The Rebel Princess (20 page)

None of the onlookers said a word, but there were many knowing smiles, for each must also have had dear friends from childhood they thought were lost to them. Blanche wound up gently patting our
backs as my long-lost childhood companion and I held each other in a breathless clutch.

“Oh, my dear sister,
ma chérie,
” Joanna was saying over and over again and I found my own face wet with tears.

“What are you doing here?” I said finally, when, by some tacit emotional agreement, we loosed our hold on each other. We were each rather breathless, myself from surprise and feelings that came racing out of my past, and Joanna, no doubt, from the same emotions.

“The hardest part was not to fly at you when you came through the door,” she was saying, half in laughter and yet through tears running down her face. “When your men arrived and they said you desired our dear lady’s hospitality, I nearly rode back down the hill with them myself. But the Lady Blanche cautioned me, and said the surprise would be so much sweeter if I waited.”

Again I pulled Joanna to me in a great hug, although I gradually became aware that the others were sitting in amused silence. I began to feel my royal dignity might be compromised if I carried on much longer.

I released her and looked her up and down, feasting my eyes on her dear face and figure.

“You look so fine, Jo,” I said. “Just as you did when you went off to marry the king of Sicily.”

“Ah, you need not fear honesty, Alaïs. I know the years and my travails lie heavily on me.” Joanna screwed her still-lovely features into a comical face, a trick that was so like the young, sassy woman I remembered that I laughed out loud. “Not to mention the difficult husbands that have been foisted on me.”

I turned to the group of women, who watched with warm expressions. “This noblewoman is my childhood friend, and she is like my sister. We were raised together at the court of Henry of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine, and pledged our lifelong friendship.” Tears began to crowd my throat and I could not continue.

“Did my letter of warning find you, Alaïs?” Joanna asked, as I put my hands to her shoulders and held her away from me to truly look at her.

“Indeed it did and I made my best effort to fulfill your wishes,” I said. “And, I must say, with some success, although it was not difficult. My brother’s will was in concert with ours.”

“I knew you would help. You have the thanks of my heart,” she said to me, as we embraced yet again.

“Come, sit next to your kinswoman,” Blanche said, with what I was beginning to see was her customary kindness and authority. “I will take Joanna’s seat closer to the fire. I am in need of warmth against this damp night. And you must be so glad to have found each other.”

Someone cleared her throat, and the elderly woman who had been sitting next to Joanna drew Blanche’s attention.

“Your Grace, this is Ermengarde of Narbonne, a distant kinswoman who now makes her home in my humble fort.” I had resumed my seat, and smiled at the elderly, thin-boned woman coiled in her chair, her lined face framed by the immaculate widow’s wimple. She nodded and her face lit up in a generous smile.

Next to her sat a large, rawboned woman with a crooked nose and heavy brows, a peasant, who had jumped up to wait on me, ladling the stew which even now sat cooling on the small table next to my chair. I noted that she had a white apron pinned over her gown, and that she was not spinning but carding wool, pulling it through the holes with a vigor that indicated she had done this all her life and still enjoyed it.

“That is Guillemette, my maid, who comes from the mountain towns to the west, and these…”—Blanche gestured to the other two who had hastened to help settle me when I arrived—“are my other maids, Brune and Raymonde, also from our villages.”

I nodded to the servants. Blanche then introduced me to the three women I had not yet met who occupied chairs to my right. They were
noblewomen of minor demesnes, every one a viscountess or lady of her own household. One by one, they nodded: Fabrisse of Saissac, Gaillarde of Fanjeaux, and Grazide of Montauban.

“My greetings to you all,” I said, finally turning my attention to the cooling stew at my side table, which turned out to be quite tasty, especially when washed down with the red wine, full and pleasant as promised.

“I suppose you are wondering why so many noblewomen”—my hostess leaned forward as she spoke—“and why we are all gathered here.”

“No, not at all,” I replied untruthfully. I raised my wine goblet to Joanna on my left, and she toasted me back with her own cup. “Although it has always struck me that there are a fair number of noble titles in a small space of land here in the south.”

