The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (32 page)

“Theobald was a good man,” she said. “It is always a sadness to lose such as he was. He was never a friend of mine. He was always Stephen’s man, but he was unswerving in his devotion, and being a man of some wisdom he must have known that Stephen was not good for the country. Then on Stephen’s death he turned to you with great relief. But he would never have helped you while Stephen lived. That is the sort of man you want around you. As I grow older, I regard loyalty as the greatest gift.”

“We have to fill the vacancy,” Henry said.

“Which you must do with the utmost care. An Archbishop of Canterbury can have too much power for a monarch’s comfort.”

“That is what I think,” said Henry. “It is why I am considering putting Becket in it.”

Matilda put her hand to her throat and turned pale.

“Becket!” she cried. “Oh no, you must not do that.”

“Why?” cried Henry. “He is the very man. He will work with me         .         .         .         not against me         .         .         .         as so many churchmen would do. I want no one taking his orders from Rome.”

“I feel it would be wrong to appoint Becket,” she said quietly.

“You do not know him as I do.”

“He is not so much a man of the Church as a diplomat.”

“Why should not the two go together?”

“It would be wrong.”

“I tell you, you do not know Becket.”

“I know it would not work.”

“But why         .         .         .         why? Give me one reason why it would be wrong.”

I reached out and touched her hand. She took mine and held it fast. “I spend a great deal of time in prayer and meditation now, Henry,” she said. “I can only say that something tells me it would be wrong. If you do this you will regret it. It will bring you great sorrow.”

“To have my best friend in such a post!”

“He cannot be Chancellor
and
Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Why not? Tell me why not.”

“He cannot,” she said.

“My dear lady Empress, you are not acting with your usual good sense. Tell me what you have against Becket.”

“Nothing—except that he must not be your Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Why? Why? Why?”

“I know it. There will be pain and suffering         .         .         .         violence. It must not be. I know these things.”

Henry said: “I have made up my mind.”

“Becket has not agreed yet,” I reminded him.

“Becket will do as he is told.”

I could see that opposition was strengthening Henry’s resolve. Usually he listened to his mother but in this matter I feared his mind was made up.

When I was alone with her, Matilda said to me: “Try to persuade him. It is wrong. I am convinced of it.”

“You know Henry. Can anyone ask him to change his mind once he has made it up?”

“Oh, he is obstinate         .         .         .         obstinate. I trust this will not come to pass.”

“If you know something         .         .         .         if you could give him some good reason, he would listen to you.”

She touched her heart. “It is just a feeling I have here.”

And that was all she would say.

We took our farewells of her. Henry was as affectionate as ever toward her but he did not mention Becket to her again.

I said to him: “She is very insistent. It was almost as though she had some spiritual knowledge.”

“She has become very religious. I would never have believed it of her. She thinks Thomas a dandy, an ambitious man—and of course that is not her idea of what a man of the Church should be.”

“She did not say that         .         .         .         just that she had a strong conviction.”

“She is growing old, alas. She was a great woman when she was younger.”

I said: “I think she is a great woman now. Have you discussed this matter of Becket with your ministers?”

“The decision is mine.”

“Why not wait until you get back to England and take it up with Leicester and de Luci?”

“I don’t need to. My mind is made up.”

“And you think Becket will accept?”

“I think he must when he knows it is my will.”

I knew then that Becket would become our next Archbishop of Canterbury.

Becket’s reaction to the suggestion was one of dismay. Henry told me of his reluctance.

“He declares that it will be the end of our friendship.”

“Why so?”

“Because the Church has always been at variance with the State.”

“Did you not tell him that your reason for appointing him was that your being such great friends—one head of the State, end head of the Church—you could put an end to such variance?”

“I told him that, yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“That if the variance was there, our friendship would not change it.”

“I must admit it is a strange appointment for such an ambitious man.”

“All archbishops are ambitious. Otherwise they would be parish priests all their lives.”

“But a man who is known for his sumptuous hospitality, who lives like a prince, who spends most of his time hunting and hawking with his dear friend, the King         .         .         .         he is not the man for the Church. A strange choice indeed for such a post.”

“I want it,” said Henry. “He will work for me. My Chancellor and my Archbishop. It is an excellent arrangement.”

“You hope to manipulate Becket.”

“He might attempt to manipulate me.”

“He will not succeed. No one would succeed in doing that.”

“Ah, you have confidence in me then?”

“Confidence in your determination to have your own way and brush aside all who attempt to stop you.”

“Then I will have my way in the Church.”

“And has he accepted?”

“He was persuaded at length by those prelates who were present. They knew my will and they wanted to please me. Thomas said he was uneasy and he told me privately that he would be deeply grieved if there was friction between us.”

“He was outspoken about Toulouse.”

“Thomas would always be outspoken.”

