When I described my capture and interview with Amaury, and my final barb thrown to him as I left, William burst out laughing. He was shaking his head now, no longer in disapproval, but in humorous disbelief.
“Princesse, your most exasperating qualities are your greatest virtues.”
I smiled to see his anger abated, and could not forbear to ask: “And what might those be?”
“Your impatience, your occasional bad temper, your unwomanly love of adventure, your manly courage.” He reeled these off as if he had given some thought to each item in the weeks since we had parted.
“I accept those virtues, and I will give little thought to changing,” I said, “though in the future I shall attempt to curb any excesses that might put my life in danger.”
Then, noting the satisfied look that settled over his countenance, I added, “And I have a gift for you as well: your exasperating qualities match mine. You have a choleric temperament, quick judgment, and a high-handed way with women. And you are so used to getting your own way that you cannot see when you could be wrong.”
“You have bested me again, Alaïs,” he said ruefully, but smiling. Then he pulled the bench closer to me, so that he could look directly into my eyes. I could smell the heat of travel still on him, the leather of the saddle, the male scent so familiar. It somehow brought me closer to him, and made me more aware of my own travel-stained body and matted hair. But my appearance seemed to matter little to him. He grasped my wrist in his large hand, and I could feel the pressure on
my bones.
“It is difficult to remain angry with you, Alaïs,” William was saying. “All my soul fights me. My feelings for you pull me like an army pulling a trebuchet, forcefully tugging me a way I would not go.”
He released my wrist and leaned forward to bend over me. “Wait,” I said, but my words were muffled when he placed his lips on mine. The kiss was not long, or particularly passionate, but marked a union of our two selves, a rejoining, as if a peace were created after a storm.
When we separated there was silence. Then William took the goblet still circled in my hand on top of the covers, rose, and went to the side table, where he poured more wine for each of us.
He came back and offered the cup, which I took with gratitude. The pewter stem felt cold to my hand, but the spice in the wine warmed me as I let it slide down my throat.
A knock at the door, which William opened, heralded a servant with a tray of hot broth and bread and pheasant on a trencher. I picked at the food, and ate a little. But my heart was not in it. All the while William sat next to me and watched in silence as I also watched him. Soon I asked him to take away the tray, and I rested against the pillows.
Our conversation had yielded much information, but my feelings were overwhelming me. I felt a fatigue I had seldom known when my body was undamaged.
William pulled the furs around me, and leaned down to take away the cup, as he saw my eyes closing. “Sweetheart, I have tired you. You must rest. You have wounds and broken ribs that need time to heal.”
“Don’t leave,” I murmured, although my lids were already growing heavy.
“I’m not leaving Foix.” He smoothed the hair back from my brow. “But you must sleep now, and when you wake eat something more. From what you have said, if Francis is safe and all has gone well with
him, he should be here by nightfall. When he comes, I will bring him to you. You may tell him you are his mother. You have earned the right, and I was wrong to keep you from doing it.”
I heard the door close behind William. For a few moments I tried to recall what had been said in this long, remarkable interview, but the words were supplanted by images that jumbled in my mind as I drifted off. The images were of me falling from my horse, and William riding toward me, slipping off his destrier in time and catching me in his arms. These pictures evoked a feeling of serenity in me that was vastly comforting, even as they faded into darkness.
O
nly once did I come to again that day, when they brought my broth and shook my shoulder to awaken me enough to drink it. I saw that dusk was falling outside the castle window. Then I pulled the furs around my shoulders and gave myself back to sleep even as I held the image of my son’s young and handsome face.
When next I opened my eyes, late afternoon sun was streaming into the chamber. In a panic I saw I had slept another whole day. This time my head felt much clearer, and the pain as I attempted to sit up was not so vehement as it had been. My arm throbbed, though, where the dagger had torn the flesh. Fortunate for me that it had been my left arm that was wounded, for with my withered left hand it was of no use to me anyway.
As I looked for a bell to ring, the door
opened. Philippa, Countess of Foix, entered with a string of servants following her. Some had trays of food and pitchers of milk, some carried basins of warm water.
“My dear Princesse, you must be famished.” Philippa came toward me and motioned a servant to place the tray on my lap. Others set basins on the table beside the bed, and the clouds of moisture rising from them was welcome.
“You will eat first, and more hot water will be brought for you to wash,” the kind countess said, leaning down to sponge my face with warm water. She placed the cloth in the basin when she had finished and stood back, her hands folded in front of her. “I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to see you awake and mending,” she said.
“And what pleasure it gives me, Countess, to be well cared for. And to be safe.” I looked around. “But where is Lord William? And has young Francis arrived, or Geralda or Fabrisse or Grazide?” Fears began to insert themselves into my sense of well-being, as I thought of the dangers my comrades might have experienced on their journeys.
“Young Francis and Geralda arrived last eve. Lord William thought it best not to wake you. Geralda is quite fatigued and still sleeps, but Francis and the Lord William should be in to see you soon. They are conferring with my lord Raymond-Roger even now.” And this rejoinder satisfied me that all was well. My heart swelled with gratitude that my son was safe.
