William nodded. “It all makes great sense. But what did she do about Chastellain? After all, his men stole the icon. He must have wanted his share of the treasure.”
“I know the answer to that from what I overheard in Fontfroide Abbey,” I said quickly. “When she saw the king receive that message, she guessed it was about the chalice, that Chastellain had carried out their plan. She simply got up from the table then and disappeared. She probably went directly to Chastellain and obtained the chalice under some pretext. Perhaps he was afraid of discovery. He might have been glad to be rid of it for the night. He knew, with the killing of the monk, whoever had the chalice would be found guilty of that crime. Chastellain thought they would finalize the plans on the chalice in the morning. But she fooled him. She left quietly in the middle of that night after obtaining the object.”
“Chastellain must have been furious,” William interjected.
“Yes, he hadn’t counted on Constance disappearing immediately, and with the prize. To judge from what I overheard at Fontfroide, he must have been beside himself in a rage the next day when he discovered her flight. He had taken the risk, indeed killed a monk, for no reward at all.”
Esclarmonde continued with her part, speaking in the langue d’oïl, but with her clear, southern lilt. “I knew of Constance’s design to steal the chalice from the beginning of my visit at the court. But I did not think those plans concerned me. My only task was to prevent the abbot from getting the king’s support. Then, that last night after the royal dinner in the Great Hall, Constance caught up with me in the drafty corridor. She told me the king had received a message that the cup had been stolen. And she said she had told Amaury that Francis was to be the messenger to take it to Toulouse. I was appalled. She had placed Francis in grave danger.” The young woman turned to Francis and extended her hand to him: “You were not at the banquet that night. So I knew I must find another way to warn you.”
“So did you go to his chambers?” I reclaimed her attention.
“No, I sent a note. Because it was late, I told the servant to deliver the note at dawn. I did not dream the abbot would act that night, spiriting Francis away from his chambers.” Now she raised her head and looked directly at Francis. “The servant I sent to you returned at once. He said that you were gone, your chambers in disarray. It was then I feared the worst. But I knew not whom I could trust in that hotbed of intrigue.” She pulled from her sleeve a crumpled, small scroll. “See here, I still have the note I wrote you.”
“I would see that note, Lady,” I said, holding out my hand, for Francis had moved forward to take it, no doubt as some proof of her affection for him.
Francis passed it to me without reading it, rather reluctantly it seemed. I unrolled the dog-eared scroll and glanced at it. I was not interested in the message, but in the handwriting. It proved as I had suspected.
“You are the one who sent the note to my brother’s chief minister, warning him about the impending theft of the St. John Cup, and also one to me, about following the trail of gold to the south. The handwriting is the same on this note to Francis.” I looked over at her as I passed the paper back to Francis. “Why did you send those warnings?”
The young woman raised her small, pointed chin bravely at that question. “Just before his public audience that day I had sent that note thinking it would reinforce the king’s desire to stay out of our troubles here. I hinted at the imminent theft of the chalice, which I knew Constance planned. I thought such a message would further dissuade.”
“And also confuse the issue?” I asked pointedly.
She nodded, but added, with a somewhat saucy air: “I did not think it would endanger our plans, for by the time the king heard of the theft of the chalice, it would already have left Paris with a trusted courier.”
“And Francis was to be the courier?”
“Oh, no, madame. It was never to be Francis. That was Constance’s ruse with Amaury, a trick gone bad, certainly. We meant him no harm.” She looked to my son, who had remained standing near William. “Truly, Sir Francis, my attention to you was not only that the countess wished me to entertain you. It’s true, I began it as a dalliance to provide distraction, but I grew genuinely fond of you. I had never a thought to place you in danger.”
“But when Amaury heard the false news from Constance, he thought Francis had the cup,” I asserted.
“And so he was abducted. When the servant brought me back my note that night, and said that the room was in disarray, Constance and I realized what had occurred. We knew we were no match for Amaury, so we decided to set out at once for the south. Constance for Toulouse, and myself to Laurac to spend some weeks before coming here.” She cast a glance at Francis under lowered eyes. “Yestermorn a messenger came from this house, to tell me you were here, Sir Francis. And I made haste to see for myself that you were safe.”
Francis rewarded this new confession with another blush, to my amusement.
“So Constance took the cup to Toulouse after all,” I murmured, thinking of the conversation I had overheard at Fontfroide.
“No, Your Grace. That would have been too obvious,” the young woman said. “Constance never had the cup, except to receive it and pass it to another for safekeeping before dawn that very night.”
“But why, after all of the intrigue, would she not take it herself?” I was astonished.
“Because, as you correctly surmised earlier, she feared that Amaury would find out where she was, hunt her down and take it from her. I do believe she fears him greatly.”
“Where is it then?” William’s tone reflected his impatience. He pulled a small oak chair to him, turned it so the back was facing us, and threw his leg across it to sit astride. “All of this conniving and scheming was to distract everyone from the theft of this gold cup. Where is it now?”
“I find it passing strange that the icon has value so different for each person,” Francis said thoughtfully.
“That’s true. For Amaury it is the gold, or the treasure it could lead to; for Chastellain it was a way to buy Constance’s silence, and perhaps secure her help with the king,” I mused.
