The Rebel Princess

by Judith Koll Healey

  “I have guessed as much.” I gestured with open hands. “Indeed, it was obvious from what you told me after the tournament. As it happens, I left Paris quite unexpectedly myself. But something else is troubling you.”

  “When I was in Paris I did something that might result in harm to someone. I want you to know about it.”

  “A matter of confession, Father?” I asked, with some irony.

  “I suppose it is.” He paused, pondering my comment, and when he replied, it was with an unexpected seriousness. “Perhaps I should make this a matter for my confessor. But I only thought that if I told you, you could forestall any injury I might have caused.”

  “Père Pierre, please speak plainly.” I was more and more puzzled.

  “There is a cup that is of great value to the Cathars. It was once theirs to venerate and they used it in their simple ceremonies. Then, some years ago, a careless Cathar preacher, fatigued from his mountain journeys, fell asleep in a barn. When he awoke he found that his leather bag beside him had been quietly ransacked. It contained a few simple clothes and his copy of the good book in the langue d’oc.”

  “And something more.” I felt the breath of the Fates on my neck. I knew I had to listen, though I longed to run. Pierre nodded. “A precious and ancient icon,” I continued.

  “So you know,” he said gravely.

  “I know there is a chalice called the St. John Cup, although I was not certain of its provenance or its value.”

  “The story of the cup is mixed. Some say it is precious to the Cathars because it was the drinking cup of John the Evangelist. Others say it is of value for its remarkable gold braid, and for its jewels. And others that there is a message wrought into the cup, perhaps in the placement of jewels around the rim, that contains a map for hidden treasure. No one is certain why it is of such value.” Pierre was speaking rapidly now, casting his glance about to see if we were overheard. More pilgrims were leaving the refectory, although we were not easily observed standing in our small alcove.

  “There was much talk of this cup at the débats held in recent years between the ‘bons chrétiens’ as they style themselves, and the theologians of Rome. Some accusations of theft flew between the two groups. The Cathar Good-Men had the vessel from someone who had been on crusade,” he continued, his voice low but intense. “A noble knight brought it back from the Holy Land and, it is said, gave it to the preachers after his conversion to their beliefs. The cup has a special meaning for the Cathar credentes because of their veneration of the gospel of St. John.”

  ‘ “In the beginning was the word…’” I murmured. ‘ “And the word was with God.’”

  ‘ “And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness knew it not,’” he responded. “That is the part that matters to these purists. The Cathar bishops asked my family, my sister Beatrice, to help find the cup.”

  As a shaft of light caught his face, I could see he was nearly pleading with me. “You remember. I told you about her when we last met in Paris.”

  “Indeed, I do recall everything that you said that night,” I responded, with warmth truly felt.

  After a pause, he continued: “I heard rumors while traveling. Someone said the cup had been seen in the cathedral of Toulouse, but that it then disappeared. I heard another story that the cup had recently made its way to Paris.” Pierre was wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his habit.

  “When Amaury and I came to court, I sought out the Countess Constance, thinking that she might have knowledge of the cup since it had last rested in Toulouse. I know the countess keeps in touch with all the gossip of her son’s court, though she has been gone from it these twenty years. And I was right. She told me she had just seen a chalice that resembled a description of the St. John Cup raised at Mass that very day at St. Denis.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I shared my plan with her. To obtain the cup and send it to my sister in Béziers. She would know how to get it back to the Cathars.”

  “And what did Constance say to that?”

  “She said she would think on it. That she might have a way to obtain the cup, but she was unsure whether it should go to Toulouse or to my sister. She said that she would tell me the following day what course of action she might follow.” The monk seemed near to tears now, and I was growing anxious. The trickle of servants and pilgrims passing our alcove had grown to a rushing brook. We would soon be the only ones left. “Then I had another idea.

  “And that was to send it instead to her son, Raymond.

  “I sought her out again the next morning, before she could finalize her decision. We spoke and I asked if she were willing to put the cup to the use of peace.”

