Time and Chance (22 page)

Since the little bride was not yet three, it had been wisely decided to excuse her from the revelries, although Hal had been given a seat upon the dais. So far he was acquitting himself well, seduced into good behavior by the sheer novelty of it all and aware, too, that his mother was keeping a sharp eye upon him. The candles turning his bright hair into a crown of gold, he watched his seat-mate, Cardinal William of Pavia, and modeled his manners after the papal legate’s. His proud parents beamed at him fondly, but Eleanor prudently concluded that it would be best to send him off to bed before he got tired and cranky and began to act more like a rambunctious five-year-old than a young king in the making.

Hal wasn’t the only one on his best behavior. Festivities like this usually bored Henry beyond endurance, for he never liked sitting still for long; even during Mass, he was likely to start squirming on his prayer cushion and whispering to his companions if the priest’s sermon was not mercifully brief. Since he had no particular interest in what he ate or drank, he could not see the purpose in lingering over a meal, which was why he was so willing to let Thomas Becket wine and dine guests on his behalf. But this was his son’s wedding day, after all, and he wanted it to be a pleasant memory for Hal. And if murmurings of the feast’s splendor were to echo all the way to Paris, so much the better.

Reaching for his wine cup, he took a sip, then put it aside. He preferred his wine watered-down, but since he was sharing a cup with Eleanor, he’d deferred to her taste for the products of her Gascony vineyards. The other guests were seated on cushioned benches, but those privileged few upon the dais had the luxury of oaken chairs and Henry leaned back now in his, his gaze sweeping the table.

His mother was chatting amiably with the papal legates, Becket slicing bread for Petronilla, Eleanor beckoning discreetly to Hal’s nurse, the Bishop of Lisieux sharing a joke with the Archbishop of Rouen. At the far end of the table were two knights whose presence had stirred speculation and envy among the other guests. A seat upon the dais was a highly coveted honor, and there were many in the hall who felt themselves to be more deserving than Robert de Pirou and Tostes de St Omer. They were eating heartily of the dessert just set before them, a delectable concoction of cream of almonds and pears floating in heavy syrup, taking care not to get stains upon the white tunics and blood-red crosses of the Templars.

Leaning over, Eleanor laid her hand on Henry’s arm. “The Templars seem to be enjoying themselves,” she said softly. “I assume that they had no misgivings about yielding up the castles of the Vexin to you, then?”

“They were quite reasonable,” Henry said blandly. “And why not? They were to hold the castles only until Louis’s daughter wed our son. And as two papal legates can attest, that condition has now been met.”

Eleanor’s fingers slid along his wrist, began to caress his palm. “I think you could outwit the Devil himself on a good day,” she murmured and laughed when he reminded her that the Counts of Anjou were alleged to trace their descent from the Devil’s daughter.

“My father liked to tell that story,” he said, grinning. “Mayhap we ought to name our next daughter after her? How would you fancy adding a Melusine to our brood, love?”

“Only if you agree to name our next son Lucifer,” she parried and Henry laughed loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. Despite his chaplain’s gentle chiding to thank the Almighty for his manifold blessings, he tended to take God’s Favor for granted. But as he looked now into Eleanor’s shining eyes, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for all that was his: an empire that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Mediterranean Sea, the most legendary queen since Helen of Troy, sons to found the greatest dynasty Christendom had ever known.

Lifting Eleanor’s hand to his mouth, he kissed her fingers, one by one, and then raised his voice for silence. “I would have us drink,” he said, “to the health and happiness of my beloved son, England’s next king.”

 

 

 

WHEN LOUIS LEARNED of the wedding in Rouen, he was furious. He could not do much to punish Henry and Eleanor, but he struck back at the Templars, expelling their Order from Paris. Theobald of Blois then convinced him that this was not enough and they began to fortify Theobald’s castle at Chaumont-sur-Loire, casting an eye toward Henry’s lands in Touraine.

This was a mistake. Not bothering to summon the knights of Anjou, Henry hired mercenaries instead and swooped down upon Chaumont. Theobald had boasted that the fortress was impregnable, but Henry took it in just three days, sending shudders of alarm reverberating as far as the walls of Paris.

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

 

 

HENRY CROSSED to the settle and kissed his mother on the cheek. The fact that she’d received him in her private chamber warned him that she had a lecture in mind; she would never berate him, a crowned king and God’s anointed, before witnesses.

“Did you grant that charter to the canons of St Bartholomew, Henry?”

“I did, Mother. You know I always heed your advice.”

Aware that she was being teased, Maude ignored the bait, refusing to be diverted. “I assume your men are being fed in the hall? What of your chancellor? Did he accompany you to the priory?”

“No, I sent Thomas to Caen, as I’ve decided to found a leper hospital there.” Henry was not deceived by the casualness of her query. So Thomas was the quarry for this hunt. “Did you wish to speak with him, Mother?” he asked innocently. “He’ll be back in Rouen within the fortnight.”

“I have a bone to pick with your chancellor . . . as you’ve guessed. But I have one to pick with you, too, Henry. I have received a distressing letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He tells me that his illness is mortal, and it is his dearest wish that he see the two men he loves so well, you and Thomas, ere he dies. Yet he says he has been entreating you both for months to return to England, entreating you in vain.”

“I would if I could,” Henry said tersely, trying and failing to keep a defensive note from creeping into his voice. “You know how busy I’ve been, what demands are made upon my time. Not only did I have to construct three castles at Gisors, Neaupple, and Château-Neuf-sur-Epte, but I also had to lay siege to Chaumont Castle, and then fortify Amboise and Fretteville. Aside from holding a brief Christmas court at Le Mans, I’ve been all but sleeping in the saddle for months.”

