Canterbury Papers (21 page)

We seemed to be heading north and slightly east. Large forms loomed through the fog rising off the still-cool land as the predawn light began to glow. The mounds could have been anything—groups of waiting warriors or unfriendly houses—but they turned out to be only stands of large pines emerging from the night. We were making good time, and it was with surprise I saw in the first rays of the rising sun the ancient, giant white stone horse of Wiltshire plastered against the hills ahead. Thank the stars for the goddess who inspired that stone formation, for now I knew where I was, and with that, suddenly, I had a sense of safety for the first time in days.

W
e'll stop soon, Your Grace.” The young earl was looking a bit ragged as he pulled back from the front of our small group to ride with me. But of course he had ridden all night, whereas it had been but a few hours for me.

“And what is our destination?”

“The manor of a knight we trust,” he replied. “We'll rest there for a time. We have a conference there later today.” He made a vague gesture with his hand.

“And for me? Will I be given safe passage back to France?”

The earl was about to reply when one of the rear guards rode up unexpectedly.

“What is it?”

“A single rider, quite far off. I can't make him out, and there is quite a cluster of knights a distance behind him. He seems to be trying to catch up with us.”

“What colors does he show?”

“None, my lord,” the knight replied.

The earl's face broke into a broad grin. “Tell the archers to hold their fire. I know this man. We won't slow down for him. Let's see if he can catch us.”

“You have not answered my question.” I was not accustomed to being ignored. “Will I have passage back to Paris?”

“I cannot say how events will unfold, but you will know soon enough. The place we seek is not far now.” And the earl departed my side without further ceremony, urging his men on as if we were in some kind of race.

“I'm certain they'll arrange your passage to France, Your Grace.” Tom, riding on my other side and grinning, had read my thoughts. “There must be a reason he can't say now. I know it's not just because you are a woman.”

With that, I reached over and lightly lashed his horse, which gave a satisfying leap forward, almost unseating my old friend. But I smiled, too, for my heart was growing lighter.

A large estate settled against the rolling hills came into view as we rounded a bend in the road. We saw first the walls and then the several stories of a great stone manor, built in the modern style of a long, rectangular building. Italian glass stained many colors had been set into some of the windows, signaling a prosperous owner. Smoke curled upward from the chimneys, and I suddenly longed for a clean bed with a warming brick.

Beyond the manor house, we could see stables where liverymen and boys already rushed about. I was tired from the ride and felt as if I would fall from my horse at any minute. Never in the future, I resolved, would I even break the seal on any letter from Eleanor R., much less undertake any requested mission. When we finally rode to a halt in a courtyard, Tom helped me down from my sweaty horse, and I was glad to lean on him. For, truth to tell, I could not have stood on my own.

The owner of the manor received us graciously, standing in the vestibule of his grand house. He introduced himself to me only as Baron Roger. He was formally dressed in a longer tunic, cloak, and riding boots, despite the early-dawn hour. He was a tall man with a soft face, older than myself, with jowls that fell gently over his collar. His tired look came mostly from the black rings around his eyes that, coupled with the shape of his face, gave him an air of quiet resignation. He reminded me of Philippe's hunting hound. His wife stood by his side, a small round, pretty woman, much younger than Sir Roger. She wore a delightful gown of rust with a slash of white, to match the barbette and wimple wound around her throat and head. I envied her youth and good looks and the high color in her cheeks. But for myself, if I had youth at that moment, I would have traded it without thought for a dry, warm bed.

The earl and Baron Roger greeted each other formally, as if they had met somewhere a long time ago. The earl presented me simply as “the Princess Alaïs,” saying it with the English inflection. Baron Roger bowed low, as did his wife, Lady Margaret. I tried to appear gracious, but fatigue was pressing on me.