“We can only hope that this appointment will bring harmony between Church and State.”

Thomas returned to England, taking young Henry with him. I was relieved to see that there was already affection between them. Thomas would be kindly and gentle with the boy, and that eased my qualms considerably.

In due course I heard that the Canterbury Chapter, having been made aware by the justiciar of the King’s insistence, elected Thomas Archbishop, and later the election was ratified at Westminster by the bishops and clergy there. By June he was ordained priest in Canterbury Cathedral by the Bishop of Rochester, and the following day he was consecrated by the Bishop of Winchester. Henry arranged for the pallium to be sent to him from Rome, so that he did not have to make the journey there to get it; and by August he had received it.

He was now Archbishop of Canterbury but Henry thought it wise to postpone that other scheme for crowning Henry for a while, although he intended to do it in time.

Our progress through our dominions had taken us to Choisi on the Loire, and it was while we were resting there for a short period that the first indication of what trouble might be brewing between Henry and Thomas was given to us.

A messenger arrived from Canterbury. Henry received him at once. I was with him at the time and eager to know what news there was from England.

The messenger handed Henry a package. He opened it and stood for a moment looking in astonishment at what it revealed. It was the Great Seal of England and could mean only one thing. I saw his face grow purple as he read the accompanying letter.

I dismissed the messenger for I could see that Henry was going to have one of his rages and it would be well for the innocent carrier of bad news to be out of sight of that.

I went to him and took the letter from him. It was from Thomas Becket. It stated that he must resign the chancellorship as he could not do his duty to one master while he served another.

Henry was spluttering: “The knave! What did he think         .         .         .         it was what I planned. Chancellor and Archbishop         .         .         .         his duty lying with me. Now he will be a slave to the Pope.”

I shook my head slowly. Now was not the time to remind him of how his mother and others had warned him against taking this step. I saw the foam at his mouth and the wild look in his eyes. He picked up a stool and threw it at the tapestried wall. He clenched his fists, and blasphemies poured from his lips.

I stood watching him quietly.

This was a genuine rage. He had thought to rule Thomas Becket and he had thrust him into a position which he did not want; now he was realizing that even he could make mistakes. His rage was against himself as much as Thomas. He flung himself onto the floor and catching up bunches of rushes gnawed at them insanely.

I think I fell completely out of love with him in that moment. I was uneasy. Instinct told me that this was the beginning of conflict between the King and his newly appointed Archbishop.

My daughter was born that year. She was named Eleanor after me. We were in Normandy at the time, at a place called Domfont. She had a ceremonious baptism conducted by the Cardinal Legate who happened to be there at the time, and she was presented at the font by the Bishop of Avranches and Robert de Monte, Abbot of Mount St. Michael.

She was a healthy baby—as all my babies had been, with the exception of William.

I was very happy with my children but I did miss my eldest, Henry, and his absence brought home to me the fact that I could not keep my children with me all the time.

The Beloved Enemy

I
WAS NO LONGER YOUNG.
At forty most women are resigned to old age. I was not like that. I redoubled my efforts. I adopted a discreet use of cosmetics; I was meticulous in choosing my clothes. I knew that I looked like a woman ten years younger.

Henry was twenty-nine and looked more than his age. He was the opposite of me and never made any attempt to protect himself from the ravages of time, spending long hours in the saddle, sleeping in any place which offered itself, sharing the discomforts of his soldiers. That was probably why he had their devotion.

Sometimes I looked at him, with his bow-legs, his rough skin, his earthiness, and I marveled that I could ever have been as obsessed by him as I was in the early days of our marriage. Added to all this was his blatant infidelity. I had accepted that because it meant nothing to him; and for all that he must have been aware of my waning affection there persisted a certain bond between us. We admired each other in certain ways. I had to admit that he was a great ruler; any decision he made had reason behind it. I had never known him make one which did not have what he believed to be some advantage to himself. Sometimes he was wrong, as in the case of appointing Thomas Becket to the Archbishopric of Canterbury, thinking to have a Chancellor-Archbishop whom he could control. It was a mistake but it had had logical reasoning behind it. He had miscalculated his man though—which was odd when one considered all the time he had spent with Becket.

He reminded me that he had been four years in France. I had been here a considerable time too, but not quite as long as that.

“Four years away from my kingdom,” he said.

“We are singularly blessed in Leicester and de Luci.”

“Yes. But it is time I went back.”

I agreed with him. I wondered whether the appointment of Thomas had anything to do with his wish to return. I think I had begun to question my relationship with him when I first knew of Thomas. In those days they had been almost like lovers. Henry’s eyes shone when he looked on the man; he began to be amused in anticipation before Becket spoke. There was some indefinable attraction Becket had for him. Thomas had never been diffident. There was nothing of the sycophant about him; indeed he had been openly critical of Henry, who had taken from him what would have enraged him from another. Perhaps I had been a little jealous in those days when Henry had meant a great deal to me.

