The Rebel Princess (29 page)

“My thanks, Lord Abbot. Nothing would please me more than to accept Cistercian hospitality. But your first suggestion was the best. If I could obtain a horse from…”—I gestured toward Amaury—“his lordship’s retinue, I would be most grateful.”

Amaury sputtered for a moment or two, but what could he say?

“Take this man to the stables,” he finally said, waving at the
voyou
who had brought me in. “Find him a horse and send him on his way.”

A complicit look passed between Amaury and myself. My freedom for my silence in front of the abbot Anselm, his expression said. But inwardly I rejoiced, for I had a glimmer that Abbot Anselm knew exactly what Amaury was about. He might even have guessed who I was, or at least that I was a woman. There was that spark of humor in his eyes when he offered me further hospitality. And I had no doubt that he would not be surprised if he discovered his guest abbot had arranged for a prisoner to be held in the butcher’s building, though I thought he would not have allowed it for a minute. Perhaps he suspected something of the mysterious four nuns in the guesthouse. He probably knew of other covert activities taking place here in this holy place and had his own plans to redress them. I would wager little escaped this man.

“Young man.” Amaury’s voice arrested me as I was about to pass through the door. “Watch that you do not overreach yourself in the future. Pride is a dreadful sin. And there are many heretics here in the south. You must not allow yourself to be seduced by them as you make your way alone on your pilgrimage.”

I turned to face Amaury. “I will certainly seek the company of the pure of heart,” I said. “And of those who practice the charity that Our Lord in Heaven preached while here on earth. As for heretics, I
meddle not in theological disputes. I watch what men do, and make my judgments. There is an old Arab fable on that very topic.”

Amaury made a dismissive gesture with his hands, but the old abbot at the other end of the table raised his head, and spoke in a surprisingly strong tone.

“And what is the fable you have heard?” He asked it in a voice that would not be refused. Amaury had no choice but to listen.

“A man was walking through a field, with a bow and arrow, shooting rabbits as they scuttled about. One little rabbit said to another: ‘Look at that man. He has tears in his eyes.’ And the other rabbit said: ‘Don’t watch his eyes; watch his hands.’” I stood looking at Amaury as I spoke. There was a long silence, and then the old abbot began to chuckle, which turned into a full rolling laugh.

“There you have it, Amaury. ‘Watch his hands.’” He shook his head as his smile faded and his voice became unexpectedly serious. “Well said, young pilgrim. You will be saved if you live what you speak. I agree with you. Theological disputes are not the royal road to heaven. Take heed, Amaury.” This last was said as the old man picked up another scroll, his hands shaking with age, and dismissed his colleague effectively.

I bowed to him, and turned to go. Amaury was glaring in the direction of his successor but I had the feeling that in any further exchange, the Abbot Anselm would not be the loser.

O
nce clear of the abbey, I applied my knees to my newly acquired horse and felt the fresh wind in my face with relief and something akin to joy. My son was free, and my victory over Amaury in our last interview tasted as sweet as the southern air felt. I headed north toward Alaric and then turned west. I did not believe Amaury would have me followed, for he had other difficulties to overcome. He would try to find Francis, but he would not know which route he might have taken. And I suspected Amaury was more interested in the outcome of the meeting in Toulouse with Raymond than in finding Francis who, after all, had no information about the chalice Amaury sought.

The thought of the conclave at Toulouse reminded me of William. In the rush of recent events, he had been far from my mind. My thoughts since leaving Lavaur had been for
Francis and his safety. As I sat at table the first night, grateful to have found a small inn with a fine cassoulet and a pleasant, round-faced cook who came from the kitchen to deliver it herself, I called up William’s face. A sadness overcame me.

William would be furious that I had not heeded his command to stay in Paris the night we had the quarrel. He had never yet held sustained anger toward me, but there is always the first time. Would he be cold when we met? Would he see my actions as rash? Would they affect our plans for marriage when his duties to the pope were finished? I found my appetite diminishing as I pondered these things. Finally, with a sigh, I retired to my small room off the area where the animals slept. At least the rushes were clean. I prayed that I would not wake up in the company of fleas.

The trip was difficult. Alone, I fell prey to many doubts and fears about the future. I did not want to risk drawing attention to myself, so I dropped my role as pilgrim and stayed instead in smaller villages, finding an inn or asking for shelter from a woman on the street. I still had two of the gold pieces remaining, and some silver. Although I was lonely, I did not feel in danger.

All that changed suddenly soon after I had passed the château at Puivert, marked clearly on the maps Philippe had given me. The morn was bright and sunny, but I was very tired, having slept in the fields the night before. The riding was difficult as well. I was coming into mountainous country, but the hills that were so protective of the Cathar preachers did not seem welcoming to me. I had taken no breakfast that day, and so was in danger of fainting away before I could find food.

Just when I thought I would have to dismount to keep from falling off my horse, I spied a small hovel, off to the side and over a short field. I turned my palfrey from the main road, and wandered down the path to the door of this humble dwelling, little more than a mud hut.

