The Winter Crown (30 page)

‘What kind of sums?’

‘Three thousand marks of silver!’ The pungent scent of sweat wafted from his shirt. ‘I will have him answer to me in a secular court for that one.’

‘The Pope may well uphold him.’

‘Hah! I do not care what the Pope does; he is not the King of England. Becket will confirm and obey the ancestral rules of this country and answer to me in my court for what he owes.’

‘And if he does not?’

‘Then I will crush him.’

Hearing the harshness in his tone, Alienor said nothing. He had declined her advice when he made Becket his archbishop and he would not be interested in her opinion now. As he said, all he wanted to do with the opposition was either bend it to his will or crush it.

He took her to bed and his attentions were vigorous. It was not lovemaking but a venting of fury and frustration, and an effort to subjugate her to his will too. On other occasions she had fought back, biting and scratching, but this time she yielded and did nothing, because her passivity was another form of defiance. She went elsewhere and thought of other things – of a warm summer evening in Aquitaine with the scent of roses on the breeze – and knew that he could not touch her.

In the fading light of a dank November afternoon, Isabel finalised her preparations for travelling to court. She had barely worn her elaborate gowns since her marriage seven months ago because she and Hamelin had been riding from manor to manor, castle to castle, visiting her lands, and that called for practical garb except for formal feasts and oath-taking.

Hamelin had been absent at a council in Northampton, but his outriders had arrived, announcing he would be here by nightfall. Isabel carefully folded two chemises of fine white linen that were a gift for Alienor, and placed them in a chest layered with sweet herbs. She had stitched the garments herself, including the smocked pleats which were her speciality. There were small gifts for the children, now her nieces- and nephews-by-marriage. A fine antler-handled dagger for Harry, black leather belts with silver pendants for Richard and Geoffrey, each with different buckle shapes, a leather-bound psalter for Matilda and a soft doll with yellow braids for little Alie.

Her packing complete, she checked that the fire in the main chamber was stoked up to give off lavish heat because Hamelin was bound to be chilled after his long ride. She changed her working gown for one of dark red wool that particularly suited her, and pinned her hair so that it would cascade down her spine with just a few light touches when her veil was removed.

Moments later there were brisk footsteps on the stairs and Hamelin entered the chamber with a handful of knights and retainers.

Her heart quickening, she performed a formal curtsey. ‘My lord husband.’

‘Madam, my wife,’ he replied with equal gravity.

She gestured the servants to take his cloak and he handed it to them before throwing propriety aside, pulling her to him and soundly kissing her. His lips and hands were cold but she didn’t care. ‘I have been thinking of this all day,’ he said. ‘You and the welcome of this chamber.’

She caressed his face. ‘That is passing strange because I have been thinking of you also. Will you wash and eat?’

Hamelin nodded and sat down on the bench at the foot of the bed with a heavy sigh of burdens released. He unlatched his belt with attached sword and dagger and handed it to his squire with a wave of dismissal.

Isabel brought him a cup of hot wine, and then knelt to remove his boots.

Hamelin chuckled. ‘Before I was wed my squire accomplished the task well enough, but you are a far more rewarding sight to look upon,’ he teased.

She shot him an upward glance. ‘I should hope so.’ He had beautiful feet, well formed with high, smooth arches. She began to wash them, performing the formal duty of a wife on a husband’s return. It was also a good opportunity to talk. ‘How did you fare at the council? Has there been a resolution?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘My brother and the Archbishop are riding runaway horses and spurring them on.’ He drank his wine. ‘I lost my temper. I am not proud that I did, but done is done.’

Another glance showed Isabel that something had upset him. His hazel eyes were muddy and he was no longer smiling. In the months since their marriage, she was coming to know the man beneath the courtier’s mask. He had a plentiful seasoning of Angevin flash and fire if he was caught on the raw or passionate about a subject, but it was a generous anger, quick to burn itself out. Right was right, wrong was wrong, and fair was fair. At court he had immense self-possession. ‘Lost your temper with whom?’

‘The Archbishop. It’s a long tale.’

‘I am ready to listen if you want to tell me.’

He considered, and then nodded. ‘It is best you should know before we go to court. What I said that day on the bridge holds true. We should be able to talk openly and honestly.’