“That’s easily explained,” the deep voice of Geralda intervened. She spoke with the same tone of authority that characterized her mother, although she had about her a certain earthiness that the wraith-like Blanche lacked. ’Twas often thus with mothers and daughters.

“If you understood our system here, you would see how humane it is. We do not, as you do in the north, turn out younger sons and leave everything to the eldest. We divide our lands, and make a place for each to have his own nest, his own opportunity to thrive. In the north, younger sons must hire themselves out as paid soldiers and leave their families to take up life on the road of fortune.”

The tone of superiority in her remarks annoyed me. “There are many reasons for the practice of primogeniture, madame,” I said, a cool touch to my response. “Yes, it is frequently difficult for our younger sons in the north when all of the land goes to the eldest brother. But some go into the church, and others find their way in the world as knights. And some are trained as scholars and become the clerics to the courts of Europe.” I raised my brows slightly. “Many people do not have their security arranged for them, and they come
out of it well enough in the end.” I tore a piece of bread and bit on it definitively.

“Geralda merely meant to explain our differences, Your Grace. Do not take offense,” Blanche said. “Our lands have been divided and subdivided, so our counties are quite small. The noble families of Foix, for example, or the Trencavels in Béziers, have diminished lands to govern as time goes on. And subsets, such as Saissac, Laurac, and Montréal have then their own rulers.” Blanche motioned the maid called Brune to tend to the fire, which had subsided to a glowing mass. “Of course, the
petits nobles
owe fealty for their lands to their overlords,” she added with a nod to me, “but you have that system in the north as well.”

“Indeed,” I said, thinking of King Henry and his proud sons doing homage at various times to my father and brother for their lands on the Continent.

“So, Your Grace, what brings you to our fair country? You are a long way from Paris.” It was the round-faced Lady Philippa of Foix who raised the question. Suddenly all of the women were attending to their needlework and their spinning, and the maidservants began carding wool as fast as they could, as if none wanted to appear too interested in my response.

“I have cause to journey to Toulouse on personal business for my brother, the king of France,” I said, affecting a casual air. “I had the great pleasure of meeting your husband’s sister Esclarmonde at the court of Paris, and was intrigued by her. She told me I might find hospitality at Foix. But she also mentioned this place as one that would welcome me, so we thought to stop here and rest.”

“But I am so glad you are here at Lavaur, as I would have missed you entirely if you had continued to Foix,” Philippa said, adding quickly, “though Foix is open to you whenever you care to come. And I shall be leaving here within the day to return to my home, and would be glad of your company if you care to travel with me.”

“I would like to journey with you,” I countered. “But I fear my affairs demand that I visit Toulouse soon. I must see Count Raymond and I should not tarry here long.”

“Foix is a considerable distance south of Toulouse,” the Lady Philippa murmured. “I can see that it would be out of the way, if you have pressing business in the city.”

“I have another purpose,” I added, after a moment’s silence. “I have a message from the king for Lord William of Caen. He departed Paris for Toulouse, just ahead of me.” I paused, wondering how eager I should appear to find William. “I wonder if any of you has heard news of his arrival in this land?”

Joanna looked up quickly. “Yes, he did arrive in Toulouse, but—”

She was not to complete her statement, for a door flew open and a blast of cold night air invaded the room. We turned as one to see what had caused the interruption and there was an audible, collective intake of breath at the sight.

A tall man with flowing dark hair and beard stood in the doorway, in dusty, simple clothes that bespoke a long journey. He had a staff, and a knapsack on his back, and the way of his dress struck me as peculiar, a rough-woven green wool robe belted at the waist, much longer than the tunics and doublets I was used to seeing. It was the dress of a shepherd, but of a distinctive, forest-green color. His face also had the hard lines of a man who spent much time in the outdoors. He clutched to his side a worn, leather-bound book.

