The Rebel Princess
Page 20
I shrugged. “I have thought about it often, and decided I may have been too hasty in my initial assessment. It is all we have now to help us in our quest. We must begin with what we know.”
“But what do you know about Lavaur?” Roland was pushing again. “If the map was intended as a trap, perhaps we would be playing into the hands of the abductors if we seek the young knight in the towns where they bade us go.”
I sat back on the straw cushions that lined the bench, leaning against the rough wall.
“I talked briefly to the young lady whose brother is the Count of Foix,” I said, “on the day of the king’s audience where she spoke so passionately for France to stay out of the business of the southern counties.”
“She who is called Esclarmonde?” Roland brightened. He had ever an eye for a beautiful lady.
“Indeed. The very same. When we chatted, she made a point of telling me that I would be welcome at Laurac or Lavaur as well as Foix. It was almost as if she were giving me a message.” I paused. “She was quite specific. And she made a point of mentioning the women in these towns.”
Tom raised his brows. “Quite a coincidence that they would be the three towns circled on the map that was found.”
“My plan is to seek hospitality in one of these towns and begin our investigation of Francis’s disappearance by questioning these nobles, if they seem friendly to us.”
“Will you tell them at Lavaur that you seek the young knight? What excuse will you give for your appearance? Will you let them know who you are?” Roland, with his penchant for hurtling one question after another, suddenly became animated.
“I have not yet decided any of that. We shall see what the reception is at Lavaur, for our poor traveling group of…um, shall we say weavers.” I grinned at Tom. “But we should get more information on Bruges dyes at some tavern before we hazard that disguise again.”
Tom looked chagrined, but he chuckled. Then he turned serious: “Something else draws you to Lavaur, Princesse. What is it?”
“You know me too well, Tom, after all these years.” I smiled at my old friend with his one good eye, and remembered how young I had been at King Henry’s court when I saw the raptor claw his eye out while he was training the royal falcons. And how the king had made him a fast friend from that moment forward. Tom had been kind to me through many trials. He deserved to know my thoughts.
“I have a feeling, after watching la Esclarmonde, that women play a strong role here. Not like the Paris court where most women are merely decorative.”
My knights looked at each other with comical expressions.
“Well, yes,” I said, guessing their thoughts. “Perhaps that description does not fit my performance. But if I am guessing correctly, the women here may have something to do with the spread of this new religion. Their role interests me. And if they are in touch with traveling Cathar preachers, they may have news of young Francis. The lady Esclarmonde was passionate in her defense of the south when she spoke in front of the court that day. Whether it was out of loyalty to her brother, the Count of Foix, or whether she herself is sympathetic to the Cathars, I could not say. But her people may be of good use to me in my quest to find the trail of Francis.”
The two knights fell silent, and then Roland broke into something like a soft laugh. “Ah, well, if nothing else, perhaps in the south country we can pick up the trail of the missing chalice of St. Denis and the murderers who took it. The abbot and the king must surely be willing to pay if we are successful.”
I was lost in my own thoughts for the moment, and almost passed over what he said. But his words hung in the silent air for a moment too long.
“How did you know about the missing chalice?” I asked, slowly turning my head to look at him.
“Oh, it was all the talk in the palace stable the morning that we left Paris, as we readied the horses for the journey. The beautiful chalice, the cup that everyone says was to bring the abbey of St. Denis blessings, has disappeared.” He laughed. “’Tis said there is a fat reward for the lucky man who finds it.”
I saw again in my mind’s eye the chalice lifting during the Mass, and the rapt attention of my aunt Constance following the jeweled cup. Surely the disappearance of the chalice and Aunt Constance at the same time was more than coincidence. Philippe was right: Constance was up to something, and the chalice was part of her intrigue.
“According to the tale you heard, how did this crime occur?” I addressed Roland because he seemed to have the corner on court gossip. Tom, from Wales and not always accepted in the circle of Frankish knights at court, would be the last to hear.
“The theft happened just that night, right after the great tourney. The stable lads were abuzz because it was said the sacristan was killed when the cup was taken. He must have come when he heard a commotion in the sanctuary.”
“And how did the stable boys know this news?”
“Well”—Roland shrugged—“it was said they heard it when they were all down in the courtyard helping Lord William of Caen and his men prepare their horses for the ride. You were there—” Roland stopped as suddenly as he had begun, and his flushed face could be seen even in the candlelight.
“Yes,” I responded dryly. “I’m certain the stable boys saw me there as well.”
“Anyway,” he continued, recovering with the aplomb of the young and thoughtless, “that’s where the news was bruited about. It was said Lord William must leave for the south to explain something about the chalice to Count Raymond. By your leave, Your Grace, I must stand for a while, or my knees will never more guide a horse.”
And so saying, Roland pulled himself up awkwardly from his sitting position. His tall body unwound with the stiffness of the traveler and I was put in mind of the late hour. “You know, when the cup appeared some weeks ago, it was said it came from the Holy Land, and all felt it would bring the abbey at St. Denis, and the king of France, good luck.”
The young knight’s face was maturing, taking on the fullness of manhood, much as the face of my son Francis was changing, I reflected. They must be about the same age.
