The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  The difference in their appearance was striking. The ascetic Pierre in his simple, white habit, lean but not hungry looking, watched the innocent spectacle with flickers of admiration on his long, thin face. It was difficult to see his form under his monk’s robes, but there was no doubt from the way his facial bones jutted that he was lean from fasting to the point of danger. His mysterious dark eyes had moved me when we met at close range, and now I could see that his hands, placed carefully one over the other in front of him when not in use, had not one extra ounce of flesh on them. Yet I had to admit his expression had a sweetness that spoke of generosity and self-denial. I marked the outline of his face, and would attempt to draw it with charcoal at the first opportunity. Perhaps it would reveal more to me under my own artist’s memory than it did now.

  This monk seemed genuinely to enjoy the ferocious physicality of the entertainers, who did handsprings to amuse us between the rounds of ball juggling that Philippe so adored. I liked the look of laughter that passed over Pierre’s face when the lead juggler tripped backward and deliberately dropped his many colored balls—one after the other—retreating in exaggerated embarrassment. I had the feeling that if the jongleur were truly embarrassed, the monk Pierre would give him all due sympathy.

  Amaury, on the other hand, watched with a bored look on his face, fidgeting from time to time by shifting his bulky body or locking and unlocking his meaty hands impatiently as they rested on the table. His luxurious garb displayed his love of court finery. Did he enjoy dressing up, like some morality play actor who put on a costume to impress his audience? Or did he take a sensual delight in having the silk next to his flesh, rather than the harsh wool of the Cistercian robe? Or did he think himself royalty, entitled to the ermine worn by kings? I found my thoughts wandering into a field of wonder about his manhood. Was he celibate, as priests were now required to be? Or did he take his pleasures wherever he found them?

  Suddenly the object of my attention swung his head around and looked past Francis, and directly toward me. I made an effort to assume a blank expression, which was difficult given my thoughts at the moment. Abbot Amaury stared as if he were sending me a hostile message. He leaned forward and our eyes locked in the bright candlelight between us. I raised my brows in a cool fashion, as if to inquire the meaning of his intense and somewhat disrespectful attention. He was the first to look away. I then continued to ponder his face for another full moment, searching for clues to this man’s soul and his place in my private visitation of that afternoon.

  Philippe finally waved the entertainers away, and began a more serious conversation with the nobles at his left side as the main service of the meal commenced. At almost the same moment, William initiated an exchange with the churchman seated next to him, leaning forward to include Francis and myself.

  “So, Abbé, tomorrow you present the pontiff’s letter of request to the king for an army to settle the matter of the south, yes? And if he agrees will you lead this army yourself?”

  Amaury was caught unawares by William’s question. He was in the act of moving his heavy jaws to work on the roast boar. He nearly choked, but in a moment had recovered himself enough to swallow and respond. “The Lord William honors me with his interest in my mission.” There was a pause, during which the abbot threw down another gulp of port. “As you already know, it was only recently that I was named the papal legate to the good people of the south. Yes, the holy father begs the king of France to help me to restore them to the true faith. And if the king agrees to help, yes, I myself shall lead the army.”

  “And why do the people of the south need this restoration?” I asked innocently.

  “Because they have fallen into error, Princesse.” The abbot’s sonorous tone recalled many leaden sermons I had been forced to attend at St. Denis. These tones must be the official voice of Rome, I thought. “They are consumed as a people with the rapidly spreading Cathar heresy.”

  “Surely, my lord Abbé, heresy is a weighty matter. It can and does exist. But why pay particular attention to the heresy of the south? I have heard tales of so-called Good-Men as far north as the lowlands. And were there not heretic burnings in Lyons, even in the memory of men still living?”

  Arnaud Amaury was prevented from speaking for a moment as he attended to another silver plate set in front of him, this time turnips in spiced cream. I waved my own portion away as I waited for his answer to my inquiry.

  After a moment Amaury looked up. His mouth was partially full as he waved his two-pronged Italian fork in my direction and spoke. “Yes, it is true. There have been many recent instances of heretics in other places. But the south is a veritable hornet’s nest of them, madame. And where others may be isolated instances of holy men—or madmen—preaching here and there, this time the belief has spread across the populace. Every village is infected. And Rome has had enough.”

  He paused only long enough to wipe his mouth carelessly with his hand, a soldier’s gesture. “The Cathari, or ‘bons chrétiens’ as they call themselves,” he added contemptuously, “pretend to want to purify the church, but they defy Rome at every turn. There have been many debates and many attempts to squelch this filth, but, far from killing the heresy, every effort to address these fallacies of belief has served only to encourage those who take part. New adherents are reported daily. A stronger approach is needed.”

  “But Abbé,” interjected Francis unexpectedly, “everything I have discovered about this strange sect is to their credit. They seem to want to return to the simplicity of the early years of the church. How can Rome object to those who wish to adopt practices that follow the gospels and the example of the early Christians?”

  We all turned to look at the young man, who glanced from one side to the other with a mildly quizzical expression. William leaned forward expectantly, a smile spreading across his face.

  The abbot, who had addressed his earlier comments to William, now swung his strong jaw in the direction of the youth.

