The Rebel Princess (7 page)

“Your Grace,” William responded, “since there is a place set at the high table that the queen will not occupy, perhaps you would indulge me and allow my squire and knight, young Francis of York, to sit with us.” He smiled winningly in my direction. “Princesse Alaïs is quite
taken with his manners, they tell me.”

Philippe nodded good-naturedly as we began our ascent of the stone steps. “But of course, if you wish it.”

William scanned the room and located young Francis. I followed his glance and saw that my son had just seated himself next to the young woman in the unusual veil arrangement, and their heads were already bent together. Young Geoff was on the other side of the woman, engaged in intense conversation with yet another lovely maid. It amused me that my brother’s court lacked no opportunity for young love to blossom.

William snapped his fingers and a page appeared, bending to hear the murmured order. The youth, his short cape a streak of burgundy, ran through the tables to where Francis was sitting. A brief exchange brought the young knight swiftly to his feet and he looked up in my direction. Our glances met, or so it seemed to me. Francis reached our party as we mounted the dais, attaching himself to William as if waiting the next instruction. I was touched by his quick response, and wondered, briefly, if it were for me or for William that he came with such alacrity.

“The queen’s presence would have graced us, surely,” Pierre de Castelnau was saying with no trace of irony in his voice, when I returned my attention to our group. “We hope for her improved health.”

The abbot of Cîteaux grunted in agreement. He must be wondering how Pope Innocent’s interference in the king’s marriage could damage their request for his help.

At my brother’s direction, I took the chair to the right of the king, the one usually designated for the queen. Philippe motioned for William to sit next to me, but then the king turned away. William directed Francis to take that seat instead. As always, he knew what to do and how to do it.

The abbot of Cîteaux set himself down heavily on the other side of Francis and William took the place next to his, while Pierre de Castel
nau took the last seat in the line, beside William. To my brother’s left side sat his current favorites, the Duc de Brabant and the Count of Champagne, the latter a former enemy with whom a satisfactory peace had recently been concluded. Philippe turned his attention to his nobles with a jest that caused them to laugh uproariously. It appeared that those of us sitting to the right of the king would be left to our own conversational devices. I guessed Philippe desired no casual dinner conversation with his monastic guests prior to tomorrow’s audience.

After the king had seated himself, the others in the crowded hall took their places at the long tables laid out below the royal dais. Cushioned chairs and benches for the nobility were provided at tapestry-covered trestles on the lower level, and farther down the grand hall the lesser knights and their ladies who made up the bulk of the court were seated in slightly more crowded, if still festive, table arrangements. From our perch above it all I saw that they created a colorful panoply of deeply dyed blue and red wool, of silver threads and forest-green capes, of rubies and emeralds occasionally flashing in the light of a thousand torches and candles. The assembled court appeared to be a flock of exotic birds gathered for the king’s royal entertainment.

The jongleurs and minstrels were filing into the hall now, bowing to left and right as they threaded their way among the tables. Conversation fell to a low buzz. When the serving began, there was a pause that allowed Philippe to turn to our side. He seemed puzzled to see the seating arrangement that William had reordered. Little did my brother know why I rejoiced to have the young knight seated next to me.

A small stage was set up for the jongleurs’ performance, near to the main hearth and opposite and slightly below the royal dais. I spied a familiar face at the place of honor nearest that stage.

“Look, Francis, there below in the bright yellow cloak.” The young knight followed my gesture. “That is Gace Brulé, the king’s new favorite trouvère. Lately he has been performing his own songs
for the court, and I suspect he will sing this eve.”

“Is that the man from Nanteuil lès Meaux?” He peered over the crowd. “I heard his name, in Toulouse. He is nearly a legend. I am pleased to see him in the flesh.”

I had to smile. “You will be even more delighted when you hear him. I understand the nobles from the south cannot believe we in the north have songs of
courtoisie
in our own langue d’oïl. They tend to think their troubadours are the only performers of this fine art. You must correct this impression when you travel there with Lord William.”

