The Rebel Princess (5 page)

“So, Lord William, tell me. Why has it been these many long months since you have found time to make your way back to the court of France? One would almost think you had forgotten me. Only a handful of letters. And no news that you were meeting with my brother at Blois just weeks ago. I might have joined his party.”

“That meeting was clandestine, my love. If I were free to tell you of it, I would have done. But Philippe swore me to silence. He came with only a few men, under pretense of hunting. He did not want anyone to know he was seeing Raymond.”

I recalled Philippe’s comment that it was William who demanded secrecy for this meeting, but I forbore to say anything for the moment.

“And what was the result of this all-important meeting?” Although I had not yet found the gown I sought I left off searching the garderobe and leaned against the door, my arms folded, waiting to hear what I could be told. I was behind William and he could not see my face, but I hoped the tone of my voice conveyed my serious intent.

“Philippe wants to avoid war with his cousin in the south, and the pope seems intent on pushing him into it. Rome has already sent two formal letters requesting arms and men from Philippe to threaten Raymond. The king thought a personal conversation with the Count of Toulouse might help to resolve the situation, make Raymond understand the gravity of his position if he continues to support these heretic nobles of his.” William adopted a casual air in these remarks, which did not fool me one whit. I knew the well-being of William’s mission depended on such diplomatic meetings.

“And was the king successful?” I pursued the topic.

“Not exactly.” William now spoke tersely, as if to end the discussion. “It was not clear at the end what Raymond would do. He promised Philippe nothing, but he did reiterate his loyalty as vassal to the king of France.” William reached out to the little oak table next to the
tub, and snatched a handful of grapes from a bowl. He popped them into his mouth one by one talking all the while, as he deftly changed the subject.

“By the by, your son has decided he prefers his Anglo-Norman name, Francis, and has instructed us all to call him that, although he probably will make an exception for you if you prefer the French.” He chuckled.

I could not suppress my smile at that sally. Francis was truly fond of me, of that I had no doubt, and the mention of my son lightened my heart. “Have a care, my lord, in making free with my scented soaps and oils. You’ll have every woman in the Great Hall trailing you tonight if you are so liberal.”

“Good, if it will make you sick with jealousy,” he replied, sinking into the tub, oblivious of the waves of water spilling out onto the rushes. “The holy father was quite taken with Francis and all his talents.” William surveyed the ceiling thoughtfully, his head cushioned on the back edge of the wooden tub as mine was earlier. “Philippe is not the only one who thinks Francis is my natural-born son. The pope is curious, as well.”

“Ah, well, in a way, I myself think you are nearly his father.” I came to sit on the edge of the tub and, catching up my sleeve, soaped his shoulders with my right hand. “Henry sired him, I birthed him, but ’twas you who saw to his care and upbringing.”

“Only because you could not do it,” he said, catching the fingers of my good hand and bringing them gently to his lips. “Have you forgiven me for having kept news of his safety from you those many years?”

“My love, there is naught to forgive. I have only gratitude that you raised and guarded my son. All else was beyond our control.”

“Alaïs,” William said thoughtfully, “I have a serious question to ask. I have been giving this some thought.”

“My lord?” I asked, moving to a more comfortable wooden stool
but still within his reach. We could have been any domestic peasant couple in a cottage at the end of the day, talking comfortably while the man washed the dust of his work away. I needed only his hose to darn to complete the picture.

“Do you ever wonder what Francis will say when he finds out what we have kept from him?” His voice was thoughtful, and I searched my soul for an answer.

“Do you fret over this? You have been his guardian for so many years. I cannot think he would be angry with you about aught.” I spoke slowly, thinking more on William than myself.

“Indeed, I am of the same mind.” William’s voice became more robust. “I harbor no fear that Francis will bear me ill will for my part, for he has a kind heart and has ever been well disposed toward me since he was a small lad.” William reached a long arm for a towel from the stool near the wooden tub. “He knows I care for him. And I want to reassure you that you should have the same confidence.”

