The Winter Crown (22 page)

‘Because he performs the task of chancellor very well. If I make him archbishop, then Church and State will work together hand in glove.’

Alienor gave a vehement shake of her head. ‘You will be putting the power of Church and State in the hands of a single man. There will be no checks and balances.’

Henry’s nostrils flared with impatience. ‘Of course there will. Thomas will do my bidding. He has been my chancellor for six years and I know him well.’

‘Do you?’ Alienor shook her head. ‘I do not believe anyone knows Thomas but Thomas. The face he shows to you is a charming front. He is a consummate politician and he will tie you in knots. And even if I am wrong and you do know him, Henry, he knows you better. He is not even a priest. How will the clergy take to his rule?’

Henry scowled at her. ‘You are always contrary. Why do you always have to oppose me?’

Alienor returned his look. ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it. Have you said anything to Becket about this?’

‘Not yet.’ Henry bit his thumbnail.

‘There are other candidates?’

‘Yes, Gilbert Foliot and Roger of Pont L’Évêque, but neither would fit the shoes as well even if they think they would. They will act as checks to Thomas should it be required.’

‘I still think you are treading on dangerous ground. I counsel you not to act in haste lest you repent at leisure.’

Henry shrugged and drank his wine. ‘I will not change my mind. The advantages far outweigh the pitfalls.’

Alienor was less convinced, but well recognised that stubborn look by now.

‘I am also of a mind to put Harry into Thomas’s household to be tutored.’

Another shock jolted through her. ‘He is too young for that.’ She felt as if she were in a fight and being pummelled by blows from all angles. ‘He already has a tutor.’

‘Yes, a good one, but that only suffices for the moment. He needs more. Thomas employs learned men in his household who will take him a stage further. He is a future king; he must be prepared and the Chancellor’s household is the best place.’ He made an exasperated sound. ‘Christ, stop looking at me like that. I did not mean immediately; these things have to be planned well in advance.’

Oh yes, she thought. Henry always had everything planned, always one step in front. But sometimes being one step in front meant you were first over the edge of the cliff.

Entering her chamber, Alienor went straight to the cradle to look at her baby daughter. ‘How is she?’

Although it was not long past midday, the light was already failing and candles had been lit. Alienor had been at the cathedral, attending a prestigious reburial ceremony for the bones of the Dukes of Normandy, but had hurried back to her sick child the moment she could escape.

‘No change, madam,’ said Hela, the wet nurse. ‘She is still very hot. I have bathed her in tepid rose water and she has taken suck from me once, but not for long. Her little mouth round my teat was scalding.’

Alienor touched the baby’s cheek with a gentle forefinger and fear arrowed through her. This, her second daughter, had been born at Domfront on a golden morning in October and baptised Alienor but called Alie to differentiate her from her mother. She had been small at birth compared to her siblings, a dainty child, perfectly formed, but not a hearty feeder like the others. Her brothers and sister were recovering from a contagion of itching pox; now little Alie had succumbed and was very unwell.

Alienor had been worrying about the baby throughout the reinterment ceremony, and although she had performed her role with grace and duty, her thoughts had been with her sick daughter. She could not be bothered with Henry’s dead ancestors when their living child stood in peril of her life. It brought back all the terrible memories of Will’s death, and the reburial ceremony seemed like a portent.

Henry arrived, broad-shouldered and stocky in his ceremonial ermine and scarlet. ‘How does she fare?’ His gaze darted to the cradle and then swiftly away.

‘She is in God’s hands,’ Alienor said. ‘All we can do is pray.’

A muscle clenched in Henry’s cheek. ‘You are needed among our guests,’ he said shortly. ‘Do not be long.’ Turning on his heel, he almost ran from the room.

‘I am needed here too,’ she said to the space where he had stood and been unable to hold his ground. She felt helpless and riddled with guilt. Angry with Henry, angry with God. What if He dropped Alie as He had dropped Will?

Eventually she joined Henry among the great gathering in the hall. Harry accompanied her because he was over the rash and the itching, but Richard, Matilda and Geoffrey were still covered in scabs and confined to the nursery. It would not do to have the heirs of the Dukes of Normandy sitting at the table scratching their crusted sores.

