Canterbury Papers Read online

  JUDITH KOLL HEALEY

  The

  Canterbury

  Papers

  Dedication

  To my husband,

  MICHAEL

  Epigraph

  On the imagination:

  The truth of the imagination leads us to compassion. These two, imagination and compassion, are the only possibility of salvation.

  —W. S. Merwin

  Joseph Warren Beach lecture

  University of Minnesota

  March 26, 2001

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Note on the Twelfth Century

  Prologue

  Book I The Journey Out

  1. The Courier

  2. The Letter

  3. Tales of the Deaths of Children

  4. An East-West Encounter

  5. Canterbury Ghosts

  6. Evening Supper with the Prior and the Abbess

  7. An Enlightening Interview

  8. A Curious Luncheon

  9. Sailing into Darkness

  Book II The Heart’s Search

  10. Old Sarum Tower

  11. Entertainments in the Keep

  12. A Ioust with Isabelle

  13. Out of the Keep and Back on the Road

  14. The Safe House

  15. The Dinner Party

  16. Across the Channel and Heading South

  17. A Minor Adventure

  18. Misunderstandings

  19. Letters, Lies, and Secrets

  20. Storms over France

  21. Against All Odds

  22. The Jewel’s Value

  23. Eleanor at Last

  24. Opportunities

  Afterword

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Note on the Twelfth Century

  France was still a small kingdom, even at the end of the twelfth century when this story opens. The French kings controlled the Île de France and some surrounding areas. Powerful Burgundy lay to the east, the broad lands of Aquitaine to the southwest, and Brittany and Normandy to the north and northwest, independent dukedoms or counties all.

  An attempt had been made in 1137 to broaden the French kingdom when the French king, Louis VI (le Gros), and William, the ninth Duke of Aquitaine, agreed to the marriage of their children—just before each of the rulers conveniently died. Louis VII, called le Jeune, was seventeen at the time, and Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, was only fifteen years old. The royal couple eventually had two daughters, but no sons. This remained a sore point with Louis’s advisers and counselors, who feared for the succession.

  The other power on the continent at that time was Normandy. It was from Normandy two generations earlier that Duke William (later called the Conqueror) had sailed to defeat King Harold at Hastings and to assume lordship of England. William I’s granddaughter, Mathilda, vied with her cousin Stephen for the crown of England following the death of William’s son, Henry I. Stephen was the victor. After a stormy civil war, and the death of Stephen’s only son, Eustace, Stephen agreed to accept Mathilda’s son, young Henry of Anjou, as heir to the English throne.

  Meanwhile, the marriage of Eleanor and the pious Louis fared badly. In 1152 Eleanor and Louis divorced and she immediately married Henry of Anjou, who was about to become king of England.

  Eleanor brought with her to her new marriage a dowry of the broad and fertile lands of Aquitaine. Henry and Eleanor thus formed a formidable alliance against Louis. This caused years of intermittent wars, notably over land in Normandy and the Vexin, although periodic attempts were also made on both sides to reach some kind of peace.

  Louis married again, and again, until he had the son he so desired. From his second marriage to Constance of Spain, Louis produced two more daughters, Marguerite and Alaïs. In one of the rare moments of détente, Thomas à Becket arranged for the marriage of these two daughters to Eleanor and Henry’s eldest sons. Marguerite married young Henry, called “the Young King” to distinguish him from his father, and Alaïs was betrothed to Richard, who came to be known as “the Lion Heart.”

  The marriage of Alaïs and Richard never took place. Eventually, much of the land of the northern continent and all of Aquitaine, Normandy, and Brittany became part of France. England went its own way, ruled for several centuries by descendants of the Plantagenet family of Anjou.

  But for one century politics and power were dominated by a score of interesting, determined, and dramatic people, whose destinies seemed interwoven as if by divine design. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Henry of England, Louis of France, Richard the Lion Heart, John of England, Philippe of France, and Thomas à Becket were unforgettable characters. And so, if you believe this story, was Alaïs, forgotten princess of France.

  Prologue

  A.D. 1200

  My last feelings, just before the hands seized me, were of my cold limbs. My last memory before darkness was of a trivial nature. I recall noticing the torches lining the cathedral walls and the leaping shadows that sprang from their fire to perform a macabre dance as if for my entertainment. They reminded me of a traveling dance troupe from Venice I once saw, tall, thin figures garbed in black cloaks and doublets, rising and falling like shafts of dark water in rhythm. The cold gusts of air feeding the torches seemed to increase as I watched, as if doors had opened somewhere. I should have been warned, but instead I paid no attention.

  I was kneeling on the steps of the side altar, the very altar where Thomas à Becket had fallen under the swords of Henry’s knights nearly thirty years earlier. I was not lost in prayer, as it might have appeared to an onlooker, should any such be passing through the church at this late hour. Rather I was focused on how to make my knees obey my mind and rise, so that I could carry out the purpose for which I had come, the task that forced me to spend a lonely hour on this dark, drafty April night in Canterbury Cathedral.

