Authors: Blanche d'Alpuget
‘It can’t be that bad,’ she prompted.
A feeling of suffocation overcame him. ‘Rachel, it’s not bad. In fact, it’s most advantageous …’
‘But?’
‘I need to explain from the beginning,’ he said.
As he spoke her skin turned from its normal colour of honey, to red, finally to greenish-grey. She leaped from the chair, ran to a window and threw up.
‘To Eleanor! How could you do this to me, Henry? I had to listen to her screaming while your father rutted on her. When you say, I must go and lie with my Christian wife, I’ll think of you and …’
‘Stop it! Stop working yourself up, Rachel. Eleanor and I will see each other for formal occasions and …’ he stared at the floor, ‘… annually, merely to get heirs for the throne.’
She slapped him across the face. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’
He stepped back but then rushed to her and carried her onto the bed, bunting his head into her lap. ‘Not insulting. Would never insult you,’ he said.
She forcefully pushed him away. ‘You don’t know Eleanor, Henry.’
He looked up, blinking. ‘Do you forbid me to marry her?’ he asked.
She closed her eyes and lay back, mute. After a long sigh she said, ‘I believe no woman in history has ever won an argument with a man.’ She lapsed into silence again. ‘Since I won’t abandon my faith, I can’t forbid you to marry a woman of your own. But I thought you might have considered my feelings before proposing to Eleanor.’
‘She asked
me
to marry her.’
Rachel looked surprised. ‘She did?’ He nodded. She smiled a little. ‘You tricked her into doing that, didn’t you?’ He nodded again. ‘You want her money, like everyone else. You swine of a fortune-hunter!
Get out!
Get out of my sight. Pig!’
Henry entered Guillaume’s apartment where his brother’s long legs were stretched on his bed while he tuned a citern. ‘The confession did not go too well?’
‘You could see it like that.’ Guillaume handed him a cup of wine. ‘I’d prefer to fight Goliath without a catapult,’ Henry added.
‘Rachel will think, probably correctly, that Eleanor will condescend to her. And that she’ll do everything to thwart your ambitions for your son Geoffrey. And that Eleanor will try to take you away from her.’ He looked quizzically at his brother. ‘You don’t understand women, Henry. They fight differently from us. More subtle, but much dirtier.’
‘I enjoyed kissing her,’ Henry admitted. ‘Although I thought about Papa while I had my tongue in her mouth.’
They sat in silence while outside the shadows grew long and inside servants lit lamps. ‘I’ll get drunk before I lie with her,’ Henry added.
You hooked the fish, but the fish has driven its spine into you, Guillaume thought. He said, ‘Brother, whatever your problems with wives, they aren’t as pressing as our problems across the Channel.’
Henry groaned. ‘Don’t tell me yet. Give me a half hour to sweeten Rachel.’ He strode down the corridor to her bedchamber and banged loudly on the door. ‘Wife!’ he shouted. ‘Your husband has brought his other cheek for you to strike. You must hit harder this time. He insists you inflict more pain.’ He pushed his ear to the door. There was no sound inside. He waited. At last he heard her weeping. He opened the door and tiptoed towards the bed.
The chroniclers recorded:
On the Friday before Palm Sunday, with the approval of Pope Eugenius, the marriage of Louis Capet and Eleanor of Aquitaine was annulled; the Princesses Marie and Alix were declared legitimate and awarded to the King. In seeking a divorce from Eleanor, instead of having her executed for adultery that many suspected, King Louis willingly lost half of his domain.
On the evening of the day on which the Pope agreed to annulment, the first of the fortune-hunters tried to abduct the ex-Queen. The Duchess had to pass through Blois on her journey south to Poitiers. Theobold of Blois plotted to seize her there. He had a large posse of knights to whom he had promised lands and booty if their mission was successful. Eleanor had a small
escort of ten men, and a pilgrim. As darkness fell the party left the roadway and galloped for the Loire where they boarded a boat and sailed to Tours. As day broke over Blois, five of Theobold’s knights were discovered, beheaded. Eleanor planned to cross the River Creuse at Port de Piles. But lying in ambush for her was another fortune-hunter. Young Geoffrey Plantagenet had decided to make good his loss of land to his elder brother, Henry, by seizing the Duchess of Aquitaine. He was now eighteen years old and had many young companions eager for adventure. As Eleanor came in sight they broke cover from their hiding place on a hillside overlooking the river. Eleanor’s mare swerved, nearly throwing her, but she regained her balance, the Aquitaine knights crowded in a gallop on either side of her, and in a herd they rushed across the river flats, mud from their heels flying at Young Geoffrey and his companions. All were amazed to see the old pilgrim, who had been trotting behind the Duchess and her knights, ride to the vanguard, an eagle on the wind. He flung out an arm and, as one, the knights and Duchess changed course again, away from the Creuse.
