Canterbury Papers (14 page)

“I would say that the fear is not just particular to this cathedral. Rather, particular to this cathedral, to this time, to this person. To you.”

“Are you telling me someone means me harm?” I kept my voice level, but I could hear the hard tones of Henry at his most intense creeping in. “Tell me what you know, Prior. I am not a child to be protected from knowledge about my own well-being.”

“After you left last night, I had a visit from two knights, men I trust well. They had just come from London. They claimed that John is on his way to Canterbury to pay a visit to the martyr's tomb, or so he says.” William shook his head, one corner of his mouth pulled back in irony. “The last time John paid his respects to the martyr is beyond the memory of anyone in this abbey. I fear that his visit has other than sacred purposes and that it bodes ill for someone, church sanctuary or no.”

“What is the source of this information?” I sounded like King Henry quizzing his lieutenants.

“As you know, there is trouble between John and the great barons as well as John and the abbeys. The barons' leadership is friendly to Canterbury.” William put two small berry tarts into his mouth before he answered. He was expert. The only stain from the berries lay on his fingers, like small blots of blood. He wiped his hands fastidiously on the linen. “The knights who arrived in such haste last night were sent by Baron Simon.”

“Hah. There is no surprise in the barons' rebellion. It's about time they woke up. John couldn't govern a peat bog. He is an incompetent. Always has been since he was a child.” I toyed with the sweet cake the servants had placed on my plate. Sugar spilled over my fingers. I raised it up, then put it down without a taste.

“It is a pure shame that he is the only one left of all the Angevin eaglets,” I continued. William leaned toward me. “He is the least able to hold the royal kingdom together. It is ironic, John's being king now, at the end of it all. You must remember that at one time his brothers called him ‘Lackland,' because they all had a patrimony from their father and he had none.”

“Yes, well, Lackland may be having the last laugh. They are all gone, and he is still here, isn't he? And he governs all of it—Henry's Normandy and Brittany and England, Wales and Ireland, and Eleanor's Aquitaine. He won't be able to hold it, certainly not the French lands. And the Irish hate him.” William drank long from his cup, then slammed it down with finality. “But for now he is king.”

A brief silence fell on the men at our table.

“It's true, as you say, Princess. We have both mead and wine on feast days,” he said, raising his voice. “Other days it's only wine. And sometimes, I regret to say, not the best wine.” After the space of a cat's breath, the buzz of talk rose again.

I was puzzled. “Why would John make trouble here at the tomb of the martyr of Canterbury? His father did penance here at least three times. Even Richard honored the shrine. And you know his lack of sentimentality.”

As I spoke, I struggled to keep my expression serene. I wondered briefly how much William remembered of my ill-fated betrothal to Richard. Would he have any idea, cleric that he was, of unrequited love? Now, there was an interesting thought. I observed his face more closely. No, not likely. War or abbey management, power perhaps. But not love.

“John may have changed. What if he truly does come to do homage to Becket?” I ventured.

“To venerate the tomb is not, I think, John's purpose.” William's tone was as dry as eggshells underfoot.

“No? What then?” I broke with his gaze to shake my head, signaling no at the offer of more hot pastries despite the fragrant apple oozing out from them.

“You.” He brushed the crumbs from between his hands and pushed the remains of his meal from him, turning his face fully toward me. “You, Princess, are the object of his errand here.”

“Fiddle.” I snapped my fingers. William watched my face. “John is terrified of me. Remember, we were raised together, like brother and sister.”

“That argument is worthless.” He tossed his
serviette
aside. “I knew many brothers and sisters who were capable of killing each other as children or even later.” A pause. “Some did.”

I shook my head. “Let me tell you a story. John is six or seven years younger than I—I forget exactly, but something like that. Anyway, one summer day when I was about twelve, he tried to bait me. He called me a name, said something bad about my father being the spineless king of France. We were all in the barn with the horses. His older brothers were getting ready to hunt and paid us no heed. I was above in the loft, and John was taunting me from below. I took a sack of open oats and dumped it on him. John nearly suffocated. His brothers well nigh fell off their horses laughing. John never liked me after that, but he always left me alone.”