  For although I was ostensibly on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the martyr to pray for my sins (and God knows there were plenty of those strung out like dark pearls in the years behind me), I had another reason altogether for keeping a vigil this night: I had been sent to recover Eleanor’s letters.

  The map stuffed into my pocket was no longer necessary. I had committed its contents to memory. All I had to do was persuade my stiff knees to disengage from the hard marble and straighten, so I could move around the altar to the masonry in back. Then it would be a simple matter to find the rosy-colored stone in the third row from the bottom and retrieve the packet of letters stored behind it. I could return to my warm guesthouse here at the abbey, and tomorrow I would be on my way back to France. Within the fortnight the letters would be delivered to Fontrevault Abbey. Then Eleanor would be happy, and I would finally get the information she had promised.

  So engaged was I in that arduous task of rising that I failed to hear the slight sound behind me that would have signaled my fate. Instead I was taken completely by surprise. The only thing I felt was a strong hand around my neck, another around my waist, and—before I could cry out—I smelled the thick, sweet scent of a mandrake-soaked cloth. Unforgiving hands clapped it against my face, and all went dark.

  When next I was aware, I was lying on my side in a litter of some kind, jolting along in a rough carriage enclosed by heavy velvet curtains. They smelled of mildew, and I was reminded of a damp stone tunnel under the castle at Chinon we royal children used for our play. I was covered with a rough wool blanket that scratched when I twisted. It stank distinctly of pigs.

&nb
sp; I raised my head as far as I was able and saw that I was alone. My head felt weighty as a miller’s sack of flour, and my tongue was covered in the same velvet that surrounded me. My hands were bound, but it was no matter: I couldn’t have stirred a limb at that moment if they had been free. The very effort to hold my head up became too much, and I fell back on the makeshift pillow of cloaks someone had placed under me.

  For a long period I could not move at all. My head felt alternately light and then leaden, and dreams wafted in and out like wisps of smoke. The shapes were familiar, but I couldn’t catch hold of anything. The shoulder under me ached, probably from being tossed into this cart, but I was unable to relieve my position since my hands were pinned behind my back. I kept hearing the music of a lute, probably Marcel’s lute, playing a familiar madrigal, but I could capture no more than a few notes at a time before it faded. And anyway, if it was Marcel, why didn’t he stop playing and come to my aid?

  An odd thought intervened: Minuit, my small black cat. I should have brought her with me on this journey. They would never remember to bring her indoors when it rained in Paris. Unbidden, tears began to spring up behind my eyes, and, like a rusty fountain finally producing, I allowed them to spill out. I had not cried in years. I was surprised I had not lost the knack.

  To get better control, I tried to put my mind on some other topic. As was my practice when distressed, I set myself a problem to solve. The choice was obvious: my own situation. How was it that a princess of the royal house of France, at one time betrothed to the king of England himself, should come to find herself dragged through a cold Kent night by unknown ruffians, bound and stuffed like a wild boar in a lout’s carriage? But even in my befuddled state, I knew the answer. It was the very same cause of all the difficulties that had plagued me through my entire life: It was all Eleanor’s doing.

  BOOK I

  The

  Journey

  Out

  .1.

  The Courier

  Lady Eleanor was my stepmother, and the dearest friend of my childhood. To everyone else she was Queen Eleanor of England, or the Duchess of Aquitaine, or “Your Highness.” To me she was simply the Lady Eleanor.

  Our long and complicated history had many bends in the road, and our early intimacy had long since disappeared from view. Even so, it was hard to imagine that she meant me bodily harm. But there was no doubt in my mind that my current situation could be traced directly to the letter Queen Eleanor had sent to my brother’s Paris court not a fortnight earlier.

  Philippe and I were closeted together when her letter arrived. We were in his private chambers in our drafty palace on the Île de la Cité, perched on the edge of the wind-whipped Seine, when the courier found us. We were alone, without guards or servants, as was usual when he wished to badger me about some inadequacy of my performance as princess royal.

  “Alaïs,” I recall him saying, “I have hesitated to speak to you about this, but your behavior is becoming more and more a daily topic of discussion for the court.”

  With hands clasped behind his back, he paced away from me as he talked, so that his words at the end became muffled as if flung against the wind. I sighed.

  The chamber suited Philippe. His passion was war, always had been. The tapestries that lined the high stone walls and provided some measure of warmth were laced with hunting scenes—men with spears, boars in flight, hounds leaping. Hunting is, after all, a form of war; at least I would think so if I were an animal. The doors that guarded the privacy of the chamber were of oak and carved with scenes from the ancient battle of Troy. Encircling the hearth was another remarkable piece of oak carved by highly skilled artisans. They had used their art to design miniature weapons—bows, arrows, knives, swords—all intertwined like a chain of malicious grapes winding around the gentle hearth fire.