And now, did he want to go back to England because Thomas was there? True, it was time he returned. England was the most important of his possessions. He must not neglect it.

His avaricious acquisitiveness put a great strain on him. He could never resist seizing any possession which came his way; he seemed to forget they had to be protected.

So now we were to return to England and he planned to spend Christmas at Oxford.

We traveled down to the coast. The sea was at its most treacherous, the winds violent. It would be folly to put to sea in such weather. We waited and time passed. We should certainly not be in England for Christmas.

Instead we spent it at Cherbourg without a great deal of celebration because we were unprepared; and each day we waited for the wind to abate. I was longing to see my son Henry and wondering how he was faring in Becket’s household. It was about eight months since I had seen him and, as before that we had been constantly together, I missed him very much. I planned to see him as soon as I returned to England.

As the weather did not improve and we remained at Cherbourg, Henry grew very impatient.

“I doubt not,” I said, “that the first person you will wish to see when we get to England will be your recalcitrant Archbishop.”

“I shall need to see all those who hold posts of importance,” he replied.

“I hope you will be equally eager to see your son.”

“Oh, he is in good hands         .         .         .         the best possible.”

“In the hands of the man who refused the office of Chancellor which you wished him to keep?”

“Becket has a mind of his own.”

“It would be better if that mind was in accordance with that of his King.”

“You have never liked the fellow. I can’t think why. I should have thought he would have been your sort         .         .         .         cultured         .         .         .         pretty clothes         .         .         .         nice clean hands. I think, my dear, you are a little jealous of my affection for him.”

“It was rather excessive.” He laughed aloud.

“Perhaps it has diminished a little,” I went on. “He angered you when he slid out of the chancellorship.” Henry’s face darkened at the memory, and I could not resist adding: “You made it very clear that you were displeased.”

“Thomas is too honest a man to deny what he thinks right.”

“I hope he is as honest in all his dealings. He did manage to accumulate a great deal of wealth. I wonder how.”

“He would have been a fool if he hadn’t, and Thomas is no fool.”

“I can see,” I said, “that you are looking forward to the reunion. I myself look forward with equal pleasure to seeing my son again.”

It was not until the end of January that the weather allowed us to sail. When we landed at Southampton, Becket was among the delegation waiting to welcome us; and, to my delight, with him was Henry.

My son and I embraced. I held him at arm’s length and looked into his handsome face. How I loved those fair Plantagenet looks which came from his paternal grandfather. It was a pity Geoffrey le Bel had not passed on his good looks to his son, but at least they were there in my children, having slipped a generation.

“You have been happy, I see, my son,” I cried. “How we have all missed you.”

“I missed you,” said Henry.

“And you have been happy?”

“Oh yes.” I saw him look at Becket, and there was something like adoration in his eyes. I felt a twinge of annoyance, but my maternal feelings were stronger than petty jealousy. I was glad he had found a good home and affection with Becket.

Thomas himself had changed. He was thinner. His features, which had always been of an ascetic nature, were more so. There was a look of serenity about him. He was still splendidly attired, but I learned later that under his fine garments he wore a hairshirt. I was surprised. I had always felt a certain contempt for those people who tortured their bodies. Why? I asked myself. What good were they doing to humanity? What satisfaction could such acts bring to God? And what sort of god would be impressed by such folly? The wearing of hairshirts seemed to me a form of self-righteousness which I despised. I was surprised that Thomas could have indulged in such self-torture.

I warmed to him a little because he had been good to my son. I was deeply conscious of the greeting between him and the King.

Thomas knelt before Henry and I saw the softness in the King’s face. “Get up,” he said roughly, and then they were clasping hands, Henry was laughing.

“Well Archbishop-now and Chancellor-that-is-no-more, how fare you? By the eyes of God, you
look
like an Archbishop. What have you done to yourself? Come, we shall ride side by side.”

And they did. I heard their laughter and some of their conversation, in which Henry referred to Thomas’s rejection of the Great Seal.

“Thomas, I could have killed you.”

“I guessed you would be displeased.”

“Displeased! I was murderous. It was a mercy for you, Thomas, that you did not bring the Seal yourself. How dared you provoke me so?”

“Because, my lord King, I knew I could not remain Chancellor and be Archbishop at the same time. The Church is apart from the State.”

“Why should they not march together?”

“They cannot always see through the same eyes.”

“Why shouldn’t we make them do so?”

“It may not always be possible.”

“Then there will be trouble between us.”

“I feared that if I took the post it would impair our friendship, and that is very dear to me.”

“To me also, Thomas. We will work together.”

“There may be battles between us.”

“Good. I like a battle. I’d rather do battle with you, Thomas, than live in peace with others.”

