The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  I shielded my eyes against the light with my good hand, but still I could not see what had happened. “William?” I questioned.

  “It seems the young knight has been unhorsed,” he replied. “De Donzy’s lance struck him in the forehead.”

  “But that is expressly forbidden,” I cried out.

  “The count has dismounted. He comes quickly now, to beg forgiveness of the king.”

  “And the young man?” I had risen. The king was distracted by the event, and the approach of the Count of Nevers, and did not notice.

  “He is not moving,” he said quietly. “The marshals are attending him.”

  I swept past William and made quick work of the steps to the field without looking back. When I reached the fallen knight I knelt beside him. He was pale and bleeding from the wound in his head. Blood was trickling from his mouth, as well, and I knew he was lost. Then his eyelids flickered and opened. I bent closer. He spoke in a whisper.

  “Princesse, I am so sorry to disappoint…” And he faded away. I took off my mantle and covered him with it, smoothing it over his face and shoulders as his mother would have.

  When I stood William was at my side. I placed my hand on his arm to steady myself, but there was no need for words. In a moment I turned back to the royal box and saw de Donzy kneeling in front of the king. Philippe listened, head bent, and then waved him away, a gesture both contemptuous and forgiving. The marshals had taken Philippe’s wave to de Donzy as a signal to end the tourney, and the closing horn notes rang out. The king, morosely slumped in his chair, made no move to stop them. De Donzy bowed his head and slunk off.

  I nearly ran back to the royal box, arriving breathless, and stopped abruptly at the railing in front of the king’s own chair. I leaned up to speak to him, almost shouting in my distress, my arm extended to catch his attention: “Is no one to be held to account then? No responsibility assigned to snuffing out the young, promising life of this youth?”

  He shook his head and said with a brittle tone I rarely heard: “Leave it for now, Sister.” Then, leaning toward me, he spoke again in a low voice: “I understand what happened here. This shall not be forgotten. Come now, resume your seat for the awards.”

  The marshals dispersed the few knights who still waited to joust. There was some muttering, but the crowd seemed to have had enough. No one called out to continue the contests. The death of the young knight had cast a pall on the entire affair. Morover, it was nearing dusk, and Philippe must yet award the title of victor for the day, and the prize of a great warhorse that came from the royal stables. De Donzy was out of the running, having committed a violation of the tourney’s rules by aiming at the head. The victor came forward now, the grizzled knight of Blois who had unhorsed Francis. He was experienced in tourneys and, indeed, in war itself, and this was not his first tourney victory. He bowed low to accept his prize, and then led his horse in a victory promenade around the outskirts of the field, to a subdued crowd that could muster only scattered cheers.

  When he had finally exited, and as if on an invisible signal, a great swell of townspeople surged onto the field, followed by another wave. Rising clouds of dust from the movement of horses and humans, and a constant undertone of muttering noise, created a sense of controlled violence. The marshals, holding their batons sideways, were valiantly trying to clear a way through the swarming masses for the king’s party, even as our horses were led toward us by the royal grooms. We descended from the king’s box and made ready to mount.

  Philippe’s groom handed me onto my horse and my brother mounted even more quickly, as if anxious to quit this place. The rising mood was dark. His beloved subjects were fast becoming unpredictable rabble. We started across the field, the king and I riding side by side, but we said nothing. The crowds parted for the king’s herald, riding just in front of us with the royal standard. Philippe sat straight and looked neither to the right or left. I knew it would be futile to speak of de Donzy. The king would deal with him in his own time. But I seethed with inner anger, all the same.

  Philippe interrupted my thoughts, turning to me unexpectedly. “Where is William?”

  “He is still with the young knight’s companion, Francis, I believe.” I looked over my shoulder. We were nearly to the edge of the field, almost to the road that would take us back to the bridge across the Seine. I scanned the horizon. Finally I made out the dim figures of Francis and William, standing with a small cluster of knights around them. “Yes, there I see them.” Then I saw William detach himself from the group, jump on a horse, and gallop toward us.

  “Here he comes now,” I said, pulling on my reins. Philippe followed suit, raising his arm to signal a halt for those behind.

  As we waited, Philippe made a curious comment. “The monks left before this mishap. I’ll wager it was Castelnau who insisted on leaving. Amaury would certainly want to stay.”

  “Yes, he was once a soldier, William tells me,” I replied absently, my gaze tracking William’s advance.

  “Quite a good one, if all the tales are but half true. It’s odd…” My brother’s voice trailed off.

  “What say you?” I thought the wind had taken his words, but then I saw he had simply paused.

  “I feel that his passion to eradicate the Cathars is one way for him to resume the field. That he could go to war again if he could persuade someone to give him arms and men, only this time for Christ.”

  “Rather for Pope Innocent and his imperial designs than for Christ,” I retorted. Philippe smiled.

  “Sister, you must guard against cynicism. It was ever your weakness.”

  William pulled in his charger, turning him to stop abruptly in front of us. “Your Majesty,” he said, as he bowed. Then, without further ceremony, he turned to me. “I’ve a message for you, Princesse. Young Francis is with Geoffrey’s body. He is asking for you. Please come.”

