The Rebel Princess (17 page)

He turned, looking both angry and amazed, whereupon my voice
rose higher from sheer frustration. “I cannot listen to you lecture me for one more moment, when you know nothing of this matter.”

“You may not speak to me like that. We are the king,” he said, mixing his references as he was caught off guard. Then he added in a matter-of-fact voice meant to calm me, I am certain, “And you, the king’s sister, are falling into a fit!” But there was no holding back my feeling now. I opened my mouth and took a deep breath, preparing to give vent to my frustration in a primal way.

“All right, all right, calm down,” my brother said, looking around as if to find help, then moving toward me quickly. He put his hands on my shoulders firmly and shook me, then administered a gentle slap of my cheek, whereupon I came to my senses and closed my mouth, shaking my head as I got control of myself. Spasms ran through me, but I swallowed hard and willed them to stop.

“There, that is better,” he said, quite pleased with himself. He resumed his chair and gestured me to do the same. I obeyed, trying to still my tremors.

“Now, you may speak, but only if you become reasonable.” My brother knew he would have to tolerate what I was about to say, or risk another round of screams or worse, which might force him to call his guards. I gathered in my feelings, wrapping my arms around myself and praying that my voice would steady as I spoke.

“Francis has been abducted. I must find him and make sure of his safety. You do not understand the reason. He may be William’s ward, but he is my own, natural-born son.” My words were uttered slowly, precisely, as I knew they must be for their full import to be understood.

“What say you?” The king’s self-satisfied expression disappeared and his face blanched. His head snapped up, like a deer that has just heard the step of the hunter. “That cannot be!” But even in his statement of disbelief I heard a note of doubt creep in. I could almost see memories crowd behind his eyes. He had noticed how, when Francis
was present, I watched him always. He had heard the gentle banter about Francis when the king and I were alone with William. In his deepest heart, he must have harbored a glimmer of suspicion. “What say you?” he repeated.

“He is my son and he does not know it.” I was mortified to be possessed at this moment by huge involuntary gasps, but I soldiered on. “He is in danger now and I will go to him. He must not die without knowing I am his mother.” Suddenly I found my strength. My voice became calmer. “Philippe, I am his mother. And you are his blood uncle. Francis is also of the royal house of France.”

Philippe stood and whirled away from me, the ends of his royal cape flying. For a moment I knew fear. He was, after all, the king of France. And I could sense rage, even through my own distress.

The choices raced through my mind. He could forbid me to go. If he wished, he could have me transported to the Louvre and thrown in that newly finished dungeon of his. If he forbade me the journey, then I would have to decide if I would obey. Would he actually have me restrained? I wasn’t sure. But I knew enough to hold my tongue while he absorbed the news I had just broken to him.

Philippe reached the large windows and planted his fist firmly on the stone windowsill, stretching his torso outward as if to gather air and breath. He looked down upon an enclosed stone courtyard. I knew the royal market was busy this morning with the small farmers’ stalls set up to sell to the royal provisioners for the week. All manner of victuals and goods were available. Would the king be distracted by the scene, his temper cooling? Or did he look without seeing as he contemplated what I had just said, allowing his anger against me to build. I waited.

Finally he turned back to the room, but he did not move to close the considerable space between us, a bad sign. He leaned on a stone pillar that framed the window, one hand propped against it.

“I scarce know where to begin,” he said, and the irony in his tone
was not promising. “Who is this Francis and who is his father? And why have you kept this important news from me all these years?”

“Philippe, the indiscretion was many years ago. The lad is, after all, old enough to be knighted.” I sat upright, as if rooted in my chair, surprised, though, at how my fingers were tingling and my heart racing. I had courage, but my short breath now was all for my son’s danger. That, and my fear that I might never see him again.

“It was when Eleanor was imprisoned and I was forced to live at King Henry’s court. The king and I lived…”—how to describe that long-ago passion? I made a witless circle with my hand in midair—“together. It did not last long…” I tried to keep any emotion from my voice by taking one deep breath, then another. “There was a child. I was told it died.”

