. Please do not meddle in affairs that do not concern you.” I heard some breaths sharply indrawn in the room behind me but saw only this man. I left space between us so that he could not tower over me, but I felt no fright. Despite his size, I felt that I was the hound and this fox was run to ground. For we both knew what he feared.

  “I’ll have my jewel, sir.”

  “What are you talking about?” I could see beads form on the high, broad forehead that had given him away.

  “I know that you followed me from Paris, and I know that you sacked my chamber at the inn at Havre.” I waited. No one in the room moved or spoke. “You wanted my jewel. And I know that it is in your possession. Now, give it back.”

  In truth, I knew not what this man would do, for I had not had the time to work out the plan in full. I knew only that I had to confront him before his confreres left the room. When I saw his reaction, I decided quickly to press on.

  “Why would I want your jewel, madam?” He looked down the long, uneven nose at me.

  “Because of its value,” I said simply.

  “But, madam, I am a financier. I am a Knight Templar of high office. I can buy jewels ten times the value of any you might have by snapping my fingers or signing my name. Why would I lurk in lowly inns or ransack rooms to get some pendant you possess?”

  The silence in the room grew unbearable. The blood drained from the man’s face as he understood what he had said.

  “Jacques?” Seigneur Carlo moved swiftly to stand between us.

  “Who told you it was a pendant?” I whispered. Everyone in the silent room heard.

  “Destriers?” William’s voice shot across the room like an arrow as he moved forward.

  The ill-tempered Jacques Destriers threw his riding gloves onto the table and burst out in anger, “Well, what are you all looking at? You said we had to find a way to make the exchange for the Knights. You knew that the caliph was being difficult. I was just carrying out your scheme.” He stared around the table at the faces, all open in surprise.

  “None of you wanted to do it—oh, no. You said to get the agreement from the caliph however it had to be done.” He gestured in my direction. “Now you all want me to explain it to the princesse.”

  “So, as I suspected, the value was in its trade.” I spoke softly. “Monsieur, the jewel was mine. You had no right.”

  He looked away from me, pressing his full lips together.

  “You actually followed the princesse and sacked her room at an inn?” William’s face was visible over Destriers’s shoulder. The astonished expression on it exonerated him far more than any denials he could have given me. “That’s outrageous, man! I’d given strict instructions that the pendant was not to be taken. How dare you! What ails you?”

  “I’ve already explained.” The large man stepped back, as if physically afraid of William’s advance. “Master Averroës was in the north, meeting with the Frankish Templars. He saw the jewel. The pressure on our lodge to obtain it was renewed. The order came from the grand master in France himself.”

  “Ho!” I couldn’t help the sound that came forth. The grand master in France had given the order after Averroës had seen the jewel and before the man was found in my garden. Horses could not ride that swiftly. The order had been given by my uncle, Duke Robert.

  Destriers folded his arms defiantly across his chest and continued speaking beligerently. “And besides, I wasn’t the one who stole it after all.”

  “Oh, no, it wasn�
��t possible for you to steal it, because it was always around my neck. But you finally found someone who helped you out, didn’t you?” I gestured with my withered hand, and Destriers flinched. Then he flung himself into the chair and half turned from the table. “The lovely Queen Isabelle slipped the jewel from my neck when I was drugged at Old Sarum. And you made it worth her while, didn’t you?”

  I was stabbing in the dark with my guesses, but his whitening face told me I was right.

  “You had social concourse with Isabelle of England?” Seigneur Carlo’s olive skin was like to become as pasty as Monsieur Destriers’s. “Are you mad to give her a weapon like this?”

  Destriers waved his hand. “She had no idea why I wanted it. I used an intermediary as a messenger. When John’s men abducted the princesse from Canterbury, we were staying at the town inn, trying not to arouse suspicion. I was growing short of time. The caliph said if he did not have the jewel by high summer, he would stop receiving the Temple’s messengers. The knights would die. I’d been working on this the whole year long. So I sent a messenger to Isabelle at Winchester to ask her to obtain the jewel for me.” He nearly smiled and waved his hand casually. “We had known each other when she was yet at Angoulême.”

  “You knew I had the jewel, but you couldn’t touch me while I was at my brother’s court.” I was unwilling to let this fish off the hook.

  Destriers shook his head. “Too risky. Philippe’s men are loyal to a point of foolishness.” He looked up at me, for the first time a hint of respect playing across his features. “You’re very safe there, my lady. The Paris court protects its own.”