The Rebel Princess (13 page)

He shook his head and said with a brittle tone I rarely heard:
“Leave it for now, Sister.” Then, leaning toward me, he spoke again in a low voice: “I understand what happened here. This shall not be forgotten. Come now, resume your seat for the awards.”

The marshals dispersed the few knights who still waited to joust. There was some muttering, but the crowd seemed to have had enough. No one called out to continue the contests. The death of the young knight had cast a pall on the entire affair. Morover, it was nearing dusk, and Philippe must yet award the title of victor for the day, and the prize of a great warhorse that came from the royal stables. De Donzy was out of the running, having committed a violation of the tourney’s rules by aiming at the head. The victor came forward now, the grizzled knight of Blois who had unhorsed Francis. He was experienced in tourneys and, indeed, in war itself, and this was not his first tourney victory. He bowed low to accept his prize, and then led his horse in a victory promenade around the outskirts of the field, to a subdued crowd that could muster only scattered cheers.

When he had finally exited, and as if on an invisible signal, a great swell of townspeople surged onto the field, followed by another wave. Rising clouds of dust from the movement of horses and humans, and a constant undertone of muttering noise, created a sense of controlled violence. The marshals, holding their batons sideways, were valiantly trying to clear a way through the swarming masses for the king’s party, even as our horses were led toward us by the royal grooms. We descended from the king’s box and made ready to mount.

Philippe’s groom handed me onto my horse and my brother mounted even more quickly, as if anxious to quit this place. The rising mood was dark. His beloved subjects were fast becoming unpredictable rabble. We started across the field, the king and I riding side by side, but we said nothing. The crowds parted for the king’s herald, riding just in front of us with the royal standard. Philippe sat straight and looked neither to the right or left. I knew it would be futile to speak of de Donzy. The king would deal with him in his own time. But I
seethed with inner anger, all the same.

Philippe interrupted my thoughts, turning to me unexpectedly. “Where is William?”

“He is still with the young knight’s companion, Francis, I believe.” I looked over my shoulder. We were nearly to the edge of the field, almost to the road that would take us back to the bridge across the Seine. I scanned the horizon. Finally I made out the dim figures of Francis and William, standing with a small cluster of knights around them. “Yes, there I see them.” Then I saw William detach himself from the group, jump on a horse, and gallop toward us.

“Here he comes now,” I said, pulling on my reins. Philippe followed suit, raising his arm to signal a halt for those behind.

As we waited, Philippe made a curious comment. “The monks left before this mishap. I’ll wager it was Castelnau who insisted on leaving. Amaury would certainly want to stay.”

“Yes, he was once a soldier, William tells me,” I replied absently, my gaze tracking William’s advance.

“Quite a good one, if all the tales are but half true. It’s odd…” My brother’s voice trailed off.

“What say you?” I thought the wind had taken his words, but then I saw he had simply paused.

“I feel that his passion to eradicate the Cathars is one way for him to resume the field. That he could go to war again if he could persuade someone to give him arms and men, only this time for Christ.”

“Rather for Pope Innocent and his imperial designs than for Christ,” I retorted. Philippe smiled.

“Sister, you must guard against cynicism. It was ever your weakness.”

William pulled in his charger, turning him to stop abruptly in front of us. “Your Majesty,” he said, as he bowed. Then, without further ceremony, he turned to me. “I’ve a message for you, Princesse. Young Francis is with Geoffrey’s body. He is asking for you. Please come.”

“My Lord?” I turned a questioning face to the king.

“Of course you may join him,” Philippe said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for William’s young knight to be asking for the sister of the king of France. Philippe signaled to his party to resume the progress back to the Île de la Cité and I bowed low as he passed me.

I followed William somewhat reluctantly, dreading to see my son in his grief. By this time attendants had moved the body and we found the circle of young knights surrounding Geoffrey behind the stands that had been hammered together to provide rough seating for the town crowds. Several marshals were directing servants who had just arrived with a stronger litter for the body. The setting sun threw long shafts of gold between the wooden slats cobbled together to make the stands. Light lay in stripes across the somber group. Always the light with the dark, I thought. Always.

