Canterbury Papers Read Online Free

I did love Philippe—lay as much parchment for drawing and as much charcoal as I desired. I could flee into my drawing whenever I chose.
    Now the fire danced in the open draft, and the flames cast light and shadows on the walls. The oil torches set in the recesses near the chair combined with the firelight and candles to give me enough light for reading. Awkwardly I used my good hand to pull Queen Eleanor’s letter from my left side pocket.
    At my request all my gowns had pockets sewn into the left side. My left hand had been withered from birth. I kept it hidden as often as I could. And yet it was part of me, so I must accept it, accept a part of me that had no feeling. I had learned to live with it, if not to love it. And, anyway, the pocket had other uses. It could conceal various small items that came to me while in the public rooms: items that were, like Eleanor’s letter, private.
    I shook open the scroll after I slid my thumbnail under the wax seal. As I did so, a little piece of paper fluttered to the ground. It seemed at first glance to be a diagram of some sort. I retrieved it and set it aside. Then I proceeded to examine the careful writing before me.
    Queen Eleanor had not written to me in the seven years I had been back at my brother’s court. But the elongated, spidery hand in front of me, the hand I had learned to read as a child at her knee, was unmistakably hers. Even the uncertain night’s light did not interfere with my understanding as I carefully made my way through the several heart-stopping pages.
    As I read, my fingers out of old habit toyed with the jeweled pendant that hung on a thin silk cord around my neck. Richard’s betrothal gift to me. It had once been Eleanor’s.
    To Alaïs, daughter of my own heart
    From Eleanor, by the Grace of God Duchess of the Aquitaine and once Queen of England and Lady of All the British Isles:
    We have not corresponded for some time. I will be direct with you now and not waste our time on recriminations for past events.
    I write to ask you to favor me with an errand, one which will not take much of your time but is of the utmost importance. There are certain letters that are hidden at Canterbury Abbey, in the cathedral. These are my letters, written to Archbishop Becket many decades ago, in the days when he and the king were estranged. They are my property.
    I put the letter down. It was a curious opening. And I was amused remembering Eleanor’s habit of always referring to Henry of England, her second husband, as “the king,” as if there were only one king. But whenever she referred to her first husband, my father, she would call him by his full name and title: King Louis of France, as if he—unlike Henry—needed further identification. Then I read on, and all amusement faded.
    I want you to retrieve these letters for me. A friend hid them years ago, so they would not fall into the wrong hands. They rest behind the altar where Becket was slain. I enclose a diagram to show you exactly the place. Retrieving them will be a simple matter.
    You are the only one who can do this. You can travel to England without exciting suspicion, especially under the guise of making a pilgrimage to the martyr’s tomb. You are of French royal blood, formerly of the English king’s household. Even with a small escort, you would not be harmed by the English nor held back by the Normans. You can traverse both sides of the Channel safely.
    I am certain that you still love England, for the sake of our family, if for no other reason. For the sake of Henry, and Richard, if not for my own. Upon these few letters hangs the fate of that kingdom. The Knights Templar are intriguing against John’s throne. They claim he has unfairly pressed the abbeys to help him pay his debts.
    I stopped again, anger rising within me. John had always gouged his subjects, especially the abbeys. Everyone at court knew he was in great need of silver, and to