  “And who are you to take up an issue with me?” he bellowed, causing my brother to interrupt his conversation and glance briefly in our direction. “You young puppy! How dare you speak to your betters on matters of which you are ignorant!”

  I opened my mouth to defend young Francis, but William was already voicing a firm rejoinder.

  “My Lord Abbot, permit me to introduce Francis of York, my former clerk and now a knight of my household.” William signaled the footman behind him for more wine for the abbot. “He is educated and well traveled. He has spent much time traveling across the domains of the south with my retinue, as we have been exploring ways to avoid an armed conflict between north and south. He resided in Rome with me two years past, studying swordsmanship and theology.”

  William paused to allow the abbot to take in his comment, but before the man could speak he added, in a quiet voice: “Francis has the protection of my office. And the holy father was quite taken with his interest in diplomacy these past months.” William turned his broad shoulders so that he was directly facing the abbot. I could see my beloved’s face as he spoke. His eyes had narrowed and there was a warning edge to his voice. Francis, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned by the exchange as he continued to exercise his hearty appetite, but he kept glancing at the abbot between bites as if he still expected a response to his comments. Finally the abbot spoke.

  “Young knight, even though you are protected”—there was a perceptible softening in the abbot’s tone, although he bit off the end of this last word with menace as he leaned toward Francis—“you must learn to be careful. The situation with the heretics is complex and perhaps not quite understood by many. But these rebels present a real threat to Rome.” Here he paused as if searching for le mot juste. “And those who defend heretics could find themselves accused also.”

  “Here, here, Abbé Amaury,” William interjected firmly. “Francis is a knight known for his piety and his adherence to his faith. The issue of the Cathari beliefs as heretical is still far fr
om settled. And you must admit, young Francis has the right of it when he talks about their imitation of early Christian simplicity.”

  “I’ll admit no such thing.” The abbot had returned to his dinner, tearing at his pheasant with a vengeance, as if it were the challenging young Francis under his pudgy fingers. I observed the exchange impatiently, wanting to speak. But for once I bit back my words, knowing that I was not the person to defend Francis. I was too close. And I did not want my care of him to be noticed. The abbot did not appear to miss much. Besides, my son appeared to be the abbot’s equal with his next comment.

  “As I heard it in the port taverns of Rome this summer, the main threat to the church of Rome is that the new beliefs will put many priests out of work, and then the gold they generate may cease to flow into Italy.” The abbot was taking a swallow of wine and he sputtered as Francis spoke, which gave the youth the opportunity to add, rather playfully I thought, “Not that I support that view. My duty as a knight certainly lies in defending the faith of my fathers.”

  The abbot was not amused. He wiped his mouth and answered: “Do not cultivate insolence in your discourse, young knight. Pope Innocent has had enough of the pretensions of the people of the south, gold or no gold. They are not exempt from the faith as defined by our pontiff and the church councils. There have been dialogues for four decades and the Cathars still have not explained why they can call themselves Christians when they spurn the dictates of Rome. The time has come for action.”

  “And what actions do you propose, lord Abbé?” I asked in a naïve voice.

  “They will bend to the will of Rome, or they will feel the sword of God.” Amaury smacked his hand on the table, and then downed the remainder of his red bordeaux, motioning for more with his other hand. My gaze met William’s, and his eyes narrowed for a moment. He pursed his lips and shook his head firmly in my direction. Discreet though his gesture was, his message to me was unmistakable. Let it go. I smiled again in his direction. I could almost feel the thrill of bear baiting, but I forbore to challenge the abbot further. Not at this time, nor in this place. We would have another opportunity for exchange, I was certain.

  “What is this loud talk?” My brother ceased his exchange with his copains and turned his full attention to the conversation on our side, causing us all to become suddenly subdued.

  “Your Majesty, we were simply talking of tomorrow’s audience, where we will present somewhat differing requests for your attention to the situation facing the south.” William clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as if to end the discussion. “We shall each make our best case, and you will decide. Meanwhile, did I not hear that your own favored trouvère, Gace Brulé, was to perform at the conclusion of this fine feast?”

  The abbot ignored William’s cue and leaned around him to catch the king’s attention. “We hope Your Majesty will not be deterred from sending arms and men to the south just because Raymond of Toulouse is your very own cousin.” I felt a prickle of fear. The abbot was courting disaster. My brother did not like to have politics interjected into his feasts when he entertained visitors. He also did not favor veiled threats. His royal answer was sharp and immediate.

  “We trust our cousin, the Count of Toulouse, implicitly. We have had numerous exchanges on this matter of the heretics with him. He is managing this matter.” Philippe’s voice had dropped to a lower tone, one I had come to respect as somewhat ominous. “The fact that he is our cousin is of little moment. On the other hand, the fact that he is our sworn vassal is compelling. He has our protection.”

  Parry and thrust. Take that, Abbé Amaury, I thought to myself, as the royal gauntlet went down unexpectedly.

  There was a moment of blessed silence as everyone within earshot turned to look at the abbot, who sat back, finally speechless. I glanced to my right, and saw young Francis with the ghost of a smile on his face. I could not see Amaury’s expression as his face was now hidden by Francis’s broad shoulders. But I doubted that the abbot was smiling.