I dismounted quickly and went to Francis’s side, placing my hand on his arm to let him know of my presence. He turned to me, his face ravaged by his shock. His tears had stopped, but their remnants were still on his face, and his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked, suddenly, much older.

“I am so sorry, lad.” I shook my head. “This should never have happened.”

“The man who did this, the man who pleaded before the king this morning, is he just going to walk away?” A fierceness appeared now. It took me by surprise, for I had never seen Francis angry before this time. “It was a clear violation of the codes of chivalry. Will no justice be done for my comrade?”

“I don’t know what will happen,” I answered truthfully. “The king will decide. The man broke the rules. I’m certain there will be consequences.” I spoke all this with a strong voice, although privately I wondered. A young, unknown knight, a powerful noble with a temper just denied a boon: the king might decide to delay any action, hoping that everyone would forget the incident.

“But you can implore the king. You can make him call this knight to account. He not only broke the rules of the tourney, he has broken the rules of knighthood.” He paused, his jaw taking on the peculiar set I remembered from his father, King Henry. “This was no accident. The Count of Nevers intended to kill Geoff.”

I put my hand under my son’s elbow and led him apart from the others. I could feel his arm shaking. I knew I must speak plainly. This was no time for soft words.

“Listen to me, young Francis,” I whispered urgently. “Do not voice such suspicions where others can hear you. There is more involved here than you think. The king is aware of conspiracy in his court. This rough action may be a part of an effort to plague the monarch.” I glanced around to be certain we were not overheard. William stood some yards away, deliberately engaging the rest of the group in conversation.

“What conspiracy?” Francis’s voice rose. “Geoff and I have nothing to do with such things.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Softly, lad. I am saying this may be part of a larger pattern of acts. And when all is made clear, I know the king will seek retribution for this deed. But you must be patient.”

“Then I’ll seek my own revenge.” A hard edge in his voice startled me.

“I don’t think—”

“Just don’t talk to me about the folly of revenge.” He moved his hand back and forth, palm outward as if warding off evil spirits. “I couldn’t bear to hear that right now.” He had lowered his voice, but not its intensity. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his right hand, his sword hand. “Geoff was my constant friend, my comrade in arms. He was like a brother to me. You know his killing was no accident. Revenge may be all I have.”

“I’m not going to say you must not take revenge. What I am about
to remind you is that a man must be alive to take revenge. Do you understand me?” I hissed. “The first rule: you stay alive. Then you think about revenge.”

He looked directly at me, startled. “You talk like a man—I mean, with the courage of a man,” he amended quickly.

“I talk like a practical person. Mourn all you want, but keep your demands for justice soft for the present. There are more ways to find justice than through the crown. And you know not who may be listening in this court, nor who is friend or foe. It will do Geoff no good for you to fall also, a victim of some other ‘accident.’”

We stared at each other for a long moment. There was no need for further talk. The bond between us was palpable. I had a sudden urge to tell him the truth, right then and there, to tell him I was his mother and that he was the natural son of a great king, Henry of England. To warn him he had enemies. To counsel him to take care. But a chill gust of wind blew autumn leaves up in a swirl around me, and the moment passed. There was too much to explain and not enough time.

Suddenly William was between us. “Francis, Geoff is being taken away. There is no need for you to go with them. A priest has been called and tomorrow there will be private prayers for him.”

“There will be no funeral Mass at court?” Francis looked up at the older man, the only father he had ever known.

“Nay.” He shook his head. “That is unlikely for many reasons. But you have my leave to join your other companions tonight. There is no need for you to be at the king’s banquet.”

“I had not thought…no, of course not. My gratitude, Lord William. I don’t want to see anyone at court again. I can scarce wait until we leave Paris and I hope it will be soon.” He turned to me. “Princesse, my thanks to you for your words. I’ll not forget.”

I wanted to tousle the auburn hair as he bent low over my hand, but I could not. And anyway, he was a man and not a boy, as he had
just proven with his anger.

William watched him walk away. “You are going to have to tell him soon,” he said. “There is too much feeling between you. He needs to know the reason.”

“I agree. That is what I have been saying.”