The man with him was shorter in stature, and ruddy faced. He was dressed in the same-colored robe, and he, too, carried a staff. Perhaps they were shepherds who had lost their way, I thought. But how peculiar that they were not announced, almost as if they were familiar to this household. And why the dark green color when most shepherd’s robes were bleached wool? And why the exact same robe for both men?

The Lady Geralda was out of her chair as if she were an arrow loosed from a bow.

“You must have become confused in your direction,” she said to the men quite firmly, as she moved toward a bellpull. “The hospitality for travelers is offered below. Meals will be served to you in the Great Hall. I’ll call a servant and have him take you there.”

The taller man looked startled for a moment, and then his roving gaze moved to me, sitting in the chair of the mistress, and a look of alarm spread over his face.

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” he said, backing up. “The gate-keeper gave us wrong directions to the travelers’ quarters, and when we saw the stone steps to this room, we thought this was the garret for our sleeping.”

The man who had led us to this room entered behind the two men and a look of consternation invaded his face also. “Lady Geralda,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Pedro, these travelers were misled and came into this room by mistake. Please take them with you immediately, see that they get some refreshment, and then show them the loft in the outbuilding where they might sleep. Be certain they have what they need against the cold.” And she used her hands in a sweeping gesture, as if to scoop up the three of them and deposit them outside the door. As if she could erase the entire interruption from the memory of our cozy gathering by so doing.

I watched this scene with a rising sense of perplexity. Something was odd about it from start to finish. The women were too stunned at the interruption, almost fearful, the travelers were too surprised to see me, and Geralda was too loud of voice in her instruction to the servant, as if there were some meaning behind her words, some secret signal to her man.

After the departure of the two men, which took but a quick mo
ment with Geralda’s bustling instructions and motions, the women seemed to release the tension with a collective sigh.

“Well,” said Blanche, as Geralda settled back into her seat, “now shall we sing?”

“Sing?” My eyes slid from side to side as my brows furrowed. Joanna, who caught my droll movement, laughed in her familiar bell-like tones.

“We often sing together, especially toward the end of the evening,” she explained with a smile. “It seems to give us contentment as we depart for our night’s rest.”

“Ah,” I said, waiting to see what came next.

“We know you must be tired, Your Grace. Such a long journey. Indulge us for one song, and then I’ll show you to your chamber. Alas, you must share with the countess, as we have no other private rooms here. My other kinswomen will sleep with me in the larger room.”

“I am delighted to share a room with the Countess Joanna.” I spoke truly. “It has been too long since we have had the opportunity to be together.”

Joanna produced that sunny smile that was her hallmark. And then, with no warning, five amazing, bell-like notes from Geralda filled the room for a moment. It began with a high, clear note, like that of a meadow lark, and then a trilling spiral downward where the entire group met her and took up the melody with harmonies so practiced I was in awe.

I listened with an aching heart, for the song was one the traveling singers used to perform at the court of Poitiers. The music made my eyes brim with tears as it reminded me of the childhood Joanna and I had shared, and brought with it the poignant memory of my first youthful infatuation, her brother Richard of England.

This group had sung together before, and often, and I let myself be lulled by their beautiful tones. As the song filled me, I felt keenly a sense of passing, as if this moment would never come again. Sud
denly there appeared, in place of the present scene, a vision of walls of a besieged castle, cracking under attack, finally giving way. A whole piece of time itself crumbling into smoke and rubble. But the image was gone as quickly as it had come, and the last notes of the song died away at the same time.

The Lady Geralda moved first, rising with an elegance that belied her broad frame. I saw her anew at that moment, as a woman blessed with peace about her life. Even the manner in which she pulled the bell rope to summon a servant was calm. My earlier sense of impatience with her faded.

“Your Grace, please accept our poor hospitality. I will have my servants show you to your chamber, where hot water from the kitchen will be brought for you to wash. Should you want anything further for the night, the servants will provide.”

I rose also and, with Joanna at my side, bade my adieu to the group. The women filed past me with low courtesies and I took each by the hand as a sign of sisterhood. Some hands were warm, from the fire and from the wool they had been spinning. Even the maids, who were still with us, made a low bow. And I took each of their hands, as well.