The Rebel Princess (19 page)

And so saying, Roland pulled himself up awkwardly from his sitting position. His tall body unwound with the stiffness of the traveler and I was put in mind of the late hour. “You know, when the cup ap
peared some weeks ago, it was said it came from the Holy Land, and all felt it would bring the abbey at St. Denis, and the king of France, good luck.”

The young knight’s face was maturing, taking on the fullness of manhood, much as the face of my son Francis was changing, I reflected. They must be about the same age.

“Your Grace?” Roland asked uncertainly, and I became aware that I was staring. I looked at the young man with fondness. “Nothing, Sir Knight. Only that the hour grows late, and we must begin our journey early in the morning.” So saying, I offered my hand to Tom and he jumped up to help me rise. My bones were as stiff as a lance from the ride. And I longed for my bed, however humble it would be.

“Sleep well, my men, and we shall meet in the courtyard of the inn at dawn for the next leg of our journey.” I added an afterthought: “Keep your tale of the missing chalice to yourselves for now. It is safer to reveal nothing as we travel.” And so saying, I nodded to them and each bowed gravely in return. Then, without another word, they were gone and I was left to close my eyes and seek not the strong profile of Roland, but the tousled auburn hair and pale, freckled skin of my own son. And I could not hold back the tears this time.

G
radually we worked our way farther south, and blessed the Virgin for the mild weather that made our riding days pleasant and allowed us nights full of gentle sleep. Finally, after three days, we stood at the bottom of a ravine looking up at the castle of Lavaur, a stone fortress lodged in the side of a hill. The land around it looked savage with rocks and stone everywhere. There were scattered blots of green on the hillside, but these were scrubby bushes scarcely growing. All in all, the picture did not appear inviting.

“Your Grace, I still don’t know why we are here instead of going to Foix. It can’t be more than half a day’s ride from here. And consider: Foix is a much larger demesne and could offer us greater hospitality and perhaps a warm bath.” Roland was at my elbow, importunate as ever. I turned to look at his face, no longer clean
shaven, and the lines that clouded his sunburned brow. Even though it was November, the sun in the south was much stronger than we were used to on the chilly Île de la Cité. During our hard riding days on the road it had painted us all with its warm color.

At that moment we were joined by Tom of Caedwyd, who had returned from checking the trail around the first curve. Tom, with his canny sense and his wise head, was the perfect counterpart to Roland and his impetuous youth and quick temper. On the other hand, I was happy to have Roland’s strong sword arm at my side in this journey.

“As I told you, I have taken a notion to see the dame of Lavaur, Roland.” I could see his puzzled expression out of the corner of my eye, as I pretended to examine the small castle before us. “I feel she will aid us in our search for Francis. Now will you see if these good people will receive the sister of the king of France?”

“Oh, Your Grace,” he said, laughing. He shook his head as he rode away to explore the road up the hill into the castle, saying loudly to his horse, “No bath, not at this time, Galant. But at least they will know she is a
princesse
and we will be fed.” I could hear him whistle as he rounded the boulders that plainly marked the entrance to the path uphill that led to the castle. Marcel fell in alongside him.

I swung down from my horse and walked a bit at the side of the road, my palfrey strolling patiently behind me. Despite my leather leggings, my thighs ached with the rigor of days of riding and I needed to straighten them before they became permanently fashioned to the shape of the horse. I recalled Henry’s bowed legs in later life, and smiled. He would roar with laughter if he thought I was going to imitate him in that. I could almost hear him shout: “God’s blood, Princesse. Keep your feminine form and show your mettle some other way!”

Strange, I thought, how the spirit of the dead King Henry, once my lover and my lord, sometimes brushed near me when I was alone. It was as if he were riding at my side or standing just behind me,
whispering in my ear. And I would hear not only what he had said in the past, but what he would say if he were in the here and now. And this even though I had found the true love of my life, Lord William. Yet I did not feel unfaithful to Henry, nor to William. It was as if I had two loves with me now, one a ghost and the other true flesh. Perhaps the best of both worlds.

Tom dismounted and followed a bit behind as I walked.

“Your Grace expects a warm welcome here?” Tom’s voice, just over my left shoulder, reflected his skepticism. I thought a moment before answering.

“Esclarmonde promised that the lady of this fortress welcomes women,” I finally replied. “I know her only by reputation, but I think we will be offered good hospitality.” We both knew that being a sister to the king of France, in these days and in this region, was no guarantee of any welcome at all.