“Do your trouvères sing their own songs?” Francis was still interested in things aesthetic, I noted with pleasure.

“The maker of the song always sings for the king, if he is present. Philippe expects it as a mark of respect to the crown. Is it not also done in the courts of the south these days?” It had been many years since I had spent summers in Poitiers with my stepmother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. Sometimes I sighed for the gracious life there, especially when the winters in the north grew long.

Francis smiled. “Lord William and I were in Toulouse only for a short time in the autumn. But at the court of Raymond, the troubadours who were not of noble blood performed regularly. I heard myself the plaintive and beautiful poems of Pierre Vidal, ‘
le protégé du Comte Raimond soi-même,’
as he titles himself. They were exquisite songs of love.” A look of pleasure crossed my son’s face, as he bent forward to hear the plaintive love lyrics of the sweet-voiced singer.

I thought again of the young woman in the elaborate headdress and, without considering the consequences, I asked Francis: “Who was that young beauty sitting next you when William sent for you to join us? The one with the jeweled comb holding the veil, in the southern mode of dress.”

Francis couldn’t hide his sudden discomfort, visible to me in the light of the torches. I instantly regretted my overly direct question. He
responded gamely, however.

“She is the sister of the Count of Foix, a small viscounty south of Toulouse.” A smile spread slowly across his serious face. “Her name is Esclarmonde. It means ‘light of the world.’”

I wanted to say I knew the Latin, but forbore to speak, so serious was the youth’s expression.

“She is most interesting,” he continued, absently stroking his chin in an unthinking imitation of William in deep thought. “Not like other maids I have known.”

“How so?” I asked, now carried along by the conversation. I was driven by the prick of envy that defined me as the mother of a son old enough to love other women, and yet I was mildly amused by it withal.

“She talks of important things, not court gossip. She is concerned for the safety of her brother’s land in the south. She is here to beg the king to resist interfering with her family’s rightful heritage.” He paused, his earnest words labored. “She has such intense beliefs. It is unusual in a woman and…”—he paused, glancing my way—“when she speaks with her great passion, her beauty shines forth.”

The young man’s candor and obvious feeling made me suddenly blush to question his private life. To cover my feelings I turned my attention back to the stage below. A simple murmur directing his attention to the revelers ended this portion of our conversation.

The servants had begun to serve the food and conversation had fallen to a low buzz to allow the music of the minstrels to be heard. My attention strayed as a Breton
lai
was begun, telling a new, albeit short, story of the adventures of King Arthur’s knights. The lute’s plaintive notes fell on the air as I contemplated the profiles of the monks seated near me.

The difference in their appearance was striking. The ascetic Pierre in his simple, white habit, lean but not hungry looking, watched the
innocent spectacle with flickers of admiration on his long, thin face. It was difficult to see his form under his monk’s robes, but there was no doubt from the way his facial bones jutted that he was lean from fasting to the point of danger. His mysterious dark eyes had moved me when we met at close range, and now I could see that his hands, placed carefully one over the other in front of him when not in use, had not one extra ounce of flesh on them. Yet I had to admit his expression had a sweetness that spoke of generosity and self-denial. I marked the outline of his face, and would attempt to draw it with charcoal at the first opportunity. Perhaps it would reveal more to me under my own artist’s memory than it did now.

This monk seemed genuinely to enjoy the ferocious physicality of the entertainers, who did handsprings to amuse us between the rounds of ball juggling that Philippe so adored. I liked the look of laughter that passed over Pierre’s face when the lead juggler tripped backward and deliberately dropped his many colored balls—one after the other—retreating in exaggerated embarrassment. I had the feeling that if the jongleur were truly embarrassed, the monk Pierre would give him all due sympathy.