  “And did she agree?” I was struggling to discern my aunt’s shifting interests.

  “Not at first.” He began fiddling with the cross that hung around his neck, identifying him as a papal legate. “But after several conversations, deliberately held, I must say, out of sight of my colleague, Amaury, she agreed to my request that she obtain the cup from St. Denis. I did not ask how she would do this. Then, I was to take the cup south to Toulouse, when I came for the conference I will have with Count Raymond a week hence. My instructions to Count Raymond were to be that he use the cup to, umm, attract the Cathar bishops to come to Toulouse and talk with Foulques and the other churchmen of Rome. That could be the start of peace and acceptance here in the south.”

  “Luring the Cathar bishops to Toulouse? More like sending them into the lion’s den. Not a noble use for a chalice with such a history.” I shook my head. “It is one thing to debate in Béziers, or Narbonne, where the Roman bishops are more sympathetic to alternative views. But in Toulouse, where all is rigid and set…” I made a clicking sound with my tongue as I reflected on the folly of this plan.

  “Yes, when I arrived at Toulouse on my way to Béziers, I saw the conditions in the city. I met the rabid Bishop Foulques. And I saw how fantastic my plan had been, utterly unconnected to the reality of the situation.”

  “But what happened in Paris with Constance? Did you get the cup?”

  “After she agreed to get the cup, Constance began to avoid me. I could never manage to talk with her alone. Several times I came upon her talking intensely with the king’s first minister, Etienne Chastellain, in the corridors or on the grand stone staircase. I surmised that she had taken him as an adviser, and wanted nothing more to do with me or my plans.” He paused, looking about before he continued.

  “I fear she may have shared my plan with Chastellain. I observed his actions when he was near my colleague, Abbé Amaury, and I believe they had many conversations I was not privy to.”

  “You said you thought you had harmed someone,” I murmured, feeling more urgency as someone jostled me on the way past. The fellow was a monk, and muttered something, but I did not respond and he kept on walking. “Who do you think might be harmed?”

  “The night before we left Paris, as we were walking to our chambers, Amaury asked me several questions about Lord William of Caen’s household. He seemed particularly interested in the young clerk Francis.”

  “Why should that question alarm you?” I forced myself to ask, though it felt as if my throat were closing.

  “Amaury seemed to believe that young Francis knew where the cup was, that somehow Constance had enlisted him in her scheme to steal the cup from St. Denis.”

  “But that’s absurd,” I exploded. “Young Francis would no more involve himself in such efforts—”

  “Perhaps not in ordinary times,” Pierre said sadly. “But the countess may have played on his anger over the death of his friend in the tournament. If she persuaded him that by helping the Cathars he could have his revenge on those who arranged the murder of his friend…” He stopped for a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I may have been a party to involving this youth in our schemes.”

  I thought of my brother’s words at the tourney, and of what William said about ha
rm coming to his household, and I felt a quick, involuntary shudder.

  “It is my penance for my sins that I must ride by Amaury’s side, and sit next to him at state dinners and know that his violent ways will triumph. That his path in matters of religion is to give no quarter, to stamp out dissent, to adhere to his rigid beliefs.”

  “Do you know where young Francis is now?” I was having trouble with my breathing again.

  “I do not. Amaury and I parted at Poitiers, at his request. He went on to Fontfroide Abbey and I was bound for Toulouse. It was south of Poitiers that I accidentally encountered William of Caen. He said the young knight was not with him, but he was terse when I asked and would not speak further about him.”

  The door to the refectory opened again, and this time four pilgrims made their way past us. I felt a growing concern. Someone would soon wonder what we were doing locked in conversation, a monk and a nun! “Père Pierre, we must part. To talk further would be to invite notice.”

  The monk bent his tall frame so that he spoke in my ear, his voice scarce above a whisper. “I ask a boon of you. Please find the young Francis, and tell him: There is no chance for peace, with or without the chalice. He should not bring it to Toulouse. It will only create more violence.”

