Authors: Ellen Jones
“I long to see her.” The queen turned her head toward Thomas. “Was there something else, my lord chancellor?”
Thomas felt skewed by those compelling eyes. “No, Madam.” Henry glanced first at him then at Eleanor. He
must
be aware of their mutual animosity. The question was—what would he do about it?
“I’ll see you back at Westminster, Thomas,” Henry said quickly. “Probably by tomorrow morning. Thank you for an adventurous day. Oh, you’ll be pleased to hear that in September I’m to be the father of another son. Eleanor has just told me the wonderful news.”
“Wonderful news,” Thomas echoed. “Congratulations, Madam.” He bowed, then walked to the door of the chamber. Henry followed him. At the top of the staircase, the king half-closed the door.
“The queen is out of sorts due to her condition. Forgive her brusqueness.” He paused. “There was something I almost forgot,” he said in a low voice. “A confidential matter. I want you to get me whatever information exists on one of the marshal’s knights, a distant relative I believe. He wears an emerald-studded medallion and his father was Flemish, his mother Norman. This man’s recent activities don’t concern me, just what he did during the last years of Stephen’s reign. Particularly the period when he may have been in London. There’s no urgency about the matter, merely—curiosity on my part. But for my ears only, you understand?”
Mystified, Thomas nodded. Henry went back inside the queen’s chamber, shutting the door behind him.
All the way back to Westminster, Thomas raged. The Aquitainian whore would pay for summarily dismissing him like an errant schoolboy. There would come a time when she would rue the day she had humiliated the lord chancellor of England.
T
HE FOLLOWING JUNE THOMAS
left London for Paris, on what would be his most important mission, thus far, of Henry’s reign.
He had not spent more than a day or two in France since his student days, and upon entering Paris, Thomas experienced a sense of boundless gratification—something he rarely allowed himself to feel. How different was this arrival from his unheralded days as a scholar when he could barely scrape together enough deniers to feed himself or pay for his lodgings.
From the many hundreds of awestruck faces gazing up at him, it was obvious that the French had never witnessed anything quite as magnificent as the procession now wending its way across the bridge leading to the Ile-de-la-Cité. Judging by the size of the crowd, the entire city must have turned out in force to witness the spectacle that, he, chancellor of England, had personally created.
Henry had entrusted to him the task of persuading King Louis that his vassal for Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine wanted lasting peace between France and England. The peace was to be solidified by the marriage between Louis’s daughter, Marguerite, now six months old, and Henry’s eldest son, aged three and one-half years, with the Vexin as her dowry. Thomas’s grand appearance was to be followed by a personal visit from Henry himself—the very first time the king of England would meet the king of France face-to-face on friendly terms since Henry had been made duke of Normandy seven years earlier.
The crowd surged forward with cries of wonder and delight as each segment of the procession passed by. First came those on foot: two hundred-and-fifty pages and squires in squads of sixteen, marching to the strains of Welsh and English songs. Next came the hunting-train: fewterers with the finest hounds on gilded leashes, falconers bearing hooded and jessed falcons on their leather-gloved wrists. Then came the wagons drawn by five black horses, led by a grandly dressed groom with an enormous mastiff trotting beside him. The lead wagon, sumptuously decorated in gilt-and-scarlet hangings, boasted a portable chapel for Thomas’s own use. The last two wagons contained barrels of brown ale—it was time the French learned there was something besides wine for civilized people to drink.
Following the wagons came the pack mules, each with an ornate chest roped to either side and a long-tailed monkey cavorting in between. Every time the procession halted—and Thomas had arranged for many stops—the chests were opened to show their contents: gold and silver plate, spoons, ewers, jeweled goblets. The hostlers leading the mules were all dressed in identical garb, the livery of the king of England. Next came the men-at-arms marching in precise formation, then the knights in gleaming armor riding huge destriers, and holding aloft the royal scarlet banners with their golden lions. Squires carrying their shields walked in step beside them.
