The Rebel Princess (32 page)

“I am that son.” He said it as a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

“Yes, you are that son.”

“And that story of Lord William finding me at a village outside of York? That was a fable?” Yes, I could hear the anger now, but I could assign no blame for that. We would just have to weather the storm. “Could no one have told me before this time, in all these years, who my parents were?”

“Why?” I asked, suddenly wondering if I had made a mistake in my son. Could he care so much that he was a bastard of a king? “What would have been different for you had you known?”

Francis rose and looked about, somewhat wildly. His glance landed on William who had remained leaning against the wall behind Francis’s chair, his arms folded.

“How could you not have told me all the while I grew up in your household? Why did you even take me in? Did they pay you? Has that been my life…My past hidden, dependent on the kindness of strangers!”

He backed away, and looked from one to the other of us.

“Francis,” William said, so sharply I winced. “You forget yourself. You have just been told your parentage, for now it is time. The
princesse
had the right to decide that, for you were her child. It is hers to tell.”

“But do you know, do either of you know, what it is like to grow up thinking one thing about your family, believing you came from a poor village, an orphan, and to suddenly discover that none of it was true…that you don’t know who you truly are?”

William moved to the young man so quickly I scarce saw his feet touch the floor. He grabbed his shoulders and shook him, as if he were a schoolboy. Suddenly the youth, who was near as tall as his master, threw his arms around the older man and began to sob. William held him closely for a long moment, then released him.

“You are yourself, lad,” William said. “All the rest matters not.”

After a long pause, William spoke again. “You have a kinship with
the
princesse
that is so obvious I sometimes wonder why others don’t see it,” he said, and young Francis gathered himself and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, a boyish gesture that nearly undid me. He looked into William’s face and the mixture of emotions, which I could see from my chair, made my own heart ache. “Both of you are headstrong and rebellious. You should have seen it yourself that night you escaped into Chinon, against my orders. I found you both in the town square, where you could have been harmed. But neither of you had a thought for the practical things.”

Francis smiled gamely as he turned to me. “I do recall that night. And the wonderful conversations we had as we continued our journey into France, where you came to visit Queen Eleanor.”

“Yes, I remember. I was then so impressed with all you knew, of philosophy and poetics, with your curiosity and your liveliness.” I paused, and then took a chance. “I cannot tell you how proud I am to be your mother, young Francis.”

“And your mother loves you above all things,” William said gravely. “She risked her life to save yours. You would not be alive without her, not then and not now.”

The youth came quickly and gracefully and fell on his knee in front of my chair. “Forgive my outburst, Your Grace. It is so startling to have one’s life, all the things one has come to believe about oneself, overturned. I lost myself for a moment.”

“My son, you will never lose yourself. You are Francis, no matter who your parents, nor what they did.” I placed a hand on his unruly auburn mane, and caressed his head with a feeling of great love and relief.

“But how did I come to Lord William’s household?” the youth asked, insistently but this time without hostility.

“Lad, that is a tale of its own and I will tell it myself,” William interjected, pulling up a small stool for himself and one for Francis. “It is simple. King Henry, for he indeed was your father as you now
know, feared for your safety, and the safety of your mother. There were vultures at the courts of both France and England who would have taken you and used you for their own ends. So the king asked me to take you away and see to your upbringing. And he kept that news from your mother, for he knew she would never rest until she had you, if she thought you lived.” He clapped his hand on Francis’s shoulder.

“Raising you like my own son was a labor of love for me, my young knight. I had loved your mother, although she knew it not in those days, ever since she was my childhood playmate.” William paused, his glance meeting mine. “It was my way of serving her as well as my king.”

“Did you love my father?” He turned to me directly. The question was not unexpected, but still caught me with my guard down. I could only answer truthfully.

“With all my heart, at the time.”

“It matters not that I am a bastard,” he said, with gravitas. “But how my father was to you, that is important. I would hate him until the day I died if I thought he had mistreated you.”

I saw before me the young man who had entered the room earlier, and knew that his words were a kind of benediction for me, both a forgiveness and the statement of a proud son.

“And besides,” he continued, “Lord William is my guardian and always has been. He has been all that a father could be to me.”

“I know that,” I was beginning to say, when William interrupted.

“King Henry, your father, also loved your mother for her gifts and her active nature, so like your own, Francis. I know. I was there. I saw it all.” And then his voice became brisk again. “Since I have been all that a father could be, you will be pleased to know that I am about to marry your mother.”

