Time and Chance (67 page)

“What will you do if Becket goes ahead with his threat and excommunicates Harry, too? No, never mind; I do not want to know. I think we’ve dealt with enough sorrows and trouble for one night. Let’s talk instead of more cheerful matters.”

And so they did, discussing Roger’s studies in canon law and theology at the nearby city of Tours, reminiscing about the marriage earlier that year of Maud’s eldest son, Hugh, to the daughter of Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, and sharing what little news they had about their uncle Ranulf, still secluded deep in Wales. Roger told Maud, with an enthusiasm she did not share, all about Henry’s ambitious plans to build a thirty-mile stretch of embankments to keep the River Loire from flooding. And she did her best to coax him into returning with her to Poitiers, lavishly praising the anticipated splendors of Eleanor’s Christmas revelries.

Roger demurred, joking that there were too many temptations to be found at the royal court. After a moment, though, he frowned slightly. “I was told at Montmartre that Harry planned to celebrate Christmas with his son Geoffrey at Nantes, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Bretons. Has he changed his plans, then?”

“No, he will be holding his Christmas court in Brittany this year.”

“I see. . . . But Eleanor will be at Poitiers?”

Maud nodded slowly and their eyes met in a brief moment of unspoken understanding. A pall seemed to have settled over the room, giving them both an unwelcome glimpse of the road ahead, strewn with pitfalls and snares. Maud reached for her wine, no longer having the heart to tease her brother about his Advent abstinence. “Roger . . . do you think this will end well?” she asked at last, realizing that her words could apply equally to the troubles with Thomas Becket or the unacknowledged rift widening between Harry and Eleanor.

Roger did not reply at once, crumpling his napkin as he looked into the hearth’s flames. “No,” he said softly. “No, I do not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

 

 

 

 

 

RICHARD URGED HIS MOUNT forward as they passed Athrough the city gates of Caen, intent upon overtaking his mother. She smiled as he drew alongside, pointing out the twin towers of St Etienne’s, the vast Benedictine monastery founded by Richard’s ancestor, the conqueror of England known as William the Bastard. Working out the relationship in his head, Richard determined that this long-dead king was his father’s great-grandfather. He remembered how he’d once delighted in making mention of William because it allowed him to swear with impunity. He was somewhat scornful of that younger self, though, for he was twelve now and such childish pleasures were beneath him.

To the east was another great abbey, this one a nunnery owing its existence to that ancient William’s queen, and in-between the monasteries lay their destination: William’s formidable stronghold of Château Caen. Richard glanced again at his mother as the castle’s battlements loomed ahead. He knew she was not happy to be summoned back to Normandy so suddenly by his father; she and his elder brother Hal had been at Caen for much of January whilst his father punished rebels in Brittany. She’d only just arrived back at Poitiers when his father’s messenger had found her. Richard was very pleased, however, by this return to Caen, for he’d coaxed her into letting him come along.

He was not particularly keen upon seeing his father, for if truth be told, the man was a stranger to him, often gone for many months at a time. Nor was he that eager to be reunited with Hal. The two and a half years between them was still an unbridgeable gap, although Richard definitely preferred his company to Geoffrey’s. It was enough for him that this journey to Caen offered a respite from his studies and the novelty of unfamiliar sights.

Eleanor was well aware of her second son’s excitement, but she shared little of his anticipation as they rode across the drawbridge into the bailey of Caen Castle. She expected Henry to be in a foul mood, for rumor had it that his latest envoys to the papal court, Richard Barre and the Archdeacon of Llandaff, had returned empty-handed from Benevento, having failed to undermine the Pope’s obligatory support for his exiled archbishop. She assumed, therefore, that he wanted an audience for his outrage, and while that was a role she’d often played during the past eighteen years, she no longer had either the patience or the inclination to smooth her husband’s ruffled feathers or gentle his untamed temper.

The castle steward was waiting to bid them welcome and informed them that the lord king was watching practice at the quintain on the open ground north of the keep. Eleanor decided to get her first meeting with Henry over with as soon as possible, and refused to let herself remember those times when she’d been eager for their reunions. Sending her ladies and their escort on into the great hall, she cantered her mare across the bailey, soon joined by Richard, who flung a challenge over his shoulder as his gelding galloped by. Eleanor laughed, urging her mare on, and they raced onto the quintain field as a team, sending up a spray of mud in their wake.

Their dramatic appearance interrupted the competition at the quintain and they found themselves the focus of all eyes. Henry came forward to help Eleanor dismount. Richard had already slid from the saddle and received a playful clout on the shoulders from his father. Henry was grinning, and demanded to know who had won. Eleanor allowed Richard to claim that honor, her eyes resting speculatively upon her husband. He seemed in suspiciously high spirits and she wondered what he was up to now, for there was nothing about him of a man bowing to inevitable defeat.

“My lady queen!” At the sound of that familiar voice, Eleanor swung around toward the quintain, handing her reins to Henry. Her eldest son was sitting upon a muddied chestnut stallion, smiling down at her. Eleanor smiled back, and Hal skillfully reined his mount in a semicircle, gracefully lowering his lance with a flourish. “Would you honor me, my lady, with a token of your favor?”

Richard smirked at Hal’s studied gallantry, but his parents both laughed. Reaching under her mantle, Eleanor unfastened the silken belt knotted around her hips and tied it onto Hal’s lance. Another youth was making a run at the quintain and they all turned now to watch. Although Richard was too young yet to study the arts of war, he was very familiar with the quintain and the way it worked. A post was anchored in a field and a crosspiece attached to the top by a pivot; a shield was hung from one end of this revolving arm and a sandbag from the other. Only a direct hit upon the shield would enable a rider to avoid the counterblow when the sandbag swung around, and this youngster’s aim went awry. As his lance slid off the shield, he was smacked by the sandbag with enough force to knock him from the saddle. His fall was cushioned by several layers of sticky mud, but his pride was badly bruised by a wave of mocking laughter. Infuriated by the jeers and gibes of the other boys, he started to stalk off the field, had to be reminded to retrieve his horse, and that generated another burst of merciless merriment.

