“And did she agree?” I was struggling to discern my aunt’s shift
ing interests.
“Not at first.” He began fiddling with the cross that hung around his neck, identifying him as a papal legate. “But after several conversations, deliberately held, I must say, out of sight of my colleague, Amaury, she agreed to my request that she obtain the cup from St. Denis. I did not ask how she would do this. Then, I was to take the cup south to Toulouse, when I came for the conference I will have with Count Raymond a week hence. My instructions to Count Raymond were to be that he use the cup to, umm, attract the Cathar bishops to come to Toulouse and talk with Foulques and the other churchmen of Rome. That could be the start of peace and acceptance here in the south.”
“Luring the Cathar bishops to Toulouse? More like sending them into the lion’s den. Not a noble use for a chalice with such a history.” I shook my head. “It is one thing to debate in Béziers, or Narbonne, where the Roman bishops are more sympathetic to alternative views. But in Toulouse, where all is rigid and set…” I made a clicking sound with my tongue as I reflected on the folly of this plan.
“Yes, when I arrived at Toulouse on my way to Béziers, I saw the conditions in the city. I met the rabid Bishop Foulques. And I saw how fantastic my plan had been, utterly unconnected to the reality of the situation.”
“But what happened in Paris with Constance? Did you get the cup?”
“After she agreed to get the cup, Constance began to avoid me. I could never manage to talk with her alone. Several times I came upon her talking intensely with the king’s first minister, Etienne Chastellain, in the corridors or on the grand stone staircase. I surmised that she had taken him as an adviser, and wanted nothing more to do with me or my plans.” He paused, looking about before he continued.
“I fear she may have shared my plan with Chastellain. I observed his actions when he was near my colleague, Abbé Amaury, and I believe they had many conversations I was not privy to.”
“You said you thought you had harmed someone,” I murmured, feeling more urgency as someone jostled me on the way past. The fellow was a monk, and muttered something, but I did not respond and he kept on walking. “Who do you think might be harmed?”
“The night before we left Paris, as we were walking to our chambers, Amaury asked me several questions about Lord William of Caen’s household. He seemed particularly interested in the young clerk Francis.”
“Why should that question alarm you?” I forced myself to ask, though it felt as if my throat were closing.
“Amaury seemed to believe that young Francis knew where the cup was, that somehow Constance had enlisted him in her scheme to steal the cup from St. Denis.”
“But that’s absurd,” I exploded. “Young Francis would no more involve himself in such efforts—”
“Perhaps not in ordinary times,” Pierre said sadly. “But the countess may have played on his anger over the death of his friend in the tournament. If she persuaded him that by helping the Cathars he could have his revenge on those who arranged the murder of his friend…” He stopped for a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I may have been a party to involving this youth in our schemes.”
I thought of my brother’s words at the tourney, and of what William said about harm coming to his household, and I felt a quick, involuntary shudder.
“It is my penance for my sins that I must ride by Amaury’s side, and sit next to him at state dinners and know that his violent ways will triumph. That his path in matters of religion is to give no quarter, to stamp out dissent, to adhere to his rigid beliefs.”
“Do you know where young Francis is now?” I was having trouble with my breathing again.
“I do not. Amaury and I parted at Poitiers, at his request. He went on to Fontfroide Abbey and I was bound for Toulouse. It was south
of Poitiers that I accidentally encountered William of Caen. He said the young knight was not with him, but he was terse when I asked and would not speak further about him.”
The door to the refectory opened again, and this time four pilgrims made their way past us. I felt a growing concern. Someone would soon wonder what we were doing locked in conversation, a monk and a nun! “Père Pierre, we must part. To talk further would be to invite notice.”
The monk bent his tall frame so that he spoke in my ear, his voice scarce above a whisper. “I ask a boon of you. Please find the young Francis, and tell him: There is no chance for peace, with or without the chalice. He should not bring it to Toulouse. It will only create more violence.”
“I give you my word, Father. I will make every effort to find the young knight.” The worthy priest had no idea how determined I was to do this very thing. “But if he has the chalice, where then should he take it?”
