The Rebel Princess (6 page)

“How could you predispose me when you express such neutral views on the man?” My tone was light, but I turned back to my gowns to hide the expression on my face. I did not want him to see that I had more than a casual interest in his words. “By all the saints, I care little to meet this person, abbot or not…Although, on the other side of the coin, perhaps I should want to meet someone who inspires a show of emotion from one usually so controlled.”

“You think it so?” William was suddenly at my side, his arm around me. “Come, give us a kiss, and I’ll show you my control.” And he planted his mouth on mine without waiting for my acquiescence, his arm stealing around me.

“William.” I pulled away, annoyed. He had never been so free in front of the youth before. “Francis is here.”

“Ah, Princesse, no more pretense. I have told our young Francis we will be married, as soon as this business in the south is finished. He has given us his blessing.” And the grand master of the Templars in all of England winked over my shoulder at the young knight as he released me. Francis had a droll expression on his face, as if he were caught enjoying a bawdy play in the town square. I thought again of Chinon and had to smile myself.

“Enough, from both of you,” I said, with all the firmness I could muster. “Out now, I say. My maids will help me prepare for the festivities. I’ll see you in the Great Hall.” And so saying, I threw open the oak doors. A page appeared and I motioned for my maids, who clustered at the end of the long corridor, where they dallied pleasantly with William’s men.

“Your Grace,” Francis suddenly said, stopping in front of me as William was hustling him out the door. “I beg leave to escort you to the banquet tonight. I would have you meet my friend Geoffrey of Exeter, who has been traveling with us. We were knighted together.”

“I would be delighted, Sir Francis. Give me only a short time to prepare myself and return then with young Sir Geoffrey.”

“Good plan,” William said, clapping his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “He shall enjoy a cup of ale in my chambers, tell three tall tales of his valour on the field to his friend, and return here in the space of an hour.”

Mignonne and two of the younger maids slipped into the room and crossed behind the two men, swinging their small hips. William glimpsed them over his shoulder and turned back to me smiling. Suddenly he performed an exaggerated, sweeping bow to me, assuming a propriety that was almost comical given the bantering that had preceded it. Francis, flashing me a grin, followed his master’s movements exactly. And I, shaking my head at their nonsense, was left to doff my gown and immerse myself once more in the bathwater, now tepid and somewhat clouded with sweet-smelling soap.

P
ARIS

I
chose the new white wool for the formal dinner, with the scarlet slashes in the long sleeves, and the tapered skirt with the elegant train. I counted myself lucky that my dressmaker had harried me into several new garments during the previous long winter. My interest was not usually lodged in paints and pots and gowns, but I was moved this evening to make my
toilettage
carefully, and not only for William.

I wanted to impress our guests while I was assessing them. They must see me as a person of power, not dismiss me as a decoration of this court, a useless royal, female bauble. I wanted them to consider what it might cost them to cross me. After I had taken their measure, I could better form my plan to block their every wish.

These thoughts raced through my mind as Mignonne finished braiding and wrapping my
hair. She held the mirror up and rouged my cheeks and lips to my satisfaction, her own full lips dancing as she fought the urge to tease. I had not been so careful making my
toilettage
since William had last been to court and we both knew it.

“Do not dare to say what you are thinking.” I rose and turned toward her, tapping her shoulder with my mother’s pleated, hand-painted fan. Mignonne had been my maid for some years now, and there was much familiarity between us. “I have more in mind than just Lord William. I want to make an impression on the king’s important visitors, as well. They must see me as a
princesse royale
if I am to have any weight in the coming discussions.”

A smart knock on the door with a sword handle interrupted us. I threw a light fur over my shoulders against the damp autumn night air, and opened the door. There stood young Francis, splendid in a cape of deepest sea blue over a matching tunic. His hair was swept back and he had found the time to shave the stubble that earlier had marked him as a traveler. At his side was an equally dapper young knight cloaked in burgundy, the round-faced Geoffrey of Exeter.

“Francis!” I exclaimed. “You look every inch the knight you have become.” My remark was met with a broad grin. Both young men bowed gallantly.

“Your Grace, permit me to present to you my dearest friend, Geoffrey of Exeter. We were knighted together, and have pledged our lifelong friendship.” He looked at me earnestly. “Perhaps you remember Geoffrey from his stay here at Christmastide?”

“Indeed I do,” I said warmly. The young man began to kneel, but I reached down and placed my hand under his elbow to raise him.

“No need for such ceremony here,” I said. “I have heard you are Francis’s good friend. As his friend, I welcome you to Paris with all my heart.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the young man said gravely. “I am pleased to be here, and to be in Lord William’s train. He is a great
man. I seek to be like him someday.”