“In truth, I do have a lurking fear…” It was so difficult to put into words, even to William who knew the secrets of my heart. “Perhaps that is why I am so eager to get past the telling, to say to him all the things I must say as a mother. And to help him understand…”

“Because you think he will blame you for not holding on to him when he was a babe?” William shook his head, water sprinting from his mane of hair. Then he wiped his face with a
serviette
that I handed to him. “You know better than that. He considers you a kindred soul, though he does not know how truly kindred you are! Do you recall when you first met Francis as a young man, when he was my clerk? You did not know yet who he was. We were all traveling together. One night in Chinon you and the young lad, unbeknownst to the other, escaped my men to have an adventure. I had to spend my time looking for the pair of you, and found you both in the same crowded square—watching the town players. Living for illusion, the pair of you.”

I had to smile at his feigned irritation. “Too bad, for the mighty Lord William, having to search for his family!” And I was rewarded for my impudence by a splash of water that dampened my gown and made me cry out with surprise.

“William! Will you never grow up entirely?”

“But now, do be serious,” he said, as if it were I creating the frivolity. He took my hands, offered to help him from the bath, but he did not move. “I want to tell you, my dearest heart, that when we can, when it is safe to tell Francis who he is, we will support him in his choice of action over his claim to the throne of England. But we shall also offer him the chance to do nothing but stay with us as our son. Because by that time, pope or no pope, we shall have spoken our vows as man and wife.”

Before I could give voice to the several responses crowding forward inside me, there were three loud knocks on my chamber door. William responded with a hearty, “Enter,” and the door flew open. The tall, comely youth stopped short on the threshold, his cheeks flushing at the sight of his master in the bath.

“Forgive me, Princesse Alaïs,” he said, with some confusion. “My Lord,” he added, beginning to back out. Behind him three round-eyed menservants, each carrying an armful of wools and silks of the deepest reds and blues, stopped short also and the young, newly made knight was in danger of tripping over them. For indeed it was my son, the young knight Francis.

“Come in, lad. Please,” I said, as I extended my hand to him, giving way to a broad smile from my heart.

“Put those clothes there, on the bed, and leave us!” I issued the order to the menservants in quite a different voice, gesturing with my gloved left hand, and then turned my attention back to the young man before me.

Francis went down on his knees but I raised him up immediately. “No, no, Sir Knight,” I said. “Come, give us a proper greeting.” His
merry grin returned as I embraced him heartily, brushing each of his cheeks with my own.

“You look well, Princesse. I am happy to see you again.”

I held him at arm’s length, and saw with amusement that he was blushing. “And I am pleased to see you looking so hearty.” I nodded to him. “More than you know, Master Francis, as I understand you wish now to be called.” He bowed again, obviously pleased.

When he turned to address William I had an opportunity to observe the changes the last months had wrought in my son, for he had been away since Christmastide. He had spent the time well, growing broader shoulders. There was a look about his body now that was more manly, less the stripling youth he had been when they had set out the previous spring. His profile had changed, too, his bone structure stronger, his face wider as if even his features had decided to settle into adulthood. A scattering of youthful freckles was still visible, but they had grown faint under the tan he had acquired riding the roads of the south. And a full head of auburn hair, King Henry’s coloring,
certes,
still framed his dear face.

For just one moment, I smiled to myself to think that William and I should have discussed his safety as if he were a callow youth. He looked every inch a man and could no doubt well care for himself should the need arise.

I was charmed to hear him, with all dignity, addressing William as if he were sitting in the Templar grand master’s chair and not splashing about in my bath. “Lord William,” Francis was saying gravely, “I bring you news. Abbé Amaury and Pierre de Castelnau are asking for an audience with King Philippe immediately. I think you should come now. Such a meeting should not take place without you.”

“Do not fret, Francis. Papal envoys or not, Philippe will receive the monks when he pleases and not one minute before. And that will not be until the dinner hour tolls. I know how he manages things.” I smiled as I spoke, although the mention of our other newly arrived
guests called to mind Philippe’s hostile response to them. I was not looking forward to sharing their table in the king’s presence.