I left my horse grazing in the meadow some small distance away, and made my way through the overgrown gorse to the front door.
There was no knocking device, and so I merely pushed in. I had little experience entering the house of strangers but this was a peasant hut and I did not feel that I needed to stand on ceremony.

The room was small and spare, containing only two chairs of wood and rushes and a table with a broken leg, propped up by a small bale of hay. There were clothes and eating utensils everywhere, and the straw on the floor had not been changed for many moons. A somewhat foul odor clung to the walls.

I looked around. Truth to tell, I was so hungry that I considered trying the biscuits I saw on the hearth, even though they resembled burned rocks. Fortunately, my attention was drawn to the table.

There lay a loaf of bread, and some hard cheese. I drew close. The cheese looked fresh, and the bread had no mold on it. I had cut a hunk of the first and a large piece of the second and had just begun to wolf down my food when I was interrupted by the sound of heavy wooden clogs.

I looked up to see a figure in the doorway, a short but broad-chested man in a peasant’s smock and hose, staring at me.

“Good day to you, sir,” I said, with as strong and deep a voice as my hunger would allow. “I thought the hut was deserted, and I was in need of food. I am happy to pay you for your bread and cheese.”

“Hardly be deserted if the bread was fresh, now would it?” he replied saucily, as he moved his bulk slowly through the door. I became acutely aware of the small space the two of us were now occupying, and the malevolent manner of the man facing me. For the first time on my journey I felt more than a twinge of fear.

We faced each other warily. I fingered my dagger under my cloak. “What do you want?” he demanded, in a peremptory voice that I, a royal princess, had never heard.

“I told you. I was on the road and was hungry, so I stopped to see if I could beg or buy food.” To make my voice strong I visualized King Henry, commanding in the fields.

“And what would a young, dirty swain, with a voice almost like a woman’s, be doing with money to pay for food?” The man began to sound more accommodating when I jiggled the purse hanging from my belt.

I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief and decided to brazen it out. By moving around the table, I kept a barrier between us whilst I made my way closer to the door. He was forced to move with me, in order to keep his beady eyes on mine.

“I’m on an errand for my master. He is a noble and very powerful. So watch your tongue, varlet. And here is payment for the bread.” I tossed a couple of small coins on the table. “And if you give me your name, I’ll see that you get a reward from my master, the Count of Foix.”

My change in tone, from commanding to civil, seemed to take the man aback. He blinked, and that hesitation was just long enough for me to reach the door. I edged out still watching him, and then broke into a run for my horse.

The man followed me to the door, shielding his eyes from the sun to watch me, but he did not give chase. I mounted rapidly, and spurred my horse back to the road, thankful that I had stuffed some food into my pockets before his arrival. I galloped off, feeling quite pleased with myself. King Henry would have applauded my performance. I didn’t want to dwell on what William would have said.

The drama in the peasant’s hut cost me time, but I felt buoyed by the energy from the food. Truth to tell, I had no real worry that the peasant would give chase, for I saw no sign of horse in this yard and no barn behind the house. Still, I was uneasy about something in the encounter. I rode hard for some time, and when I felt I had put a safe enough distance between the hut and myself, I decided to rest and finish my lunch.

Once again I left the road, this time after spying a small stream that looked inviting. After I found a grassy place I spread my cloak
on the ground, and washed my hands in the brook. Then I sat in the dappled sunlight and ate the remainder of my meager lunch. Leaning back on my elbows, I considered my options. I knew the sun would soon wane and that I should get back on my horse. If I rode hard, my guess was that I might reach the castle of Foix by nightfall. The Lady Philippa had promised a welcome and I was sore longing for the sight of a friendly face. I had seen none since parting from Geralda and our two young companions.

Yet I was passing tired and longed for a rest, a nap, just a short one. The sun on the back of my head spread heaviness, and I knew the grove was protected from the road by a stand of trees. I finally gave in to my urge to sleep and, wrapping my cloak around me, stretched out on the ground.

The next thing I knew, there was a sharp pain in my ribs and I rolled over to escape whatever it was that made it. But it came again before I could scramble to my feet.

The sun was low in the sky and at a slant, as happens in autumn. When I opened my eyes, it blinded me for a moment. I wriggled away slightly until I was in the shade, and then tried to see. As my vision cleared I found I was looking right into the devil’s eyes. They were framed by giant black brows, thick as a nest of beetles. The face pulled back and I felt a third kick to my ribs that sent me rolling down the riverbank.

The pain was a spur to clear my head and it brought me to action. I leaped to my feet, trying to get my footing on the mossy bank of the creek. The stabbing in my side caused me some difficulty in standing upright, but I forced myself to concentrate. I withdrew the dagger I carried in my belt, and held it straight out, thrusting, my wrist turned upward, as I had been taught. It glinted as it moved, catching the sun.

