The Rebel Princess (2 page)

P
ARIS
C
OURT
, Î
LE DE LA
C
ITÉ

T
he announcement of the courier surprised me. I was sitting at my long oak table, preparing to mix a new bar of ink with water, when the sharp knock interrupted. The door opened, letting in a blast of the cool October air along with my maid, Mignonne. I put down the pitcher with an unsteady hand. Perhaps this was what I had been waiting for.

“My lady, there is a message for you. The runner says it is urgent.”

“Well, send him in then.” I was unable to keep the excitement from my voice. All morning I had been restless, unable to focus on my needlework, pacing my chamber. The feeling that something was about to happen had been gathering in me since the previous evening.

This could be, at last, a letter from William, with news of his next visit. Or it may be something else, something not so pleasant. I knew
I must have patience. This gift of mine, some called it second sight, could not be hurried. Everything would be revealed.

I arranged myself in my largest carved chair, with the heavy tapestry cushions. I sat upright, no smile upon my face. For underneath the excitement lurked a sense of foreboding.

Mignonne soon returned with a young man, still breathing heavily from his ride. He was tall and thin, and moved awkwardly as if he had just grown last week and his body had not yet adjusted to its new height. The young man wore a cloak too thin for our brisk northern air, and I did not recognize the colors of his livery. He immediately removed his cap and went down on one knee.

“Rise, young man. Tell me your business,” I said, motioning him up.

“Your Grace…umm Princesse Alaïs, I have a message for you from my mistress. She bade me ride here with all due speed.”

“And who is your mistress, lad?” I prompted more gently, for I could see the youth was inexperienced in matters of court formality.

“Joanna, Countess of Toulouse, Your Grace,” he said, bobbing his head. A flush came over his cheeks. “She begs to be remembered to you, and sends you this letter. And I was to give it to no one else but you.”

The youth pulled a roll of well-mashed parchment from within his tunic, and handed it to me. I could see his hand was shaking, perhaps with cold, or with the responsibility of delivering his burden to the sister of the king of France. My heartbeat had slowed. It was not to be news from William after all.

Mignonne, who had been standing aside during this exchange, took the parchment and carried it to me. She made a nice courtesy as she handed it to me, and I saw with some amusement her glance slide to the youth, as if she were instructing him on what to do next. He followed her example with a low, awkward bow, and I summoned a smile for him.

“Mignonne, take this young man below. Be sure he has food and drink and a place to lay his head. It seems he has traveled far, and done his mistress’s bidding well. Get him a warmer cloak, as well.” I turned to the youth. “I’ll see that you are properly rewarded for your work, young man. Meanwhile, you should eat your fill and get some rest.” And I brushed the air with my hand, a signal to my maid to make a hasty exit.

The youth bowed again and backed away from me, his long legs uncertain whether to kneel or flee. He tripped, causing Mignonne to grin, but then she caught my glance and immediately became sober. In a moment, they were gone. I slipped from my chair and went to the table, where a sharp knife lay.

I had not had word from Joanna of England since she had married Count Raymond of Toulouse some years earlier. She was Eleanor and Henry’s daughter, and had been my dearest friend when we were young. She was the favorite sister of my betrothed, Richard later king of England, and stood by me in the turmoil that surrounded the breaking of that promise.

Joanna’s letter also took me by surprise because I had expected any message would be from William. I thought for certain that my unsettled feeling that morning meant that I would finally hear from him. He had not returned at Eastertide, as he had promised. Nor had he come at Whitsuntide. And the long summer, unusually warm, had dragged by without news of him or Francis for months. Now, here was this unexpected communiqué, not from him, but from my long-ago friend.

I slit the red sealing wax with my knife, and unrolled the parchment. My disappointment was matched by my curiosity. Why a letter from Joanna after all these years? And why had she employed the young, untested page, rather than sending the letter through ordinary couriers that came regularly to my brother the king from the court at Toulouse?

As I read the letter, I began to understand.

The large
J
covered the rest of the page. Joanna had learned to write along with the rest of us royal children raised by Eleanor and Henry, but she always preferred just her initial. She made the mark even more distinctive with a large loop.

I rolled the parchment and tapped it against my chin, as I thought about the message. Her note about her good-mother, Countess Constance, made me smile. But her addendum about William was puzzling. Why mention him? Surely news of my liaison with William had not reached the courts of the south! Had they nothing better to do than talk of the royal family in Paris? Or had William known Joanna would write to me, and asked her to mention his departure for Paris?

