Canterbury Papers (2 page)

With hands clasped behind his back, he paced away from me as he talked, so that his words at the end became muffled as if flung against the wind. I sighed.

The chamber suited Philippe. His passion was war, always had been. The tapestries that lined the high stone walls and provided some measure of warmth were laced with hunting scenes—men with spears, boars in flight, hounds leaping. Hunting is, after all, a form of war; at least I would think so if I were an animal. The doors that guarded the privacy of the chamber were of oak and carved with scenes from the ancient battle of Troy. Encircling the hearth was another remarkable piece of oak carved by highly skilled artisans. They had used their art to design miniature weapons—bows, arrows, knives, swords—all intertwined like a chain of malicious grapes winding around the gentle hearth fire.

“Well, what do you have to say, sister?” He turned unexpectedly and headed back in my direction. I forced my attention to the issue.

“I cannot understand, brother, why the court should gossip about me in this way. Unless it is that your courtiers are envious of my serenity in the midst of the tremendous chaos that reigns over this impending wedding.”

“They say not that you are serene.” Philippe's toe stubbed on a corner of one of the Smyrna carpets of which he was so proud. He cursed softly as he caught himself. At such vulnerable moments, he was not the king of France to me. I saw him only as my younger brother.

“The reports are the reverse, that your feeling about this wedding runs high. The charge is that you refuse to take part in the preparations, or even give advice when it is sought, but instead become angry when Agnès or her ladies try to involve you in their plans.” He began to rub his brow, always a sign that his headaches were returning, then covered the gesture by running his fingers through his dark, cropped hair. “Alaïs, this is becoming an issue between Agnès and my royal self. She feels you are not supportive of this coming wedding between our son and the house of the Plantagenet.”

I held back yet another sigh. Philippe felt caught; I could see it in his face. I knew he did not want to have this conversation with me, that Agnès had forced it on him. We cared for each other, and he mostly left me alone to brood in my own way or withdraw if it suited me. For all his faults, he was my brother. I sometimes saw in his face the broader outlines of my own as it played back to me from the metal mirror he himself had brought me from the south. We had different mothers, but the lines and shapes of our faces, long and thin, were of the father we shared, and we had the same slightly almond-shaped eyes, those eyes of the Capet house of France. His were dark, while I had been told mine were as green as the eyes of my black cat.

“Philippe, try to understand my position.” I shifted on the cushions to lean forward and made a gesture of appeal with my good hand. “I don't like weddings. I don't want any part of them. I am delighted that you have arranged this marriage between little Louis and Eleanor's granddaughter.” I smiled but then spoiled it by muttering, “Although why Eleanor of Castile would want to send the child Blanche from sunny Spain north to the damp fog of Paris is beyond me.”

Philippe stopped in front of the small couch on which I had draped myself. “That is exactly the kind of comment that—”

“—that gets me in trouble in this court of yours,” I finished for him. It was so easy to finish his remarks, because, on some subjects, they were so predictable.

“It's your court as well, Alaïs,” he said, sounding wounded.

“No, it's not, Philippe. Let's not—at least between us when we are alone—keep up that fiction. I am here at your sufferance. I was sent back here like an unwanted package when my betrothal to Richard ended and Queen Eleanor found me an embarrassment. You are kind, but I am of an age where I should have my own home and county, and a husband of my own. I don't, and so I find myself your guest.” I tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner but found my voice oddly giving way to some kind of shakiness as I finished. So I stopped talking until I had more possession of myself.

“And so,” I continued, speaking slowly, as if these thoughts were occurring to me for the first time, “perhaps because I never had my own wedding, it is difficult for me to enter with joy into planning this one. As I said at dinner this eve, it has occurred to me that I would be better in these days away from court. I would like your permission to withdraw for some time. Perhaps to stay with our sister Marie in Troyes until summer. She has always been willing to welcome me.” I paused. “If I am away, out of sight of those who criticize me, it would not be necessary then for you to have to defend me, as you do now.”

“Alaïs…,” he began. I was horrified to hear sympathy creeping into his voice. Who knows what emotional nonsense he would have uttered had we not—fortunately—been interrupted by the messenger, preceded by one of Philippe's marginally competent personal guards.