“By God, so the rumors were true! That is why Henry would never let you marry Richard. He took you for himself.” He flung himself away from the window, kicking a small stool out of his way as he stomped down the room like a petulant boy. “And with the fates of England and France in the balance, when we last met with Henry, Richard was willing to forgive everything if only his betrothal to you could be carried out. But Henry refused, yet all the while claiming there was nothing to the rumors of his taking you. And I believed him,” he said, his voice ringing with bitterness. “When I was defending your honor for all those years, you were carrying on with him. When we were on crusade, Richard and I came to personal blows over you. I was deceived entirely.”

“Oh, for the sake of the sweet, suffering Christ,” I shouted, causing him to stop and turn around. “This is not all about you and who deceived you! You talk about how
I
carried on! You men all carried on, Richard and Geoffrey and John playing games to outfox their father, the old king. And you fomenting their family feuds, switching sides when it pleased you. You wanted their land and they wanted revenge on their father. And old King Henry died alone and
cold in a strange castle, because of it.” I paused, catching my breath.

“And France is in a weaker position because of everything that happened,” Philippe said, tossing his black hair back from his forehead in his defiant way, striding back to where I was sitting, standing over me. “At the time, your marriage to Richard would have been to our advantage. But we were foiled by the old king lusting after you.” Philippe shook his head, offering one final insult. “Richard probably would never have taken you after that, even if the king had allowed the marriage.”

“And whose fault is that?” I countered heartily. “You men are all the same. No one had a thought for me. You used me as a pawn. And many died on both sides when you got your battles.” I flung both arms outward. “You were all so manly, so wonderful, making war, acting as stupid as a pack of village idiots, and far more dangerous with your arms and your men.” The words tumbled out of me, a stream I could not dam. My reason seemed on the edge of tearing.

After a moment I gained some control, and continued in a more restrained voice.

“But your games then have nothing to do with me now. I want to find my son, and I will do so with or without you.” My sudden change of voice, more than anything, seemed to calm my brother’s temper. There was a pause, and the waves we had created between us with our loud voices seemed to dissipate.

“Does your son know who his true father is?” Philippe eyed me suspiciously as he sank back into his chair. I instinctively moved slightly away from him.

“No, of course not. He thinks he is an orphan of all the wars you were so quick to inflict on your peoples. He was told by William when he was young that he was rescued by him in a war of King Henry’s in the north, near York.”

“Isn’t that the same as William’s own story, of his rescue by William Marshall near Caen?”

“Yes, I suppose he thought the story believable enough to convince Francis it was his own.”

Philippe surveyed me with an expression that was glum. “Why haven’t you told him yet?” he asked, in a voice slightly less hostile. “There has been no lack of opportunity. He has been with you many times.”

“I wanted to but William forbade it.” I deflated like a bellows, my righteous anger deserting me suddenly. My cheek sank onto my hand, my elbow propped on the table. “He says the times are too unstable politically, that this news could put Francis’s life in danger if his legacy were known.”

“What did you plan to do?” The king’s voice betrayed no emotion now. He was eyeing me as if I were a wolverine about to sprint forward at any moment. “When would you tell him of his parentage?”

“William thought Whitsuntide next, when his diplomatic tasks are complete. Many political things may be resolved then. We thought we could safely tell him if he were with us, under William’s protection. William felt then he could advise Francis on any course of action he might take.”

“Like what?” Philippe was quick to interject.

“Telling King John, for example, that he was his half brother.” I looked up. “Telling you he was of your own blood. Or perhaps not telling anyone anything.”

“I see.” Philippe’s tone was flat.

“Francis looks upon William as his father, although he knows he is not. We wanted to make a family for him. You know we planned to marry next year, when William’s service to the pope was finished. William would then have time to devote to Francis and his situation.” The more civil tone of our exchange was having a calming effect on both of us.

