Canterbury Papers (23 page)

“Interesting,” William said, rising from the edge of the bed, now all business. “Found in Old Sarum, right under John's nose and by his very prisoner.” He made a small, amused sound as he walked over to the desk and sat down opposite me. I pushed the letters to his side of the table. He thumbed rapidly through the pages, glancing at the headings of each as if he could decipher the code right there. Presently his eyes narrowed, and something like a low whistle escaped his lips.

He picked them up, the five pages that seemed to be four letters, and shuffled quickly through them, then folded them in half and tucked them inside his doublet.

“William,” I protested, not bothering to hide my irritation. “What are you doing? These are my letters.”

“I'm sorry, Princess,” he said, pulling them out. He spoke again in English and seemed imperceptibly more formal now. “I seem to be singularly lacking in diplomacy today. It's true. They are your letters. I saw that I could decode them for you, so I made to take them. But I will do so only if you allow it.” He carefully placed the letters back on the desk, but I wasn't fooled.

“How can you decode them? Do you count ciphers among the skills you learned in Becket's service?”

“It's not important how. But I can do it or have it done. It's up to you.” He turned again and began the pacing I now found so familiar. “Tell me how you found these letters. Are you certain they are Eleanor's?”

“Who else's? They are in her hand. I know it well. And they were hidden deep in her desk,” I said. “What are you suggesting?”

“That someone left the letters there for you to find, knowing you would be imprisoned there.”

I shook my head. “I recognized the desk from our family years in Poitiers. She must have talked Henry into having it brought over for her.”

“And how is it you came to find the letters, if they were hidden so deep?”

“When I recognized the desk, I remembered that Eleanor had shown me the spring when I was a child, as a kind of secret between us. No one could know about that false bottom without being shown.”

“Will you let me take them?” He leaned forward across the desk, propping himself on his folded forearms. I became aware that my nose was running and rummaged in my pocket for a linen square.

“Who else will see them?” It was probably red, too.

“Perhaps one or two others; I promise that is all. They will travel no farther.”

“You'll return these very letters to me?”

“Most assuredly. Along with the translation.” He paused, then said, “And soon, at that. I don't think this code will be difficult to break.”

I handed them over to him—what choice did I have, after all?—saying, “Answer me this in return: Are these the letters both John and I thought were behind the altar at Canterbury?”

He took my papers and replaced them in his doublet, this time quite deliberately, all the while shaking his head. “I don't think so. For years certain mysterious letters were rumored to be hidden behind Becket's altar at Canterbury. But I myself had a thorough search made last year, and we found nothing. If there are letters from Eleanor to Becket, they must be very old,” he added. “Becket's been dead these thirty years.”

He had risen and was buckling on his sword as he spoke. “I know nothing of the whereabouts of such papers. If such correspondence exists, it was written when Becket was in exile, and Henry would have been furious if he had known. Imagine, his queen corresponding with his disgraced archbishop. I can understand why she wants the letters back.” He shook his head. “Eleanor is a complicated, gifted woman, but I must say she has brought most of her troubles in life on herself. So headstrong.”

“God's sweet feet, you men are all alike. You don't want strong women around. You'd all be happy to have puling, sniveling wives for queens, like milksops. As long as they are pretty.”

For the first time that afternoon, William laughed the laugh I'd heard at Canterbury, the laugh of a man certain of himself, caught totally by surprise. It was a huge guffaw, chased by chuckles that echoed till I had to smile myself, reluctant though I was. When he saw that, he came 'round the table and reached down to my right hand to pull me to my feet. I allowed it.

“That description doesn't fit Eleanor, and, by God's blood, it misses the mark on your own self as well.” His gaze swept over me in a familiar way and came to rest on my face. For the third time that day, he caused my breath to stop.