“And so you shall, if you nurture your soul in valour as well as your body,” I said. I then took the arm Francis offered me, and walked with the two young men into the night air.

The castle was arranged so that the primary apartments all opened onto flagstone corridors, which in turn were rimmed by low walls, balustrades, and pillars, but mostly open to the outside. Only the servants’ quarters on the lowest level underground had no access to open corridors. The night air that brushed us briskly as we moved from my apartments to the central halls was most refreshing but by the time the three of us reached the Great Hall I was feeling a chill. Still, one benefit for me would be flushed cheeks and bright eyes that William might find attractive.

As we approached the massive oak doors that opened onto the Great Hall I talked gaily to Francis and Geoffrey, whose heads were bent low to hear me. I was making light of the various modes of flattery that they would shortly observe at the dinner we were about to attend. So engrossed was I in entertaining my young companions with somewhat ruthless imitations of courtiers vying for the king’s attention that I failed to notice a small party approaching from the opposite direction. These men were also deep in conversation, and had the same hurried step. We arrived at the portals at the same moment, and nearly collided under the bright torchlight.

“Your Grace,” exclaimed the man at the head of the group, pulling up short, as startled as I. “
Je suis désolé.
”

“Chief Minister!” I stared suddenly into the hooded eyes of Etienne Chastellain. Those eyes that gave nothing away. “Good even to you.”

“Your Grace, we beg your forgiveness,” he repeated, as he bowed deeply. “We were discussing an important topic, as you observe, and did not see your party.” He gestured to the two men with him. I recognized one of them from my brother’s conferences, Chastellain’s
chief scribe, Eugene. The third man was unknown to me.

Chastellain was a short, stocky man. A stranger could be forgiven for taking him for a peasant. His people were from the Burgundy countryside, I had been told, and his origins showed in his appearance. His balding head and broad shoulders spoke more of the former army captain he had been than of the role of steward, which his father and grandfather had played for years to the dukes of Burgundy. Hence their name, for they were the castellans of the dukes. Chastellain had risen in the ranks, however, through his military service to my brother, and eventually had been knighted. This, and a certain male bravado, gave him stature among the other ministers and their assistants.

The men with him tonight were lean, ascetic-looking clerics, trained in the law at Rome and later transplanted to the court of Paris. Chastellain’s secretary, Eugene, in contrast to his master, was tall and thin, a floating sort of clerk with a permanent expression of disdain on his narrow, pale face, perhaps the result of having to look down on most people who approached him.

“And to the young men, greetings.” Chastellain was bowing again, excessively polite to the young knights. When he had finished, he examined Francis closely. “Ah, I see you wear the insignia of the household of Lord William. You must be François, his former secretary and now, I hear, a knight of his household.”

A chill swept over me at these words. I felt like a mother sparrow watching a raptor sweep past my nest.
Certes,
Chastellain knew all the secrets of the court. Francis had visited Paris with William at Christmastide, so the spymaster would have made it his business to know about him. The comment could be only a passing and casual reference. Still, I liked not his remark and liked still less the familiarity with which the minister dared to address those in my company. And then a new and dangerous thought appeared: Could the chief minister have a hint that Francis was of my own blood?

A quizzical smile played on Francis’s lips. He appeared surprised that the king’s minister could call him by name. When he bowed and seemed about to respond, I intervened hastily.

“As you can see, Sir Etienne, we are late for the affair.” I smiled and nodded as I motioned to the guards, and they immediately flung the doors wide. “We may not dally, as tardiness annoys my brother, the king.” I edged Francis forward into the room, and Geoffrey trailed after us, looking over his shoulder with curiosity at the small group of men who followed us at a respectful distance.

As we swept into the Great Hall the trumpets sounded to announce my arrival. Everyone turned at the signal of the horn’s high notes. I was so proud to be on the arm of Francis, who looked every inch the knight he had become. Tall and auburn haired, he seemed to have developed the regal bearing that came naturally to the Angevins. In his manner he was so like his natural father, King Henry.

The company was splendid, as befitted the court of Paris the day before a royal audience and tourney. The miracle of Bruges dye had created a panoply of color around the room, the dark reds and blues vying for dominance as the court women had the first opportunity to wear their new finery this autumn. Deep-colored wools, the woad blue and weld yellow dyes, and the new brushed fabric called velvet, were everywhere. The silk veils of the women floated after them as they turned their heads, clouds of pleasing color.

I scanned the room quickly looking for William but then my attention was drawn by a small cluster of noble ladies close to the giant hearth. It was the curious headdress of one in the center of the group that captivated me. Her veil was extended in height by the use of a beautiful jeweled comb, the way that my mother wore her veil in my earliest memories. I had not seen this look in Paris since, excepting only my aunt Constance of Toulouse. I wondered who this visitor was. To judge from her dress, the woman must have come from somewhere in the south.