Alienor played her role to the hilt. She was smiling and gracious to their guests. She made witticisms; she listened and nodded and wove a smooth social ribbon. She engaged in serious conversations although later she was not to recall what she said. But the moment she could escape without seeming discourteous, she retired to keep vigil over her tiny daughter.

Harry remained with Henry, so that all could witness the continuity of the line from father to son, and everyone remarked upon the boy’s good looks, his charm and finesse, uncommon in one so young.

‘The saying goes that the fruit never falls far from the tree,’ Henry said, and patted his son’s head. ‘I own him all mine.’

In the small hours of the morning, the baby’s fever reached crisis point and her little body stiffened and convulsed in a seizure. Alienor had been dozing at the bedside but the wet nurse’s scream shocked her wide awake.

‘Demons have entered her body – send for the priest!’ Hela wailed. ‘Holy Mary, save us all!’

‘Be silent!’ Alienor smacked the girl across the face, the sound cracking like a whip. ‘I will not hear such stupidity. Get out, get out now. I do not want to see your face again!’

The young woman fled, sobbing, and Alienor turned to the baby, her heart pounding with terror. The convulsion ceased and Alie flopped like a rag puppet. She was still alive, but her little ribs flexed and fell like overworked bellows. Marchisa arrived with a bowl of fresh, cool rose water. ‘We must keep wiping her down, madam,’ she said. ‘I have seen this kind of thing before in babies.’

‘Did they live? Look at me, tell me the truth.’

Marchisa met her gaze with a steady brown stare. ‘Yes, madam.’

‘All of them?’

For the briefest instant Marchisa hesitated. ‘Most of them,’ she said.

For the remainder of the night, Alienor wiped her daughter’s body with a moist cool cloth wrung out in the rose water, and begged the Virgin to spare the baby’s life. Her eyes burned with dryness because she dared not close them, lest Alie be taken in that moment of blinking. She would not even leave her to Marchisa; only her own hand would do. Another wet nurse was sought and found in one of the huts outside the castle, and when Alie would not take suck, Alienor dripped honey and water into her mouth from the tip of a twisted rag.

As the dawn rose in the east with tiny specks of snow floating in a grey and gold sunrise, the infant’s fever finally broke and her breathing eased. Alienor watched the gentle rise and fall of the little chest, no longer frenetic, and felt as twisted as the cloth she had been using as a drip-feed. She had no energy for euphoria. Uttering a sound midway between a sob and a sigh, she pressed her face into her hands. She wanted to cry but the tears would not come. She had hoped that Henry could visit to see how their daughter fared, and had been disappointed but not surprised that he had not.

‘Come, madam, you must sleep for a little while now,’ Isabel said. ‘I will see to everything.’ She put her arm around Alienor. ‘If there is a change, I will waken you immediately.’

Alienor drank a cup of spring water while Marchisa combed out her hair and helped her remove her gown. She was achingly tired, and nauseous too. She fell into bed, barely aware of Isabel drawing the curtains, and Marchisa speaking softly to the sick baby. Within moments she was asleep, and it was a deep, dark slumber, bereft of dreams and heavy with exhaustion.

She woke late in the morning to the sound of Henry talking to her women, his voice husky and cheerful. She sat up, bleary-eyed and sluggish. There was a vile taste in her mouth and the nausea of last night was still with her. Pulling a loose robe over her chemise, she parted the bed curtains and looked at Henry, who was his usual robust and energetic self.

‘You have finally come to see how your daughter fares,’ she said, raising her brow.

‘I knew you would send for me if needed,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘What use would I be with a sick baby? That is women’s business.’

‘You could have sent word to enquire.’

He gave her a look that said she was being ridiculous. Anger bubbled up inside her, hot, vile, nauseating. She had to run to the garderobe, where she knelt over the hole, retching. Henry listened to the sound with a thoughtful look on his face.

She returned, hunched over, her stomach sore. ‘I am with child again,’ she said, and felt drained just announcing it, for Alie was only a little over four months old. He had indeed turned her into a brood mare.

‘I thought so,’ he said with a hard smile, and kissed her cheek. ‘That is good news indeed, and meanwhile there is still no sign of an heir for France.’

Alienor forced herself to straighten. ‘Are you going to look at your daughter now you are here?’

