The Rebel Princess (33 page)

F
or a moment, time stopped. Finally I found my voice.

“Lady Esclarmonde. I understand why you would come here to see Francis, but why did you bring the Saint John Cup here today? Why not just leave it at Laurac until you were able to deliver it to Toulouse?”

She hesitated for a long moment, then held my gaze as she spoke.

“Princesse Alaïs, although I owe loyalty to the Count of Toulouse, for my brother is his liege man, I also admire you. I watched you at your brother’s court, observed your courage, the way you stood up to the abbot at the king’s audience. I watched you after the tourney, in conversation with Francis, though you did not see me. I saw you calm him with your very words. You are royal not only in your title, but in your actions.”

“I thank you for your kind words, Esclarmonde, but I still do not see why you brought the chalice here.”

“I owe a debt for putting Sir Francis in danger. And, to be sure, although the cup was stolen from Toulouse, before that it was taken from the Cathars.” She assumed a slightly defiant look, her features hardening somewhat. “I am of the Cathar sympathies myself, and so are my brother and his wife. And I have wondered if perhaps the cup should be returned to them, instead of to the Count of Toulouse.”

“So you want me to make the choice?” I asked, with some amusement—which I dared not show, as she was so solemn. Then I sighed inwardly. With the responsibility would go the blame.

“Yes, Your Grace. I have been dithering for days over my course of action. When I heard you were here, at Foix, I knew this was the answer for me.”

“Let us have it, then,” I said. Esclarmonde reached into her travel
sac
and pulled forth a substantial package, wrapped in folds of soft material that might once have been a lovely gown.

I unraveled the muslin cloths that bound the cup, and it rolled out easily, as if it were any everyday drinking mug. Ah, but what a fine goblet it was. We all, even William, drew in a breath at the sight.

It was as I remembered from the Mass at St. Denis, but even more stunning close up. The heavy, solid gold was hammered to a fine, thin state and jewels dotted the cup just below the rim. There were rubies and emeralds in various shapes, some as large as rocks in a riverbed. And diamonds from Africa were scattered in between the other precious gems. Indeed, part of the cup seemed to be winking at us as it caught the fire from the sun cutting into the room.

More jewels formed a second ring around the bottom of the swelling cup, and the long, thick stem, braided round with gold, attached it to the gently spreading pedestal. I turned the icon over carefully, and noticed a tiny ring of diamonds around the very base, but carefully
placed so that they did not interfere with the balance of the cup when it was set on a table. This cup had been used by someone of note, even if it was not Saint John.

“Probably some sultan’s cup passed off as a Christian relic,” William said, as always knowing my thoughts.

“Take care, my lord, that you do not become a cynic,” I murmured as I examined the cup.

I gentled the cup in my good hand, letting my fingers feel it as if I were a blind person. Indeed, I looked away for a moment so as not to be distracted by what I saw. It was then I felt it. Three tiny rubies were set right at the base of the stem, as the pedestal widened out. Two of them were at the same height, but the last was placed below the others. I fingered them each, rubbing them back and forth.

I felt a little movement from the oddly placed one as I nudged it, and I pressed harder. Nothing happened.

“What are you searching for, sweetheart?” William asked. But I shook my head, intent on my task. I tried the rubbing action again. And again there was movement.

“William, have you a knife?” I queried, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. He looked at me quizzically, but handed over the small knife he always carried at his belt.

I rubbed the ruby again, feeling a bit more movement than before. I took the knife and began edging it under the ruby, coaxing it to the left, and felt nothing for a moment. Suddenly the ruby moved a discernible distance and the bottom fell away from the stem.

I looked up. Both men were wide-eyed. Even Esclarmonde was riveted.

I turned the cup upside down and squinted into the hollow of the stem. Then I turned the stem toward the floor and shook. A yellowed piece of dried but intact parchment fell out. We all stared.

“Well, well, Princesse,” William finally said. “You found it. You open it.”

I carefully spread the crinkled parchment and we gathered around it. The handwriting was indecipherable.

“It’s Arab script.” I said. “I can’t read it.”

