Canterbury Papers by Judith Koll Healey Page A

charcoal in my hand. I was here. I will not forget the scene.”
    They were silent.
    I closed my eyes. “Picture Henry, naked, stretched on the floor of Becket’s still-bloodstained chapel. A long ribbon of courtiers and monks winds down the center of the cathedral and curls around the side aisles. Solemn faces, expressionless as always in ritual punishment, as if no one of them is responsible for his action. You can hear the echo of lashes as the monks, one by one, pass by, each savoring his one stroke of the silk-corded discipline on the bare back of the prostrate king.”
    I paused, aware of our common breath. “It was an early spring night like this one, and the whish of the whip was echoed by the April wind whistling outside. I remember standing stiff as a rock, my cheeks scarlet, as Henry’s daughter Joanna pressed her fingers into my arm. We kept each other from fainting.”
    I was surprised to hear a quaver in my voice. Charlotte looked down, turning the handle of her fork over and over.
    â€œSo”—I assumed a blithe tone—“I thought I would come here in memory of the king and do penance as he did. And also penance for my own sins, not as famous as the King Henry’s but still a burden to me.”
    William looked at me for a long moment. I thought he was going to say something kind, but instead he remarked, “I certainly hope you’re not going to cast yourself naked on the floor of Becket’s chapel and wait for the lash.”
    I was startled by his flippancy. I closed my eyes briefly and saw again that image I had just described. In the background, among the courtiers, perhaps there had been a tall, dark-haired cleric watching with pain, as I had watched, the difficult scene. When I opened my eyes, William had turned to my aunt to respond to a question I had not heard. I forced my attention to their conversation.
    â€œAnd Aunt Charlotte”—I took my turn at our question game at the first opening—“what brings you to Canterbury in this cold spring weather? Surely this is not the most opportune moment to visit Kent for you either.” I was determined to quell the mysterious feelings aroused by the memory of Henry’s penance and of all the events of that fateful year. “And I believe I am safe in assuming that you did not come to revere the martyr’s tomb.”
    The abbess’s expression was momentarily comical, but she recovered admirably. “I have business with Prior William. There is a plan to hold a convocation of abbots and abbesses in all of England and Normandy within the year, to discuss certain problems. Although Fontrevault is not a Benedictine abbey, we have been invited to participate. Prior William and I are conferring on arrangements.”
    William caught the moue my aunt had made when I teased her about praying at Becket’s tomb.
    â€œWhat occasioned that look, Abbess?” he asked as he applied garlic sauce to the pork with gusto.
    â€œMy niece considers me too secular, I think,” she replied, with no hint of irritation. “She sees my love of finery and imagines that I have little piety. I’ll wager—”
    â€œNo, not exactly, Aunt,” I broke in. “It’s just that I know your history, and no part of it includes prostration before anyone, with or without clothes.”
    William chuckled. After a draft of wine, he applied his serviette to his lips with an elegant gesture. “That’s very interesting.” He glanced my way. “Tell me more about your aunt. I had no idea her past had such color.”
    I sallied forth, aware that my aunt might not want her colleague to hear her story. But I thought it added to her cachet and could not help but make William hold her in even higher regard.
    â€œMy grandfather, King Louis, he who was called le Gros, made an early marriage for Aunt Charlotte to a count in a southern province.” I looked at the abbess