  “I give you my word, Father. I will make every effort to find the young knight.” The worthy priest had no idea how determined I was to do this very thing. “But if he has the chalice, where then should he take it?”

  We had begun walking back toward the dining hall, and when we reached an open space where the cloister walks intersected, the monk stayed me with a hand on my shoulder. It was an act of treason to touch a royal in such a way, but he was clearly becoming agitated to the point of distraction.

  “Tell young Francis that if he has the object, he should take it to my sister Beatrice of Béziers. She will see that it is returned to the Cathar bishops. I understand now that the only use of the chalice in Toulouse would have been to bait the trap for the Cathar leaders. I was sadly mistaken in what I tried to do.”

  And behold, another innocent who was no match for the strategies of Amaury and Chastellain, I thought grimly.

  I looked closely and once again I saw tears glistening in the moonlight on the narrow face of the monk. “You have no hope for a good outcome, then, at your meeting in Toulouse, even with the Lord William there to assist?”

  “If Foulques is at the conference, and he will be, there will be few options of compromise allowed the count. The bishop will push him to the wall in the name of orthodoxy. And Raymond is caught. If the Cathar leaders were to come, what chance would they have when even the Lord of Toulouse cannot elude the wolves.”

  I put my hand on his arm and spoke clearly in a low voice. “Père Pierre, you are a good and holy man. One does what one can. Sometimes it is not enough to combat the forces of darkness. But I will find Francis, rest assured, and if he still has the cup, I will do all in my power to see that Beatrice receives it.” With an impulse, I peeled off my leather riding glove, and took the ring from my right hand. “Here, take this. It has the royal insignia on it. If you have need of safety anywhere, say you are my deputy. It may save your life.”

  He looked up with a face that suddenly appeared angelic and serene, full of resignation. “I bless you for that, but I have no need of safety now,” he said. And he put up his hands in a gesture of regret. Then, for some reason he changed his mind. He took the ring and slipped it into the pocket of his habit.

  Suddenly I recalled the picture of the priest lying by a river’s bend, his blood watering the land. I knew the monk saw the image as well, for he started, then sighed.

  I dared not tarry longer. “Blessings on you, Pierre of Castelnau. God knows you have done what you could.” And so saying, I leaned forward and brushed each of his cheeks with my own. I left him standing with tears streaming down his face. And I could not bear to look back.

  .20.

  Fontfroide Abbey

  Our horses were as fatigued as their riders when we finally rode up to the gates of Fontfroide Abbey in the morning two days later. We looked every inch the dusty and tired pilgrims we pretended to be. Even the stalwart Geralda, who had scarce complained at all since we left Lavaur, was reconsidering her decision to accompany me. I could see it in her lined, weary face. But now, of course, it was too late.

  The last few days had been rainy and cold, but today the sun shone brightly as we dismounted. The sweet air was a welcome change from the rain and that, coupled with the fair sleep I had enjoyed at a nearby inn the previous night, caused my spirits to rise. I felt renewed confidence that Francis was here and that we were now close enough to prevent harm to him. If only we could move fast enough.

  The hospitaler was summoned by the porter immediately after we identified ourselves as nuns from a small monastery near the abbey of Moissac. I thought that might be an address far enough away to be safe. At least days away by messenger, should the current abbot of Fontfroide decide to inquire about us.

  True to our plan, we announced ourselves as pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. We were somewhat west for our story to ring true, so we added that we had attended the recent débats in Narbonne on religion, which were, I knew, in the nature of a large convocation for many professed religious.

  Our story was accepted without question by the hospitaler. He only inquired how long we would like to stay at the abbey. Geralda and I looked at each other. We had agreed in advance she would usually speak for us, sparing me any additional questions about my Paris accent. Though I had learned the langue d’oc well as a child at Queen Eleanor’s knees, I now carried unmistakable evidence of my northern years in the smooth way I slid over the words. While most would overlook it, we never knew when we would encounter someone who knew the nuances well enough to challenge me.