I walked to the window and stood looking out on the gray October sky. Joanna’s letter was mild enough, but I could read between the lines. This man, this Arnaud Amaury, was known to me. William had told me of him at Christmastide. I liked not what I heard. William said this abbot was the greatest barrier to peace in the south, with his hatred of the new religion and his love of war. He was a powerful man, but single-minded. And he was now on his way to our very doors, if this letter was to be believed, to engage my brother in his wrong-headed deeds of violence.

I harbored great affection for Joanna. Her husband, Raymond, was another story altogether, but I would not ignore this plea from my childhood companion on his account. Abbé Amaury would receive no welcome from me. I still had the ear of my brother, the king, but I knew I must move carefully. Philippe was an astute ruler and diplomat. He would notice if I attempted to block his will. I would wait and discern the best course of action to defeat this man who meant harm to my dearest friend.

A sharp knock on the door of my chamber roused me from my musings. I whirled from the window and faced the door, saying, “Enter,” in a voice as strong as I could make it. I was to have my second surprise of the morning.

The door swung open, revealing the bulk of Michel de la Ronde, my brother’s private secretary and confidant. His black hair was cut straight across his forehead, guardian of his perpetual frown. His person matched his somber appearance, always direct and to the point.

“The king requests your appearance immediately in his chambers,” he said, in his voice like gravel. “He begs me to accompany you. He says it is most urgent.”

I grabbed a cloak from the chair closest to the hearth, and threw it around my shoulders. This peremptory summons from my brother was most unlike him. Something troubling must have happened. And given Joanna’s letter, I had an idea of what it might be.

P
ARIS

M
y brother’s apartments were at the opposite end of the palace from my own. De la Ronde was a man in a hurry and walked quickly, despite his bulk. I matched my steps to his with some effort. My cloak billowed with our speed, allowing sharp drafts that chilled me. As we turned into the hall leading to the king’s privy chamber, I saw the corridors lined with all manner of folk, as was usual. Palace guards in uniform mingled with court sycophants in silks and velvets waiting for favors. Honest yeomen in rough leather jerkins seeking redress of a wrongdoing kept to themselves, apart from the grandees. As we hurried past, the guards snapped to attention, like so many human pikes, but I had little interest in them. I was puzzling over what my brother might want from me.

When we arrived at the heavy oak door,
marked on the outside with the large coat of arms the Capets had adopted generations earlier, M. de la Ronde gestured to the men. One stepped forward to knock briskly on the door with the pike staff. We heard an equally sharp reply, one that apparently was interpreted as positive, as the guard swung the door wide. I entered with some trepidation. The king did not sound happy.

This was the king’s privy chamber, used for both work and sleeping. The room had always seemed cavernous to me, and relentlessly male. Several large oak tables covered with documents gave the room an official look. The hunting scenes carved into the mantel over the main hearth and dark mauve curtains enveloping the royal bed on its dais at the end of the chamber added to the formality. The same heavy velvet covered the two apertures now shuttered against the autumn air. The entire scene seemed to represent the essence of the warrior knight.

The king was seated at the far end of a long table, which provided a place for all his papers as well as a center for conferring with his counselors. My brother looked up with irritation and dismissed de la Ronde with a wave of his hand and a quick word. He beckoned me toward him, not rising.

“Welcome, Sister. I pray you place yourself here, near me. I want to show you something.”

“What is it, Brother?” I made a perfunctory courtesy and then gathered my skirts to sit, pulling up a small chair to the right of the king, where I could see the documents on the table.

De la Ronde, bowing to the king, backed out and softly closed the door as he left us. The king turned toward me and propped his cheek on one hand, regarding me like an owl. He had a swelling on the right side of his mouth. “My tooth hurts like the very devil.”

“Let me call for a servant to bring a poultice,” I said, imagining a sympathetic twinge in my own jaw. I had had such a pain once and it was not entirely forgotten.

“Not now,” he said brusquely. “I have something I want to show
you. This was not intended to be the topic of our meeting this morning, but it may be connected. Look what de la Ronde has just brought me.”

Philippe had a piece of parchment flattened under his hand. It had severe creases where it had been folded, rather than rolled. Indeed, there were already lines of tearing in the stiff paper. He slid it toward me. It appeared to be a short note.

The writing was spidery, as if the hand that penned the note had a palsy, making it well nigh unreadable. But the simple message could be discerned if one squinted and held the parchment very still.

There was no signature. There was no further writing on the page and nothing appeared to have been blotted out.