“And Grazide and Fabrisse?” The faces of the young women rose in front of me, as if accusing me for my comfort whilst they might still be sleeping in fields. But Philippa shook her head. “No word yet from them.”
Despite my worry, I felt famished. After I had happily eaten warm game, a broth soup of leeks and turnips that created heat all through me, and a delicious almond cake, I finished off the meal with cheese and wine. I could feel life returning to me with the nourishment I had taken.
“Countess, I would welcome that tub of warm water for washing.” I was especially aware of my gritty and matted hair. I did not want William to see me this way again. It put me at a distinct disadvantage as a woman in our relationship. The countess snapped her fingers and two servants hustled from the room.
Within a short time a wooden tub was brought, along with pails of hot water. With help I hobbled over to the steaming vessel, and, after removing the cloths that had been wound tightly around my battered ribs, I submerged myself in it gratefully. A servant appeared at my side with soaps and pitchers of water. I wished to frolic and splash as a child, so relieved was I to lay aside the dusty traveler I had been for weeks and become once more clean as a woman of my station ought to be.
The maidservants had carried in the scented oils and creams of the countess, and their gentle hands on my back brought a further sense of well-being. They helped me from the tub and rubbed my body with perfumed unguents as I lay on the bed. A small, wrinkled old woman arrived with yards of muslin, the light cotton that had come back with the Crusaders from the east, and she wound it around my midsection tightly. When she was finished I felt somehow lighter and safer, and the pain eased. Then I donned fresh linen and a gown belonging to the Countess Philippa, which nearly fit, although the skirt was too short to brush the floor in the current fashion. To finish all, the servants bound up my still wet hair with a circlet of jewels.
I settled myself in a large, carved chair with many embroidered cushions around me to prevent my sore ribs from hurting. I found that I could avoid almost all pain in this position by moving little, turning my head rather than my body. The absence of pain is only noticed by those who have the recent experience of pain itself, I reflected.
While our womanly rituals were under way, the countess sat in a companion chair entertaining me with stories of the women I had met at Lavaur. Finally, when I was ready, she stood.
“La, I nearly forgot. Lord William asked to see you straightaway when you woke, but I told him you must first be made ready. He seemed impatient, but in my house, even when my lord Raymond-Roger is here, I rule the servants and the protocol of dress.”
“The Lord William not only seems impatient, he is impatient,” I commented, thinking of our duel of words the day before. “But my thanks go to you, Countess, as I would not for all the world have had him see me again in that state of disarray.” I smiled my gratitude, and the countess’s sunny face told of the age-old conspiracy of women that was beyond the ken of any man.
The words were scarce uttered than the door was flung open, as if to prove my statement, and William strode in.
“I hope the women have had sufficient time for their
toilettage
,” he said, a tinge of good-humored irritation in his voice.
“And so we have, Lord William,” I greeted him happily, feeling I appeared once again the
princesse royale
who might hold appeal for him. I felt the stronger for it. “You were kind to indulge us.”
He glanced at me sharply, as if he knew I made fun of his impatience, but then a smile spread. “Ah, Princesse, had I known this hour would restore your customary loveliness, I would not have begrudged it so.”
“You see, Countess. An impatient man, a soldier and commander, but also one who can use fine words when necessary.” I grinned, and he came to me in one movement, bending down to kiss me hard.
“And I have brought someone to see you, as I promised,” he said.
Then I saw behind William the only face that was dearer to me than his, that of my son, Francis, his auburn hair longer, fuller, and more unmanageable, his face burnished by the southern sun. He stepped forward with the same assurance William showed, a new manliness about his presence. His expression was inscrutable, his features settled into a calm state. But lines had appeared on his forehead and around his eyes, lines that I did not remember, even though it
was only a fortnight since we parted at Fontfroide. It appeared that the events of these past few weeks had taken the impetuous youth, so enraged at his friend’s useless death in Paris, and made a man of him.
“Your Grace,” he said, bending over my hand as it lay on the coverlet beside me, “I owe my life to your courage and resourcefulness.” As he came close, I pulled his head down and pressed his cheek to mine. I could not speak, for my heart seemed to have worked its way into my throat. It was a moment before I released him.
“Princesse, the young knight and I must have a conversation with you. Countess, could you leave us please?” William’s tone was far more politic than it had been the previous day.
“With all good wishes, Lord William. I will be in my chambers. Servants are just outside the door, if you need anything. Even though I believe they are to be trusted,” Philippa added, in a lower tone, “have a care not to speak with a voice that could carry.”
Francis stood, his legs apart, his hand on his sword hilt, regarding me gravely. William stood at a slight distance, as if the conversation belonged to me and my son.