  “My Lord?” I turned a questioning face to the king.

  “Of course you may join him,” Philippe said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for William’s young knight to be asking for the sister of the king of France. Philippe signaled to his party to resume the progress back to the Île de la Cité and I bowed low as he passed me.

  I followed William somewhat reluctantly, dreading to see my son in his grief. By this time attendants had moved the body and we found the circle of young knights surrounding Geoffrey behind the stands that had been hammered together to provide rough seating for the town crowds. Several marshals were directing servants who had just arrived with a stronger litter for the body. The setting sun threw long shafts of gold between the wooden slats cobbled together to make the stands. Light lay in stripes across the somber group. Always the light with the dark, I thought. Always.

  I dismounted quickly and went to Francis’s side, placing my hand on his arm to let him know of my presence. He turned to me, his face ravaged by his shock. His tears had stopped, but their remnants were still on his face, and his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked, suddenly, much older.

  “I am so sorry, lad.” I shook my head. “This should never have happened.”

  “The man who did this, the man who pleaded before the king this morning, is he just going to walk away?” A fierceness appeared now. It took me by surprise, for I had never seen Francis angry before this time. “It was a clear violation of the codes of chivalry. Will no justice be done for my comrade?”

  “I don’t know what will happen,” I answered truthfully. “The king will decide. The man broke the rules. I’m certain there will be consequences.” I spoke all this with a strong voice, although privately I wondered. A young, unknown knight, a powerful noble with a temper just denied a boon: the king might decide to delay any action, hoping that everyone would forget the incident.

  “But you can implore the king. You can make him call this knight to account. He not only broke the rules of the tourney, he has broken the rules of knighthood.” He paused, his jaw taking on the peculiar set I remembered from his fath
er, King Henry. “This was no accident. The Count of Nevers intended to kill Geoff.”

  I put my hand under my son’s elbow and led him apart from the others. I could feel his arm shaking. I knew I must speak plainly. This was no time for soft words.

  “Listen to me, young Francis,” I whispered urgently. “Do not voice such suspicions where others can hear you. There is more involved here than you think. The king is aware of conspiracy in his court. This rough action may be a part of an effort to plague the monarch.” I glanced around to be certain we were not overheard. William stood some yards away, deliberately engaging the rest of the group in conversation.

  “What conspiracy?” Francis’s voice rose. “Geoff and I have nothing to do with such things.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Softly, lad. I am saying this may be part of a larger pattern of acts. And when all is made clear, I know the king will seek retribution for this deed. But you must be patient.”

  “Then I’ll seek my own revenge.” A hard edge in his voice startled me.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just don’t talk to me about the folly of revenge.” He moved his hand back and forth, palm outward as if warding off evil spirits. “I couldn’t bear to hear that right now.” He had lowered his voice, but not its intensity. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his right hand, his sword hand. “Geoff was my constant friend, my comrade in arms. He was like a brother to me. You know his killing was no accident. Revenge may be all I have.”

  “I’m not going to say you must not take revenge. What I am about to remind you is that a man must be alive to take revenge. Do you understand me?” I hissed. “The first rule: you stay alive. Then you think about revenge.”

  He looked directly at me, startled. “You talk like a man—I mean, with the courage of a man,” he amended quickly.

  “I talk like a practical person. Mourn all you want, but keep your demands for justice soft for the present. There are more ways to find justice than through the crown. And you know not who may be listening in this court, nor who is friend or foe. It will do Geoff no good for you to fall also, a victim of some other ‘accident.’”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. There was no need for further talk. The bond between us was palpable. I had a sudden urge to tell him the truth, right then and there, to tell him I was his mother and that he was the natural son of a great king, Henry of England. To warn him he had enemies. To counsel him to take care. But a chill gust of wind blew autumn leaves up in a swirl around me, and the moment passed. There was too much to explain and not enough time.

  Suddenly William was between us. “Francis, Geoff is being taken away. There is no need for you to go with them. A priest has been called and tomorrow there will be private prayers for him.”

  “There will be no funeral Mass at court?” Francis looked up at the older man, the only father he had ever known.

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “That is unlikely for many reasons. But you have my leave to join your other companions tonight. There is no need for you to be at the king’s banquet.”

  “I had not thought…no, of course not. My gratitude, Lord William. I don’t want to see anyone at court again. I can scarce wait until we leave Paris and I hope it will be soon.” He turned to me. “Princesse, my thanks to you for your words. I’ll not forget.”

  I wanted to tousle the auburn hair as he bent low over my hand, but I could not. And anyway, he was a man and not a boy, as he had just proven with his anger.

  William watched him walk away. “You are going to have to tell him soon,” he said. “There is too much feeling between you. He needs to know the reason.”

  “I agree. That is what I have been saying.”

  “But now is not the time,” William said firmly, as he took my elbow and began steering me back to the cluster of men and horses waiting for us. “Let us leave the chaos of the tourney and hasten to the chaos of the banquet given by the court of France, my love. At least with Francis away tonight, I won’t have to worry that he will challenge the evil Count of Nevers to a duel of honor.”

  “Mother of God,” I exclaimed. “That never occurred to me.”