I glanced at Philippe.

“How came this to your hand?”

“The note was delivered at the gates before dawn by someone who said he was a messenger from a friend. The note was addressed to Etienne Chastellain. But it’s obvious it was meant for me.”

“Chastellain.” I was immediately on my guard. “And did your chief minister have any comment when he sent this to you?”

“He never saw it. The guard at the gate delivered the note to de la Ronde. All the porters and guards have been so instructed if missives arrive for my counselors.”

I looked up sharply. “You do not trust Chastellain, either?” His comment took me by surprise, as I had been careful to avoid sharing my opinion.

The king shifted uneasily in his chair and paused, as if deciding how much he wanted to reveal to me.

“I am aware that there are intrigues swirling in this court. I cannot say yet who is involved, but it appears that information is leaking from my very councils to John of England’s armies in the west. When we decide on a stratagem here in Paris, they are already countering it by the time the message gets to my captains.”

“But you trust de la Ronde. Why exempt him from suspicion?”

“He can read and write, and his loyalty is unquestioned. We were raised together. He was my companion in my youth, in those years you were in England at Henry’s court. I trust no one else for the moment. Until I clear this matter, everyone in my court is under suspicion.”

“Surely not everyone,” I said with a light tone, but then I saw his face darken and I held back my smile. His next words struck a chill in my heart.

“If you mean yourself, I have no reason to suspect you. But still, I watch everything.” Philippe tapped the table impatiently with the handle of his silver knife, the one he used to break seals and pare apples in the autumn. “At the moment, I am more interested in the substance of this note than its delivery.”

“Its message is cryptic, that is certain, both about the gold and about your family.”

“St. Denis is full of treasures, but it is the king’s church. At least until Notre Dame is complete. No one would dare to steal from St. Denis. They would incur the wrath of both church and king,” he mused, examining the letter again with the round Italian glass that he kept on his table to enlarge print.

“If they speak of golden snakes, they must mean that odd, jeweled chalice the abbot used Sunday. When he raised it up at the consecration I was astonished. Did you mark it? The overlong stem was braided in gold, wound around like a snake. I’ve never seen one like it.
Wherever do you think the abbot got it?”

“He got it from me.” Philippe’s tone was crisp. “I brought it back only a fortnight ago. I was most displeased to see it used on Sunday. I sent word to the abbot that the cup was to remain under lock and key from now on.”

“How came you by it?” I was puzzled, my early interest compounded now by some note of warning in his voice.

“It was given to me by our cousin Raymond of Toulouse, when I met him a fortnight past at Blois. He said little about it, but his remarks made me think this was the object of some plot in his own realm. He merely asked me to bring it to Paris for safekeeping.”

“I thought you went to Blois for the hunting,” I said pointedly.

“So I told the court. My real purpose was to meet with Raymond about the difficulties he finds himself in, caught between the pope and these so-called heretics. These
Cathari,
who have invaded his towns in the Toulousain. The pope insists he must discipline his nobles, whose wives seem to protect the heretic preachers. In short, our cousin begged me not to intervene in the south.” Philippe threw up his hands in mock-confusion. “I asked him why he thought I would do such a thing, as if I don’t have enough trouble with John of England in our west lands. Then Raymond said I could expect a visit from two monks soon, who will say they have the pope’s order to recruit my royal troops.”

I wondered if Joanna knew of my brother’s secret meeting with her husband. I was about to ask what his response was, and to tell him of Joanna’s letter, but then thought the better of it. He should not know of my keen interest. Not until I had decided on my own plan to block those monks. Unexpectedly my brother changed the topic.

“Back to the matter of the golden snake chalice,” he said briskly, as if I had been the culprit in taking our conversation afield. He fiddled with his pearl-handled knife. “That chalice interested our aunt Constance as well, I noted.” He rubbed his swollen jaw in thought.

“I, too, saw her attention. She scarce bothered to hide it. I thought perhaps the attraction of the cup might simply be the flash of its jewels and gold.”

“No, not true for Constance,” he said. “Gold has never been her weakness. Look at the way she presents herself at my court. Her clothes are so frumpy I even ordered the queen to find out if she had need of new ones.” He paused, frowning. “Which the queen probably never did, being occupied with her own appearance to an appalling degree.”

“But if she has need of funds to help Raymond?” I prodded gently, bringing him back to our topic. “Constance might think of stealing something so valuable for the ready money it could supply.”