“But now is not the time,” William said firmly, as he took my elbow and began steering me back to the cluster of men and horses waiting for us. “Let us leave the chaos of the tourney and hasten to the chaos of the banquet given by the court of France, my love. At least with Francis away tonight, I won’t have to worry that he will challenge the evil Count of Nevers to a duel of honor.”

“Mother of God,” I exclaimed. “That never occurred to me.”

W
e rode in silence the rest of the way to the palace. When we entered the courtyard, the grooms left off their gossip and sprang to help us. William and I immediately became more guarded in our exchange. We parted in the corrider outside the Great Hall, and I went off to my chambers to refresh myself. I waved away the servant who appeared at my side to accompany me. I had need of time alone, and I did not fear for my safety in my brother’s castle.

Nor did I think William would visit me before the dinner. He had seemed occupied with other thoughts as we rode back from the tourney and he merely brushed my hand with his lips in a perfunctory gesture before we parted. Indeed, last glimpsed, he was at my uncle’s side, speaking with some urgency into his ear. But I was too tired, hot, and dusty to give either of them much thought as I hurried to my rooms.

As I made my way up the stone staircase, I thought on the events of the day and was mightily saddened. But when I passed the corridor that led to the wing next to mine, to the chambers of my aunt Constance, I had a sudden idea. Perhaps a surprise visit from me at this odd hour would be a spur to sharing confidences. I might learn more about her peculiar meetings and why the chalice at St. Denis had so captured her attention.

On this whim I turned left instead of continuing to my own apart
ments. I was thinking on the death of young Geoff, and what meaning this had for my family, when I came upon a most astonishing sight. The scene before me caused me to stop completely, and drift closer to the wall to avoid being seen.

A tall arch at the end of the passage framed the deepening blue sky of dusk and set in relief against it were two clearly outlined silhouettes. I couldn’t have been more startled at the sight that met my eyes. Tall combs holding the veil of my aunt’s unique headdress were apparent on the shorter of the two. She was leaning forward as if to catch every word that her companion, bending down, was uttering. The second figure was even more surprising. The bulk of the shoulders and the height indicated a man, but not one I would have suspected my aunt would engage for a minute. For I could make out a monk’s long robe, loosely belted, and a hood resting across his shoulders. And it wasn’t the thin, ascetic form of Pierre de Castelnau I saw outlined before me. No, my aunt, the dowager Countess of Toulouse, was in deep conversation with none other than Arnaud Amaury, enemy of her son.

As soon as I had identified the couple, I melted into the shadows and slipped around the corner. For the moment, I had no thought of what this clandestine meeting might portend, but I did not want the abbot to know I had seen him talking with my aunt. The very same aunt who introduced Esclarmonde to the court. The very same Esclarmonde who this day begged my brother to oppose the abbot’s demands!

It was darkening by the moment, and that worked in my favor. I was certain I had not been seen. As I turned and hurried toward my own apartments, I reflected that the monk and Constance could not have identified me in that descending dusk even if they had observed my figure at a distance. For I would not have known it was my aunt and the abbot without the outline of the hair combs and the cowl to show me. But what did their private rendezvous, outside of all court formality, mean?

Then another thought struck me. I would be well advised to take
care in what I said to my aunt until I understood her connection to the sinister abbot. I recalled my aunt’s mysterious meetings at Créteil on the outskirts of Paris. The disturbing scene I had just witnessed was a warning to have a care in how I proceeded in my investigations.

So deep in thought was I that a movement at my right elbow startled me into a soft cry. A shadow had detached itself from the wall and materialized into the tall, slender figure of Pierre of Castelnau. For the second time within the hour I was riveted to the spot with surprise. It seemed as though the Cistercians were intent on invading my entire evening.

“Père Pierre.” I spoke first. “What are you doing here?”

Pierre de Castelnau looked around, furtive as a night thief. “I need to talk with you, Princesse,” he whispered. “Could we find a place where there is no danger of servants overhearing?”