“But they say they have an urgent letter from His Holiness, Pope Innocent.” Francis may have looked older, but he still had the insistence of youth. He swiveled his head to keep William in his sight as he spoke.

“I know, I know.” William began to rise from his bath, throwing water everywhere like a mythical sea serpent frolicking in the ocean. I tossed him another large towel without ceremony. Francis glanced at me, the corners of his mouth twitching with humor as if in tune with my thoughts. “But of course they have a letter from His Holiness. And I have one too, as fine as theirs. But all in good time.
La princesse a raison,
Francis. Philippe knows I am here, and the king will not formally receive the monks without my presence.” He winked at the youth. “The Templar seal still counts for something, even at the court of France. And if it did not, the king will yet operate in his own interest, which is to include me in the meeting. He has no intention of acceding to the demands of these monks, and he knows I’ll help him out of his difficulty.”

“So you and the king have already devised a strategy to deal with these messengers?” I dropped into a well-cushioned oak bench, and motioned for Francis to sit opposite me.

“After I met with Philippe and Raymond in Blois, I sent to the monks and asked that we gather north of Poitiers. I knew they were coming to Philippe’s court, and I wanted to discover their mission, how they planned to approach the king.” William perused the garments on the bed and, with his usual flawless taste, selected a deep, smoky blue wool tunic, gray hose, and an overcloak of the same lined in silver silk. Not being royal, he could not the wear the scarlet fabric made from kermes dye. But with such an attire, and his own regal bearing, he had no need of it to impress the court. “And take their measure, so to speak.” He struggled with the closings on his tunic and
Francis leaped to aid him. My one good hand would have been of little assistance, I thought ruefully.

“And engage their trust?” I cocked my head to one side and he bent to stroke my cheek as he passed me by. “They must be dense as pigs not to see that motive.”

“Ah, but it’s no matter if they see it or not. They had no choice but to travel with me. After all I, too, am on the pope’s own business.” He picked up his sword, dropped on the floor in his earlier haste to bed me, and buckled it on, casting an amused glance in my direction. “And once we had joined, and conversed, I sent a courier on to Philippe with the knowledge I had gleaned, and some suggestions about how to handle these two minions of God who come seeking silver to make war.”

“What sort of man is this Arnaud Amaury?” I rose now, moving toward my large garderobe to choose a gown, and my question appeared casual. “He has certainly made no friend of my brother, with his constant messengers begging for arms and men. Philippe is not happy to have him here.”

William turned slowly toward me and caught my arm as I passed him. His gesture took me by surprise, as did his next words. “The abbot of Cîteaux? The venerable successor to the saintly Bernard? The former abbot of Fontfroide Abbey? Why, sweetheart, I think you will find he is the very model of the Prince of Darkness himself.”

I was arrested in mid-motion. My face turned toward him and I knew my astonishment was written there. It was the controlled violence in his voice that startled me.

“Do you say so?” I made an effort to keep my voice unconcerned. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Francis sitting upright, perfectly still, as one might watch a storm roll over a hill on the southern moors of Henry’s island. His face betrayed a surprise that told me he was startled by the vehemence of his master’s response.

William recovered his composure as quickly as he had lost it. He shrugged, donning his cloak. He spoke in measured tones as he fussed
with the closing of it. “Perhaps I should not speak so of God’s representative, but there it is.” He paused for a moment, then continued.

“Amaury was a knight and fighter when he was young, quite a good one it is said. Now he is known as a warrior of words, a heretic-fighter in the south where the great debates have been raging between the bishops and those who defend the new religion. Amaury has burning religious fervor, some say a bit too much for a priest. He is capable of killing anybody to defend his idea of God. Harsh words. No compassion. No mercy. And a swift sword promised to those who disagree with his view. But I should not predispose you.” He finished with the clasp on his cloak, and brushed his hands together, like Pontius Pilate. “Meet him and judge for yourself. Then tell me what you think.”