The clop of hooves receded, and I was aware that the sun was beginning its downward slide. I recalled that the sunset came quickly in the mountains, then wondered what reception Marcel and Roland would receive from the castellan, whether he would take their message to the Lady Blanche with speed, and how much longer until they returned.

Tom had reverted to his taciturn self, merely holding our horses and looking off into the distance. Thibault waited discreetly some distance behind us. He was a short, stocky man, gruff of manner and the least talkative of the group: a man’s man, and a hardened campaigner. He often seemed uncomfortable when in my presence alone so I gave him his privacy when the others were not around. My thoughts wandered to Francis. I wondered where he was now. Perhaps closer than I knew. If only I could have a sign. The chirping of crickets broke the stillness. Suddenly Roland and Marcel reappeared from around the rocks.

“Your Grace, we have approached the gates of the castle on the
upward side of the hill. The guards immediately sent to the lady of the castle. The message she returned was that we are welcome to all they have, although she warns she is not prepared to entertain a royal
princesse
of France in the manner to which she is accustomed.”

I mounted my horse before his words were finished and Thibault was right behind me. We were all anxious to find safe haven before the night set in. The mountains, so friendly in daylight, could turn ominous at dusk, their looming shadows pockets of the unknown.

The path to the castle door was a circuitous route up the mountain, so that the guards in the castle turrets would have ample time to see strangers approaching. It made my mind easier to know we had already been assured of a good reception and would not be subject, even accidentally, to a barrage of arrows from the battlements as we wound our way up the hill.

And a warm welcome it was, or as warm as this chilly castle could offer. The autumn sun was not strong enough, nor the days long enough, to chase the dampness from these stones. A servant clad in a doublet of good wool and leggings stood inside the door slightly behind the guards as our horses clattered across the small moat, which was more like a little stream at this time of year. Still, the intention of the drawbridge to defend was evident. The servant bowed low as we entered the castle courtyard, and spoke before we had even dismounted.

“My Lady Geralda welcomes you and begs me take you to her in the Great Hall.” The servant spoke in the langue d’oc, and showed a slight surprise when I answered him in kind. Then he smiled broadly.

Three grooms took our horses from us as we dismounted. Another servant, dressed more humbly, appeared and announced that he would show my men to their quarters and see that they were well fed. It seemed suddenly strange to me that our small group had shared quarters intimately, if respectfully, for a fortnight and now we were to be separated by our station in life, but that was the way of our world.

I followed the well-dressed servant into the Great Hall. We passed the fireplace and mounted a set of stone steps at the far end, and through a door at the top.

As we passed under the portal, the warmth and pleasant air surprised me. The chamber was not grand, but spacious enough and it was cheerful in a way that one seldom found in outlying fortresses. Torches everywhere flooded the room and candles were hung overhead by means of a multilayered wooden apparatus. Layers of rushes lined the floor and dried herbs were scattered overall. Sage must be burning in the fireplace also, I thought, for a fine, light scent filled the room as the fire crackled.

I paused at the door to take in the scene, and to prepare my answers for the questions that would surely come.

The fireplace and hearth along one wall were clearly the center of activity in the large room. Over the hearth was an enormous iron kettle, swung inward to keep its contents warm. I saw no oak tables laden with manuscripts, such as we had in Paris. Instead I saw a semicircle of cheerful women seated before the hearth, comfortable in colorfully cushioned oak chairs. Some had spinning staffs, others crewelwork in their laps. Still others worked on small frames of embroidery, their needles flying, chattering like a flock of magpies.

The servant with me cleared his throat, and then said the first words I had heard him utter since welcoming us in the courtyard: “Lady Geralda, Lady Blanche, honored noblewomen, I present the Princesse Alaïs, sister to the king of France.”

All words suddenly ceased. Fingers and needles were suspended in the air as the women turned in my direction. I felt my travel-stained garments were a drawback to my royal image, not to mention the smudges I knew lined my face, but I had to make the best of it.

With one accord, the group rose. The silver-haired lady at the center of the group, tall, slender, with a grace of movement even my aunt Charlotte could envy, came toward me. Both her hands were out
stretched in welcome. Just behind came a larger woman, younger but with a resemblance to her. It was as if she were drawn with broader bones in her cheeks and forehead, wider shoulders and less fluid movements.