Humouring her, he went to the cradle. Little Alie had developed a flush of red spots over her body, but was sleeping oblivious. The new wet nurse assured Alienor that the baby had recently fed well.

‘See,’ Henry said, ‘there was no cause for all this fuss.’

Alienor said nothing because she was incoherent with rage and contempt.

‘Go back to bed,’ he said in pacific tones. ‘You must rest if you are to grow us another healthy child, and in truth you do not look well.’

‘What do you expect when I have been keeping vigil all night with our sick daughter? One you have not bothered to visit until the crisis is over, and now you say it is a fuss over nothing?’

‘Because it is,’ he said. ‘The evidence is before your eyes.’ He took her arm, his manner patronising and solicitous, as if he was being kind to a half-wit, and led her to the bed, where he made her lie down and pulled the covers around her. Then he waved her women away and sat on the coverlet. ‘That is better,’ he said.

She did not answer. Henry picked at a piece of embroidery on the coverlet where a thread had come undone. She watched him unravel it and stifled the urge to slap his hand.

He looked at her from under his brows. ‘The Countess de Warenne has had more than enough time to mourn,’ he said. ‘I want you to speak to her before Easter about my brother’s suit.’

Alienor sighed, just wanting to be rid of his presence. ‘I will do as you wish,’ she said, ‘but she shall keep me company until the child is born. Let the wedding wait until then. She and your brother will have time for courtship in the meanwhile.’

His eyes narrowed and she thought he was going to refuse, but eventually he nodded brusque assent. ‘Very well, but they will be wed the moment you are churched; I will brook no delay after that.’

‘As you wish,’ Alienor said and shut her eyes.

The door closed behind the squire and Henry reached for his wine and considered his chancellor. They had been playing chess and honour had been fulfilled by a stalemate, although the satisfaction of a triumph had eluded both men.

‘I want to talk to you, Thomas,’ Henry said. ‘It’s about the vacant see at Canterbury, but I think you already know what I am going to say. You know I have not summoned you here solely for the purpose of taking my son into your household to educate.’

Becket bowed his head. ‘Sire, I had wondered.’ His expression gave nothing away.

‘Well then, let me put an end to your wondering. I desire you to take the position of archbishop. It seems to me to be the most practical solution.’

Thomas inhaled and Henry raised a hand to stop him. ‘No arguments. You will be lying if you say you did not desire this or that you are incapable. I need you to accept this post and bring Church and State together in harmony. I have thought the matter through and you are the only man I trust to do it successfully.’

‘Sire, there are others who could accomplish this task who are already seasoned bishops of the Church.’

Henry snorted down his nose. ‘Foliot or Pont L’Évêque, you mean? I want men who are going to look to the future, not the past.’

Thomas’s face had flushed, and Henry saw his fists curl in his sleeve like a cat flexing its paws. ‘If we are speaking straightly, sire, I am not sure I should accept,’ he said. ‘It will be difficult to unite the secular and the spiritual because one will always push against the other.’

Henry brushed the detail aside. ‘Well then, it makes sense to have the two in harmony not opposition. You will be able to blend them together. You can always delegate more tasks to others and have them report to you.’

‘Sire, you honour me…’

‘Yes, I do.’ Henry’s eyes brightened and he leaned forward in his chair to put over the full force of his will. ‘I expect you to take this up, Thomas. If you do not, I shall indeed have to consider the likes of Gilbert Foliot. Would you rather deal with him as head of the Church while you are chancellor, or would you wear both mantles and have him answer to your authority on all counts?’

‘I think you know the answer to that one, sire,’ Becket replied, ‘b-but it is a big step to take.’

‘But one you want, despite your protestations. I know you, Thomas; I know your ambition and hunger. How great would it be for your family? A common London citizen raised to the pinnacle of Church and Government.’ Henry watched his chancellor’s flush deepen. He knew how much Thomas hated references to his mercantile roots; and how he yearned after the power of privilege. ‘I need you in that position,’ he reiterated. ‘It is time for reform.’

Thomas clasped his hands together as if in prayer, and pressed his fingertips beneath his chin. ‘You have raised me to the chancellorship and now you ask me to be your Archbishop of Canterbury. I will do my utmost to fulfil those roles, but, by your leave, I must pray for guidance.’