“I can make it out,” Francis said quickly, reaching for the cup, which I yielded gladly. “I know some Aramaic.”

William smiled at me over the bent figure of the young knight. “Before he trained for tournaments, you will remember, he was my clerk. His specialty was language study. He did some translations of Aristotle that compared favorably with Averroës’ work.”

“It is ancient, and the calligraphy is so ornate I can’t be certain. But I think this is a copy of a very old version of the gospel of Saint John.”

‘ “In the beginning was the word,’” I murmured.

“Yes, that’s it. I’m sure of it.” Francis had the scholar’s love of discovery, and he was narrowing his eyes to help decipher the text. “This is very exciting.”

“Alaïs, how did you know that something was hidden in the stem?”

“When I first saw the chalice raised at St. Denis, I was curious about the length and thickness of the stem. It did not have the ordinary form of a chalice used for Mass. It has been clear, from what everyone surmised, that something was hidden on it or in it. When I saw no special engraving that could signal a message, I tried the only part of the cup that could hide something.”

“So now what do we do with the cup?” Francis said, looking from me to William to Esclarmonde. “And with this gospel fragment?”

“Princesse, what is your advice?” asked Esclarmonde.

“When he saw me in the hostel near Verdun, Pierre de Castelnau begged me to divert this cup to Béziers, and back to the Cathar bishops,” I said, without hesitation, for my mind was already firm.

“Who should have it in Béziers?”

“His sister, Beatrice.”

“Beatrice of Béziers! So she is the sister of Pierre de Castelnau.” William let out a low whistle. “That explains much about the good monk’s actions at the court of Paris. I wonder if Amaury knows.”

“I fear he does. But Pierre is beyond being threatened by his colleague,” was my rejoinder. “I think he has allegiance to a higher power than the abbot or pope. He is committed to doing what is right.”

“And do we keep the parchment?” Francis inquired, the acquisitive nature of the scholar now showing.

I shook my head. “I want to keep faith with Père Pierre. Everything goes to Beatrice.” I began carefully rolling the parchment into a small scroll, and sliding it into the stem. “Do you agree, Esclarmonde?”

“Yes, Your Grace, with all my heart,” she said. “It is the parchment the Cathars will reverence. They care little for the gold and jewels.”

Suddenly there was shouting somewhere below. I stopped in mid-sentence and we all listened. “William, help me up. I want to see what is happening.” I struggled to rise.

He lifted me up and I leaned on his arms as I moved awkwardly to the window. There was a great ruckus in the courtyard below us. Two men had just ridden in, dusty and breathless. Servants’ calls for the Countess Philippa were echoing inside the castle. As we watched, the men disappeared into our building.

“Do you recognize those men, William?”

“If I mistake it not, it is the Count of Foix and his eldest son,” William said, with concern in his voice. “And they appear to be in a great hurry. I heard while I was in Toulouse that the viscounts of the south were in conference together at Albi. I wonder what has driven him back in such haste.”

Even as we continued to watch the chaos of the arrival in the courtyard the door to my chamber was thrown open with a loud bang. The countess flew in, followed within moments by the two men.

“Lord William,” the elder man said, wasting no time moving toward William. William clasped the man’s forearm with his free hand,
whilst he kept me encircled. “It’s good to see you. It has been too long since you have stopped to visit us.”

“The press of business, as you might imagine, has determined my journeys in recent months,” William said tersely, but his smile was amiable. “May I present the Princesse Alaïs, sister to the king of France.”

“Princesse.” The count stepped back and bowed to me, gesturing to the man at his side. “My eldest son, Raymond-Guillaume.” His son bowed also, and then looked at me with a frank inquisitiveness. I noticed how like the little boy I had seen at Lavaur he appeared, only older and fuller faced. This was the elder brother, and the mold and model for Roger-Bernard in the future.

“My host. Thanks to you for your hospitality,” I said.

“Count Raymond-Roger. You are in a great hurry, sir,” William said, as he helped me back to the chair I had occupied earlier. With care, and his support, I lowered myself into the chair. William, standing, turned to face his host.

