Time and Chance (12 page)

“Quite well.”

Ranulf glanced curiously at the other man. He knew his nephew had a specific purpose in seeking a meeting with Louis, and he would have liked to know what it was. But there was no point in asking, for Becket shared none of Henry’s secrets.

Feeling Ranulf’s gaze upon him, Becket smiled quizzically. He was in his thirty-eighth year, a man of intriguing contrasts, handsome but apparently chaste, educated but no scholar, an articulate and eloquent speaker who’d had to overcome a slight stammer, an archdeacon who’d not taken priestly vows, worldly and prideful and pious, closer to the king than any man alive, and yet with few other friends or intimates. People were invariably impressed by his competence, but he remained a stranger in their midst and they sensed that, however imperfectly.

“Is there some reason why you are staring at me, Ranulf?” Becket asked good-naturedly. “I get the uneasy sense that you are trying to see into the depths of my soul!”

“Actually,” Ranulf confessed, “I was speculating about your mission to the French court. It could not have been easy, acting as Harry’s emissary to his wife’s former husband. Even your powers of persuasion must have been sorely tried under those circumstances.”

Becket smiled, not denying that he was a gifted mediator or that this had been a particularly challenging task. “Harry does seem to enjoy sending me into the lion’s den.”

“And then wagering upon whether you’ll come out alive,” Ranulf joked. “But he often says that naming you as chancellor was one of the best decisions of his life, although he’s not likely ever to say it in your hearing.”

“I am gladdened that I’ve done well as chancellor. But I expected no less.” Becket flashed a quick smile to dispel any hint of arrogance. “I learned at an early age that an undertaking must be done wholeheartedly or not at all.”

“That may explain why you and Harry see eye to eye so often. God knows, he is half-hearted in nothing that he does!”

They turned then to welcome Will, who’d finally stopped hovering on the fringes of his mother and brother’s conversation. When Ranulf asked how he was faring, he shrugged. “I ought to be more grieved,” he said, sounding very young, “for we were brothers, after all. But I feel more pity than sorrow. I’m sorry Geoff was cheated of so much. But in truth, he could be such a swine.”

Will drew a deep breath then, as if unburdened by his honesty. Almost at once, though, his eyes flicked across the chamber, reassuring himself that his mother had not heard. When he spoke again, he sounded bemused. “Do you know what Harry and Mama are talking about, Uncle Ranulf? She is urging him to lay claim to the county of Nantes as Geoff’s heir.”

Ranulf and Becket were both amused by Will’s naïveté. It would never have occurred to them that Henry would do otherwise than claim Nantes, for if he did not, the Duke of Brittany would swallow the county whole. When Will wandered away to the settle, Becket said softly:

“It was fortunate for all concerned that Harry was the eldest of the Lady Maude’s sons.”

Ranulf nodded slowly. Geoff would have been a disaster as king, and—in a different way—so would Will, for he was far too good-hearted and easygoing to command other men. “A king needs steel in his soul,” he agreed, thinking sadly of Stephen.

“Harry has that, in plenitude. But that raises an interesting point. Which comes first, the kingship or the steel?”

“Ah . . . so you are asking, Thomas, if Harry is ruthless because he is king? Or because he is ruthless, did he become king? I suspect we’d best leave that to the same philosophers who debate how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.” Ranulf’s smile vanished, though, as he looked across the chamber at his sister. Maude in earnest conversation with Henry, exhorting him to claim Nantes straightaway, doing what she’d always done, submerging her grief in dreams of glory for her firstborn, her best beloved son.

CHAPTER SIX

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE GREAT HALL of Gisors Castle was overflowing with men, music, and avid curiosity. Most eyes kept straying toward the dais, where the Kings of France and England presided over an elaborate meal, for the true entertainment of the evening was not the minstrels; it was the sight of these two men sitting side by side in such incongruous harmony.