“Your Majesty.” The short, burly figure of Philippe's head guard flung open the heavy oak door as the hinges protested. “This man insists … presenting…”

And before he could complete the announcement, the guard was gently edged aside by a remarkable-looking stranger who towered above him. The newcomer was no longer young, but he appeared still vigorous. He was dressed in traveler's garb, an ordinary tunic with no mail overshirt, leggings, a wet Lincoln green cloak, and boots spattered with mud. One keen eye sparkled with intelligence, while the other was sewn entirely shut, giving his craggy face a kind of unintended rakishness. But he held himself regally, and I saw the scarlet and white emblem of Eleanor of Aquitaine interwoven with the lions of England dressing his breast. My heart mounted into my throat, and I suddenly sat straight upright. It was Sir Owain of Caedwyd, King Harry's lieutenant and trusted knight, whom we had always called by the affectionate English name Tom.

“Sir Owain of Caedwyd with urgent messages for the king”—the guard raced through to the finish—“and the Lady Alaïs.”

“Courier?” Philippe had turned at the interruption, and his voice was sharp. “What is your business with the king?” My brother disliked interruptions in the extreme, especially if he was experiencing some emotional state. Something to do with manhood, I believe.

“As your own man stated,” Tom said, with the barest hint of irony, “I have letters for Your Majesty and Your Grace.” He bowed low to each of us. “They are to be delivered personally and in confidence.”

Tom's rumpled dress, which marked him as a servant-courier, deceived Philippe. He did not know—as I did—that Tom was an experienced courtier. Tom had been like a brother to King Henry in his younger years. Henry had even knighted him for his service. He went everywhere with us as a family, and I always felt he observed us carefully. His own manners were impeccable. Philippe was in for a surprise. I did not have to feign delight at the familiar face.

“Sir Owain,” I said, extending my right hand. “Welcome to the court of Paris, dear Tom.”

Tom smiled, as canny a smile as I had ever seen, and came toward me.

“You know this man?” Philippe swung his head between us with his nearsighted blink.

“Brother, permit me to present properly Sir Owain of Caedwyd, former lifelong friend and knight of King Harry of England himself”—I nodded to Tom—“and once a lieutenant in the king's own army. He is also a friend to France. His name is Owain, but the king always called him Tom, swearing to make an Englishman of him someday. Tom, may I present to you my brother Philippe, King of France.”

I had known Tom well when I was a child at the English court. I should have recognized the thick Celtic inflection behind his labored Norman French,, even if I had not seen his beaked nose mapped with veins, the broad cheekbones, the wild thatch of red hair graying now. He had grown a red-gray beard in the fifteen years since I had last seen him, and it covered his square Welsh jaw.

But it was the sight of his hooded left eye that made me certain of his identity. I myself had seen the accident that caused his blindness when I was still a child and Tom was so young a man he hardly had a beard growing. King Harry's newest falcon had gone wild as they tried to sew its eyes shut for training, and the great bird had clawed Tom's own eye in its rage. Then both man and bird had had their eyes sewn shut. I never forgot the man's screams of pain mounting over the cawing of the great wounded bird as the barber-surgeon labored on Tom right there in the open field. I was on my own palfrey, which was pawing the ground impatiently as the shouts rent the air. The other children watched intently, the boys' faces betraying nothing. But I couldn't look. I closed my eyes and smelled the sweet field heather, wishing the echoes would end.

“Indeed,” said Tom, making a low bow no courtier could fault, “you may count me always a friend of the country of Princess Alaïs.”

“Well … well, then, what do you bring us, fellow? You come from our cousin King John?” At last Philippe was acknowledging the lions of England emblazoned on Tom's tunic.

“No, Your Majesty. My letters are from Queen Eleanor at Fontrevault.”

“Queen Eleanor? What could she want?” The king moved to the hearth, edged out his mastiff, who was warming his bones there, and kicked the cinders back into the fire. “Unless it's further business about the wedding. She's been unusually silent on the topic for some time. I thought she was leaving all the preparations to our court here in Paris.”