“And for Constance, a prize to bring back to Toulouse,” William added.
“And for Raymond, a bargaining tool with the Cathars,” Esclarmonde volunteered. “But of all of them, the only players in this drama who desired the chalice for its own sake are the Cathars. For them it is a sacred object because it belonged to Saint John, their patron and guide.”
There was a silence in the room, each of us occupied with our own thoughts.
“So, if Constance did not take it to Toulouse, where is it now?” Francis asked the question.
“Oh, it is with me,” Esclarmonde said simply. “I promised Constance I would never let it out of my sight until we could reinstall it in the Toulouse Cathedral. I have it even now in the travel sac I brought from Laurac.”
All of our faces turned toward her.
“You have it here?” I sounded stupid with amazement. After all of the peregrinations and actions, lies and deceits and adventures, the cup was here, in this château.
“Yes,” she said. “As I said, in my travel sac.” And she slipped the strap from her shoulder and let the sac slide to the floor.
.29.
The Chamber of the Princesse at Foix
For a moment, time stopped. Finally I found my voice.
“Lady Esclarmonde. I understand why you would come here to see Francis, but why did you bring the Saint John Cup here today? Why not just leave it at Laurac until you were able to deliver it to Toulouse?”
She hesitated for a long moment, then held my gaze as she spoke.
“Princesse Alaïs, although I owe loyalty to the Count of Toulouse, for my brother is his liege man, I also admire you. I watched you at your brother’s court, observed your courage, the way you stood up to the abbot at the king’s audience. I watched you after the tourney, in conversation with Francis, though you did not see me. I saw you c
alm him with your very words. You are royal not only in your title, but in your actions.”
“I thank you for your kind words, Esclarmonde, but I still do not see why you brought the chalice here.”
“I owe a debt for putting Sir Francis in danger. And, to be sure, although the cup was stolen from Toulouse, before that it was taken from the Cathars.” She assumed a slightly defiant look, her features hardening somewhat. “I am of the Cathar sympathies myself, and so are my brother and his wife. And I have wondered if perhaps the cup should be returned to them, instead of to the Count of Toulouse.”
“So you want me to make the choice?” I asked, with some amusement—which I dared not show, as she was so solemn. Then I sighed inwardly. With the responsibility would go the blame.
“Yes, Your Grace. I have been dithering for days over my course of action. When I heard you were here, at Foix, I knew this was the answer for me.”
“Let us have it, then,” I said. Esclarmonde reached into her travel sac and pulled forth a substantial package, wrapped in folds of soft material that might once have been a lovely gown.
I unraveled the muslin cloths that bound the cup, and it rolled out easily, as if it were any everyday drinking mug. Ah, but what a fine goblet it was. We all, even William, drew in a breath at the sight.
It was as I remembered from the Mass at St. Denis, but even more stunning close up. The heavy, solid gold was hammered to a fine, thin state and jewels dotted the cup just below the rim. There were rubies and emeralds in various shapes, some as large as rocks in a riverbed. And diamonds from Africa were scattered in between the other precious gems. Indeed, part of the cup seemed to be winking at us as it caught the fire from the sun cutting into the room.
More jewels formed a second ring around the bottom of the swelling cup, and the long, thick stem, braided round with gold, attached it to the gently spreading pedestal. I turned the icon over carefully, and noticed a tiny ring of diamonds around the very base, but carefully placed so that they did not interfere with the balance of the cup when it was set on a table. This cup had been used by someone of note, even if it was not Saint John.
“Probably some sultan’s cup passed off as a Christian relic,” William said, as always knowing my thoughts.
“Take care, my lord, that you do not become a cynic,” I murmured as I examined the cup.
I gentled the cup in my good hand, letting my fingers feel it as if I were a blind person. Indeed, I looked away for a moment so as not to be distracted by what I saw. It was then I felt it. Three tiny rubies were set right at the base of the stem, as the pedestal widened out. Two of them were at the same height, but the last was placed below the others. I fingered them each, rubbing them back and forth.
I felt a little movement from the oddly placed one as I nudged it, and I pressed harder. Nothing happened.
“What are you searching for, sweetheart?” William asked. But I shook my head, intent on my task. I tried the rubbing action again. And again there was movement.
“William, have you a knife?” I queried, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. He looked at me quizzically, but handed over the small knife he always carried at his belt.
I rubbed the ruby again, feeling a bit more movement than before. I took the knife and began edging it under the ruby, coaxing it to the left, and felt nothing for a moment. Suddenly the ruby moved a discernible distance and the bottom fell away from the stem.
I looked up. Both men were wide-eyed. Even Esclarmonde was riveted.
I turned the cup upside down and squinted into the hollow of the stem. Then I turned the stem toward the floor and shook. A yellowed piece of dried but intact parchment fell out. We all stared.
“Well, well, Princesse,” William finally said. “You found it. You open it.”
I carefully spread the crinkled parchment and we gathered around it. The handwriting was indecipherable.
“It’s Arab script.” I said. “I can’t read it.”
“I can make it out,” Francis said quickly, reaching for the cup, which I yielded gladly. “I know some Aramaic.”