We had begun walking back toward the dining hall, and when we reached an open space where the cloister walks intersected, the monk stayed me with a hand on my shoulder. It was an act of treason to touch a royal in such a way, but he was clearly becoming agitated to the point of distraction.
“Tell young Francis that if he has the object, he should take it to my sister Beatrice of Béziers. She will see that it is returned to the Cathar bishops. I understand now that the only use of the chalice in Toulouse would have been to bait the trap for the Cathar leaders. I was sadly mistaken in what I tried to do.”
And behold, another innocent who was no match for the strategies of Amaury and Chastellain, I thought grimly.
I looked closely and once again I saw tears glistening in the moonlight on the narrow face of the monk. “You have no hope for a good outcome, then, at your meeting in Toulouse, even with the Lord Wil
liam there to assist?”
“If Foulques is at the conference, and he will be, there will be few options of compromise allowed the count. The bishop will push him to the wall in the name of orthodoxy. And Raymond is caught. If the Cathar leaders were to come, what chance would they have when even the Lord of Toulouse cannot elude the wolves.”
I put my hand on his arm and spoke clearly in a low voice. “Père Pierre, you are a good and holy man. One does what one can. Sometimes it is not enough to combat the forces of darkness. But I will find Francis, rest assured, and if he still has the cup, I will do all in my power to see that Beatrice receives it.” With an impulse, I peeled off my leather riding glove, and took the ring from my right hand. “Here, take this. It has the royal insignia on it. If you have need of safety anywhere, say you are my deputy. It may save your life.”
He looked up with a face that suddenly appeared angelic and serene, full of resignation. “I bless you for that, but I have no need of safety now,” he said. And he put up his hands in a gesture of regret. Then, for some reason he changed his mind. He took the ring and slipped it into the pocket of his habit.
Suddenly I recalled the picture of the priest lying by a river’s bend, his blood watering the land. I knew the monk saw the image as well, for he started, then sighed.
I dared not tarry longer. “Blessings on you, Pierre of Castelnau. God knows you have done what you could.” And so saying, I leaned forward and brushed each of his cheeks with my own. I left him standing with tears streaming down his face. And I could not bear to look back.
O
ur horses were as fatigued as their riders when we finally rode up to the gates of Fontfroide Abbey in the morning two days later. We looked every inch the dusty and tired pilgrims we pretended to be. Even the stalwart Geralda, who had scarce complained at all since we left Lavaur, was reconsidering her decision to accompany me. I could see it in her lined, weary face. But now, of course, it was too late.
The last few days had been rainy and cold, but today the sun shone brightly as we dismounted. The sweet air was a welcome change from the rain and that, coupled with the fair sleep I had enjoyed at a nearby inn the previous night, caused my spirits to rise. I felt renewed confidence that Francis was here and that we were now close enough to prevent harm to him. If only we could move fast enough.
The hospitaler was summoned by the porter immediately after we identified ourselves as nuns from a small monastery near the abbey of Moissac. I thought that might be an address far enough away to be safe. At least days away by messenger, should the current abbot of Fontfroide decide to inquire about us.
True to our plan, we announced ourselves as pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela. We were somewhat west for our story to ring true, so we added that we had attended the recent
débats
in Narbonne on religion, which were, I knew, in the nature of a large convocation for many professed religious.
Our story was accepted without question by the hospitaler. He only inquired how long we would like to stay at the abbey. Geralda and I looked at each other. We had agreed in advance she would usually speak for us, sparing me any additional questions about my Paris accent. Though I had learned the langue d’oc well as a child at Queen Eleanor’s knees, I now carried unmistakable evidence of my northern years in the smooth way I slid over the words. While most would overlook it, we never knew when we would encounter someone who knew the nuances well enough to challenge me.
“We would be grateful for a time to rest, before we continue our journey,” she said. “Perhaps a period of a few days?”
“The abbey is quite overwhelmed with guests now,” the man said. He was short, and rotund, and genial of expression, as he surveyed us. Also, it turned out, generous with information. “Our former abbot is here visiting, and he has a large retinue, which we have had to house, feed, and stable. And we have other important guests at the moment.”