“Princesse, Francis has told me what happened to him. It is clear Amaury arranged the abduction under the illusion that Francis somehow had possession of the St. John Cup, from Constance.” William paused, and gave a wintry smile. “And perhaps to hector me as well. My young knight has explained to me that all of this occurred because of his dalliance with a young woman of the house of Foix.”
The color rose in my son’s face at this remark. I watched Francis all the while, and I knew I could never gaze too long on that dear face, now safe not only with me, but with William.
“But now, Princesse, I think you owe young Francis the true story of why you were willing to undertake such danger for his sake.” William paused. “Now it is time, Alaïs,” he added softly.
I raised my hand to rub my cheek and turned my head to look out the window. I could see the clouds mounting, and yet the sun shone
brightly overall. Happiness and sadness seemed to vie for a place in my heart.
Then I turned back to my son. “Francis, as the Lord William knows, I have something of significance to tell you,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Perhaps it is best told in the form of a story. It may take some time, so please, sit here beside me.”
“Lord William said you had important news, but it would be difficult for you in the telling.” He nodded as if to encourage me and that touched me more than anything. He lowered himself into the chair beside mine, turning it so that he could look full upon me. I noticed that he sat on the edge, though, as if he might suddenly be called into duty and must be at the ready. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hand. I was reminded so of William.
“Long ago there was a young girl, living in a foreign land. She had few friends, and although she had a large family, they often quarreled among themselves.” I watched his face, which held a look of puzzled bemusement.
“She had a stepmother, of whom she was fond. But then the stepmother went away.”
“Did this young girl have a mother of her own? Or a father?”
I cast my glance toward the ceiling, as if in thought. “Her own mother died when she was quite young, and soon after the young girl was sent away. Her father was a powerful man, but in another country.”
This seemed to satisfy him, or perhaps he was coming into the knowledge that I must tell the story my own way, for he waited, watching me intently.
“This girl was strong-willed, but she was really a pawn for her father and stepfather. She was told whom she would marry, where she would live, how she would learn.”
“Was she a captive, then?” He broke in again, almost in spite of himself, I could see.
“Not exactly, but because her family was important many decisions about her life were not her own. But to continue: She was in awe of her stepfather when she was young, for he was a powerful man, as powerful as her father in another realm. But she had a memory of him once, when she was a little girl, and he came upon her drawing. He noticed what she was doing, and he told her that, in a way, he envied her gift. He saw that she could draw images that were called up from inside, and he—a man of action—could see only what was before him. It was a brief exchange, but from that moment on, she had a warm feeling for him, almost of sympathy.”
I waited for a moment, for, in truth, I felt my own heart swelling with the memory of the events that had brought me to King Henry’s bed. After a moment, I continued.
“When I was older, my stepmother, Queen Eleanor, was sent away, and King Henry was lonely, as was I. Because we had shared a moment once, when he had revealed to me his vulnerability, we came to an uneasy joining at that time.” I suddenly saw Francis’s eyes widen, and realized that I had switched into saying “I” without thinking, and to say the king was Henry and the queen was Eleanor. So be it.
“I had a child. There were…circumstances at the time that prevented me from…taking the boy away. Then I was told the child had died, and thought so for many years.” My voice began to cloud over, as if a fog were descending inside me. But I pressed on, for now was the time. And I must be equal to the task.
“Years later, I discovered the lad still lived and had been well cared for by an old friend. And it was for the best of reasons, not the least of which was the safety of the child, that I had not been told the babe had survived. But when I knew, I moved heaven and earth to find the young man.”
Francis was staring at me, his mouth open with a quick intake of breath, but he said nothing.
“When I found my son, I saw he was a delight. Learned, bright,
adventuresome, and brave. All that I hoped a son could be. And I no longer thought it was necessary to tell him I was his mother. Not then. Perhaps later.”
“And why now?” Francis’s voice was unsteady. I could not tell if it was anger or tenderness. “Why tell him now?”
I glanced at William, but I knew I could not lay all this at his door. “Because the times are turbulent, it seemed better to delay telling you. We…I thought that perhaps later, when things were more settled and he…you might have some ease in which to make your decisions…” My voice trailed off as I watched the young knight’s face darken.
“The
princesse
does not tell the entire story,” William interrupted. “I insisted she not tell you while you and I had our final mission for the pope. I thought it would distract us from this work I had promised to do. And I did not feel I could protect you if I were far away.”
“But what has changed now?” he asked, after clearing his throat.
“Your abduction changed everything for both of us. I saw the point of what the
princesse
was trying to tell me. Life is uncertain. I had no right to make her keep this news from you. It is too important.” William’s voice was quiet and I gave him a look of such thanks that his face relaxed from its tight expression.
“When you disappeared, and I thought you might die, I regretted that I had never told you the most important news of your life.” I picked up the story, dropping the pretense for good. “And told you the story well. I wanted you to know that I love you and I am proud of you. And other things. That you could be proud of your father. That the person who protected you still watches over you, even as you grew to knighthood. That royal blood from two kingdoms runs in your veins.”
There was a long silence. Francis threw his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he faced me again.