His quick shake of the head dismissed the idea even before he spoke. “That makes no sense. It is Raymond’s cup. He could have sold it if he needed gold. She must know that. Besides, I am convinced Raymond does not lack for silver and gold. He has control of the shipping ports in the south, or at least his vassels do. No, I cannot image Constance considering a theft.”

Philippe tossed his knife onto the table as a child might who tired of a toy. “As for gold and silver, I’m the one in need. You can see it even in my treasured objects.” He pointed with his knife to a small statue set on the cedar table next to my chair. I picked it up and turned it in my hands. It was a peculiar cross shape, with a ring around its center, almost like a halo carried too far.

“It’s called a Celtic cross,” Philippe offered. “The design is from Brittany, and quite ancient. The icon is fashioned in gold but set in a base of silver, an odd combination to be sure. Agnes had it made for me just before she left.”

There was a pause, and I did not fill it. I was always saddened when Philippe mentioned his beloved Agnes. The pope had forced him to give up his second marriage, made for love, and resume his first marriage with the dour Dane Ingeborg. Agnes had retired to the south, but Philippe still pined for her. He and his present queen cor
dially detested one another.

Then he resumed his thoughts. “I had given orders in the court that the use of gold for jewels and display be curtailed. The artisan who made this object dared not complete it in gold, as he had already used his allotment for that year.”

“I did not hear of this order,” I said, puzzled.

Philippe rose and began pacing as he talked, forcing me to look up from the short chair on which I sat. His steps were cushioned by the Smyrna carpets he had brought back from the Crusades. But still he moved swiftly. His words floated back to me over his shoulder.

“My dear sister, you so seldom ask for jewels to be made that the court jeweler probably thought not to bother informing you of the ruling.”

“But what does such an action accomplish?”

The king rang the tapestry bellpull near his writing table, and took a cushioned chair near his hearth. He motioned to me to sit opposite him, on a carved bench with a back and deep, goose-down embroidered pillows. I relinquished the low chair happily but with effort, feeling the pull in my back as I rose.

The king appeared not to notice my stiff movement as I walked to the bench near his hearth and sank into the welcoming softness. Instead he answered my question.

“We cannot afford to make even small treasures out of pure gold. We have need of all gold in our treasury. These sporadic battles in the west with John of England are draining me.”

“Was Raymond negotiating to trade gold for your agreement to leave him alone?” I seized upon this practical idea as I settled myself.

“No.” My brother gave a short, ironic bark that might pass for a laugh. “Would that he had made such an offer. But Raymond doesn’t have enough political sensibility to offer bribes.” The king looked up as a servant entered in response to his call.

“Bring us some sweetmeats and figs,” he ordered quickly, stretch
ing his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. “And some bread also if it is out of the oven.” He knew the schedule of the royal kitchens, I thought with some amusement. But then my brother had ever been fond of taking his meals at odd hours, especially when he was locked in discussions with his councilors.

When the servant had bowed and backed out of the room, my brother gave his attention to our conversation.

“But let us discuss this notice just delivered,” he said, reaching for it at the table by his side where he had tossed it earlier. He flapped it open again and perused it, then threw it into my lap with an expert toss. “What could it mean by impugning the loyalty of my family, do you think?” He watched me with a keen expression. I could not fathom his thoughts, but I had a sudden moment of disquiet.

“What meaning, indeed?” I answered with some heat. “The royal family is you, the queen, little Louis, and myself. Think you someone questions my fealty to my own brother?”

“How now, Sister,” Philippe said, in what passed for a soothing tone from him. “My trust in you is well known in this court and beyond. No one would dare to suggest such a thing.”

I wondered if he would say the same about the Danish queen, but decided against voicing the question. And little Louis had reached only four years, scarce old enough to foment treason. I tried for some lightness.

“Let me see. The writer mentions Toulouse. Perhaps our cousin Raymond intends to steal the oriflamme from the altar at St. Denis.”

“No,” Philippe responded solemnly, “Raymond wouldn’t do that. Possessing the flag of our royal house would not make him king of France and it would only succeed in annoying me no end, which he can ill afford to do at the present.”

I looked at him and he held my glance for a moment, before breaking into a full grin, restoring humor to our exchange and calming my worries of his suspicion.

“But let us talk now of other matters, the reason I asked you here this morning.” Philippe made his fingers into a tent, and tapped his lips. His black eyes, almond shaped as were all the Capets’ in my memory, narrowed. I held his gaze without flinching. “I told you I have suspicions that there are agents of John of England here at my court.”