“It does seem busy,” I murmured. There were many carts coming in and out of the gates, even as we spoke. There seemed to be enough provisions passing by to quarter an army, raising a great cloud of dust that floated even into the small porterhouse in which we stood. I stifled a sneeze.
“He’s a very important man,” the hospitaler confided. “He is now
a papal legate, and traveling our region to persuade people to adhere to the true religion of Rome.” As he spoke, he was examining a list, an inventory perhaps of cells or guesthouses available.
“Ah, here is the perfect place.” He looked up and smiled, as if he had made a brilliant new discovery. “We have three small huts, er…guesthouses on the abbey property, and one is not in use. It should accommodate four pilgrims nicely. It is quite far from the main abbey buildings, from the church and chapter house and Great Hall, but it will provide the isolation proper for you all as women religious.”
He glanced skyward, his great brows beetling against the sun. “And the weather is still clement enough, praise the Lord, so coming to and fro for worship and meals should not be a hardship for you.”
“Thank you many times over, Father Hospitaler,” Geralda said with excessive meekness, and I cast her a sharp look. But no sign of a smile appeared on her face and the hospitaler seemed pleased at our gratitude.
“Father Hospitaler,” I interjected before he could move on to his next task. He turned in surprise, perhaps at my commanding voice, perhaps my accent. I softened my tone. “We would be happy to work while we are here at the abbey. We can work in the kitchens, or sweeping, or helping with the altar linen.” Anything, I thought, to draw us into the abbey life so we can find the trail of my son.
“Thank you. We appreciate the offer of service. I will have word sent to your guesthouse before sundown as to your duties on the morrow. Meantime, please use this day to rest and pray, as you must be fatigued from your long journey.”
So saying he turned to give a pull to the great bell that hung over the porterhouse.
“I’ll have Brother James show you to your house. He will have someone see to your horses,” the hospitaler said. Within moments another monk appeared, this one wearing the brown garb of the men
who did not take holy orders, but instead joined the community to do the menial work of the abbey.
We bowed our eyes like good nuns and followed as humble guests behind the brother. It was difficult, however, to rein in our two younger companions, for each had a lively way about her, and had not learned the inhibitions necessary for safety in our situation.
“Look, yonder,” said young Fabrisse, her youthful voice ringing out as we crossed the abbey close. Brother James stopped and turned abruptly, for such openness would not be characteristic of a young woman religious.
“What is it, Sister?” I said, intending a warning with my stern tone. “Have you been frightened?”
“It is the livery of the king of France,” she said artlessly, and I raised my eyes from the ground and followed her pointing finger.
“How do you know the insignia of the king of France?” I asked, covering my surprise as she had spoken truly.
“When I was at my lessons, we were taught coats of arms for Count Raymond of Toulouse, and King Philippe of France, and King John of England who is also Duke of the Aquitaine.”
“Hush, child,” I said, but Brother James’s attention was already captured and he was regarding her with some amusement.
“Well said, young Sister. You learned your lessons well. That is the livery of the king of France. His chief minister arrived only hours ahead of you this very day, to confer with the abbot of Fontfroide, and with our honored guest, Abbé Amaury of Cîteaux.” Brother James chuckled at the precosity of Fabrisse. He was elderly and had a kindly face. Also, he was sufficiently ignorant of the ways of a young novice that her unrestrained behavior aroused no suspicion in him.
“What is your name, child?” he asked.
“She will be Sister Marie of the Sorrows when she makes her final profession,” I interjected, before she could answer. The name Fab
risse, which was native to the rural south, could arouse suspicion even in one so lacking in guile as Brother James.
Then I cast my eyes to the ground and tucked my hands into the sleeves of my robe, as did the others. Geralda walked beside me, giving no indication that she had even heard the exchange. But it was only with restraint that I managed my insouciance. My head was spinning. Chastellain at Fontfroide! And here to meet with Amaury. How dare he come here, in the livery of the king of France, while a knight of Lord William’s household might be languishing a prisoner in this very same abbey? Or could he have conspired in the abduction of Francis himself? Perhaps that was what the meeting was about.