“Alaïs, I want you to come to dinner this evening.” He continued to hold my hand as he spoke. “I know you sent word to Roger that you were too tired to come, but it's important that you do. I want you to talk and laugh and be your strong self in public, even if you excuse yourself early. You must make an appearance.”

I was shaking my head, but he pressed on, finally dropping my hand to raise his own.

“Hear me out. Richard Glanville will be here. He is John's man to the bones, and I want to flaunt you in front of him. John needs to understand that you are under my protection. I don't think that was clear to him before.”

“Under the protection of a bunch of monks?” Either my expression or my words made William laugh again, a short, terse bark this time.

“Well said. Yes. Believe me when I say that
this
group of monks can take care of you.” He gave me a long look that puzzled me. Then he turned away with that abrupt change in mood I was learning to expect.

“I'll see you at dinner, although I will pay you no special attention. Tomorrow you leave for France. Be ready by the midmorn.” He was on his way to the door.

“What?” I stepped forward. “I thought I would rest here for some days.”

“No. You're going to a demesne near the Vienne—”

“Another of your houses?” I did not take kindly to having decisions made for me.

“—where one of my friends has a large house,” he continued. “It's a pastoral estate but most comfortable. You'll be safe there for a time. Later, when things have been resolved, you may be able to return safely to Philippe's court.”

“A sorry fate, for all that,” I muttered. William, with his hand already on the door latch, turned on hearing me.

“You're not happy there,” he stated, more to himself than to me.

“Ah, well. Happiness is a state of mind. Mayhap I only imagine myself to be unhappy.”

He only said, in a cryptic way, “I'll see you at dinner.” Then, with a mischievous nod, “Be certain to wash your face again before you come down. The tears do stain.” And before I could pitch the inkwell at him, he had closed the door behind him.

I threw myself onto the bed. A mixture of feelings overwhelmed me. A tremendous sense of sadness mingled with something else, something so deep I didn't know what to name it. Perhaps it was only the release of feelings long pressed down like dried flower petals inside me.

At what point in the many scenes we had just played had William called me simply “Alaïs”? At what point had he used the familiar
tu
, erasing the barriers of time and station between us? And what possessed him to give me that final, impudent instruction?

Shaking my head, I rose again and went over to inspect the clothes the servants had carried in while I slept. I could disobey William, of course, and not attend the dinner. But I had a feeling even more would be made clear to me in the course of this evening. I recalled that William Marshal had arrived this afternoon, and I looked forward to seeing him. Also, I was seized with a sudden irresistible desire to meet Richard Glanville, King John's right-hand man.

As to being flaunted, I must remember to tell William that I belonged to no man and therefore was not available for flaunting. Yes, I would do that—but probably not until he had given me back the translations of Eleanor's letters.

T
hey were all gathered in the great hall when I descended the grand staircase. I could see them through the wide entrance. There were far more than I had expected, above forty knights and a scattering of well-dressed ladies. By the quality and cut of their clothes, I could tell the knights that had ridden in with William and Chester from the shire's gentry. The local squires, those county landowners who were rarely at court, wore good-enough wools. Their doublets and tunics, however, were of sober black and dark green, whereas I could spot William's group by their elegance and flair. The wool of the knights' garments was finer and the colors brighter. Some of them wore a similar gold chain with a heavy medallion, and they seemed, as a group, leaner and more seasoned than the county folk.

I was glad that I had chosen well from the gowns that had been brought to my chamber. The deep claret-colored cut-velvet gown was an improvement over the once-favored green wool that I had worn night and day since my abduction. I had been only too glad to shed that robe. In truth, I never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

Miraculously, the velvet fit as perfectly as if someone had delivered it from my own apartments in Paris. From the shoulders trailed a train of the same velvet trimmed in ermine. I had piled my hair high on my head with the help of the maidservant, and she had found pearls and gems to twine through it. I wore my hair uncovered, which was my right as a
princesse royale.
Around my neck I had arranged a slender rope of wrought silver strung with rubies, which had been delivered by a servant just before I left my room. Its provenance remained a mystery.