That afternoon Eleanor and her party forded the River Vienne. They rode through the night, through narrow lanes, across meadows and fields and finally, on Maundy Thursday, reached the safety of Poitiers. That night the pilgrim vanished. Later, when people asked the Duchess how she had managed to escape, her reply was always the same: ‘My good angel warned me.’
In England, a pigeon had arrived with a three-word message:
Louis, Eleanor divorced
.
Eustace flew into such a rage with Constance he slapped her. ‘Why did you keep this secret from me?’ he demanded. ‘You and Eleanor wrote to each other every week! You knew. Yet you hid it from me!’
‘My lord, I knew nothing,’ she pleaded.
‘Now you lie to your husband,’ Eustace shouted. ‘When the celebration of Easter is over you are to go into retreat. I don’t want to see your face.’ And I don’t want you to see Aelbad.
King Stephen called his son to a private discussion. ‘However hard-pressed we are for funds to defend ourselves against the Anjevin, our brother Louis will be unable to help,’ he said.
You think I didn’t realise that? Eustace thought. ‘My fool of a brother-in-law has pauperised himself for a woman who couldn’t even give him an heir,’ he replied. ‘He should have had her beheaded, and kept Aquitaine.’
On Maundy Thursday, in Canterbury Cathedral, the King, the Prince and their wives attended the year’s most solemn Mass. As midnight approached, priests stripped the altar of its gold, bejewelled vessels, draped a black cloth across it and lit the majestic Paschal candle – a black knight guarding the forsaken altar. As if life were seeping from a dying man, all the other candles in the cavernous building were extinguished one by one. A single flame of hope hovered in the cavernous dark.
Only the giant Easter moon allowed people to make their way, in silence, through the night into the mysterious anguish of the Easter fast. Death fell on earth. No one would eat, no fire would be lit, until the end of the following day.
Eustace whispered to his father, ‘When do we ask Canterbury for his answer?’
‘It’s already clear,’ the King replied. ‘The baronage is gathered for Easter Sunday. They’ll swear allegiance to you on Monday. If, after vespers, he remains adamant, we take him to the White Tower.’
It was the first week after Easter and a tall man in shabby clothing, carrying a canvas bag, stepped off a fishing boat in Rouen. The
Duke’s palace was easily visible from the docks and with vigorous strides he set out for it. At the gate he announced himself – the Archdeacon of Canterbury, come on urgent business.
‘Duke’s not here,’ the guard responded.
The Archdeacon looked up. Henry’s red standard with a gold lion rampant flew from the castle towers. ‘He can’t be far away,’ the visitor said.
‘He’s in the town. With his wife.’
‘Is there no other member of the family with whom I could speak?’
‘There’s the Dowager.’
‘The Empress!’
‘She’s here. Playing with her grandson.’
‘Announce to the Empress that Thomas of London brings her urgent news.’
Matilda advanced slowly into the audience chamber where her guest waited. On her hip she carried a beautiful dark-haired child. For some moments she stared at the man who had risen to greet her.
‘Tom, is it really you?’ she asked in English.
He fell to his knees. ‘Empress. And Queen. It is I.’
She’d not been in London for more than a decade, but she remembered the young financier who’d had the courage to support her cause when almost every other man in the city had been against her. It was he who had given her a baby monkey, so small it fitted in a pocket.
‘Hambril’s dead!’ she exclaimed. For a moment her eyes lustred with tears.
‘Your Grace, my condolences. And on the death of your husband.’ His large, dark eyes moved around nervously. ‘Empress, as you might infer from these rags I borrowed in haste, I bring dire news for your cause in England.’
Matilda held up her hand. A servant ran to take the baby from her hip. ‘Dire news should always be given and received while seated,’ she announced.
How majestic she is, he thought. As a young man in a financial house in London, he had found Matilda’s grandeur, her regal disdain for lesser mortals and her love of money thrilling. ‘You’re a greedy, acquisitive boy, Thomas,’ she’d remarked to him once. He’d taken it as a compliment. ‘You live beyond your means,’ she’d added. That pleased him too: to live beyond one’s means required intelligence and daring.
