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Lady Eleanor was my stepmother,and the dearest friend of my childhood.To everyone else she wasQueen Eleanor of England, or theDuchess of Aquitaine, or "Your Highness." Tome she was simply the Lady Eleanor.
Our long and complicated history hadmany bends in the road, and our early intimacyhad long since disappeared from view. Even so,it was hard to imagine that she meant me bodilyharm. But there was no doubt in my mindthat my current situation could be traced directlyto the letter Queen Eleanor had sent tomy brother's Paris court not a fortnight earlier.
Philippe and I were closeted together whenher letter arrived. We were in his private chambersin our drafty palace on the Île de la Cité,perched on the edge of the wind-whippedSeine, when the courier found us. We werealone, without guards or servants, as was usualwhen he wished to badger me about some inadequacyof my performance as princess royal.
"Alaïs," I recall him saying, "I have hesitated to speak to youabout this, but your behavior is becoming more and more a dailytopic of discussion for the court."
With hands clasped behind his back, he paced away from me ashe talked, so that his words at the end became muffled as if flungagainst the wind. I sighed.
The chamber suited Philippe. His passion was war, always hadbeen. The tapestries that lined the high stone walls and providedsome measure of warmth were laced with hunting scenes -- menwith spears, boars in flight, hounds leaping. Hunting is, after all, aform of war; at least I would think so if I were an animal. Thedoors that guarded the privacy of the chamber were of oak andcarved with scenes from the ancient battle of Troy. Encircling thehearth was another remarkable piece of oak carved by highlyskilled artisans. They had used their art to design miniatureweapons -- bows, arrows, knives, swords -- all intertwined like achain of malicious grapes winding around the gentle hearth fire.
"Well, what do you have to say, sister?" He turned unexpectedlyand headed back in my direction. I forced my attention to theissue.
"I cannot understand, brother, why the court should gossipabout me in this way. Unless it is that your courtiers are envious ofmy serenity in the midst of the tremendous chaos that reigns overthis impending wedding."
"They say not that you are serene." Philippe's toe stubbed on acorner of one of the Smyrna carpets of which he was so proud. Hecursed softly as he caught himself. At such vulnerable moments, hewas not the king of France to me. I saw him only as my youngerbrother.
"The reports are the reverse, that your feeling about this weddingruns high. The charge is that you refuse to take part in thepreparations, or even give advice when it is sought, but instead become angry when Agnès or her ladies try to involve you in theirplans." He began to rub his brow, always a sign that his headacheswere returning, then covered the gesture by running his fingersthrough his dark, cropped hair. "Alaïs, this is becoming an issue betweenAgnès and my royal self. She feels you are not supportive ofthis coming wedding between our son and the house of thePlantagenet."
I held back yet another sigh. Philippe felt caught; I could see itin his face. I knew he did not want to have this conversation withme, that Agnès had forced it on him. We cared for each other, andhe mostly left me alone to brood in my own way or withdraw if itsuited me. For all his faults, he was my brother. I sometimes saw inhis face the broader outlines of my own as it played back to mefrom 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 sameslightly almond-shaped eyes, those eyes of the Capet house ofFrance. His were dark, while I had been told mine were as green asthe eyes of my black cat.
"Philippe, try to understand my position." I shifted on the cushionsto lean forward and made a gesture of appeal with my goodhand. "I don't like weddings. I don't want any part of them. I amdelighted that you have arranged this marriage between little Louisand Eleanor's granddaughter." I smiled but then spoiled it by muttering,"Although why Eleanor of Castile would want to send thechild Blanche from sunny Spain north to the damp fog of Paris isbeyond me."
Philippe stopped in front of the small couch on which I haddraped myself. "That is exactly the kind of comment that -- "
"-- that gets me in trouble in this court of yours," I finished forhim. 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 weare alone -- keep up that fiction. I am here at your sufferance. I wassent back here like an unwanted package when my betrothal toRichard ended and Queen Eleanor found me an embarrassment.You are kind, but I am of an age where I should have my own homeand county, and a husband of my own. I don't, and so I find myselfyour guest." I tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner but foundmy voice oddly giving way to some kind of shakiness as I finished.So I stopped talking until I had more possession of myself.
The Canterbury Papers
Excerpted from The Canterbury Papers: A Novel of Suspense by Judith Koll Healey
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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