The great hall was brightly lit. At the far end was an open hearth, with a huge boar roasting on a spit turned by the servants. Although most of the food would be made in the kitchens elsewhere in the house and brought to the great hall, it was the mark of affluence still to have a portion of the food roasting in front of the guests. Especially when it was such a magnificent beast as this one.

Tables to accommodate the guests had been spread with fine linen, and the servants were already circulating, filling the wine goblets before the guests had even taken their seats.

Baron Roger came over to me as soon as he saw me in the doorway and led me through the milling throng to the high table. The head steward struck a gong next to the fireplace, and all the company drifted toward the tables.

I was pleased that dinner was called. I dreaded common talk with strangers. As a princess in my own court, I was usually able to avoid such shallow encounters, but here I was more vulnerable. As I moved behind Baron Roger, I became aware that Sir William was standing at the head of the table, deeply engaged in conversation with another knight, a short, heavy fellow. Baron Roger motioned to a seat that was to be mine, but Sir William stood in front of it. I waited.

“Ah, my lady.” Sir William broke off his conversation when he noticed me. “Permit me to say you look ravishing this evening. May I present to you Sir Richard Glanville, Knight Hospitaller and special envoy of King John.” I nodded coolly. Sir Richard had a broad, bony head and an expression of superiority, aided by his long nose and prim lips. After he had brushed my hand with those dry lips, I treated him to my most dazzling smile. William, observing, glowed with approval.

“Sir Richard, this is the
Princesse
Alaïs of France, our honored guest.” Glanville's face reddened. So he knew my name. “I leave her in your keeping for the evening.”

“Your Grace,” Sir Richard said, inclining his head toward the seats next to Lady Margaret. “I believe these are intended for us. Please.” He assisted me into a chair and then sat down, arranging his bulk with great care and satisfying himself that the
serviette
at his place was clean.

I greeted Baron Roger's wife, who was seated to my left. I knew Margaret Howard's family, a powerful northern clan, and had just begun to ask about her father's health when Sir Richard claimed my attention. He did this most adroitly, taking the opportunity when the steward asked Lady Margaret a question.

“Your Grace is visiting England for”—his raspy voice lifted—“pleasure?”

I smiled like a snake. “I have business here.”

“Here? In Wiltshire?” He blinked.

“Yes. Wiltshire, of course. It's beautiful country,
n'est-ce pas?
” The company was seated. The servants began to lay the first course, a tender kid on silver plate, before the guests. “And very important to the crown. Why, only yesterday King John himself was in Salisbury, so near to us.”

The face flushed again as he made a sort of grunt. Now the servants came between us, and I seized the chance to turn back to Lady Margaret.

“Are there children, Lady Margaret?”

“Oh, la, yes, Your Grace.” Her eyes twinkled with the intelligence women sometimes flash when they are asked about their special realm. “Four sons and two daughters. All grown now. Two of the boys in King John's service and our eldest son, Roger, to be knighted soon.”

I couldn't help but smile. “You must be very proud,” I said. I didn't offer that young Roger had my private sympathy.

As we talked, my attention was drawn to a spirited discussion halfway down our table. I recognized the two men involved. The larger, smooth-faced, round-jowled man in a dark wool tunic was, to my surprise, Father Alcuin, the librarian from Canterbury. He was engaged in a heated but good-natured debate with a familiar-looking young man who was none other than William's clerk, Francis. I marked the expression on his pale, freckled, cherubic face, which was at once lively and thoughtful and somehow old beyond its years.

He was no longer dressed in the brown brother's robe of the abbey but now wore a good woolen tunic, like the others. He was clothed in the sober colors of the Wiltshire men, wore no gold medallions, yet something about him, his bearing and natural grace perhaps, marked him as a knight and a part of William's company.

A voice in my ear like a sword sawing against metal cut into my thoughts.