  William interrupted again, this time with uncharacteristic abruptness. “My lord Abbot. If you please, we will delay this discussion until the morrow. His gracious Majesty has arranged further entertainment for us, and it would be churlish to continue this talk of worldly affairs.”

  “Quite so.” Philippe picked up the cue quickly. “Tomorrow we will meet on these heavy matters in public audience in my presence chambers. You will have an opportunity to present your suit, Abbé Amaury. I will hear your arguments and give you my answer at that time. Meanwhile, let us attend the festivities without distraction.”

  With that, Philippe waved a casual hand in the direction of Gace Brulé, who had been awaiting the royal signal. The tall, lean singer was cloaked in elaborately embroidered forest-green silk, which he casually tossed back over his shoulder as he stood. He made his way to the hearth, and pulled a bench close. Then he placed his foot on the bench and began strumming a few chords on his lute. Suddenly the chords formed a melody and he began a mournful lai telling the story of the end of the great King Arthur’s court. A grave quiet settled over the crowd. Philippe himself listened attentively through the first moments of the performance. I could see his clenched hand, resting on the arm of the chair, ease as the music calmed him.

  Finally he placed his elbow on the wide oak arm of his royal chair and jammed his fist into his cheek as the servants approached quietly with more platters, this time of the mulled wine, fruits, and cheeses from the countryside that signaled the end of the feast.

  Suddenly my brother turned to me and said in a low voice: “You see now what we have to deal with in these importunate monks. I want you at the public audience tomorrow, when I officially hear their request.” He tapped his fork emphatically in front of me, adding abruptly, “And do not be late!”

  I bent my head close to his and murmured the thought I had been turning over in my mind: “Brother, these monks bring a serious request to you. If you are set on denying them, perhaps the scene tomorrow in the presence room will be…”—I searched for a word—“difficult. Do you still plan to hold the tourney afterward?”

  “Sister,” he replied, his tone as dry as autumn leaves underfoot, “have you ever known me to cancel a tourney once the knights have gathered and wagers have been laid?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Never.” Tournaments were as dear to the king’s heart as my drawing was to my own. I could not disguise my amusement as a smile spread across my face.

  “Then why in the name of the Virgin’s mantle would you think I would consider canceling tomorrow’s joust?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied demurely. Perhaps he was right. The festivities would take the edge off any unpleasantness that might occur when the monks were denied their request.

  Philippe added: “Besides, Amaury is a bloodthirsty old reprobate and he, at least, will enjoy the carnage.”

  “Hunh. Let us hope when you have finished with him, he does not feel he is part of it,” I muttered, causing the king to grin as he turned back to the badinage of his laughing nobles.

  I scanned the faces around me. William was now engaged with Pierre de Castelnau in what appeared to be an amicable conversation. Amaury’s face was flushed with the evening’s wine. He glanced at the entertainment from time to time, but his expression was that of a man occupied with distant thoughts. The folds of his heavy face were traced by the dancing candlelight. Only Francis seemed to be watching the entertainers perform. Yet though he laughed, his brow was furrowed. He suddenly looked my way and gave me a reassuring smile. But I was not fooled. Something was troubling him.

  Gace Brulé finished his long and mournful song, and bowed low in the king’s direction. The crowd in the hall cheered. Taking the opportunity, the king rose and waved his arm to Brulé in a gesture of appreciation, then turned to leave. The Count of Champagne and the other nobles at the table stood also, still chatting together. The entertainers bowed and scattered, as was their custom when the king made ready to depart. Willi
am, now also on his feet, crossed behind the monks and offered his hand to me. I placed my hand on his right willingly. I was glad for his courtesy, yet I felt the evening was ending prematurely. Certes, there was more to be said on many topics. My spirit was far from tranquil as I bid the young Francis a hasty good night.

  .6.

  Chambers of the Princesse Alaïs

  William made a show of leaving me at the door of my chamber, a charade of doubtful effect. I did not for one moment believe it fooled the guards stationed at the top of the stairwell nor the maids inside, shortly to be ordered from my room. When I entered, I found the fire had grown low in the hearth. My maids added wood at my direction. Then I sent them to retire and sat alone, watching the flames rise to lick the logs. My head was spinning with all of the strange events and mysteries that had passed this day.

  Finally I blew out the great candle on the stand near the door, doused the torches near the hearth with the iron cup, and crawled into the recesses of my goose feather bed to watch the last flames. Just at that moment the door creaked. I was not alarmed. William had the habit of waiting until much of the castle was asleep before he came to me. It was a futile subterfuge, since most of our servants knew of his visits, but it preserved his sense of honor and his discretion amused me.

  Tonight, however, I was impatient to quiz him about the events of the evening. He wasted no time coming to my bed, doffing his tunic and robe as he slid in beside me, under the furs. Although the embers were still glowing in the large hearth, the room had gone chill. I could feel William’s cold feet at the same time as he surrounded me with his arms.

  Suddenly he caught me and pressed his mouth hard on mine. It was some moments before I could breathe, and extricate myself from his close embrace.