Then, from the very road behind us, the single figure who had trailed us for several miles burst through the gates. The Earl of Chester sprang forward, catching the man in an embrace as he slid from his horse. “Victory, victory! You could not catch us!” the earl was shouting. “You owe me a pound of silver!” The man laughed, pummeled the young earl on the back, and made many protests about his intentions. As they talked, the rest of the stranger's retinue rode hard into the courtyard.

There was mayhem for some minutes as greetings were exchanged all around. As I watched the busy scene wondering whether Tom would catch me if I dropped over, the leader of the newcomers began threading through the general hubbub of knights. He stopped to have a word with Sir Roger and then made his way toward me. The man was dressed even more richly than the baron, his cape trimmed with fox fur as good as the one I wore. But it was his face that astonished me as he drew near. It was Prior William! And from the look of his elegant clothes and jeweled sword, he was far in every way from Canterbury and his monk's robes.

He moved as when I had first seen him at Canterbury, intentionally and swiftly toward me. I thought perhaps I was seeing a vision in my fatigue, but when he kissed my hand, I could feel on my skin his mouth and face still cold from the night air.

“Good day to you, Prior William,” I said, quelling my astonishment.

“Princesse.”
He smiled. “Welcome. Sir Roger and his wife stand ready to make you safe and give you rest from your hard journey.”

He waved to a line of servants who had suddenly materialized from the house, gathered hastily outside the entryway of the great hall. They appeared to be looking to William for orders, which he seemed inclined to give.

“Servants. Here! Attend the princess. She requires a warm bed, dry clothes. She needs hot water to wash. Be quick!”

“Prior William,” I said, recovering myself, “anyone would think this was your house to hear you ordering the servants about.”

“Would they,
Princesse
?” he shot back, obviously amused. He had discarded his head covering and donned a felt wool hat, which he pushed to a jaunty angle while the other hand rested on his sword.

“But what are you doing here in knight's clothes? And if you're here, who is minding Canterbury for Hugh Walter?” I could feel shooting pains begin in my legs from the long ride. “Surely the monks' chapter needs a chief?”

His face lightened at that. “You need not be concerned for the monks of Canterbury, although it is touching. Hugh Walter has returned from Rome and resumed his abbot's chair. He's given me leave from Canterbury for several weeks.”

“What for?”

“To put certain affairs in order.” There was a fleeting wry ghost of a smile that dented his face and threw the deep vertical lines into relief. “The cathedral and its monastery have many interests in the outer world. I must attend to some of them this week.”

“Why are you not in monk's clothing?” I began with more questions, but he shook his head.

“We'll meet again after you've had your rest,” he said. “Save your questions until then. Ah, and here is your old friend Tom of Caedwyd.” He drew Tom to us with a familiar gesture. I was about to remind him that he'd denied Tom entrance just days ago at the gates of Canterbury, but I had no chance. “Tom will see you to your chambers.”

A flock of servants suddenly surrounded us. William began to drift off, responding to a knight who seemed to have urgent business. I caught his arm as he turned away.

“Am I safe here from John's long reach?”

“No one is ever altogether safe from the king,” he murmured, bending his head toward mine. “But you may rest here for now without fear.” He followed my glance to Étienne and Roland. “Your knights will be well cared for. And you will see them later today.”

“Unlike Canterbury?” I asked.

“Princesse.”
He swept his hand in a grand gesture. “Did you not notice? This is all unlike Canterbury.” And he turned away to confer with the earl, who had by now joined the knight in seeking his attention.

Tom saw my exhausted state and put an arm around me for support, and I was grateful. Suddenly I bethought myself of Henry's ring, still on my third finger. I slipped it from my hand and pressed it into his palm. “Thanks for your trust, Tom. This ring has never left my finger since you gave it me. I could not send for you at Canterbury when I needed your help.”

“I know what happened, Princess. I only wish I could have been there to prevent it.”

Handing the ring to Tom put me in mind of my treasure, which I had lost. That misbegotten bitch, Isabelle! I must have made a noise, for Tom looked at me, startled. “My lady?”