  “We would be grateful for a time to rest, before we continue our journey,” she said. “Perhaps a period of a few days?”

  “The abbey is quite overwhelmed with guests now,” the man said. He was short, and rotund, and genial of expression, as he surveyed us. Also, it turned out, generous with information. “Our former abbot is here visiting, and he has a large retinue, which we have had to house, feed, and stable. And we have other important guests at the moment.”

  “It does seem busy,” I murmured. There were many carts coming in and out of the gates, even as we spoke. There seemed to be enough provisions passing by to quarter an army, raising a great cloud of dust that floated even into the small porterhouse in which we stood. I stifled a sneeze.

  “He’s a very important man,” the hospitaler confided. “He is now a papal legate, and traveling our region to persuade people to adhere to the true religion of Rome.” As he spoke, he was examining a list, an inventory perhaps of cells or guesthouses available.

  “Ah, here is the perfect place.” He looked up and smiled, as if he had made a brilliant new discovery. “We have three small huts, er…guesthouses on the abbey property, and one is not in use. It should accommodate four pilgrims nicely. It is quite far from the main abbey buildings, from the church and chapter house and Great Hall, but it will provide the isolation proper for you all as women religious.”

  He glanced skyward, his great brows beetling against the sun. “And the weather is still clement enough, praise the Lord, so coming to and fro for worship and meals should not be a hardship for you.”

  “Thank you many times over, Father Hospitaler,” Geralda said with excessive meekness, and I cast her a sharp look. But no sign of a smile appeared on her face and the hospitaler seemed pleased at our gratitude.

  “Father Hospitaler,” I interjected before he could move on to his next task. He turned in surprise, perhaps at my commanding voice, perhaps my accent. I softened my tone. “We would be happy to work while we are here at the abbey. We can work in the kitchens, or sweeping, or helping with the altar linen.” Anything, I thought, to draw us into the abbey life so we can find the trail of my son.

&
nbsp; “Thank you. We appreciate the offer of service. I will have word sent to your guesthouse before sundown as to your duties on the morrow. Meantime, please use this day to rest and pray, as you must be fatigued from your long journey.”

  So saying he turned to give a pull to the great bell that hung over the porterhouse.

  “I’ll have Brother James show you to your house. He will have someone see to your horses,” the hospitaler said. Within moments another monk appeared, this one wearing the brown garb of the men who did not take holy orders, but instead joined the community to do the menial work of the abbey.

  We bowed our eyes like good nuns and followed as humble guests behind the brother. It was difficult, however, to rein in our two younger companions, for each had a lively way about her, and had not learned the inhibitions necessary for safety in our situation.

  “Look, yonder,” said young Fabrisse, her youthful voice ringing out as we crossed the abbey close. Brother James stopped and turned abruptly, for such openness would not be characteristic of a young woman religious.

  “What is it, Sister?” I said, intending a warning with my stern tone. “Have you been frightened?”

  “It is the livery of the king of France,” she said artlessly, and I raised my eyes from the ground and followed her pointing finger.

  “How do you know the insignia of the king of France?” I asked, covering my surprise as she had spoken truly.

  “When I was at my lessons, we were taught coats of arms for Count Raymond of Toulouse, and King Philippe of France, and King John of England who is also Duke of the Aquitaine.”

  “Hush, child,” I said, but Brother James’s attention was already captured and he was regarding her with some amusement.

  “Well said, young Sister. You learned your lessons well. That is the livery of the king of France. His chief minister arrived only hours ahead of you this very day, to confer with the abbot of Fontfroide, and with our honored guest, Abbé Amaury of Cîteaux.” Brother James chuckled at the precosity of Fabrisse. He was elderly and had a kindly face. Also, he was sufficiently ignorant of the ways of a young novice that her unrestrained behavior aroused no suspicion in him.