“So, you have a weapon, do you? Let’s see if you know how to use it, little boy.” I could see my attacker fully now, a large man with
a shaggy, dirty beard and a snarl twisting his ugly face. His nose had been broken at some time in the past, I noted, with some satisfaction. This was not, however, good news for me. The man was a seasoned brawler. He came toward me, circling the hand that clutched his own short knife.

I did not speak, worried that my voice would brand me a woman. I tried to remember every move the swordmaster at Philippe’s court had taught me, glad now that I had badgered my brother into letting me train with the young knights of his court. I shifted my weight from one foot to another, to keep my adversary off balance as to which way I would turn. I knew I had only one chance at him. After that, if I missed, he would have his way, as his was the larger and more powerful body.

He came straight on. No lessons in strategy distracted this
voyou,
which might work to my advantage. But then suddenly he surprised me. When he was only an ox length away he stopped dead in his tracks and threw his dagger directly toward me. I scarce had time to duck and, indeed, it caught me in the left arm, a searing tear. My eyes watered but I didn’t stop. I lunged at him in my rage.

I sprang to close the gap between us. He was slightly off balance from his effort and surprised that I was finishing my attack. My knife went into the soft part of the middle of his body. With only a small grunt of surprise, he fell forward, his entire weight landing on me, knocking me over. The wind went out of my body, and I struggled for breath, cursing in a strangled voice, words I didn’t know I had in me.

Then a respite came. Someone was dragging the load of the felled body away and I doubled up, gasping for breath. Finally I could feel some thin sliver of air start to trickle down inside me. As relief came, I took in great gulps and suddenly I rolled over and began throwing up the lunch I had been so quick to eat only a short time before.

A familiar voice came as from a great distance and someone was
patting my back. I looked up through my tears to see Tom of Caedwyd bending over me with a look of concern that a mother might envy.

“Tom,” I gasped, still in the grip of a heaving sensation in my stomach, though there was no more to come out of me. “How have you come here?”

“Ah, lass, more about that later. You killed this man, but he was like to smother you in revenge when he fell, it appears. I’m only glad we got here in time to haul him off you. You’ve cheated death today. You have a charmed life now.” I glanced over his shoulder to see Roland looking down at me with an expression of great concern, although his face seemed to move somewhat in and out of my vision. I drifted for a moment between worlds, and then came once more to myself.

Tom was extending my arm to examine the wound. I could finally breathe again, but the pain in my side where I had been kicked was increasing with every slight movement.

“You’ve got a nasty wound here. We need to get to Foix tonight and see to it proper, Princesse. Do you think you can ride?”

“I don’t know, Tom. Help me up. Let’s see if I can walk first.” They pulled me up from the ground and, despite some initial dizziness, I found a purchase for my feet and began to move forward, taking great care. With every step, though, the throbbing in my side was excruciating.

I glanced at the body of my assailant on the ground as we passed. His face lay one cheek up in the river mud. He was not known to me, but I stopped suddenly, and turned back. Tom was holding my elbow to keep me from falling, so he must turn with me. I motioned with my head.

We walked back slowly to the body. I pushed it with my foot, and it rolled over. There was no marking on the rogue’s tunic that would identify him as belonging to anyone. On a whim, I reached down into
his pockets to see what he carried and my fingers closed around a small leather bag. From the weight of it, I surmised it was full of silver.

“What would such a man be doing with all this coin?” I asked my knights. We formed a small circle around the fallen attacker. Roland had pulled my dagger from the man’s stomach, and was cleaning it of the stranger’s blood with leaves, even as we looked down on him.

Tom shrugged, but Roland nodded at the leather pouch. “Your Grace, may I see it?”

When I passed it over to him, he didn’t look inside, as I had expected. Instead he turned it over to inspect the bottom.

“What do you think to find, Roland?” I was curious. “Some type of marking?”

“See here, Princesse. On the bottom. The stamp of the leather maker. This is made by a London leather worker. Raynulf of Surrey. Royal Guild of London Leather Makers. That mark means this guild are purveyors to King John.” He tossed it thoughtfully on his hand a couple of times, the flat bottom returning easily to his palm. “What would such a villein be doing with a purse from the best leather worker in London? And with so much silver?” He tossed it back to me.

“Odd indeed,” I said, pocketing the small pouch and finally turning away from my erstwhile attacker. “Still, the south is full of
routiers
who are no longer employed by the nobles to fight. They prey on any passer-by. This could have been stolen from someone. Indeed, this purse may have passed through many hands already. Although it is strange that it made its way this far all the way from London,” I mused.

“Princesse, we must make haste to leave. The sun is slipping in the sky. It would not do for you to be caught on the road at nightfall, even though you are no longer alone.” Tom was at my elbow, speaking low into my ear. He was right. I felt a need to find a safe harbor for the night even more than he did.

I looked down again at the man who was dead at my feet and was
surprised that I felt no pity for him. Perhaps that is the gift of not-feeling men have in war, not caring when their attackers fall, especially after a narrow escape from death themselves.