Amaury, on the other hand, watched with a bored look on his face, fidgeting from time to time by shifting his bulky body or locking and unlocking his meaty hands impatiently as they rested on the table. His luxurious garb displayed his love of court finery. Did he enjoy dressing up, like some morality play actor who put on a costume to impress his audience? Or did he take a sensual delight in having the silk next to his flesh, rather than the harsh wool of the Cistercian robe? Or did he think himself royalty, entitled to the ermine worn by kings? I found my thoughts wandering into a field of wonder about his manhood. Was he celibate, as priests were now required to be? Or did he take his pleasures wherever he found them?

Suddenly the object of my attention swung his head around and looked past Francis, and directly toward me. I made an effort to as
sume a blank expression, which was difficult given my thoughts at the moment. Abbot Amaury stared as if he were sending me a hostile message. He leaned forward and our eyes locked in the bright candlelight between us. I raised my brows in a cool fashion, as if to inquire the meaning of his intense and somewhat disrespectful attention. He was the first to look away. I then continued to ponder his face for another full moment, searching for clues to this man’s soul and his place in my private visitation of that afternoon.

Philippe finally waved the entertainers away, and began a more serious conversation with the nobles at his left side as the main service of the meal commenced. At almost the same moment, William initiated an exchange with the churchman seated next to him, leaning forward to include Francis and myself.

“So, Abbé, tomorrow you present the pontiff’s letter of request to the king for an army to settle the matter of the south, yes? And if he agrees will you lead this army yourself?”

Amaury was caught unawares by William’s question. He was in the act of moving his heavy jaws to work on the roast boar. He nearly choked, but in a moment had recovered himself enough to swallow and respond. “The Lord William honors me with his interest in my mission.” There was a pause, during which the abbot threw down another gulp of port. “As you already know, it was only recently that I was named the papal legate to the good people of the south. Yes, the holy father begs the king of France to help me to restore them to the true faith. And if the king agrees to help, yes, I myself shall lead the army.”

“And why do the people of the south need this restoration?” I asked innocently.

“Because they have fallen into error, Princesse.” The abbot’s sonorous tone recalled many leaden sermons I had been forced to attend at St. Denis. These tones must be the official voice of Rome, I thought. “They are consumed as a people with the rapidly spreading
Cathar heresy.”

“Surely, my lord Abbé, heresy is a weighty matter. It can and does exist. But why pay particular attention to the heresy of the south? I have heard tales of so-called Good-Men as far north as the lowlands. And were there not heretic burnings in Lyons, even in the memory of men still living?”

Arnaud Amaury was prevented from speaking for a moment as he attended to another silver plate set in front of him, this time turnips in spiced cream. I waved my own portion away as I waited for his answer to my inquiry.

After a moment Amaury looked up. His mouth was partially full as he waved his two-pronged Italian fork in my direction and spoke. “Yes, it is true. There have been many recent instances of heretics in other places. But the south is a veritable hornet’s nest of them, madame. And where others may be isolated instances of holy men—or madmen—preaching here and there, this time the belief has spread across the populace. Every village is infected. And Rome has had enough.”

He paused only long enough to wipe his mouth carelessly with his hand, a soldier’s gesture. “The
Cathari,
or ‘
bons chrétiens’
as they call themselves,” he added contemptuously, “pretend to want to purify the church, but they defy Rome at every turn. There have been many debates and many attempts to squelch this filth, but, far from killing the heresy, every effort to address these fallacies of belief has served only to encourage those who take part. New adherents are reported daily. A stronger approach is needed.”

“But Abbé,” interjected Francis unexpectedly, “everything I have discovered about this strange sect is to their credit. They seem to want to return to the simplicity of the early years of the church. How can Rome object to those who wish to adopt practices that follow the gospels and the example of the early Christians?”

We all turned to look at the young man, who glanced from one side to the other with a mildly quizzical expression. William leaned
forward expectantly, a smile spreading across his face.

The abbot, who had addressed his earlier comments to William, now swung his strong jaw in the direction of the youth.

“And who are you to take up an issue with me?” he bellowed, causing my brother to interrupt his conversation and glance briefly in our direction. “You young puppy! How dare you speak to your betters on matters of which you are ignorant!”