Besotted as ever, I thought.

But that was not quite true. I sensed that Thomas knew it and saw trouble ahead.

And how right he proved to be.

Looking back, it seems to me that for a long period after our return to England our lives were dominated by Thomas Becket.

I believe that, of all his possessions, Henry loved England best. If he had been content to be King of England only, his reign would have been completely rewarding. The people were of a less fiery nature than those across the Channel. They wanted a peaceful existence and knew that Henry was a strong king. It was because of this that he was able to leave the country in the hands of well-chosen administrators. He had already shown his ability to rule rather in the manner of his grandfather, the first Henry. At the beginning of his reign he had put the financial working of the exchequer in order and had changed the debased coinage of Stephen’s regime to a uniform currency; he had brought new laws of justice into the country and new forms of taxation. Henry himself did not live extravagantly; when he needed money, it was for the country or to build up an army, to provide arms for his wars, which he would say were for the good of England.

On our return Henry thought we should make a progress through the country, and after Oxford we traveled to Westminster, then through Kent to Windsor, to Wales and up to Carlisle in the north. Henry was very anxious to call at Woodstock and spend some time there. Later I was to discover why he was so attached to this place.

By this time there was a controversy about what was called Sheriff’s Aid. This was a tax which those who owned land paid to the sheriff to compensate him for his work on their behalf. Henry was in need of money and it occurred to him that if this tax was paid to the treasury as an ordinary one would be, instead of to the sheriffs, it could be of use to him.

At the council meeting at Woodstock, Henry brought up this matter of Sheriff’s Aid.

In the past Becket had given his opinion freely to the King, and their friendship had not been impaired by this. But he was in a different position now and perhaps he overrated the King’s affection for him, because he immediately opposed Henry’s suggestion that the tax should be paid to the treasury and not the sheriffs.

Becket said it would be a mistake to take this money from the sheriffs, which was just a payment for the services they rendered to the people who paid it. If the sheriffs were not paid, who knew what devious practices they would indulge in, to make up for their loss?

Henry was angry to be opposed—and by Becket.

“By the eyes of God,” he cried, “it shall be given to the treasury as a tax, and it is not fitting for you, Archbishop, to oppose me.”

Thomas ought to have seen Henry’s rising temper. He wanted Thomas on his side, not always pulling against him.

Thomas’s reply was: “By the reverence of those eyes, my lord King, not a penny shall be paid from any of the Church lands under my control.”

Henry’s rages were generally well timed, and the council meeting was not the place to indulge in one. Coldly he dismissed the subject. But I could imagine how Thomas’s opposition rankled; anyone else who aroused such animosity in him would have to beware. I thought then that it might have been different with Thomas—but perhaps not.

I believed Henry was waiting for some chance to show Thomas who was the master, and it did not help that he was defeated on this matter. He should have remembered that the Church had its own laws outside the State.

Even when I heard it, I could not resist mentioning this to Henry. I wanted to impress on him the mistake he had made in insisting on Becket’s taking the archbishopric. This was just a small matter of contention between them. There could be bigger ones.

I said to him: “This is one of the occasions when, in certain quarters, the Archbishop is more powerful than the King, the Church more than the State.”

“That is not so. But the Church has too much power.”

“You may think it is time that was changed. A matter like this will lead people to think that the Archbishop of Canterbury is the ruler of this country, not the King.”

That did nothing to soothe his ruffled temper, but I could not prevent myself telling him what I thought. I just had to remind him how foolish he had been to make so much of Becket and then commit the final folly of creating him Archbishop of Canterbury.

He then began to look about him to find some way of making Thomas understand that, although he had scored over this matter of the sheriff’s tax, the King was most displeased at this attitude and it was something he would not tolerate.

Shortly after the controversy about Sheriff’s Aid, there arose the case of Philip de Brois.

When Henry had taken over England after Stephen’s death, he had been appalled by the anarchy which prevailed throughout the country and he had immediately begun to reform the laws and the administration of justice. He had instituted judges who traveled around the countryside trying the cases against criminals so that these were not left to local courts. It had had an undoubted effect, and the country was considerably safer for law-abiding people than it had been in Stephen’s reign. But if a member of the Church was accused of a crime, he was not tried by the King’s court of law but by that of the Church. It seemed to Henry that, if these particular criminals had enough influence in high places, they escaped very lightly.

It was another example of the Church’s taking precedence over the State.

Thus the case of Philip de Brois.

The man was a canon who was accused of murdering a knight. I think it was some trouble over the knight’s daughter, whom the canon was said to have seduced. When the canon was threatened by the girl’s father and realized that his villainy was revealed, he promptly killed him. De Brois had been taken before an ecclesiastical court, presided over by the Bishop of Lincoln, where all he had been required to do was swear to his innocence—and having done so, he was released.