William smiled at me over the bent figure of the young knight. “Before he trained for tournaments, you will remember, he was my clerk. His specialty was language study. He did some translations of Aristotle that compared favorably with Averroës’ work.”
“It is ancient, and the calligraphy is so ornate I can’t be certain. But I think this is a copy of a very old version of the gospel of Saint John.”
‘ “In the beginning was the word,’” I murmured.
“Yes, that’s it. I’m sure of it.” Francis had the scholar’s love of discovery, and he was narrowing his eyes to help decipher the text. “This is very exciting.”
“Alaïs, how did you know that something was hidden in the stem?”
“When I first saw the chalice raised at St. Denis, I was curious about the length and thickness of the stem. It did not have the ordinary form of a chalice used for Mass. It has been clear, from what everyone surmised, that something was hidden on it or in it. When I saw no special engraving that could signal a message, I tried the only part of the cup that could hide something.”
“So now what do we do with the cup?” Francis said, looking from me to William to Esclarmonde. “And with this gospel fragment?”
“Princesse, what is your advice?” asked Esclarmonde.
“When he saw me in the hostel near Verdun, Pierre de Castelnau begged me to divert this cup to Béziers, and back to the Cathar bishops,” I said, without hesitation, for my mind was already firm.
“Who should have it in Béziers?”
“His sister, Beatrice.”
“Beatrice of Béziers! So she is the sister of Pierre de Castelnau.” William let out a low whistle. “That explains much about the good monk’s actions at the court of Paris. I wonder if Amaury knows.”
“I fear he does. But Pierre is beyond being threatened by his colleague,” was my rejoinder. “I think he has allegiance to a higher power than the abbot or pope. He is committed to doing what is right.”
“And do we keep the parchment?” Francis inquired, the acquisitive nature of the scholar now showing.
I shook my head. “I want to keep faith with Père Pierre. Everything goes to Beatrice.” I began carefully rolling the parchment into a small scroll, and sliding it into the stem. “Do you agree, Esclarmonde?”
“Yes, Your Grace, with all my heart,” she said. “It is the parchment the Cathars will reverence. They care little for the gold and jewels.”
Suddenly there was shouting somewhere below. I stopped in mid-sentence and we all listened. “William, help me up. I want to see what is happening.” I struggled to rise.
He lifted me up and I leaned on his arms as I moved awkwardly to the window. There was a great ruckus in the courtyard below us. Two men had just ridden in, dusty and breathless. Servants’ calls for the Countess Philippa were echoing inside the castle. As we watched, the men disappeared into our building.
“Do you recognize those men, William?”
“If I mistake it not, it is the Count of Foix and his eldest son,” William said, with concern in his voice. “And they appear to be in a great hurry. I heard while I was in Toulouse that the viscounts of the south were in conference together at Albi. I wonder what has driven him back in such haste.”
Even as we continued to watch the chaos of the arrival in the courtyard the door to my chamber was thrown open with a loud bang. The countess flew in, followed within moments by the two men.
“Lord William,” the elder man said, wasting no time moving toward William. William clasped the man’s forearm with his free hand, whilst he kept me encircled. “It’s good to see you. It has been too long since you have stopped to visit us.”
“The press of business, as you might imagine, has determined my journeys in recent months,” William said tersely, but his smile was amiable. “May I present the Princesse Alaïs, sister to the king of France.”
; “Princesse.” The count stepped back and bowed to me, gesturing to the man at his side. “My eldest son, Raymond-Guillaume.” His son bowed also, and then looked at me with a frank inquisitiveness. I noticed how like the little boy I had seen at Lavaur he appeared, only older and fuller faced. This was the elder brother, and the mold and model for Roger-Bernard in the future.
“My host. Thanks to you for your hospitality,” I said.
“Count Raymond-Roger. You are in a great hurry, sir,” William said, as he helped me back to the chair I had occupied earlier. With care, and his support, I lowered myself into the chair. William, standing, turned to face his host.
“Lord William, I have news.” The Count of Foix was a man with a hard look about him. His narrow, spare face was tanned with sun and lined with liberal amounts of Armagnac over the years. His legs were bowed, showing hard days in the saddle. His gray hair, worn much longer than was the style in the north, stood out around his head like the halo around the statue of St. Denis. Grizzled is the look I would seek to represent, if I were to make a drawing of this man, I thought. And his son the perfect copy, only with a softer face and more color in his hair.
“I believe you can say anything in front of the princesse and the countess,” William said quietly. I was privately pleased he had included the countess, although she struck me as quite capable of speaking for herself. “And certainly you trust your sister, the Lady Esclarmonde.”
Raymond-Roger nodded to Esclarmonde, who smiled at him. It was obvious there was affection between them, which gladdened me, for I had taken a great liking to this young woman.
“First, we had news at Albi about two of our young women. They were with you at Fontfroide, Princesse, I believe.” He bowed in my direction. Although his voice held no accusation, I feared what he was about to say. “They were attacked on the road near the château at Montgaillard. One was killed, the other wounded. She lingers at Montgaillard, but she will live. Her companion was not so fortunate.”
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