“Lord William, I have news.” The Count of Foix was a man with a hard look about him. His narrow, spare face was tanned with sun and lined with liberal amounts of Armagnac over the years. His legs were bowed, showing hard days in the saddle. His gray hair, worn much longer than was the style in the north, stood out around his head like the halo around the statue of St. Denis. Grizzled is the look I would seek to represent, if I were to make a drawing of this man, I thought. And his son the perfect copy, only with a softer face and more color in his hair.

“I believe you can say anything in front of the
princesse
and the countess,” William said quietly. I was privately pleased he had included the countess, although she struck me as quite capable of speaking for herself. “And certainly you trust your sister, the Lady Esclarmonde.”

Raymond-Roger nodded to Esclarmonde, who smiled at him. It was obvious there was affection between them, which gladdened me, for I had taken a great liking to this young woman.

“First, we had news at Albi about two of our young women. They
were with you at Fontfroide, Princesse, I believe.” He bowed in my direction. Although his voice held no accusation, I feared what he was about to say. “They were attacked on the road near the château at Montgaillard. One was killed, the other wounded. She lingers at Montgaillard, but she will live. Her companion was not so fortunate.”

“Dear God in heaven,” I thought, recalling the vivacity of the adventuresome young women who left Lavaur with me weeks earlier and shared the danger of my trip to Fontfroide.

“Princesse, the one who was killed wore your cloak with the insignia of the royal house of France,” the count said gravely. “There is no question that those who attacked thought it was yourself.”

“Amaury!” William exploded. “How dare he.”

Yes, I murmured, indeed. But I knew how he dared. The man was possessed by a devil of power and anger. My heart was sore for Grazide, who took my cloak so innocently. I had a bitter taste in my mouth, for I had urged her to take it, though I thought to ensure her safety with it, not her demise.

“But there is other news, even more grave,” the count was continuing. “There has been an unfortunate incident, William. It will affect all of us. I only heard about it this morning, as we were lodged overnight near Montgiscard. Pierre de Castelnau, the pope’s legate, left Toulouse after a quarrel with Count Raymond two nights past. It was the day of your conference. Pierre swore he would spend not one more night under Raymond’s roof.”

“I know that,” William said. “He left while I was still at Raymond’s court.”

“His party crossed the Garonne and camped on the other side. The next morning two horsemen caught up with them and rode in with swords up. They killed Pierre and one of his monks and rode off. No one has been able to identify the killers.”

“God’s bones.” William spoke in awe. “This will do it. Now the excuse for Amaury to invade the south is overwhelming.”

“It’s like Thomas à Becket’s murder all over again,” I murmured to myself, recalling all that I had lived through as a child as King Henry’s ward when that tragedy occurred. I noticed no one asked if Raymond had ordered the killing. It mattered not. The charge was all that was necessary to set in motion events that could never be called back. And this time, I knew from my visitation, flames would engulf everyone.

“Raymond will be accused, of course. No one will believe he did not order this. Every noble in the south is already making ready for war.”

“I must leave for Paris immediately. Philippe must be told what has happened here.” William was buckling on his sword even as he spoke.

“I’ll go with you,” I said, beginning to rise from my chair, albeit with difficulty.

“No.” William gently pressed my shoulder and I acquiesced in the movement, for I felt a sharp stab of pain. “Paris is more dangerous for you than the south, at least for the present. We need to clean out that nest of vipers surrounding Philippe, the very ones who mean you harm.” He stood looking down at me, emotions flickering across his face that made me yearn to put my body against his. “Besides, you are in no condition to ride.”

He read the displeasure on my face, for suddenly his demeanor changed and the arrogance disappeared from his face. “Please, Princesse,” he pleaded in a voice I had not heard before. “I beg of you.” I must have registered surprise, for he gave me a most winning smile, as would a boy who had just won the prize for learning!

Suddenly an unexpected voice intervened.

“Princesse Alaïs should stay here, with us,” Philippa said, in a surprisingly commanding voice. “We can protect her. Southern women have many resources, and safe places that are not known to others, not even to our men. And we gather frequently. Even this day, several of the women who were at Lavaur are on their way here. If it seems unsafe, we shall move the
princesse
to another castle. It’s easily done.”