Thomas had elected to bring up the rear, dressed more magnificently than anyone else, in brocaded velvet, astride a snow white horse whose trappings were of gold and silver. He heard someone in the crowd shout “If this be his chancellor what must the king himself be like?” Exactly the effect he wished to create. Abandoning his usual air of dignity and pride, he permitted himself a gracious smile, reveling in this moment of glory.
If he never did anything else for the realm—and God knows he had done enough to defy number—Thomas knew he would always be remembered for the spectacle he had created and organized. This balmy morning in June of the year 1158 would be engraved on the memory of anyone who had watched the procession. Not only that, if each chronicler in every French and English abbey also noted the event, it was bound to be talked of years, perhaps decades, even generations, later. Posterity would know that due to his brilliant chancellor, Henry Plantagenet had become one of the most powerful monarchs in the West.
“This year of 1158 is surely the most glorious of my four-year reign,” Henry said to Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester and co-justiciar of England. “Thus far.”
“You say that every year, sire.”
“Well, it’s true every year. But
this
one is quite exceptional. Admit it, Robert.”
“Gladly.”
It was late September. Accompanied by grooms, squires, huntsmen and fewterers, Henry and de Beaumont were riding through the Verte Forest which lay outside Rouen. Turf flew from under the horses’ hooves. A blood-stained knife dangled at Henry’s belt, a yew bow was slung over one shoulder, an ivory horn around the other; a wolfskin cap covered his tawny head. Having just brought down a five-branched stag, he was filled with that special glow of achievement which always accompanied a successful hunt.
Through the rusted leaves the light was beginning to fade. Henry and his party rode into a clearing, scattering piles of damp leaf-mold, carefully skirting the old wood hunting lodge where his grandfather had died—it must be all of twenty-odd years ago now.
“I keep meaning to tear that eyesore down,” Henry said, pulling his horse to a stop and pointing to the crumbling wooden structure. “Every time I ride through here I get a chill—as if a wolf stepped over my grave.” He looked at the aging earl, whose face had a shuttered look, as if he were suddenly on guard. “You were there when my grandfather died, weren’t you?”
“Indeed,” said de Beaumont, signing himself. “I cannot pass this lodge without remembering not only that untimely death but also its tragic aftermath.”
And the upheaval of my own life, Henry added silently. There still remained for him an element of mystery concerning the origins of the bitter struggle for the crown between his mother and her first cousin, Stephen of Blois.
“My mother avoids talking about those days,” Henry said.
“No one cares to dwell on evil times, Sire,” Leicester said, obviously choosing his words with care. “The glories of
this
reign are much more felicitious. At long last you’ve subdued the Welsh, dispensed strict justice, kept the peace, and managed to persuade the king of Scotland to do homage for his English estates. No mean feat.”
“Surely that’s not an end to my glories.” Henry raised his brows.
The earl laughed uneasily. “No indeed—ah, how about inspiring increased confidence in the populace by minting a stronger, sounder coinage? Then there—”
“That will do.” Henry held up his hand, aware that Leicester was trying to divert his attention.
By God’s eyes, there
was
some mystery to be solved, one he had sensed for as long as he could remember. Not that he had any intention of probing. On the contrary, instinct told him it was best to let sleeping hounds lie. Henry spurred his mount and, followed by the hunting party, rode quickly through the clearing.
Thoughts of what he had accomplished continued to stir in his mind. In midsummer, after Thomas’s successful negotiations with the French king, he had himself gone to Paris to collect the baby Marguerite so that she could be brought up as a member of her future husband’s family. Louis had permitted her to leave on condition that Eleanor had no hand in her upbringing. Both he and Henry had agreed that until the two children were old enough to marry, the disputed Vexin would be held in pledge by the great military order of the Knights Templar so that neither king might put a garrison to it.
A few weeks later, Louis had decided to make a pilgrimage to the Abbey of Mont-St.-Michel in Normandy. Henry had given him permission to travel freely throughout his duchy, and even joined him. Despite the shadow of Eleanor that, inevitably, fell between them, he had been surprised to find how well he and Louis had gotten along.
“You know, Louis of France is not a bad sort,” he said aloud to Leicester. “Although I can see why he would never have suited Eleanor.”