Isabel flushed with pleasure. Hamelin had his notions about the place of men and women in a marriage, but he was not hidebound by them.

He changed his travelling attire for a soft linen shirt and loose tunic and slipped his feet into comfortable sheepskin-lined shoes. Isabel poured him more wine and they sat down to eat at a trestle table placed near the fire. There was fresh white bread, wheat frumenty and a warming dish of beef in ginger and cumin sauce.

Hamelin broke a piece off a small loaf and dipped it in the spicy stew. ‘The Archbishop arrived in Northampton to answer a summons brought by John the Marshal about a land dispute. He expected to stay in the castle as he usually does, but Henry made sure those chambers were already occupied and Becket had to lodge instead in the Priory of Saint Andrew outside the walls.’

‘Oh dear.’ Isabel replenished his cup. ‘That would not have pleased him.’

‘It didn’t,’ Hamelin agreed. ‘Henry was making the same point he did at Berkhamstead. Becket took for granted what he should not and was justly put in his place.’ Hamelin ate a mouthful of stew. ‘Next day Becket was summoned to appear accused of contempt of court in the matter of denying John the Marshal justice in the business of a dispute over lands. The Marshal never arrived to make his case. Henry gave out that he was busy at his exchequer duties, but the truth is that his horse cast a shoe, and he was unable to reach Northampton in time and turned back.’ Hamelin shook his head. ‘It was a specious excuse, but I do not blame him. Between my brother and the Archbishop he would have been ground to dust.’

Hamelin paused to eat more of the beef, and then wiped his lips. ‘Becket told Henry he had no right to try the case anyway because it was a matter for the ecclesiastical courts. Stood there with his spine like a poker and banged his crozier on the ground and told us he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and none of us should presume to judge him because only God had that right. Hah!’

‘That does seem high-handed,’ she said, still none the wiser as to why Hamelin had lost his temper. What he had told her thus far was a catalogue of irritations.

‘And not the worst of it.’ Hamelin lifted his cup. ‘Henry ordered the bishops to pronounce a sentence of contempt of court on Becket and demanded he repay the money owing from the Toulouse campaign. Becket insisted the amounts had been written off when he became archbishop; Henry said they hadn’t and unless Becket could account for every penny he had spent as chancellor, he would confiscate his lands in lieu.’

‘It sounds to me as if the King is determined to bring Becket down.’ Isabel was worried at the wider repercussions. Whatever Becket had done, she owed him her gratitude for refusing to grant a dispensation of marriage between her and William FitzEmpress. Hamelin owed him gratitude too, but clearly he would not see it that way.

‘No more so than Becket is determined to make his righteous stand as archbishop,’ he said. ‘The bishops encouraged him to resign but he refused and took to his bed with the bowel gripes. Some said fear had caused his upset belly, and others thought he was playing Henry like a fish on a line. Henry chose to see it as falsehood and prepared to arraign him for treason.’

Isabel listened with increasing dismay. As chancellor, Becket had been a consummate politician – urbane, charming, powerful, never putting a foot wrong. But if he had changed, then so had Henry. In the early years of the reign, he too had been flexible and less harsh. His treatment of Becket was that of a tyrant and she had witnessed him exert that tyranny on Alienor, and on poor Mary de Boulogne.

‘You said you lost your temper?’ she said to Hamelin. ‘What happened?’

He rubbed his forehead. ‘On the last day Becket recovered enough to say mass and preached a long sermon about the despotism of kings. Henry accused him outright of treason and ordered the Earl of Leicester to pass the sentence. Becket said he would not be judged by the likes of Henry’s whoremasters, common servants – and lowborn bastard hangers-on.’

Isabel gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

Hamelin’s face contorted. ‘He said that were he a knight he would strike us all down, but since he was a man of God, he would leave. He was like a hissing cat, cornered by dogs but scratching with its claws. I am not proud of myself that I shouted in his face and threatened to silence him by wrapping his crozier around his neck.’

Isabel was incensed. Becket’s words were a slur intended to attack Henry, but the insult to Hamelin was inexcusable even if Hamelin had let his anger get the better of him and responded inappropriately to a man of God. ‘So has he retreated to Canterbury?’