“Your Grace?” Roland asked uncertainly, and I became aware that I was staring. I looked at the young man with fondness. “Nothing, Sir Knight. Only that the hour grows late, and we must begin our journey early in the morning.” So saying, I offered my hand to Tom and he jumped up to help me rise. My bones were as stiff as a lance from the ride. And I longed for my bed, however humble it would be.
“Sleep well, my men, and we shall meet in the courtyard of the inn at dawn for the next leg of our journey.” I added an afterthought: “Keep your tale of the missing chalice to yourselves for now. It is safer to reveal nothing as we travel.” And so saying, I nodded to them and each bowed gravely in return. Then, without another word, they were gone and I was left to close my eyes and seek not the strong profile of Roland, but the tousled auburn hair and pale, freckled skin of my own son. And I could not hold back the tears this time.
.16.
The Castle at Lavaur
Gradually we worked our way farther south, and blessed the Virgin for the mild weather that made our riding days pleasant and allowed us nights full of gentle sleep. Finally, after three days, we stood at the bottom of a ravine looking up at the castle of Lavaur, a stone fortress lodged in the side of a hill. The land around it looked savage with rocks and stone everywhere. There were scattered blots of green on the hillside, but these were scrubby bushes scarcely growing. All in all, the picture did not appear inviting.
“Your Grace, I still don’t know why we are here instead of going to Foix. It can’t be more than half a day’s ride from here. And consider: Foix is a much larger demesne and could offer us greater hospitality and perhaps a warm bath.” Roland was at my elbow, importunate as ever. I turned to look at his face, no longer clean shaven, and the lines that clouded his sunburned brow. Even though it was November, the sun in the south was much stronger than we were used to on the chilly Île de la Cité. Durin
g our hard riding days on the road it had painted us all with its warm color.
At that moment we were joined by Tom of Caedwyd, who had returned from checking the trail around the first curve. Tom, with his canny sense and his wise head, was the perfect counterpart to Roland and his impetuous youth and quick temper. On the other hand, I was happy to have Roland’s strong sword arm at my side in this journey.
“As I told you, I have taken a notion to see the dame of Lavaur, Roland.” I could see his puzzled expression out of the corner of my eye, as I pretended to examine the small castle before us. “I feel she will aid us in our search for Francis. Now will you see if these good people will receive the sister of the king of France?”
“Oh, Your Grace,” he said, laughing. He shook his head as he rode away to explore the road up the hill into the castle, saying loudly to his horse, “No bath, not at this time, Galant. But at least they will know she is a princesse and we will be fed.” I could hear him whistle as he rounded the boulders that plainly marked the entrance to the path uphill that led to the castle. Marcel fell in alongside him.
I swung down from my horse and walked a bit at the side of the road, my palfrey strolling patiently behind me. Despite my leather leggings, my thighs ached with the rigor of days of riding and I needed to straighten them before they became permanently fashioned to the shape of the horse. I recalled Henry’s bowed legs in later life, and smiled. He would roar with laughter if he thought I was going to imitate him in that. I could almost hear him shout: “God’s blood, Princesse. Keep your feminine form and show your mettle some other way!”
Strange, I thought, how the spirit of the dead King Henry, once my lover and my lord, sometimes brushed near me when I was alone. It was as if he were riding at my side or standing just behind me, whispering in my ear. And I would hear not only what he had said in the past, but what he would say if he were in the here and now. And this even though I had found the true love of my life, Lord William. Yet I did not feel unfaithful to Henry, nor to William. It was as if I had two loves with me now, one a ghost and the other true flesh. Perhaps the best of both worlds.
Tom dismounted and followed a bit behind as I walked.
“Your Grace expects a warm welcome here?” Tom’s voice, just over my left shoulder, reflected his skepticism. I thought a moment before answering.
“Esclarmonde promised that the lady of this fortress welcomes women,” I finally replied. “I know her only by reputation, but I think we will be offered good hospitality.” We both knew that being a sister to the king of France, in these days and in this region, was no guarantee of any welcome at all.
The clop of hooves receded, and I was aware that the sun was beginning its downward slide. I recalled that the sunset came quickly in the mountains, then wondered what reception Marcel and Roland would receive from the castellan, whether he would take their message to the Lady Blanche with speed, and how much longer until they returned.
Tom had reverted to his taciturn self, merely holding our horses and looking off into the distance. Thibault waited discreetly some distance behind us. He was a short, stocky man, gruff of manner and the least talkative of the group: a man’s man, and a hardened campaigner. He often seemed uncomfortable when in my presence alone so I gave him his privacy when the others were not around. My thoughts wandered to Francis. I wondered where he was now. Perhaps closer than I knew. If only I could have a sign. The chirping of crickets broke the stillness. Suddenly Roland and Marcel reappeared from around the rocks.
“Your Grace, we have approached the gates of the castle on the upward side of the hill. The guards immediately sent to the lady of the castle. The message she returned was that we are welcome to all they have, although she warns she is not prepared to entertain a royal princesse of France in the manner to which she is accustomed.”