I rubbed my brow, oddly moved by the memory of that long-ago afternoon. But I didn't want to show a bright eye to William. Emotion was not a sign of strength for women. “He seemed like a spoiled baby to me. He was always so…”

“Ineffectual?” William supplied.

“Yes, I guess we could say that. I would have said feckless.” I had to laugh. “Poor John. Poor little Lackland.” But then I remembered the story of young Count Arthur's end, and I ceased laughing.

“Princess”—William's voice took on a certain urgency—“I trust my sources explicitly. They tell me that you have something John wants, some information. He heard you were coming here, and he seems determined to confront you. I don't know precisely why, but the situation is serious.”

Our conversation was brought to an abrupt end when a high, clear bell rang out three times. The monks around the hall rose and bowed their heads for a common prayer of thanksgiving. Our table joined. William's arm brushed mine as we stood.

“
Pater noster qui es in caelis…”
The prior's strong voice intoned the prayer as effortlessly as if he'd had nothing else on his mind throughout the entire meal. It filled the hall. I was aware of the bulk of his body next to mine and found it hard to concentrate on the prayer. The rhythmic rise and fall of the Latin chant as the monks rendered their brief thanksgiving should have been comforting, but my heart was unquiet.

When the last echo had faded and the monks had resumed their normal silence, Prior William turned to face me, as if our conversation had never been interrupted. This time he spoke in a whisper.

“I think you should heed this warning. Make your reverence to the martyr while there are still folk about the cathedral, best between Vespers and Compline, at the martyr's tomb—”

“Altar,” I interrupted.

“Tomb, altar, anywhere you like. But do not keep an all-night vigil alone in the cathedral.” His hand chopped the air as he warned me. “A whole net of ears covers the country. My information is sound. You are in danger.”

For one brief moment, I paused. What if his informers spoke true? But then I remembered Eleanor's letter and thought of the child. No, this task, even if dangerous, was worth the risk. And besides, I had no intention of spending the entire night at Becket's altar. I'd have the letters and be gone ere the midnight bells tolled. If John meant me ill, he'd have to be speedy about it.

“Do you forbid my vigil, then, as prior?” I challenged William.

He looked at me, his mouth and the creases running down his face tightening. I thought he would refuse on the spot, officially dismissing my plan. But he only said, “By God's true cross, you are a determined woman. No, I do not forbid it. I advise against it.”

“This vigil is important to me. It's about Henry … and his penance,” I lied, assuming an apologetic look, which in no way fooled him. “I need to do this to honor Henry's memory as well.” William's expression at that moment was intense but unfathomable, and I felt ashamed for my pretense.

But there was no further opportunity for exchange. Even as I spoke, the monks at the end of the table began to file out. I saw the young redheaded brother bound off the dais rather quickly and accidentally jostle one of the older monks. This provoked a startled reaction, and the older monk murmured something to the young clerk, who dropped his head and fell into line behind him.

William and I passed last from the dais. He stepped down first, then offered his hand to me. Again it was done with the elegance of a courtier. When we were on the stone floor, his table formed two rows of a human guard, and we passed between them.

The rest of the room waited as the prior's table processed toward the huge double oak doors. The monks were now silent, as in the church. This time I could hear a mild rustle of habits and sandals as they followed behind us, no doubt in their interminable, efficient order.

A quick glance over my shoulder yielded the same scene I had witnessed in the cathedral that morning: flocks of dark, hooded birds, wings at their sides, now gliding silently over stones in some predetermined arrangement. I wished to draw this scene. In charcoal, on parchment, I was certain I would see it as revealing a great, hidden truth of faith.

Just at the moment of our exit, a brown-robed brother catapulted into the dining area, nearly colliding with the prior. His cowl askew, his cheeks flushed, he barely apologized. He was shorter than I, no more than a youth. And he was clearly in distress.