Hamelin snorted. ‘The Archbishop would not call it a retreat, but no, he has not gone there. He left the priory in stealth late at night through an unlocked gate in the town that some sympathiser had left open. No one knows where he is. Henry has put a watch on all the ports. If he absconds abroad he will appeal to the Pope. He is indeed a traitor to his king and his country – but of course not to his God, if you can believe that. Henry has written to France, asking Louis to refuse succour to the Archbishop, but I cannot see Louis passing up an opportunity to cause trouble in Henry’s domains.’

Isabel bit her lip. ‘What will happen now?’

‘Who knows?’ Hamelin shrugged. ‘It depends what the Pope decides. If fortune favours Becket, England may end up under interdict. If fortune favours my brother, Becket will resign and Gilbert Foliot will become archbishop instead.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘It is coming to something when everyone is looking to Gilbert Foliot to save us! For now I am home and I have never been more pleased in my life.’

‘Neither have I,’ Isabel said, supporting him with every iota of her being. ‘Put this incident behind you. To me you are a fine man and husband, full worthy to be the Earl of Surrey and Warenne, and father to the future heir.’ She took his hand and brought his hand to her belly.

His eyes widened.

‘I am with child,’ she said.

Hamelin looked at his hand against her body, and slowly a smile lit up his face and continued to brighten. ‘That is the best of news! When?’

‘In the summer I believe. Late May or early June.’

‘Well, that brings summer into my life immediately and a plague on Becket and his doings. You have put everything into perspective and back in its place, my clever, beautiful wife!’ He kissed her tenderly.

Isabel stroked his face. ‘Then I have succeeded in my duty,’ she said and wished Henry and Becket would attend to theirs and make peace.

Alienor looked up from her needlework as her usher announced the arrival of the Countess de Warenne. Moments later, Isabel entered the room, her cheeks red with cold and her eyes alight with pleasure.

Alienor rose and greeted her friend and sister-by-marriage with a warm embrace. ‘You are blossoming!’ she said, holding her away to look at her. ‘Marriage certainly suits you!’

‘I expect it is the freezing sleet that has put colour in my face!’ Isabel said with a laugh. ‘But I am indeed blossoming. Hamelin and I expect a child in the summer.’

‘That is good news indeed!’ Alienor drew her to the fire and saw her comfortably settled on a cushioned bench with a cup of hippocras. Outside the wind flung fistfuls of sleety rain against the shutters. Marlborough Castle stood upon a great mound that legend said had been built in the pagan times and belonged to the same age as the great circles and avenues of stone that strewed the Wiltshire landscape. The castle had been held by John the Marshal in the days of the war between Henry’s mother and Stephen of Blois, but Henry had taken it back into his own hands six years ago as part of the reclamation of royal castles and estates.

‘I am pleased to see you looking so well,’ Alienor said. ‘I have sorely missed your company, but I suspect you have missed mine less.’ She was amused to see Isabel blush.

‘Indeed I have missed your company, madam,’ Isabel tactfully replied, ‘but from the news coming out of court, I am glad to have been absent.’

Alienor waved her hand in irritation. ‘Henry is like a bear with a sore head. He asked Louis not to succour Becket, and is affronted because Louis will not take his part and supports the Archbishop. What did he expect? Louis might agree to marriage arrangements and smile and extend the courtesies, but if he can tear Henry apart he will.’ She sighed. ‘Henry’s mind is as sharp as a new knife when it comes to the law; he understands all things that work with cogs and stratagems. But he does not know how to deal with people when they behave with their guts and their hearts, and all the places inside themselves that are not governed by cogs and logic, and that is because he cannot control those things inside himself except by locking them away.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘You see how I have truly missed you. You are the best listener of all my ladies.’

Isabel picked up her wine. ‘I like to listen and I am glad to serve you,’ she said. ‘I think you have the measure of the King.’

‘Indeed,’ Alienor said with a wry look, ‘but having the measure does not always mean being able to do something about it.’

‘Has there been any word from Rome about the Archbishop?’

‘No,’ Alienor said, ‘but envoys are expected daily.’