A smile spread across the young man’s face, erasing any clouds that had gathered during our conversation.

“Splendid,” he cried as both men rose, Francis knocking over the
three-legged stool near my bed. Francis clapped his guardian on the back in return. In truth, he was so joyful I thought he might clap me on the back as well, but instead he reached for my hand, and bent low over it, first brushing his lips and then holding my hand against his dear cheek.

And when William edged him aside so he could raise me up and embrace me, we three were joined.

It was William, ever practical, who broke our touch with a brisk statement. “Alaïs, we need to make a plan for your safety, now…”

Francis took the opportunity to move to the window, and stood looking at the very clouds I had watched earlier, lost in his own thoughts. William began restlessly walking to and fro, but never out of my eyesight as I lay back against the pillows of my chair. As he was beginning the litany of actions we three must undertake, the door flew open and the Countess of Foix stepped inside the door, highly agitated.

“Princesse, Lord William, my husband’s sister has just arrived and when she heard you were here, she demanded an immediate audience.” Whereupon she stepped into the room and behind her appeared the mysterious Lady Esclarmonde, framed in the doorway. She was dressed in traveling clothes laden with grime, her boots dusty, her formerly lustrous brown hair matted and hanging in clumps. She had a small, leather travel
sac
slung over her shoulder. I could not have been more surprised if it had been Abbot Amaury himself.

I saw William turning abruptly, angered at the interruption. I saw Francis spin from the window, an expression of disbelief coming over his features. I sank back into my chair and prepared to watch the scene.

F
rancis, thank God in heaven that you are safe!” The intense exclamation from the young woman was a total surprise to all of us. She stood, cheeks flushed, hovering on the threshold, as if once she had breached the privacy of our council she did not dare go further.

But then she did. After her slight hesitation, she ran to Francis and sank on her knees before him. William and I stared in astonishment.

“Can you forgive me for putting your life in danger?” she asked. Francis looked as startled as we did. But he rose to the occasion in a knightly way, gently taking the young woman’s elbows and raising her to face him.

“What are you talking about, Lady?” he asked, true confusion filling his voice. “I have no knowledge of your efforts to put my life in danger.” Perhaps he did not, but once my initial amazement subsided I began to have a glimmer.

“I had no suspicion when Constance proposed a flirtation with you that it would end in your abduction,” she said. At least she had the character to look Francis in the face as she confessed.

“Constance of Toulouse proposed a flirtation with me?” Francis’s eyebrows rose and I could hear a sliver of sadness fill his voice. He looked crestfallen. Her interest in him had all been part of a game.

“I am so sorry for my part in this mischief,” she sniffled, as she finally turned from Francis to face me.

“It was Constance behind the entire plan,
n’est-ce pas
?” I asked, as the young woman paused.

“Yes, she was at the center of the intrigue in Paris,” she sighed. “And certain mistakes were made. May I sit now, please?” With the sun full on her face, I could see the weariness and dust lining it. But she had still a pert, cheerful look and the aura of youth surrounded her.

William dragged a chair from the corner, muttering: “I am happy to have you sit, Lady Esclarmonde, if you will only clear up some of the mysteries regarding the activities of Constance of Toulouse.”

“This is the story,” she began. “Countess Constance knew Abbé Amaury was coming to see King Philippe to beg for money and men to fight in the south. She has a network of spies that is quite large. She advised my brother, the Count of Foix, to send me north to Paris. I was to engage the king’s attention and use whatever influence I had to keep the king from committing arms and silver to Amaury’s plan.” Esclarmonde sat down, casting a glance at Francis as she did so. “I must say, I was mildly successful in that endeavor.”

“Hence your performance at the royal reception the day Amaury made his formal request,” I noted, and she nodded in response.

“Yes, the king persuaded me ahead of time to play such a part. He said it would help people accept his decision if I pleaded in front of his courtiers.” She smiled ruefully. “I was well prepared, you can be assured. All the while, Count Raymond was sending couriers to his mother, Constance, for reports on the political climate of Philippe’s
court.”

“Those were the secret meetings at Créteil my brother asked me to investigate.” I turned to William. “Remember how concerned he was that one of his varlets was murdered when he sent men to follow Constance?”

“Constance did not intend for anyone to get hurt. Raymond’s men were overzealous in trying to protect the meetings from the knowledge of the king,” Esclarmonde said.

“Instead, they simply caught his attention where otherwise he might not have bothered about her affairs.” I managed a wan smile. “You see how the best laid plans go awry. So continue, Lady Esclarmonde.”