I pulled open my chamber door and motioned for him to follow. Mignonne had laid a fire in the great hearth, and I gestured to my guest to take a cushioned chair set before the the comforting warmth. The monk nodded and sat without comment. Then he began wringing his hands as if all his fear could be dissolved by this action. I stood, leaning my back against the mantel, my left hand jammed into its pocket, my right hand on my hip, waiting.

I had a perfect picture of him in the dancing light of the flames. As the monk pushed back his cowl, I noted that his lean face and tonsured head were damp with perspiration. At that very moment he quickly took a cloth from within his sleeve and mopped his brow, as if he were in tune with my interior observations. He stared at the floor for a long moment. His balding head seemed somehow suddenly vulnerable.

Finally he raised his head and noticed I was still standing. A frown appeared. “Please, Princesse, please sit. It is not right that I sit in your presence while you stand.”

“No matter, Father. We need not observe ceremony here. Please tell me what is so important to discuss that you must lurk about my
door like a common cutpurse rather than address me in public.” I was tired and would truly prefer to be left alone. But I must confess my curiosity had been piqued.

“This is difficult for me,” Pierre began, and I noticed a slight tremor to the voice that had been firm in the morning’s pleadings for arms and men. “I must talk with you, as I know your brother listens to your advice.” He paused, starting again, stammering like the fool jester Philippe occasionally favored in his court. “I find this hard to say, but I don’t know any other words to use, although you may think me disloyal.” He paused again.

“Pierre of Castelnau, this has been a long and trying day.” My patience was about to snap. First Chastellain, now this monk. Would everyone at court beat a path to my door begging me to intercede with my brother? “I must ask you to state your business and then to leave me to my rest before the dinner hour.”

At that, the man seemed to pull himself together. “You saw me stand with my colleague this morn, in front of your brother, and beg for men to march to Toulouse and clear the land of the heresy that is rampant there.” I nodded when he paused. “I did so because I was forced to. But I do not believe such a course is the solution to the problems of the south,” he blurted out.

I was so surprised that I did suddenly sit down, taking the chair opposite him. Beads glistened again on his forehead, but he plunged gamely onward.

“My colleague, Abbé Amaury, is headstrong in the extreme. Because he was a soldier in his youth, he sees a military answer for every problem. I do not agree with him, especially in this case.”

“But why do you not, then, address this with the abbot?” I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “Why is this conflict between you monks, from the same holy order and with the same charge from the pope, dragged into my chambers?”

“Princesse, hear me out. I can see you are impatient, but things are
not that simple.” There was an urgency to his voice, almost a pleading.

Some inner counsel bade me hold my temper and listen to him. I recovered myself with a sigh, saying gently: “All right, Père Pierre. Just tell me the story.” I leaned forward to observe him more closely.

He rubbed his temples with the finger and thumb of his right hand, then spoke more strongly than before.

“I am a man of peace, and a man of God. I do not believe in war and killing as a way to spread the gospel of Christ. But I am in a difficult position. I have remonstrated with Amaury about the rush to war over this matter. But he answers that we are appointed by the holy father to deal with this problem. He says that to speak publicly for peace at this point would give comfort to the heretics, and perhaps prevent souls coming to Christ. That we must be strongly in favor of force, that the mere threat of force will bring them to heel, like hounds in the hunt.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No,
pas du tout
. I think the dogs of war have a life of their own. And I believe that Amaury wants war for himself and he will let nothing stand in his way.” The monk stopped again and hauled himself to his feet with apparent effort. He was clearly distracted as he paced around his chair and toward the hearth like a restless colt. As he talked, however, his voice became increasingly clear.

“Amaury has threatened me. If I do not support him in calling for war, especially in this suit to King Philippe, he said he will bring harm to me and my family.” He stopped and made a sound, as if clearing something from deep in his throat. “You saw the anger on his face this morning, when he did not believe I was firm enough in what I said.”

“Yes, I saw that anger. But what has brought you here to me, and just at this moment?”

He sat down again and looked at the floor. “I cannot stand by and watch what is happening without telling someone. These things are not right.”

“You mean the killing of young Geoff today,” I said quietly, as the truth dawned.

“Yes,” he said with simplicity. “You must know that was no accident.”

In my heart I had known all along.