  “Well, what do you have to say, sister?” He turned unexpectedly and headed back in my direction. I forced my attention to the issue.

  “I cannot understand, brother, why the court should gossip about me in this way. Unless it is that your courtiers are envious of my serenity in the midst of the tremendous chaos that reigns over this impending wedding.”

  “They say not that you are serene.” Philippe’s toe stubbed on a corner of one of the Smyrna carpets of which he was so proud. He cursed softly as he caught himself. At such vulnerable moments, he was not the king of France to me. I saw him only as my younger brother.

  “The reports are the reverse, that your feeling about this wedding runs high. The charge is that you refuse to take part in the preparations, or even give advice when it is sought, but instead become angry when Agnès or her ladies try to involve you in their plans.” He began to rub his brow, always a sign that his headaches were returning, then covered the gesture by running his fingers through his dark, cropped hair. “Alaïs, this is becoming an issue between Agnès and my royal self. She feels you are not supportive of this coming wedding between our son and the house of the Plantagenet.”

  I held back yet another sigh. Philippe felt caught; I could see it in his face. I knew he did not want to have this conversation with me, that Agnès had forced it on him. We cared for each other, and he mostly left me alone to brood in my own way or withdraw if it suited me. For all his faults, he was my brother. I sometimes saw in his face the broader outlines of my own as it played back to me from the metal mirror he himself had brought me from the south. We had different mothers, but the lines and shapes of our faces, long and thin, were of the father we shared, and we had the same slightly almond-shaped eyes, those eyes of the Capet house of France. His were dark, while I had been told mine were as green as the eyes of my black cat.

  “Philippe, try to understand my position.” I shifted on the cushions to lean forward and made a gesture of appeal with my good hand. “I don’t like weddings. I don’t want any part of them. I am delighted that you have arranged this marriage between little Louis and Eleanor’s granddaughter.” I smiled but then spoiled it by muttering, “Although why Eleanor of Castile would want to send the child Blanche from sunny Spain north to the damp fog of Paris is beyond me.”

  Philippe stopped in front of the small couch on which I had draped myself. “That is exactly the kind of comment that—”

  “—that gets me in trouble in this court of yours,” I finished for him. It was so easy to finish his remarks, because, on some subjects, they were so predictable.

  “It’s your court as well, Alaïs,” he said, sounding wounded.

  “No, it’s not, Philippe. Let’s not—at least between us when we are alone—keep up that fiction. I am here at your sufferance. I was sent back here like an unwanted package when my betrothal to Richard ended and Queen Eleanor found me an embarrassment. You are kind, but I am of an age where I should have my own home and county, and a husband of my own. I don’t, and so I find myself your guest.” I tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner but found my voice oddly giving way to some kind of shakiness as I finished. So I stopped talking until I had more possession of myself.

  “And so,” I continued, speaking slowly, as if these thoughts were occurring to me for the first time, “perhaps because I never had my own wedding, it is difficult for me to enter with joy into planning this one. As I said at dinner this eve, it has occurred to me that I would be better in these days away from court. I would like your permission to withdraw for some time. Perhaps to stay with our sister Marie in Troyes until summer. She has always been willing to welcome me.” I paused. “If I am away, out of sight of those who criticize me, it would not be necessary then for you to have to defend me, as you do now.”

  “Alaïs…,” he began. I was horrified to hear sympathy creeping into his voice. Who knows what emotional nonsense he would have uttered had we not—fortunately—been interrupted by the messenger, preceded by one of Philippe’s marginally competent personal guards.

  “Your Majesty.” The short, burly figure of Philippe’s head guard flung open the heavy oak door as the hinges
protested. “This man insists … presenting…”

  And before he could complete the announcement, the guard was gently edged aside by a remarkable-looking stranger who towered above him. The newcomer was no longer young, but he appeared still vigorous. He was dressed in traveler’s garb, an ordinary tunic with no mail overshirt, leggings, a wet Lincoln green cloak, and boots spattered with mud. One keen eye sparkled with intelligence, while the other was sewn entirely shut, giving his craggy face a kind of unintended rakishness. But he held himself regally, and I saw the scarlet and white emblem of Eleanor of Aquitaine interwoven with the lions of England dressing his breast. My heart mounted into my throat, and I suddenly sat straight upright. It was Sir Owain of Caedwyd, King Harry’s lieutenant and trusted knight, whom we had always called by the affectionate English name Tom.

  “Sir Owain of Caedwyd with urgent messages for the king”—the guard raced through to the finish—“and the Lady Alaïs.”

  “Courier?” Philippe had turned at the interruption, and his voice was sharp. “What is your business with the king?” My brother disliked interruptions in the extreme, especially if he was experiencing some emotional state. Something to do with manhood, I believe.

  “As your own man stated,” Tom said, with the barest hint of irony, “I have letters for Your Majesty and Your Grace.” He bowed low to each of us. “They are to be delivered personally and in confidence.”