They were as unlike in appearance as they were in temperament. Louis was tall and slim, with delicate features and fair hair just beginning to thin around the temples. Pledged to God in his cradle, he had been raised by the monks of St-Denis, snatched from the cloistered world he’d come to love by the unexpected death of his elder brother. He was unfailingly courteous and genuinely kindhearted, with an innate dignity that had nothing to do with kingship, so pious that he was rumored to wear a hair shirt under his royal robes. But although he’d been King of France for more than twenty years, he still seemed to be playing a role not of his choosing.

Watching the two kings from his vantage point farther down the table, Ranulf could not help thinking that Louis was but a candle to Harry’s bonfire. As far as he could determine, they had nothing in common but the woman they’d both wed. It made their apparent amity now all the more amazing. Ranulf had long ago learned not to underestimate his nephew. But even he had not been prepared for such dazzling legerdemain as this. How, he marveled, had Harry done it? How had he been able to befriend a man with so many reasons to resent him?

“I find myself thinking of Scriptures.” Thomas Becket leaned over so that his voice reached Ranulf’s ear alone. “I daresay you know the verse I mean. ‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid.’ ”

A burst of royal laughter echoed down the table. Ranulf was not close enough to hear what Louis and Henry were saying, but he was struck by the anxious frown of Hugh de Champfleury, the French king’s chancellor. It was obvious that de Champfleury was viewing this rapprochement in the same stark biblical terms as Becket; obvious, too, whom he’d cast as the wolf.

Reaching for his wine cup, Ranulf clinked it against Becket’s. Still wondering what quarry his nephew was pursuing at the French court, he said, “Let’s drink to a successful hunt.”

 

 

 

IT WAS LATE when the festivities ended and Henry and Louis bade each other a cordial good night. As the French left, Henry caught Ranulf’s eye. They’d always communicated well without words, and Ranulf nodded. Finding his way abovestairs to Henry’s bedchamber, he met Thomas Becket at the door and they entered together.

Henry had stripped off his tunic, but was still in his shirtsleeves. No servants were in attendance, for he wanted no other ears pricking up at his news. At the sight of his uncle and his chancellor, Henry grinned. “Well,” he said, “Louis has agreed to give me a free hand in Brittany.”

Ranulf whistled softly. Duke Conan of Brittany had wasted no time in claiming Nantes after Geoffrey’s death. It was only to be expected that Henry would seek to regain Nantes and punish Conan for his rashness. But it was quite surprising that Louis would acquiesce in it, for it was not in the interest of the French Crown to see Henry’s influence expand into Brittany. “Now however did you manage that?”

Henry’s grin widened. “Louis has decided to make me a seneschal of France, conferring upon me the authority to make peace in Brittany.”

“Very clever,” Ranulf said admiringly, for that was an adroit, face-saving maneuver, giving Henry the authority to intervene in Brittany without eroding any of the French Crown’s purported sovereignty over the duchy. “I’d wager that was your idea and not Louis’s.”

“Actually,” Henry conceded cheerfully, “it was Eleanor’s. Women seem to have a natural instinct for subtlety.”

Becket was frowning impatiently. “But what of the rest, Harry? Has the deal been struck?”

Henry playfully dragged out the suspense before nodding. “You sowed the seeds well, Thomas. It was only for me to harvest the crop. Louis has agreed to cede me the Vexin.”

Becket looked gratified, but Ranulf was dumbfounded. As the high price of recognizing first Geoffrey of Anjou and then his son Henry as successive Dukes of Normandy, the French king had demanded that the Vexin be yielded up. But the castles of the Vexin controlled the River Seine from Paris to Rouen, making it much too strategic for Henry to accept its loss with good grace. Ranulf knew how determined his nephew was to recover the Vexin. He could not imagine what bait he might have used to tempt Louis into giving it up. “Good God Almighty,” he said, “what did you do—cast a spell upon the man?”

Henry was obviously enjoying himself. “The Vexin,” he said, “cannot compare to a crown, and that is what we are offering Louis: the opportunity to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.”

