The Rebel Princess by Judith Koll Healey Page A

with his copains and turned his full attention to the conversation on our side, causing us all to become suddenly subdued.
    “Your Majesty, we were simply talking of tomorrow’s audience, where we will present somewhat differing requests for your attention to the situation facing the south.” William clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as if to end the discussion. “We shall each make our best case, and you will decide. Meanwhile, did I not hear that your own favored trouvère, Gace Brulé, was to perform at the conclusion of this fine feast?”
    The abbot ignored William’s cue and leaned around him to catch the king’s attention. “We hope Your Majesty will not be deterred from sending arms and men to the south just because Raymond of Toulouse is your very own cousin.” I felt a prickle of fear. The abbot was courting disaster. My brother did not like to have politics interjected into his feasts when he entertained visitors. He also did not favor veiled threats. His royal answer was sharp and immediate.
    “We trust our cousin, the Count of Toulouse, implicitly. We have had numerous exchanges on this matter of the heretics with him. He is managing this matter.” Philippe’s voice had dropped to a lower tone, one I had come to respect as somewhat ominous. “The fact that he is our cousin is of little moment. On the other hand, the fact that he is our sworn vassal is compelling. He has our protection.”
    Parry and thrust. Take that, Abbé Amaury, I thought to myself, asthe royal gauntlet went down unexpectedly.
    There was a moment of blessed silence as everyone within earshot turned to look at the abbot, who sat back, finally speechless. I glanced to my right, and saw young Francis with the ghost of a smile on his face. I could not see Amaury’s expression as his face was now hidden by Francis’s broad shoulders. But I doubted that the abbot was smiling.
    William interrupted again, this time with uncharacteristic abruptness. “My lord Abbot. If you please, we will delay this discussion until the morrow. His gracious Majesty has arranged further entertainment for us, and it would be churlish to continue this talk of worldly affairs.”
    “Quite so.” Philippe picked up the cue quickly. “Tomorrow we will meet on these heavy matters in public audience in my presence chambers. You will have an opportunity to present your suit, Abbé Amaury. I will hear your arguments and give you my answer at that time. Meanwhile, let us attend the festivities without distraction.”
    With that, Philippe waved a casual hand in the direction of Gace Brulé, who had been awaiting the royal signal. The tall, lean singer was cloaked in elaborately embroidered forest-green silk, which he casually tossed back over his shoulder as he stood. He made his way to the hearth, and pulled a bench close. Then he placed his foot on the bench and began strumming a few chords on his lute. Suddenly the chords formed a melody and he began a mournful lai telling the story of the end of the great King Arthur’s court. A grave quiet settled over the crowd. Philippe himself listened attentively through the first moments of the performance. I could see his clenched hand, resting on the arm of the chair, ease as the music calmed him.
    Finally he placed his elbow on the wide oak arm of his royal chair and jammed his fist into his cheek as the servants approached quietly with more platters, this time of the mulled wine, fruits, and cheeses from the countryside that signaled the end of the feast.
    Suddenly my brother turned to me and said in a low voice: “Yousee now what we have to deal with in these importunate monks. I want you at the public audience tomorrow, when I officially hear their request.” He tapped his fork emphatically in front of me, adding abruptly, “And do not be late!”
    I bent my head close to his and murmured the thought I had been turning over in my mind: “Brother, these monks bring a serious request to you. If you are