“Prior, Prior, you must come at once. Something terrible has happened.”

William looked stern. “Collect yourself, Brother Hadrian. Nothing can be this important.”

“Oh, but it is, Prior, it is. In the herb garden, near the guesthouse. Someone has died. You must come.”

William, his face grim, turned to follow the youth immediately, waving to three of his monks to follow him. They were close behind, but so was the rest of the group that had been within earshot of the boy's annoucement. The entire body of monks cascaded like a vast dark wave, along the cloister walks, through the great hall and along the route Brother Dermott and I had taken so frequently in the past day.

I joined the monks. Even Brother Dermott appeared to have forgotten about me, so I moved along with everyone else. And after all, they were going to the garden of my guesthouse. What else would William expect me to do? Wander the monastery grounds?

And I must confess to a growing sense of unease. While no one had yet said that the death near the guesthouse was unnatural, my conscience was troubled. It occurred to me now that I should have reported the theft of my jewels. Perhaps someone had died because I had been too careful to guard my own secrets.

We turned the last corner and began to cross the small gardens that separated the guesthouse from the abbey buildings. I saw nothing at first, so I slipped through the monks who crowded in front of me to find William's tall frame. As I came up next to him, he turned to me. I looked on the ground and could not hold back a small cry. For the person who lay on the ground, clearly dead, wore the pale wool gown of the men from the south who had been with my uncle at the Boar's Head Inn.

A
t first I had the wild thought that it was Master Averroës himself, but then one of the monks drew back the hood and I saw a different Arab face, bronzed but much younger, and with a small beard. It was not clear how he had died, but from the position of his body, it was obvious he had been taken by surprise.

“Princess?” William asked, fixing his eagle's eye on me. “Do you know anything about this?”

I shook my head, still not able to find words, my hand seeking his arm to steady myself. After clearing my throat, I was able to say, “I saw this man, or some dressed as he is, not three nights ago in Havre, at the Boar's Head Inn. They had some business with the Duke of Orléans, my uncle Robert. Our meeting was accidental. He introduced me to them.” I paused. “Master Averroës was with them.”

“Master Averroës?” William's eyes widened. Then he turned to the monks nearest him. “Take this man to the infirmary. I do not doubt that he is dead, but I want the apothecary to look at him closely. We need to know if he died of natural causes or, if not, what killed him.”

William turned back to me as the monks began to pick up the man, his pale wool robe now stained with the earth of the herbal garden and the blue gentian flowers he had crushed in his fall.

“You understand what this means,” William said to me.

“No all-night vigil,” I said, my voice flat, for the first time unable to come up with a witty rejoinder.

“Indeed,” he said curtly. “This incident is too near your quarters for my comfort. But I cannot move you into the abbey. You will have a guard through the night. If you need anything, let him know.”

“I will do that. But, Prior”—he stopped at my words—“have I your permission to attend Compline at the least? With Brother Dermott as my guide.”

“Granted,” he said shortly, and left.

Brother Dermott appeared again at my elbow. I hadn't seen the signal that brought him there, but for once I was grateful. He paced with me to my guesthouse and opened the door.

I half expected to see everything in disarray again, but that was not the case. All was as I had left it this morning, yet everything was changed.

“Someone will be here soon, to stand guard for your security,” Brother Dermott said. “And I will return at the hour of Compline to take you to the prayers.”

I nodded without speaking, and when he had left, I shot the bolt on the inside. I sat in the chair by the window and looked out. I could see the spot in the garden where the body had fallen, early plant shoots pressed to earth in its outline. And I had no idea what to do next.

By dusk I had constructed a plan to retrieve the letters, given my new situation. I would ask Brother Dermott to leave me for an hour after Compline. After all, William had denied me only the all-night vigil, not the opportunity to reverence the martyr alone. With Dermott outside, or at least in the back of the cathedral in the shadows, I knew I could move the stone and retrieve the letters quickly.