“I understand that, Henry. Yet surely you could have spared Thomas? It is his presence that Theobald truly yearns for. You are his king, but Thomas was like a son to him.”

“Again, I can only repeat that I would if I could.” Henry sounded irritated, but evasive, too, and Maude subjected him to a moment of intent scrutiny.

“Thomas does not want to return to England, does he?”

Henry frowned. “It is not as simple as that. Thomas harbors a deep affection for the archbishop, has fond memories of his years in Theobald’s service. But he serves the Crown now . . . and serves it well, I might add. I have need of his talents, do not—”

“I do not believe,” Maude said impatiently, “that you would have denied him if he’d asked you for leave to visit the archbishop on his deathbed, a good and godly man to whom he owes so much.” When Henry did not respond, she shook her head in dismayed perplexity. “I should have guessed! The archbishop’s letter made mention of the multitude of excuses you and Becket have been offering for his absence. The truth is that he cannot be bothered to go back.”

Henry’s scowl deepened. He’d long suspected that his mother had no liking for his chancellor, and she’d just confirmed it by her disdainful use of Thomas’s surname; sensitive to slights, real or imagined, about his humble origins, the chancellor preferred to call himself Thomas of London.

“You are not being fair,” he insisted. “Thomas does grieve for the archbishop’s malady, as do I. But he has vast responsibilities, ones that go beyond overseeing the chancellory. He advises me on a host of other matters, too. I think it is greatly to his credit that he takes these duties so seriously.”

Maude’s sense of decorum did not permit her to snort or roll her eyes, but her skepticism showed plainly upon her face. “Does it not concern you, Henry, that your chancellor shrugs off old loyalties with such ease?”

“No,” Henry said and annoyed her then by grinning. “He is not likely to find a greater patron than the king, after all!”

“I want you to promise me, Henry,” she persisted, “that you will do your utmost to see that your chancellor is at the archbishop’s deathbed.”

He hesitated, for although he often handled the truth without care, he did not want to lie to her. “I will try,” he said at last, and Maude had to be satisfied with that.

 

 

 

A PALE APRIL SUN dappled the ancient mulberry tree in the courtyard of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace. Men hastened to assist the Bishop of Rochester in dismounting, showing more than the usual deference due his rank; he was also the younger brother of the dying Archbishop. As he was ushered into the great hall, he became aware of the somber atmosphere, more so than on past visits. Monks daubed with napkins at swollen, reddened eyes, and none seemed willing to meet Rochester’s gaze. He glanced toward the door that led to the archbishop’s private chambers at the east end of the hall. But before he could move, it swung open and John of Salisbury, the archbishop’s private secretary, emerged from the stairwell. One look at his haggard, tear-streaked face and Rochester knew.

“I am sorry, my lord,” John said softly. And it was then that the great bells of the cathedral began to toll, slow and stately peals that would soon be echoing across England, mourning the passing of Canterbury’s archbishop.

 

 

 

IN MAY OF THAT YEAR, fighting broke out again in the Vexin between the kings of England and France. In September, Henry’s queen gave birth to their sixth child and second daughter at Domfront Castle in Normandy; they named the baby Eleanor. In October, the warring kings met at Fréteval and made a fleeting, fragile peace.

 

 

 

SITUATED BY THE RIVER VARENNE , Nôtre Dame sur l’Eau was one of the oldest churches in Domfront; it was also prosperous and well maintained. Eleanor had deemed it suitable for the baptism of her daughter and namesake two months earlier. It was in honor of that auspicious occasion that Henry had chosen to hear Mass at Nôtre Dame on this cold, blustery morning in Martinmas week. Beaming at this public display of royal favor, the priest accompanied the king and his chancellor as far as the road, as did his parishioners and passersby drawn by the commotion. Henry ordered the distribution of alms, but as they rode up the hill toward the castle, he found himself being chided by his chancellor for not having been more generous.

“I am very openhanded in my alms giving,” he protested, “always provide a tithe for God’s poor.”

“Yes, you do,” Becket acknowledged. “But you should ever bear in mind how the Lord Christ admonished his disciples: ‘Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them; for then you will have no reward from your Father Who is in Heaven. Thus, when you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by men. . . . But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be in secret; and your Father Who sees in secret will reward you.’ ”

Henry sighed, thinking that when Thomas was in one of his sententious moods, he could put the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux to shame. “This from the man who gives alms out so lavishly and publicly that he’s caused at least two riots in the streets of London!”

Becket glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Ah, but that is different. I am acting as the king’s instrument, bestowing largesse lavishly so that credit might rebound to the greater glory of my sovereign!”

Henry stifled a laugh. “I am indeed fortunate to have such a selfless, benevolent servant, willing to make such sacrifices upon my behalf.” By now they were riding along the High Street and he happened to notice an elderly beggar, shivering in ragged, dirty garments as he trudged toward them. “Do you see that old man? How poor he is, how scantily clad? Would it not be an act of charity to give him a thick, warm cloak?”

“It would indeed, my lord king.”

Reining in his stallion, Henry smiled at the old man. “Tell me, friend, would you like a good cloak?”

The beggar blinked up at him warily, for he’d long ago learned that the humor of the highborn could be both incomprehensible and dangerous. “Yes, my lord,” he mumbled, feeling it was safer to agree with whatever craziness they were up to.

Henry grinned at Becket. “There you are, a God-given opportunity. But you shall have all the credit for this act of charity.” Leaning out of the saddle, he grasped the hood of the chancellor’s new mantle and pulled. Becket resisted and a tug of war ensued, with both men at imminent risk of falling off their horses as they struggled over the cloak. The rest of Henry’s retinue had ridden up, shouting questions, baffled by the sight of their king and his chancellor tussling like rowdy apprentices. When it became apparent that Henry was determined to prevail, Becket yielded up his mantle, although with obvious reluctance.