Ranulf was speechless. Louis’s Spanish queen, Constance, had given him a daughter early in the year, a bitter disappointment to a man desperate to have sons. It did not surprise Ranulf that Louis would contract a marriage for the little girl at such an early age; that was the way of their world. But as pragmatic as people were about marital unions, it still had not occurred to him that a match could be made between Eleanor’s son and Louis’s daughter. Could the children truly wade to the altar through so much bad blood?

“Louis agreed to this marriage?” he asked, sounding so incredulous that both Henry and Becket laughed.

“Indeed he did, Uncle. Our eldest lad will wed Louis’s little lass when they are of a suitable age, and the Vexin will be her marriage portion. The Knights Templar are to hold the castles of Gisors, Neaufles, and Neufchâ tel until the marriage takes place, at which time they will be yielded to me. Louis did prove prickly on one point, though. He refused flat-out to allow his daughter to be raised at our court, in accordance with custom. Whilst he was too well-mannered to say so, it was plain that he fears Eleanor would exert a sinister influence upon the child! I had to agree that Marguerite would be looked after in Normandy by that pillar of rectitude, Robert de Newburgh.”

Becket was glowing with satisfaction. “I had my doubts that we’d ever bring this to fruition,” he confessed to Ranulf. “When Harry first proposed the idea to me, the sheer audacity of it well nigh took my breath away. Even after Louis showed an interest, I feared it could all fall apart at any moment. Fortunately for us, Louis retains a monkish distrust of the female sex and blames Eleanor far more than Harry.”

“Yet even a crown would not have been enough,” Ranulf pointed out, “had Louis not taken to Harry straightaway. That is what baffles me. How in God’s Name did you win him over, Harry?”

Henry’s mouth quirked. “Must you make it sound as if I’ve been practicing the Black Arts upon the poor man? The truth is far simpler. There is a bond between us, as kings. And we could each find qualities to respect in the other. It surprised me somewhat, I admit, for I did not expect it. But Louis is an easy man to like.” He laughed then, silently. “And if you love me, Uncle, do not ever quote me on that to Eleanor!”

 

 

 

AFTER A HIGHLY successful visit to Paris, Henry headed west to deal with the Duke of Brittany. That proved easier than he’d anticipated, for Conan wanted no war with the King of England. Hastening to meet Henry at Avranches, he made peace by yielding up Nantes. Henry then rode into Poitou, where he taught a sharp lesson to one of Eleanor’s more troublesome vassals, the Viscount of Thouars, in just three days capturing a castle that was said to be invincible.

In England, Eleanor gave birth on September 23 to another son, naming the baby Geoffrey in honor of her husband’s father.

 

 

 

A COLD NOVEMBER RAIN had been falling since dawn. Rhiannon was seated so close to the hearth that Maud kept an uneasy eye upon her, not totally trusting Rhiannon’s insistence that she could judge the fire’s distance accurately by its heat. Absently stroking Eleanor’s favorite greyhound, Rhiannon was struggling to keep her depression at bay. She’d begun to envision her homesickness as a wolf stalking her relentlessly across the English countryside. Kent, Hampshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Devon shire. The shire names meant nothing to Rhiannon, blurred one into the other. She’d known that the English royal court was migratory, but she’d not anticipated that Eleanor would spend so little time in any one place, so much time on the road. She could have elected to remain behind, but she preferred the hardships of travel to the alternative: time to dwell upon her unhappiness.

Eleanor was acting as co-regent with Henry’s two justiciars, and Rhiannon was impressed by the sheer volume of work that entailed, especially for a woman just two months risen from childbed. But Eleanor seemed to thrive on it, holding court and issuing writs in her absent husband’s name. As November drew to a damp, chilly close, they reached Old Sarum, where Eleanor settled a dispute in favor of Ranulf’s niece Maud, Countess of Chester. Rhiannon hoped they would linger here for a while, but she wasn’t counting upon it.