It took some walking to arrive at our guesthouse, and I had time to ponder my disturbing suspicions. The hospitaler had spoken truly. Our quarters were well isolated from the main abbey buildings. But that did not displease me.
We were led along the cloister walks that ringed the massive church, Great Hall, and chapter house of the abbey. The brother fell silent, but roused himself to point out the church and the refectory as we passed them, and indicated in his twangy southern accent that the main meal would take place an hour after the sun was highest.
We left the main buildings of the abbey and crossed what appeared to be a sizable meadow. We followed a well-worn dirt path. Cows were grazing on either side of us, and I could see cultivated fields off in the distance. After some time we came to a little house and I assumed we would stop here, but Brother James merely continued on.
Soon we entered a forest, still within the abbey enclosure. We found ourselves at another small hut, and here he finally made us pause. He took from the rope around his waist a large ring of keys, and opened the rusty lock on the door. It creaked as he pushed it inward.
We entered to find that the house consisted of one somewhat large room filled with a musty smell that indicated a long vacancy. The fire had not been lit for some time, and the pallets for sleeping had cer
tainly not been aired. Not for the first time, Geralda cast me a look that had significant meaning, and it was not optimistic! Ah, well, but here we are, I thought, and brightly smiled back.
“Thank you, Brother James.” I turned to him with a nod. “If you would ask the porter to send our few belongings, we should be grateful. And perhaps some firewood?”
“That request is easily answered,” he said, drawing me out the door and around the side of the small building. “Here is cut wood for your fire. I shall send a boy with a burning log, and he will start it for you. And he will bring watered wine as well.”
“God’s blessings on you, Brother,” I said, as I made to rejoin my companions.
“You are not from around these parts, are you, Sister?” he asked as he placed his hand on my arm to stay me.
I looked at his eyes. Though there was no direct sunlight because of the surrounding trees, still heavy with leaves here in the south, I could see in his eyes an intelligence I had missed earlier.
“No,” I said simply.
His eyelids lowered for the barest moment, as if in fatigue.
“We of this community of Cistercians do our best to follow the rule of Benedict strictly,” he said.
I waited for some further sign of his meaning.
“We are people of God,” he added, his eyes opening wide. He bent his tonsured head down to mine, as if to tell me a secret. “If you should need help or advice while you are here, have a care from whom you seek it. Not all here do God’s will.”
Then, as if nothing untoward had passed between us, he turned and reentered the small hut. So much for my disguise, I thought ruefully.
“Sisters,” he announced to all our group in a raised voice, “when the large bell rings, it will be time for the Angelus. After the chapel service of the holy office, which I know you will want to attend, the
dinner will be served in the refectory. God keep you.” He folded his hands and then departed noiselessly.
Geralda and I looked at each other.
“What is the chief minister of France doing here?” she nearly squeaked, shading her eyes against the sun to examine the far-off flag. “Does this mean danger to you?”
“Not if I can forestall it,” I said. “He is here to meet with Amaury, and his presence convinces me that there is a conspiracy between them. I wonder what story he gave my brother to allow him to ride off with a retinue of the king’s men.”
“We must have a care. He would know you on sight, would he not?”
“Indeed. But he has never seen me garbed as a nun. And I do not wear a wimple at court. As a
princesse royale
I am allowed certain liberties with my dress. So he might not recognize me, even if he saw me.”
“You believe young Francis is here, in this abbey, do you not?” she asked, turning to me.
“I am certain of it,” I replied. “The Cathar preachers said Amaury was here with a great contingent of northern knights. And Pierre of Castelnau told me Amaury was overly interested in Francis. And that he insisted on coming here when he parted from Pierre. I grow more certain by the hour that my son is near.”
“Then let us air this bedding, make our fire, and attend the Divine Office. After that we shall go to dinner and then do our best to insert ourselves into this abbey life so we can accomplish our mission.”
The two younger women were exhausted, and after we shook out the bedding, we encouraged them to rest until the abbey bells should summon us. And, truth to tell, Geralda and I rested also until the sun was high in the sky and a great clanging in the distance summoned us to prayer and our midday meal.