When they were seated Matilda prompted, ‘Well?’
‘Stephen has arrested the Archbishop of Canterbury and will not release him until he anoints and crowns Eustace. Highness, Theobold is sixty-two years old. He cannot sustain the pain of irons and imprisonment for long. If Eustace is crowned …’
She had no further need for explanation. ‘England is lost,’ she said flatly. ‘The magnates will never agree to fight a second war against the house of Blois. Where’s he held?’
‘The White Tower.’
Matilda smiled to herself. ‘My grandfather built it,’ she remarked. Her mind was on something else. Her face, that of an old woman when she had first entered the audience chamber, seemed young again. ‘Why did they not arrest you?’ She had remembered that his nickname in London was Oily Tom. He was a flatterer and more guileful than Delilah. Highly strung, given to overstatement, wildly ambitious, but clever. Very clever. And totally focused on self-advancement.
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘They would have. However, I saw what was unfolding and had time to dress as a woman …’
The Dowager gave a shriek of amusement. ‘You! You’re taller than my eldest son!’
‘It’s he to whom I must speak.’
She snapped her fingers at a page. ‘Fetch the Duke,’ she said. ‘Tell him, whatever he’s doing, he must come to the palace immediately. It’s nothing to do with little Geoffrey. It’s about England.’
Henry was in a rage when he rode his horse up the steps and into the audience chamber. At the palace gate a post-rider from Poitiers was lying in wait for him with a letter from Eleanor and a cage of ten pigeons. Henry snatched the letter and ordered the pigeons be secured in the croft, separate from its home birds. He told the rider to wait.
As he rode into the hall the Archdeacon leaped to his feet. Without dismounting Henry demanded, ‘What’s so urgent?’
‘Lord Duke, I believe that unless we act swiftly our blessed Archbishop, Theobold, now in irons in the Tower of London, will either capitulate to Stephen and crown Eustace or die from Stephen’s ill-treatment, and the Usurper will contrive to appoint a puppet who will anoint the Crown Prince. In either case …’
Henry held up a hand for him to stop. ‘No king would be fool enough to kill the Archbishop of Canterbury. Believe me – what’s your name?’
‘Thomas of London, sir. Also called Becket.’
‘Believe me, Also Called Becket, your patron will receive gentle care in the White Tower. Stephen cannot afford less – whatever his evil son wants.’
The visitor bowed in agreement to what he recognised, unwillingly, was a superior argument. ‘Lord Duke, the King is forcing magnates and barons to vow homage to Prince Eustace.’
‘That,’ Henry answered, ‘is a greater problem.’ He leaned down to clasp his visitor by the shoulder. ‘You had me dragged from the arms of my wife. But I’m grateful to you. When I return in an hour or so I want to hear your suggestions of how we free the
Archbishop from the White Tower.’ He turned his horse and rode from the building.
The Archdeacon stared, his mouth slightly agape in admiration. He had never before seen a man ride his horse into the audience hall of a palace. ‘What a prince!’ he exclaimed to Matilda.
Something disturbs me about that man, Henry thought.
In Isabella’s house he returned to Rachel’s bed. As soon as he entered her chamber, her heart began to race, telling her that he was anxious, although outwardly he appeared cheerful and bold. ‘You smell of horse,’ she said playfully, hoping to distract him from whatever problem had taken him to the palace. He gazed into her liquid eyes. ‘For you to ride,’ he answered into her ear. He held her across his chest, sighing and caressing her buttocks. The news from London was dreadful, but his heart pounded in agitation over Eleanor’s letter. She had written:
Delay is impossible. I’m in danger every moment. I fear to leave my refuge.
As Henry relaxed in the arms of his wife he thought, damn you, Eleanor. We agreed we’d wait until Pentecost. I won’t budge from that. ‘My darling,’ he murmured to Rachel, ‘light of my eyes.’
‘Do you want to tell me what’s worrying you?’ she replied.
‘Choose a country.’
‘France.’
‘Choose a different one.’
‘England.’
‘Let’s get bathed and dressed, and I’ll introduce you to the English problem,’ he said.
Rachel took longer to dress than Henry. While waiting, he penned a quick note to the Duchess of Aquitaine:
The contract drawn up by Father Bernard remains unchanged.
Spend a month in retreat. It will advantage your reputation.