  .11.

  Chambers of the Princesse Alaïs

  We rode in silence the rest of the way to the palace. When we entered the courtyard, the grooms left off their gossip and sprang to help us. William and I immediately became more guarded in our exchange. We parted in the corrider outside the Great Hall, and I went off to my chambers to refresh myself. I waved away the servant who appeared at my side to accompany me. I had need of time alone, and I did not fear for my safety in my brother’s castle.

  Nor did I think William would visit me before the dinner. He had seemed occupied with other thoughts as we rode back from the tourney and he merely brushed my hand with his lips in a perfunctory gesture before we parted. Indeed, last glimpsed, he was at my uncle’s side, speaking with some urgency into his ear. But I was too tired, hot, and dusty to give either of them much thought as I hurried to my rooms.

  As I made my way up the stone staircase, I thought on the events of the day and was mightily saddened. But when I passed the corridor that led to the wing next to mine, to the chambers of my aunt Constance, I had a sudden idea. Perhaps a surprise visit from me at this odd hour would be a spur to sharing confidences. I might learn more about her peculiar meetings and why the chalice at St. Denis had so captured her attention.

  On this whim I turned left instead of continuing to my own apartments. I was thinking on the death of young Geoff, and what meaning this had for my family, when I came upon a most astonishing sight. The scene before me caused me to stop completely, and drift closer to the wall to avoid being seen.

  A tall arch at the end of the passage framed the deepening blue sky of dusk and set in relief against it were two clearly outlined silhouettes. I couldn’t have been more startled at the sight that met my eyes. Tall combs holding the veil of my aunt’s unique headdress were apparent on the shorter of the two. She was leaning forward as if to catch every word that her companion, bending down, was uttering. The second figure was even more surprising. The bulk of the shoulders and the height indicated a man, but not one I would have suspected my aunt would engage for a minute. For I could make out a monk’s long robe, loosely belted, and a hood resting across his shoulders. And it wasn’t the thin, ascetic form of Pierre de Castelnau I saw outlined before me. No, my aunt, the dowager Countess of Toulouse, was in deep conversation with none other than Arnaud Amaury, enemy of her son.

  As soon as I had identified the couple, I melted into the shadows and slipped around the corner. For the moment, I had no thought of what this clandestine meeting might portend, but I did not want the abbot to know I had seen him talking with my aunt. The very same aunt who introduced Esclarmonde to the court. The very same Esclarmonde who this day begged my brother to oppose the abbot’s demands!

  It was darkening by the moment, and that worked in my favor. I was certain I had not been seen. As I turned and hurried toward my own apartments, I reflected that the monk and Constance could not have identified me in that descending dusk even if they had observed my figure at a distance. For I would not have known it was my aunt and the abbot without the outline of the hair combs and the cowl to show me. But what did their private rendezvous, outside of all court formality, mean?

  Then another thought struck me. I would be well advised to take care in what I said to my aunt until I understood her connection to the sinister abbot. I recalled my aunt’s mysterious meetings at Créteil on the outskirts of Paris. The disturbing scene I had just witnessed was a warning to have a care in how I proceeded in my investigations.

  So deep in thought was I that a movement at my right elbow startled me into a soft cry. A shadow had detached itself from the wall and materialized into the tall, slender figure of Pierre of Castelnau. For the second time within the hour I was riveted to the spot with surprise. It seemed as though the Cistercians were intent on invadi
ng my entire evening.

  “Père Pierre.” I spoke first. “What are you doing here?”

  Pierre de Castelnau looked around, furtive as a night thief. “I need to talk with you, Princesse,” he whispered. “Could we find a place where there is no danger of servants overhearing?”

  I pulled open my chamber door and motioned for him to follow. Mignonne had laid a fire in the great hearth, and I gestured to my guest to take a cushioned chair set before the the comforting warmth. The monk nodded and sat without comment. Then he began wringing his hands as if all his fear could be dissolved by this action. I stood, leaning my back against the mantel, my left hand jammed into its pocket, my right hand on my hip, waiting.

  I had a perfect picture of him in the dancing light of the flames. As the monk pushed back his cowl, I noted that his lean face and tonsured head were damp with perspiration. At that very moment he quickly took a cloth from within his sleeve and mopped his brow, as if he were in tune with my interior observations. He stared at the floor for a long moment. His balding head seemed somehow suddenly vulnerable.

  Finally he raised his head and noticed I was still standing. A frown appeared. “Please, Princesse, please sit. It is not right that I sit in your presence while you stand.”

  “No matter, Father. We need not observe ceremony here. Please tell me what is so important to discuss that you must lurk about my door like a common cutpurse rather than address me in public.” I was tired and would truly prefer to be left alone. But I must confess my curiosity had been piqued.

  “This is difficult for me,” Pierre began, and I noticed a slight tremor to the voice that had been firm in the morning’s pleadings for arms and men. “I must talk with you, as I know your brother listens to your advice.” He paused, starting again, stammering like the fool jester Philippe occasionally favored in his court. “I find this hard to say, but I don’t know any other words to use, although you may think me disloyal.” He paused again.