“Thanks to you, Tom, for your good service.” I held out my right hand for the letter, and immediately Tom opened his leather pouch and transferred the scroll with its familiar blue-wax seal to me. I made no move to break the seal. Instead I stuffed the small parchment into my left pocket.

“But why is she writing to you?” Philippe muttered absently as he took his own letter and broke the seal, still standing by the hearth. “No doubt further directives on the wedding,” he grumbled. “She cannot resist managing things.” He shook the scroll open and scanned the script. We waited.

“God's good bones, sister, do you know what she's doing?” After a moment Philippe burst into a rip of laughter, causing the hound to look up yet again. “Old Eleanor. What a queen! She'll put us all to shame in our own old age. This almost makes me like her!” And he flapped the scroll in my general direction.

“What piques your interest, brother?” I gathered myself to rise from my comfortable cushions, much more curious to read my own letter than hear about my brother's. A feeling was creeping over me, that kind of knowing I occasionally experience just before a shift occurs in my world. I could sense Eleanor's letter, palpable against my leg.

“She is on the way to Castile to fetch her granddaughter for the wedding with little Louis.” He crowed. “Oh, to have her spirit at her age!”

“What?” My efforts were momentarily arrested. “How could she? She has more than eighty summers.” I pushed myself upward using my right hand on the firm oak of the chair's arm.

He was still reading, shaking his head as he moved to the long cypress table at the side of the room. He tossed the scroll down and picked up the large silver pitcher that displayed his personal royal insignia. Dark Bordeaux splashed as he filled two goblets, and then he paused. After the space of a breath, he poured a third.

“Who knows? Probably she'll be carried in a litter, at least over the mountains.” He handed me a goblet, still chortling. I had no choice but to accept, impatient as I was to be gone. “But I wouldn't put it past her to ride partway herself, keeping up with her knights, no doubt.” He gave Tom the other silver goblet.

“The wonder is that she's doing it at all.” He raised his glass high. “Here, Tom of Caedwyd, drink a toast with the Capet family to the fortitude of your mistress, Queen Eleanor, and to the wedding soon to come that will unite both our houses, the English and the French.” He paused, then added softly, “And end this endless war.”

Tom, who had been standing to the side with a grave expression and folded arms since delivering his letters, raised his cup as graciously as if he drank toasts daily with the king of France. What he made of my brother's levity, one could not say. His long, honest face was impassive and pleasant, as I always remembered it except for the day of the accident with the falcon.

“What will Jean Pierre and his men make of this? You sent them to escort the Princess Blanche to Paris. They must be in Castile by now.” I had toasted the queen with a swallow of wine before setting my goblet on the table.

“That's the wonderful part.” Philippe was nearly dancing with delight. He picked up the scroll again and waved it around his head. “Jean Pierre will be so put out. He'll have to wait, of course, once the Spanish court hears Eleanor is coming. A royal escort. Her own grandmother. He could hardly leave before she arrives.” Philippe tossed the scroll into the air and laughed like a boy when it bounced off the head of his hunting hound. “He's become so pompous since his father died and he inherited the family title. Cooling his heels in Castile while he waits for Queen Eleanor will be the perfect lesson.”

I had to struggle to keep my composure. If Eleanor only knew that she was assisting my brother in a small revenge on his childhood rival, she would have pulled her thin, well-shaped lips back in that ironic smile that came so easily to her. Pleasing Philippe, her first husband's son and the bane of her own young princes in war, was not anything she had ever mentioned to me as a priority.

“Brother, I have enjoyed our conversation. Let me think more on what you have said. Perhaps we can talk on the morrow.” I moved toward the door, but Philippe moved even more quickly, blocking my way.

“Princess,” he said, bending over my right hand with courtly grace, an odd, formal gesture to make to one's sister, but so typical of him in his better moments. “A good even to you. We will speak further of your desire to visit our sister in Troyes. And, Alaïs,”—he hesitated for just a fraction of a moment, almost embarrassed—“do not take too much to heart the gossip of the court. They mean you no harm.”