The young woman took a deep breath. “It seems that Raymond does not fully trust his mother, for he never told her that he had possession of the golden chalice, or that he had given it to Philippe to keep safe at St. Denis, far from the eyes of the Cathars who claimed it as theirs.”

“And when she saw the cup at Mass, she recognized it and wanted to retrieve it, to restore it to the cathedral at Toulouse.” I filled in the story. “And she concocted a scheme to steal it from the abbey.”

“She hinted to me that one of the close councelors of the king helped her by having his men steal it. But she would not say what she gave in return.”

“I suspect that she knew about Chastellain’s treason, funneling information from the king’s council to John’s captains in the west,” William remarked as he leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Perhaps arranging the theft was the price of her silence.”

“Or else she made a lucky guess, and he gave in to her demands on the chance that she would betray him,” I interjected.

“Or, for Chastellain, it could have been just plain greed for the gold of the chalice,” Francis offered, and we all nodded.

“Whatever it was, it seems he was the instrument by which the
chalice was stolen. But in addition to Chastellain, Constance had the problem of Amaury,” Esclarmonde said. “Constance told me Chastellain confided their plans to Amaury. The abbot approached her, and told her he knew all.”

“When I stumbled upon them in a tête-à-tête the last night I was in Paris, she must have been busy seducing him with stories of the jewels in the chalice that could be pried loose. She knew he wanted the cup for its treasure, and so she told him that young Francis would be her messenger to take the cup to the south.” I recalled the image of Amaury and my aunt outlined against the night sky. “She thought, and rightly so, that his interest would shift to Francis and he would leave her alone.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t understand why she would do that.” Now it was Esclarmonde’s turn to look puzzled in my direction. “There was no need to involve Francis. That was not part of the plan.”

“Oh, but it was,” I said, stretching my arms as they had grown weary. The sharp pain in my side recalled to me my condition, and I dropped my hands into my lap. “She wanted Amaury to think she was on his side. And she didn’t want him to know she was keeping the chalice. If he knew she had it, he would find a way to wrest it from her, either by coercion or force. She also knew he needed gold for his wars, so all she had to do was mention the chalice’s supposed treasure clue and Francis in the same breath, and he was off to find it, leaving her with only Chastellain to deal with.”

I continued with what I had gleaned from Francis when I rescued him. “And I am sorry to say she was successful. The abbot took Francis. He hid him in the ancient tower near the building site of Notre Dame. He stayed on a day or two at my brother’s court to avoid raising suspicion, then left with his prisoner. By the time he found out Francis did not have the cup, he decided to keep him anyway, in case he needed to press Lord William to get tough with Count Raymond.”

William nodded. “It all makes great sense. But what did she do
about Chastellain? After all, his men stole the icon. He must have wanted his share of the treasure.”

“I know the answer to that from what I overheard in Fontfroide Abbey,” I said quickly. “When she saw the king receive that message, she guessed it was about the chalice, that Chastellain had carried out their plan. She simply got up from the table then and disappeared. She probably went directly to Chastellain and obtained the chalice under some pretext. Perhaps he was afraid of discovery. He might have been glad to be rid of it for the night. He knew, with the killing of the monk, whoever had the chalice would be found guilty of that crime. Chastellain thought they would finalize the plans on the chalice in the morning. But she fooled him. She left quietly in the middle of that night after obtaining the object.”

“Chastellain must have been furious,” William interjected.

“Yes, he hadn’t counted on Constance disappearing immediately, and with the prize. To judge from what I overheard at Fontfroide, he must have been beside himself in a rage the next day when he discovered her flight. He had taken the risk, indeed killed a monk, for no reward at all.”

Esclarmonde continued with her part, speaking in the langue d’oïl, but with her clear, southern lilt. “I knew of Constance’s design to steal the chalice from the beginning of my visit at the court. But I did not think those plans concerned me. My only task was to prevent the abbot from getting the king’s support. Then, that last night after the royal dinner in the Great Hall, Constance caught up with me in the drafty corridor. She told me the king had received a message that the cup had been stolen. And she said she had told Amaury that Francis was to be the messenger to take it to Toulouse. I was appalled. She had placed Francis in grave danger.” The young woman turned to Francis and extended her hand to him: “You were not at the banquet that night. So I knew I must find another way to warn you.”

“So did you go to his chambers?” I reclaimed her attention.