I sighed. “It's nothing, Tom. Only I had a keepsake—like your ring—and it was taken from me while I was drugged.”

“Those whoresons,” Tom said before he caught himself. “Your pardon, my lady, But when I think what they did, how they took you by force and drug and held you prisoner—and then to rob you as well—it passes understanding. They say it was King John who arranged it all. But why would they take the keepsake?”

“I do not know why,” I muttered. “Unless it be just the habitual venality of the house of England.”

“Come, Princess, you need to rest,” Tom said, perhaps feeling me sag against his arm. He might well have added,
Before the next crisis occurs.

S
ome hours later, rested and washed, I sat in a new crimson wool robe that had been carefully laid on my bed while I was sleeping. Finally I had some leisure to observe my surroundings. My chamber gave the impression of being quite large, but that may have been because it was sparsely furnished. What furnishings there were appeared rich indeed. The chairs scattered about held deep cushions with needlework as beautifully fashioned as those of Eleanor's court. The rich threads of deep red and blue-green against the cream background were of the kind found only in the South of France.

The tapestries with scenes of maidens and hunters and unicorns covering the walls were finely made as well. And the house, recently built, had the new-style casement windows with tiny panes of real glass stained with color and molded together. I roused myself to move toward the windows that lined one whole wall of this rectangular room. I unhooked the small latch on one and pushed it open, then another. Fresh country air flooded in. Even though a soft rain fell, the room seemed to brighten when the outside light entered.

It appeared to be midafternoon. I had slept for hours. Below, the courtyard was silent, except for a few servants who were unloading a wagon that had just pulled inside the gates. Beyond the wall encircling the yard stretched two roads, rolling off into the distance over gentle hills. The misty rain obscured my view but was greening the hills even as I watched. I leaned out and lifted my face, and the fresh, wet feeling seemed to wake me from my lethargy.

Only then did I recall the letters I had found in Old Sarum. The thought caused me to turn quickly from the window. I had carefully stowed the packet under the featherbeds before I'd drifted off to sleep, sure that they would be safe from discovery if I were sleeping on top of them.

I was almost surprised to find them in the same place, slightly more creased than before but none the worse for wear. I carried them toward the light, placing them on a long table under the windows. To see better, I opened another glass casement and sat down to examine my cache.

Alas, even in the added light, I could not discover the contents of these papers. Five pages covered with the queen's fine script were in my grasp. But they would reveal no secrets.

For Eleanor, crafty witch, had written in code. Oh, they were her letters, all right. She could not disguise the broad, flowing hand I'd known since I was a child. But these letters might as well have been written in Arabic. She had switched symbols and transposed letters until my head ached for looking at it. The words were gibberish.

My fingers played with the edges of the letters, as if worrying them would yield more clues. The whole thing was exceedingly strange. One would expect to find letters in her desk that had been addressed to her, but here instead were these in her own hand.

First there was the mystery of their provenance. She must have written them with the expectation of communicating with someone outside her tower prison. But why were they never sent? Did she change her mind? Or could she not find a courier trusted enough to convey them, someone who would carry them to her secret correspondents instead of heading directly to King Henry? Perhaps she could not take that risk. For who knew whose life might be threatened by things hidden under that flowing script?

And then the mystery of their fate. Someone had flattened them and hidden them under the false bottom of her drawer. No doubt Eleanor herself, or someone she trusted with the secret of the desk. But why? A curious puzzle.

A peremptory knock startled me out of my reverie. Before I had time to sweep the letters from the table, and without my leave, the door opened. I was about to protest when I saw that it was William of Caen. For the second time that day, he took me by surprise. My open mouth snapped shut.

It would be difficult for a man of William's size and bearing to “slip” anywhere, so I cannot say he slipped into the room. But he moved like quicksilver immediately after the brief knock. It was clear he did not intend to be seen entering my chamber. I rose from my chair.