“Pious as plainsong and an absolute saint—but not someone I would totally trust.”
“With the possible exception of my mother, there are none whom I
totally
trust,” said Henry. “Perhaps one other.”
“Only one other? Who might this be?”
“No one you know. An old friend I met on London Bridge, as it happens. During the days you still supported King Stephen.”
At the startled expression on Leicester’s face, Henry smiled. Let the earl make of that what he would.
The party slowed as they came to a thickly wooded copse covered with dense green brambles and fallen branches. A faint mist rose from the moist earth.
The most recent occurrence of the year concerned his mischief-making brother. Geoffrey had suddenly stopped intriguing against him, having at last found an outlet for his ambitious nature. The Bretons, having driven out their overlord, had asked him to take over Brittainy. Unfortunately—for Geoffrey at least—he had died within weeks of becoming their count. Last month, in August, Henry, as his brother’s heir, had promptly requested Louis of France to grant him the title of seneschal of Brittainy. It was a test of their newfound friendship and Louis had readily complied.
The hunting party crossed a burbling stream, came to an opening amid the stately golden trees, and emerged onto the road that led to Rouen. Dusk was fast approaching. Through the blue haze of evening wood smoke, a red-and-purple sunset streaked the sky. Ahead, Henry could see the spires and roofs of the city, crowned with flame by the setting sun. The air was still, the pungent scent of the verdant forest mingling with the wild beast odor of the dead stag roped to one of the horses.
Beside him, Henry could see the earl of Leicester crouched over his mount; behind, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves beating a steady rhythm against the hard track, the hounds giving tongue as they strained against their leashes.
His senses honed to a sword-edge, Henry was jolted outside himself into a crystalline awareness of the passing moment. There was nothing unusual about the ordinary events of this ordinary day except an aching desire to hold it fast. Why was he always rushing toward achievement, racing like one of the mythic furies toward a future that lay just around the next bend in the road? Why was time his enemy? Always eluding his grasp, trying to rob him of the chance to reach fulfillment. Stop, he wanted to shout. It’s all going by too quickly …
The trumpets sounded as he neared the city gates. The moment abruptly vanished. In the twilight he could see the scarlet-and-gold standard, showing the duke was in residence, flying from the castle keep. Outside the gates the road split, one leading away from Rouen.
“If you don’t need me, I’ll ride on to Beaumont, sire,” said Leicester. “My greetings to your lady mother.”
Henry watched him turn down the road that led to his estates at Beaumont, another three hours’ ride. A wise counselor, an able justiciar, the earl was one of the old guard, a lone remnant left from an infamous reign, and, in fact, one of the few men that Henry did trust. Not that he ever intended Leicester to know that. Better to keep him—and everyone else—slightly off balance. Ever green in memory was his mother’s oft-repeated admonition that an untamed hawk, when raw flesh is offered to it and then withdrawn, becomes more greedy and therefore more ready to obey.
Inside the ducal palace Henry went straight to his quarters and called for a wooden tub of hot water perfumed with aromatic herbs that would relieve aching muscles. He had been soaking in the tub for some time when Thomas Becket unexpectedly entered the chamber. Henry frowned. He had only left England two weeks ago.
“Greetings, Sire.”
“This is a surprise. When did you arrive? Is anything wrong?”
“I arrived just now and nothing is wrong. On the contrary.”
“Good! Then I’m glad to see you, Thomas.” Henry stood up while a servant rubbed his back with a long linen towel. The chancellor quickly averted his eyes. “What are these glad tidings?”
“The queen has produced another son, Sire, who thrives mightily to judge from his lusty cries.”
“By God! By God and all His Saints!” Henry spun round in the tub, splashing water over the sides and onto Thomas’s red tunic, drenching the servant. “Another son! How is the queen?”
Thomas hastily backed away. “She is well. As always, she drops her babes as easily as a brood mare.”
Henry gave him a sharp look. Sooner or later something would have to be done about the bad blood between Nell and Thomas—when he had the time to confront and deal with it. It was intolerable that his closest friend and his loving wife should be always at odds. Especially when he was the ground over which they waged their subtle warfare.