I mounted my horse before his words were finished and Thibault was right behind me. We were all anxious to find safe haven before the night set in. The mountains, so friendly in daylight, could turn ominous at dusk, their looming shadows pockets of the unknown.
The path to the castle door was a circuitous route up the mountain, so that the guards in the castle turrets would have ample time to see strangers approaching. It made my mind easier to know we had already been assured of a good reception and would not be subject, even accidentally, to a barrage of arrows from the battlements as we wound our way up the hill.
And a warm welcome it was, or as warm as this chilly castle could offer. The autumn sun was not strong enough, nor the days long enough, to chase the dampness from these stones. A servant clad in a doublet of good wool and leggings stood inside the door slightly behind the guards as our horses clattered across the small moat, which was more like a little stream at this time of year. Still, the intention of the drawbridge to defend was evident. The servant bowed low as we entered the castle courtyard, and spoke before we had even dismounted.
“My Lady Geralda welcomes you and begs me take you to her in the Great Hall.” The servant spoke in the langue d’oc, and showed a slight surprise when I answered him in kind. Then he smiled broadly.
Three grooms took our horses from us as we dismounted. Another servant, dressed more humbly, appeared and announced that he would show my men to their quarters and see that they were well fed. It seemed suddenly strange to me that our small group had shared quarters intimately, if respectfully, for a fortnight and now we were to be separated by our station in life, but that was the way of our world.
I followed the well-dressed servant into the Great Hall. We passed the fireplace and mounted a set of stone steps at the far end, and through a door at the top.
As we passed under the portal, the warmth and pleasant air surprised me. The chamber was not grand, but spacious enough and it was cheerful in a way that one seldom found in outlying fortresses. Torches everywhere flooded the room and candles were hung overhead by means of a multilayered wooden apparatus. Layers of rushes lined the floor and dried herbs were scattered overall. Sage must be burning in the fireplace also, I thought, for a fine, light scent filled the room as the fire crackled.
I paused at the door to take in the scene, and to prepare my answers for the questions that would surely come.
The fireplace and hearth along one wall were clearly the center of activity in the large room. Over the hearth was an enormous iron kettle, swung inward to keep its contents warm. I saw no oak tables laden with manuscripts, such as we had in Paris. Instead I saw a semicircle of cheerful women seated before the hearth, comfortable in colorfully cushioned oak chairs. Some had spinning staffs, others crewelwork in their laps. Still others worked on small frames of embroidery, their needles flying, chattering like a flock of magpies.
The servant with me cleared his throat, and then said the first words I had heard him utter since welcoming us in the courtyard: “Lady Geralda, Lady Blanche, honored noblewomen, I present the Princesse Alaïs, sister to the king of France.”
All words suddenly ceased. Fingers and needles were suspended in the air as the women turned in my direction. I felt my travel-stained garments were a drawback to my royal image, not to mention the smudges I knew lined my face, but I had to make the best of it.
With one accord, the group rose. The silver-haired lady at the center of the group, tall, slender, with a grace of movement even my aunt Charlotte could envy, came toward me. Both her hands were outstretched in welcome. Just behind came a larger woman, younger but with a resemblance to her. It was as if she were drawn with broader bones in her cheeks and forehead, wider shoulders and less fluid movements.
“Your Grace, I am Blanche of Laurac, widow of Sicard,” said the elder woman, “and this is my daughter Geralda, mistress of Lavaur. She is also widowed. Please accept our welcome for you and your companions. We are honored to have you with us.” She made a deep courtesy to me. I could hear the fine wool of her sky-blue gown rustle as it brushed the dried wheat shafts on the floor. Her daughter, likewise, bent her head and her knee.
I turned to her daughter and was surprised that I must look up to her. I am tall for a woman, and there are few that tower over me, but Mistress Geralda was one. Still, despite this, she was fine to look at, a noble head that one could draw with delight. But then a premonition passed by, between myself and the daughter, and I frowned. It might be only the fatigue from the road, but I saw, for a fleeting instant, Geralda’s head bowed in pain as it was struck from above by a falling rock. I prayed in an instant this would not be her end.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Geralda, and wish you good fortune all the days of your life.” I forced myself to speak this and, as I did so, my sight cleared entirely. I stepped back to look at both mother and daughter.
The Lady Blanche had an oval face that was nearly perfect in the arrangement of its elements. She wore the starched wimple of the widow, and her skin—like porcelain—echoed its pallor. Still, there shone from her something of the vibrant aura of one younger and brimming with vitality.
And the daughter was equally handsome in a much different way. She must have forty summers, and yet had rose suffusing her cheeks like a maiden.
“And I welcome you to it with all my heart,” Geralda replied, her large, brown eyes suddenly brimming with fun. “Come join us at the hearth. We have already taken our evening meal, but you must have hunger from your long travels, and you must be tired. Sup first and meet my dear friends and then I will have you shown your chamber.”
With these words, the daughter took over as the mistress of the castle and the mother retired to sit with her companions.
I nodded at the invitation, although I would sooner have retired and had the meal brought to me in private. I was vastly fatigued and did not know if I could remember on the morrow one name or face of anyone I met just now. But I gave her my arm and let her guide me to the small group, who had fallen so silent I wondered if they would ever chatter again.