“Your Grace, I am Blanche of Laurac, widow of Sicard,” said the elder woman, “and this is my daughter Geralda, mistress of Lavaur. She is also widowed. Please accept our welcome for you and your companions. We are honored to have you with us.” She made a deep courtesy to me. I could hear the fine wool of her sky-blue gown rustle as it brushed the dried wheat shafts on the floor. Her daughter, likewise, bent her head and her knee.

I was touched by their humble manner, and the gentle serenity I saw on both their faces. I raised up the Lady Blanche myself and embraced her, touching her cheek on both sides with my own. “My Lady Blanche, you are most kind.”

I turned to her daughter and was surprised that I must look up to her. I am tall for a woman, and there are few that tower over me, but Mistress Geralda was one. Still, despite this, she was fine to look at, a noble head that one could draw with delight. But then a premonition passed by, between myself and the daughter, and I frowned. It might be only the fatigue from the road, but I saw, for a fleeting instant, Geralda’s head bowed in pain as it was struck from above by a falling rock. I prayed in an instant this would not be her end.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Geralda, and wish you good fortune all the days of your life.” I forced myself to speak this and, as I did so, my sight cleared entirely. I stepped back to look at both mother and daughter.

The Lady Blanche had an oval face that was nearly perfect in the arrangement of its elements. She wore the starched wimple of the widow, and her skin—like porcelain—echoed its pallor. Still, there shone from her something of the vibrant aura of one younger and brimming with vitality.

And the daughter was equally handsome in a much different way. She must have forty summers, and yet had rose suffusing her cheeks like a maiden.

“And I welcome you to it with all my heart,” Geralda replied, her large, brown eyes suddenly brimming with fun. “Come join us at the hearth. We have already taken our evening meal, but you must have hunger from your long travels, and you must be tired. Sup first and meet my dear friends and then I will have you shown your chamber.”

With these words, the daughter took over as the mistress of the castle and the mother retired to sit with her companions.

I nodded at the invitation, although I would sooner have retired and had the meal brought to me in private. I was vastly fatigued and did not know if I could remember on the morrow one name or face of anyone I met just now. But I gave her my arm and let her guide me to the small group, who had fallen so silent I wondered if they would ever chatter again.

“Mesdames,”
I said, inclining my head. At my approach they all made a polite but not exaggerated courtesy to me. It was clear they wanted to make me welcome, but they were not effusive. I was aware of my position and that of France, as an outsider in this land.

I took my place in the high-backed, oak-carved chair Blanche had vacated, when she motioned me to do so. I sank gratefully into its goose-down cushions. She herself took the chair at my side. Geralda bustled past me, and spoke rapidly in langue d’oc to one of the women who wore white muslin tied around their waists. She began to ladle something steaming from the kettle hanging over the hearth. Another woman appeared from out of nowhere, and set a small table at my side, and yet another brought a pewter goblet. Geralda busied herself directing them, while talking to me all the while.

“Your Grace, we give you our best wine, and I confess it is very good, indeed. It is from the harvest of two years ago, and you will not
find fuller taste anywhere, though you search the surrounding countryside. And our region is known for its wine!” She laughed, a hearty laugh for a woman, and despite my tired body I had to smile.

“I thank you, Lady Geralda. We have traveled far, my knights and I, and I must confess to being sore weary with fatigue, but I would be glad of some refreshment now.”

“And you shall have it. And your good knights as well.” Geralda turned to one of the women in a pinafore and nodded, and the servant dashed off, no doubt to see to the comfort of my men.

“Princesse, these are my kinswomen and my friends. Ladies, please introduce yourselves.” Blanche swept a delicate hand around the circle in a gesture of invitation. It was becoming clear that, while Geralda was the lady of the castle, Blanche was the leader of the women present. None had resumed any of their needlework or spinning since I had interrupted them.

“I am Philippa, wife of Count Raymond-Roger and Lady of Foix,” said the woman next to her, an open-faced woman with full, bright cheeks and dark, sweeping eyelashes. The sister-in-law of Esclarmonde! I viewed her with interest.

My gaze, moving around the circle in tandem with the voices, suddenly froze. For the next woman had a face I knew. Older, surely, and more lined than I remembered. But nothing could disguise that slightly upturned nose, the high, aristocratic brow, the expression of irrepressible merriment that even now threatened to break into full-blown laughter as she waited for a sign of my surprise. I was stunned.

“Joanna,” I cried, starting from my chair as she rose also. I nearly knocked down the poor Lady Blanche who stood at the same time, as if to calm the two of us as we threw ourselves into each other’s arms.