“Amaury managed to have a brief conversation with de Donzy as we crossed the field before the games. Chastellain had already informed him of the outcome of his request to you in the pavilion. They knew you had refused to interfere, and they wanted to send a message to you and, God help us, to the king himself.” The monk, whose hands had lain in his lap, began to clasp his fingers as if imploring God himself to hear him. I rose and placed a hand on his shoulder as I passed him. I thought of young Geoff fading from life as he tried to apologize to me, and of Francis flexing his sword hand in frustration, and I felt the cold breath of death brush my neck. I shuddered.

“And that is why you left the field before the end. You knew what would happen.”

He nodded. “I do not know how they manipulated the lists to have de Donzy fight the youth, but I heard Amaury make a comment of satisfaction to Chastellain. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘they will see that the great Lord William’s house is not invulnerable. The smallest will go first.’”

“But how can Amaury harm you?” I returned to him with a cup of mead from the side table. He took it with shaking hands, and put the cup to his lips as I resumed my seat opposite him. “You are joint legates of the pope. Neither of you is above the other. Surely if the pope knew of this threat to William, or to you, there would be strong consequences.”

“I have a half sister in Béziers, a noblewoman of the name Beatrice.” He set his cup down and rose again to pace, his fluttering hands showing his agitation. The fire spat a few cinders on the hearth, narrowly missing his slippers.

“Ah, yes, I have heard her name.” I managed a smile, hoping to
calm him. “Her beauty is legendary.”

“She was once married to Count Raymond’s father. But she was sent away from his court when the count wanted to marry Constance, the sister of the king of France. Now Amaury says he has evidence that my sister, Beatrice, is connected to these Cathar heretics, that she has given their preachers shelter. He has said he will see her burn as a heretic, and also her family, if I do not do as he directs.”

“I see.” And indeed, unbeknownst to the monk I did see, but what I saw I could not describe to him. In a lightning flash came the morning scene in my brother’s presence chamber, and the retiring Pierre de Castelnau saying little, but standing straight beside the florid abbot. Another tall, equally slender figure stood next to him, face shadowed by her falling cascade of graying hair. She was so thin I thought she must be brittle, could break easily. The abbot pointed an accusing figure at his comrade, but it was the woman who was suddenly engulfed in flames. I closed my eyes, but the vision persisted for fully another moment. I swayed slightly, and caught the carved arm of the chair to steady myself.

Silence filled the chamber. Finally, I stood and spoke, trying to push the sadness of my vision away and bring hope to my voice. “You heard my brother. He will not countenance sending his men and arms to the south at this time. So you are in the best possible position, Pierre of Castelnau. You have performed in public as Amaury required, your family is safe, and still what you secretly want will come to pass. There will be no interference from the crown of France in the southern situation at this time. What else would you have me do?”

“My family is not out of danger. Amaury is persuasive. The king may change his mind. But worse than that, I feel impotent. I cannot prevent this impending disaster from happening. I know there will be war and carnage. All will be swept away before these terrible armies.” As he spoke, he flung out his arm and cleared the small table in front of him, sending the bowl of fruit and the cup of mead clattering to the
floor. “My sister will die in flames, and I am helpless to prevent it.”

Then Pierre de Castelnau slumped back into his chair and held his head. I could think of nothing to say. Indeed, what could I do to ease this monk’s mind? I knew, with excruciating clarity, that all he said was true. It would come to pass as he saw it.

“I cannot sleep at night. Whatever I do, I know it will matter not. I see the crowds of knights on horseback and hear their hoofbeats. I see them advance on my sister’s city. I watch the flames and hear the screams of the people as they burn, trapped in their church. Then I wake.” His sobs took him over as his voice broke.

I leaned down and peered closely at Pierre. I saw an ascetic man, perhaps a holy man, but more than that. I suddenly recognized another such as myself, one who had the gift of second sight. I knew well that in his realm, in those things that concerned him directly, he could see the future. I recalled my special vision the day the monks arrived, the strange circle of men who ritually plunged their torches into the ground. I felt the power of the church as I knew Pierre felt it also. It was temporal power, but something more than that.