“No, I sent a note. Because it was late, I told the servant to deliver the note at dawn. I did not dream the abbot would act that night, spiriting Francis away from his chambers.” Now she raised her head and looked directly at Francis. “The servant I sent to you returned at once. He said that you were gone, your chambers in disarray. It was then I feared the worst. But I knew not whom I could trust in that hotbed of intrigue.” She pulled from her sleeve a crumpled, small scroll. “See here, I still have the note I wrote you.”

“I would see that note, Lady,” I said, holding out my hand, for Francis had moved forward to take it, no doubt as some proof of her affection for him.

Francis passed it to me without reading it, rather reluctantly it seemed. I unrolled the dog-eared scroll and glanced at it. I was not interested in the message, but in the handwriting. It proved as I had suspected.

“You are the one who sent the note to my brother’s chief minister, warning him about the impending theft of the St. John Cup, and also one to me, about following the trail of gold to the south. The handwriting is the same on this note to Francis.” I looked over at her as I passed the paper back to Francis. “Why did you send those warnings?”

The young woman raised her small, pointed chin bravely at that question. “Just before his public audience that day I had sent that note thinking it would reinforce the king’s desire to stay out of our troubles here. I hinted at the imminent theft of the chalice, which I knew Constance planned. I thought such a message would further dissuade.”

“And also confuse the issue?” I asked pointedly.

She nodded, but added, with a somewhat saucy air: “I did not think it would endanger our plans, for by the time the king heard of the theft of the chalice, it would already have left Paris with a trusted courier.”

“And Francis was to be the courier?”

“Oh, no, madame. It was never to be Francis. That was Constance’s ruse with Amaury, a trick gone bad, certainly. We meant him no harm.” She looked to my son, who had remained standing near William. “Truly, Sir Francis, my attention to you was not only that the countess wished me to entertain you. It’s true, I began it as a dalliance to provide distraction, but I grew genuinely fond of you. I had never a thought to place you in danger.”

“But when Amaury heard the false news from Constance, he thought Francis had the cup,” I asserted.

“And so he was abducted. When the servant brought me back my note that night, and said that the room was in disarray, Constance and I realized what had occurred. We knew we were no match for Amaury, so we decided to set out at once for the south. Constance for Toulouse, and myself to Laurac to spend some weeks before coming here.” She cast a glance at Francis under lowered eyes. “Yestermorn a messenger came from this house, to tell me you were here, Sir Francis. And I made haste to see for myself that you were safe.”

Francis rewarded this new confession with another blush, to my amusement.

“So Constance took the cup to Toulouse after all,” I murmured, thinking of the conversation I had overheard at Fontfroide.

“No, Your Grace. That would have been too obvious,” the young woman said. “Constance never had the cup, except to receive it and pass it to another for safekeeping before dawn that very night.”

“But why, after all of the intrigue, would she not take it herself?” I was astonished.

“Because, as you correctly surmised earlier, she feared that Amaury would find out where she was, hunt her down and take it from her. I do believe she fears him greatly.”

“Where is it then?” William’s tone reflected his impatience. He pulled a small oak chair to him, turned it so the back was facing us, and threw his leg across it to sit astride. “All of this conniving and
scheming was to distract everyone from the theft of this gold cup. Where is it now?”

“I find it passing strange that the icon has value so different for each person,” Francis said thoughtfully.

“That’s true. For Amaury it is the gold, or the treasure it could lead to; for Chastellain it was a way to buy Constance’s silence, and perhaps secure her help with the king,” I mused.

“And for Constance, a prize to bring back to Toulouse,” William added.

“And for Raymond, a bargaining tool with the Cathars,” Esclarmonde volunteered. “But of all of them, the only players in this drama who desired the chalice for its own sake are the Cathars. For them it is a sacred object because it belonged to Saint John, their patron and guide.”

There was a silence in the room, each of us occupied with our own thoughts.

“So, if Constance did not take it to Toulouse, where is it now?” Francis asked the question.

“Oh, it is with me,” Esclarmonde said simply. “I promised Constance I would never let it out of my sight until we could reinstall it in the Toulouse Cathedral. I have it even now in the travel
sac
I brought from Laurac.”

All of our faces turned toward her.

“You have it here?” I sounded stupid with amazement. After all of the peregrinations and actions, lies and deceits and adventures, the cup was here, in this château.

“Yes,” she said. “As I said, in my travel
sac
.” And she slipped the strap from her shoulder and let the
sac
slide to the floor.