Richard joined in the laughter, sure that he could master this difficult skill in no time at all. His brother was taking his turn at the quintain and he found himself hoping that Hal would take a tumble, too. But when Hal hit the target with a perfectly judged blow and galloped safely past the pivoting sandbag, Richard felt a spark of surprised admiration. Hal handled a lance with such practiced ease that he rose abruptly in his younger brother’s estimation, and as he made a second pass at the quintain, Richard was cheering him on.

Hal had another successful run and accepted the plaudits of his friends with a nonchalance that could not quite hide his pride in his feat. Riding back to his parents, he reaped a harvest of praise, and when Richard voiced his desire to try the quintain, too, Hal was feeling generous enough to indulge the boy.

“You’ll not blame me if you end up arse-deep in mud?” he warned, and when Richard insisted that he’d not care if he broke an arm, Hal grinned and beckoned his brother to follow.

It never occurred to either Henry or Eleanor to object; they took it for granted that Richard would suffer numerous injuries while learning the use of weapons. Hastily mounting his gelding, Richard listened intently as Hal showed him how to tuck the lance under his right arm and hold it steady against his chest so that it inclined toward the left. It wasn’t often that their sons displayed such a cooperative spirit, and they both took pleasure in this rare moment of brotherly harmony.

Richard was an accomplished rider for his age. He had no experience in handling a ten-foot lance, though, and in his first try, he missed the target altogether, much to the amusement of the watching youths. On his second attempt, he managed to strike the edge of the shield, and was then struck in turn by the swinging sandbag, which tumbled him down into the mud. Hal and his friends laughed so hard that they were almost in tears, but their laughter gave way to grudging approval when Richard bounded onto his feet, his mud-plastered face lit with a wide grin. “I want to try it again,” he said. “I think I’m getting the hang of it!”

Henry had led Eleanor over to a nearby cart, helping her up into the seat for more comfortable viewing. She was not surprised when he chose to stand, for he’d always found it difficult to sit still for more than a few moments at a time, and against her will, she remembered their first time alone—seated together in a garden arbor on a rain-darkened Paris afternoon—remembered how she’d wondered what it would be like to feel all that energy deep inside her.

“So, tell me,” she said abruptly. “What bad news did Barre and the archdeacon bring back from the papal court?”

Henry’s eyes were on Richard, who’d just taken another bone-bruising fall. Wincing, he said fondly, “That lad may have no common sense, but by God, he has pluck!” Glancing over his shoulder at Eleanor, he confided, then, that the news was very bad indeed.

“It was politely phrased, but the threat was lurking just beneath the surface courtesy. Alexander will not pressure Becket to accept more reasonable terms. He will, however, absolve me from my oath to give the saintly Thomas the Kiss of Peace. Nothing like an unsolicited generosity. He is appointing yet more envoys, this time the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Nevers. And if I do not make peace with Becket within forty days, England will be placed under an interdict.”

“You seem to be taking it rather well,” Eleanor observed skeptically, and he gave her an amused look that confirmed all her suspicions.

“The Pope and that bastard Becket think they have found a lever to use against me. They know how important it is to me to have Hal crowned and they think they can extort concessions from me as the price for that coronation.”

Eleanor could not fault his logic. “So what do you have in mind?”

Hal had just struck the shield off-center, ducking low to avoid the sandbag’s counterblow, and Henry let out a raucous cheer before turning his attention again to his wife. “What makes you think I have something in mind?”

“Nigh on two decades of marriage,” she riposted and earned herself an appreciative smile.

“Well . . . it occurred to me that this particular lever was more of a double-edged sword.”

“I asked for an explanation, Harry, not an epigram.”

Henry grinned. “Sheathe your claws, love, I’m getting to it. It is quite simple. I realized that Hal’s coronation matters almost as much to Becket as it does to me . . . to us. As jealous as he is of Canterbury’s prerogatives, how do you think he’d react if Hal were crowned by someone else . . . say, the Archbishop of York? It would drive him well nigh mad, and he’d be desperate to re-crown Hal, lest a dangerous precedent be set, one that elevated the diocese of York over Canterbury.”

Eleanor understood now what he meant to do. It was shrewd and bold and ruthless and might well work. She studied his face pensively, thinking that these were the very qualities she’d first found so attractive in him; thinking, too, that she must never forget what a formidable enemy he could be. “You are willing to defy the Pope on this? You know Becket has persuaded him that only Canterbury’s archbishop has the right to crown a king.”

Henry’s smile was complacent. “Ah, but you’ve forgotten that I still have in my possession a letter from the Holy Father in which he gives me permission to have my heir crowned by whomever I choose.”

“That letter was dated June of God’s Year 1161, if my memory serves,” she said sharply, irritated by how smug he sounded.

“Yes . . . but the Pope never notified me that it was revoked.”

“You are taking a great risk, Harry,” she said and he shrugged.

“It is what I do best, love.”

She could not argue with that. “Since you sent for me, I assume I have a part to play. What would you have me do?”

“I plan to leave for England as soon as possible. Once there, I shall take the necessary steps for Hal’s coronation. I want him to remain here with you to allay suspicions. But have him ready to sail as soon as you get word from me. I also want you to keep a close watch on the ports, to do whatever you must to make sure that none of Becket’s banns or prohibitions reach English shores. I’ve already talked to Richard de Humet about this and he knows what I want done.”