“So he does not yet know who his true father is.” A thoughtful tone crept into my brother’s comment, almost as if he were talking to
himself. I knew he was thinking now like the king of France. What advantage or disadvantage this situation might present to his realm.

I could see the mole at the side of my brother’s mouth twitching, which meant he felt the same stress as did I. But I had no time for pity. My every effort must be to bend him to my will and allow me to go in search of Francis. Even though Philippe was a young king to have so much responsibility, scarce thirty summers, I would not sympathize. I would press any advantage. I could not take on his problems, as well.

“So you see, I must go.” I sat up with a quick motion, and forced firmness into my voice, as if the interview were at an end. I made as if to stand and continued, before my brother could interject a word. “It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. This is my son. He is in danger, and doesn’t know it.”

“Hold a moment, Sister,” Philippe said, pointing to my chair with his finger. “Sit again. We are not finished.” I sighed, but I sat. He was, after all, the king.

“We don’t think you realize the implications of this for Our royal house. You had the bastard son of the late King Henry, half brother to John now reigning. He is also…or could be in the future…a threat to Our own throne here in France.”

There it was again, the royal We, a person who inspired my impatience more than anyone I knew. All his thinking, his decision in this matter, would be driven by what he saw as the advantage to himself as king. I put my hand to my forehead and closed my eyes as I listened.

“Perhaps it is better if you do not tell Francis of his parentage. It is certainly better for Us if the world doesn’t know. And what rights might he demand of me as king of France?” He began ticking off the possibilities. “Perhaps he will want some villages in the west? I haven’t any counties to give right now. And how can I be sure he will not grow up to threaten my son? Little Louis is so vulnerable, with his mother sent from court by that wretched pope. The pope could even intervene if he knew—”

“Oh, God’s teeth, Philippe,” I finally broke in. “Get a grip on your thoughts, Brother. This is my grown son we speak of. He has a life of his own. He has earned a knighthood and he travels with William on his diplomatic missions. Even the pope was impressed with his learning last summer. He is not going to importune you for a benefice. He would defend little Louis with or without my direction, because he is a sworn knight. He will probably be mildly amused that he is related to you. He is my son, not some sycophant courtier. I tell you, Philippe…I
will
go to find him.” Now I rose with determination, forcing the king to look up at me. “With or without your blessing. Though I should be sorry for the rift between us,” I added, when I saw the look on his face.

Philippe blew out his breath and for a long moment he looked past me, out through the large windows cut in the stone wall of his state chamber, and to the blue sky beyond. “Well, well. I suppose you must go.” He returned his gaze to me, a look of defiance on his face. “But I have to think of everything. That is my job as king, to anticipate what will happen, to protect my royal house, and my people.”

I wanted to remind him that his past practice of anticipating had not been a raging success, especially where the Plantagenet princes had been involved, since he had lost nearly all the major battles over territory to them. But that remark would rub salt into his royal wounds. So I forbore to speak.

Then he said, almost plaintively: “How can you go to the Toulousain? You do not even speak the language!”

I smiled a bit weakly, reluctant to remind him again of my past life. “Brother, ignorance of the langue d’oc is one barrier I will not have.”

He frowned in confusion. “But…”

“You know that before you were born, Eleanor and Henry’s heir, the young king Henry, was betrothed to our sister Marguerite. At that time King Henry and our father ordained that I would marry Richard, the second son, and sent me to live at England’s court. Richard was to
rule the Aquitaine, his mother’s land, and it was planned that I would rule with him. Queen Eleanor herself taught me the langue d’oc, the tongue of her own youth. Richard and I learned it together, tutored by his mother.” I tried to keep my voice steady, and to push down the memories that intruded. For, in truth, the humiliation of my failed betrothal to Richard still made my heart sore.

My brother regarded me with a long look, no doubt remembering again how that betrothal had come to naught, partly through his own doing in conspiring with Henry’s sons against the old king. Then he picked up his quill and began to dash off a note in his own hand, which I took to be a safe conduct for me.