Free Canterbury Papers by Judith Koll Healey

glove, he removed a ring from his gnarled finger. It took some tugging, but it finally released, and he pressed it into my hand. A flood of warmth rose in me when I looked down, for I saw the royal lion of England engraved in the setting. This was one of Henry’s rings, given in the early days of his friendship with Tom. No doubt an impulsive gesture, generous, so typical of Henry at his best.
    I looked up to protest, but something in Tom’s face stopped me. My fingers closed around the ring.
    â€œI will see you day after next,” I said to all, putting forth more confidence than I felt. Something about these events gnawed at me as I turned to follow Brother Dermott, who had slung my travel sack over his shoulder and was already hurrying off.
    It had been many years since I had visited Canterbury. As Brother Dermott led me to my quarters through the great hall and down the outer cloister walks, I saw again the intricate carvings that had been chiseled everywhere. In the stone all along the side walls and in the capitals of every column surrounding the courtyard garden, everywhere we looked, we saw exceptional miniature scenes, little dramas of the faith.
    Brother Dermott, although taciturn at first, proved a storehouse of knowledge on these scenes when questioned. He could describe every picture to me, explaining even the smallest figures: This overhead was the dialogue of devil and angel over a monk’s soul; that one showed two monks in prayer; a larger carving in the stone wall was the scene of the Blessed Mother’s assumption into heaven. It was the whole of the Christian belief system chiseled in stone and set in the cloister walk, a daily reminder of heavenly choices. I was seized by a desire to return and examine every scene in this sweet corridor. Such formidable, unquestioning faith that produced these stories! How I envied it. Did William himself have such faith now? Or was he only the cynical custodian of these good monks?
    I was to be settled in a small freestanding guesthouse in the close between the main monastery buildings and the great cathedral. After we left the cloister walk, Brother Dermott fell silent once again. I tried to draw him out on the history of the abbey, but his replies to my questions were brief, almost monosyllabic. An awkward silence grew as we paced along the path.
    â€œThe abbey seems to be thriving under Prior William,” I finally ventured as we made our way down a winding path through a small herb garden.
    â€œOui, madame,” the brother replied, gesturing for me to follow him as he took a right turn at the northwest corner. This stone path was much narrower than the cloister walk, so I was forced to drop back slightly behind him to avoid the spring mud on either side. Brother Dermott spoke to me now in nearly flawless French, turning his head slightly so that his words would drift over his shoulder. “Prieur Guillaume est un bon prieur, certes. Mais, la seule raison pour laquelle il est le chef maintenant est l’absence de l’abbé Hugh Walter. C’est Hugh Walter, lui-même, qui a fondé cette communauté, vraiment. Abbé Hugh est le chef.”
    â€œYou speak French! Are you Norman, then?” I didn’t bother to conceal my confusion. “Your English is excellent. In fact, I would have sworn at first you were a Lincoln man.” I was walking directly behind him now, as he led the way across the cathedral close.
    â€œAye, and so you would have the right of it.” He reverted to his native English with surprising ease. “Born and bred in Lincolnshire, I was. And how is it that you, a royal princess of France, know a Lincoln man’s speech?” he asked, his head turning toward me. I came alongside him as the path suddenly broadened, and when his cowl slipped back, I saw by the light of the setting sun his long, narrow face dominated by his black eyebrows. I noticed with surprise that his left earlobe was