William was standing with the king on the other side of the largest open hearth. A small circle of knights and nobles ringed them, listening to the king who was talking with great animation. I saw my beloved look up at the bustle that surrounded our entrance, pleasure spreading across his face when his glance caught mine. The crowd, which had paused only briefly in its conversation as we made our way toward the group around the king, resumed their chatter. The hubbub began to mount.

Philippe was in the midst of telling one of his hunting stories, which he felt compelled to illustrate with sweeping hand gestures. The men appeared riveted. Several faces were familiar to me, nobles from surrounding counties who had come for the tournament. Others, appearing tanned from the sun, must have ridden in with William’s party earlier that day.

As I neared the group those facing me gradually took their eyes from the king and followed my progress. The largest of the men, garbed in a deep maroon tunic edged in gold, had his broad back to me. He turned to see what distracted his companions and I momentarily recoiled. I recovered quickly, but not before I saw his heavy eyebrows rise slightly in response.

For, indeed, at this moment I looked upon the face of the man central to my morning visitation, one of the two leaders in the strange ritual I had been shown. His was the figure I had seen at the head of the circle of men as they plunged their tapers into darkness, the cowled monk whose long and fleshy face was revealed to me just before the darkness fell, the man who put his hand with such familiarity on Francis’s shoulder. And the eyes that stared at me now were anything but friendly.

As I approached I noted the same jutting, aggressive chin I had seen earlier, the same ruddy skin and jowls. Now I saw the unruly tonsure which had been hidden by the cowl in my vision: the short, thick black hair curling around the bald spot as if in protest against
the cloister’s demands. The heavy brows framed rather small eyes that glittered as I drew closer, catching the light in a sinister way. Joanna’s letter and my vision came together. This man and I were born to be enemies.

“Abbé Amaury,” I said with a clear voice, moving now without hesitation to where he stood. I offered my right hand and he took it with his own flaccid paw, oddly soft for so renowned a warrior. I tucked my withered left hand into the pocket I had sewn into all my garments especially for that purpose.

“Of course, the famous Princesse Alaïs,” he drawled, his deep, raspy voice rippling with authority. He bowed low and I felt the brush of his full, wet lips on my hand. I suppressed a brief desire to shudder. When he raised his head I removed myself from his touch though I met his gaze without flinching.

“So, you know me even without my monk’s robes?” His gaze was searching. “Yet I do not think we have met before.”

“No, I should remember if we had,” I answered.

“Sister, welcome,” my brother said, more quickly than seemed necessary. He sensed something uneasy in the air. “Then you already know the abbot of Cîteaux?” I could tell he was puzzled, no doubt recalling our afternoon conversation in which I had appeared ignorant of the abbott and his mission.

“Only by reputation.” I smiled, striving for a dazzling effect. “Abbé, we are honored by your presence here. I have heard stories from many of your remarkable valour in opposing heresy.” I kept all irony out of my voice, but William, sensing mischief about to happen, hurriedly intervened. He moved with lithe steps across the space of the circle to edge himself between my person and the abbot.

“And you must also meet Pierre de Castelnau, Princesse, Abbé Amaury’s companion in service to the pope, and the court’s good guest.” He gestured to the ascetic-looking man in the Cistercian monk’s white robes with whom he had been in deep conversation
when I entered the hall. This man moved forward and it was with relief that I noted he, at least, had not played a role in my morning vision. Then I looked into his remarkable face and was astonished. The wide eyes of Pierre de Castelnau were deep and dark, and seemed to me glowing with pain. Suddenly I realized how occupied I had been with the person of Arnaud Amaury, with never a thought to his companion. His demeanor was humble as he bowed deeply to me. I gave him my hand without reserve.

“I suggest, Your Majesty, that we move to table now that the Princesse has arrived. I know my companions”—and William gestured to several of the men, including the abbot and the monk Pierre in his sweep—“are as famished as I from our long journey.” He looked expectantly at the king, and Philippe, his chain of thought from the previous conversation now firmly broken, shrugged and nodded. The king offered me his hand, and I placed mine on his in the manner of courtesy. We moved toward the dais.

Francis and Geoffrey had disappeared from my side as I was absorbed into the king’s circle, and I noticed that they had attached themselves to a group of younger courtiers standing near a trestle table, one of whom was the petite woman of the remarkable headdress. My son was in deep conversation with her. The woman, uncommonly beautiful, drew my brother’s attention as well when we passed.

“We regret that the queen is not able to be with us tonight.” The king was speaking to his companions, even as his glance lingered on the young woman. We advanced through the parting crowds to the high table where the plates of silver were already set out. “She would welcome you herself, but a recent illness has left her weak and she begs your forgiveness for her absence.”