Alexander muttered something which Fitz Stephen assumed to be a Welsh oath. “Lord Thomas’s anger does not drain him. If anything, it sustains him. But even if you were right, that does not explain what I overheard him say to the Bishop of Paris when he came to bid the French king farewell.”
Fitz Stephen did not want to ask, suddenly sure that he did not want to know. He said nothing, watching uneasily as Alexander set the cup down too forcefully, splattering cider onto his sleeve, the table, and even the sheets of blank parchment.
“You know that the French king advised him not to leave France without obtaining the Kiss of Peace from King Henry. The Bishop of Paris was of the same mind and sought to convince him to wait until his safety was assured.” Alexander’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Lord Thomas . . . he told the bishop that he was returning to England to die.”
HENRY HELD his Christmas court that year at his hunting lodge of Bures, near Bayeux in Normandy. Any hopes he and his family had of enjoying the holiday were dashed a few days before Christmas by the arrival of a courier bearing the news of the censure of the Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London and Salisbury.
ELEANOR WAS SURVEYING the great hall at Bures with poorly concealed dissatisfaction, wondering if she’d go stark raving mad before she was able to return to Poitiers. Never had a Christmas court been so bleak, so boring, so utterly endless. Nothing had gone right so far. The accommodations were cramped and modest and not at all to her liking. She had been assured that the lodge at Bures was quite acceptable. She should have known better than to believe Harry. When he was hunting, he’d be perfectly happy to shelter in a cotter’s hut.
There was not even room enough for the royal family and their attendants and servants, much less adequate space for Henry’s barons and bishops and the inevitable petitioners trailing after the king in hopes of gaining an audience. Eleanor’s children had been quick to take advantage of the chaos. Richard and Geoffrey were soon disappearing from dawn till dark, up to mischief she’d prefer not to know about. Nine-year-old Aenor, betrothed that year to the twelve-year-old King Alfonso of Castile, was no trouble at all, though, so docile and well behaved that Eleanor could only marvel this placid child could have come from her own womb. Joanna was the daughter most like her mother; as Eleanor watched now, she was running about the hall like a small, lively whirlwind, playing a game of hunt-the-fox with the little brother she rarely saw, four-year-old John.
Eleanor had been surprised by Henry’s wish to bring John from Fontevrault Abbey for their Christmas court. When he’d mentioned that all of their children would be with them except for Hal in England and Tilda in Germany, she’d not even thought of John, destined for the Church. But here he was—dark, slight, silent—so different from the other sons she’d borne that it was difficult to remember he was hers.
She supposed she ought to collect Joanna and John before they did something to vex her husband. It would not take much, God knows. Ever since he’d learned of Becket’s Advent excommunications, his temper had been like a smoldering torch, ready to flare up at the slightest breath of wind. Before she could act upon that decision, she saw her uncle making his way toward her. Raoul’s presence at the Christmas court had surprised many, for the mutual animosity between him and Henry was well known. But he had done the king a great service in negotiating Aenor’s marriage to the young king of Castile. Only Eleanor knew that he’d acted at her behest.
“Well?” he asked. “Has the king decided where he goes from Bures? Any truth to the talk that it might be St Valery?”
Although they were speaking in their native Provençal to thwart eavesdroppers, Raoul was taking the added precaution of employing code. Eleanor smiled thinly, acknowledging his joke: that her husband would be heading for the port from which William the Bastard launched his invasion of England.
“Not likely,” she said. “He has already dispatched a protest to the Pope and, for now, plans nothing else. Although the papal letter had to be sealed in a fireproof lead casket, lest the royal courier leave a trail of flames from Bures to Frascati.”
Raoul grinned, thinking that her jest was not far off the mark. He was in sympathy with the Angevin, for once, could not blame him for reacting with volcanic temper to Becket’s latest outrage. “I think the king would do well to send a doctor to the good archbishop,” he said, “for he must be suffering from a brain fever. How else explain his behavior?”
He needed to display no discretion in speaking of the archbishop, for Becket was being damned in all quarters at Bures; men eager to curry favor with the king were outdoing themselves in the virulence of their abuse. That was not a game that Eleanor cared to play, though, and she shrugged, thinking that Harry had brought so much of this upon himself by his stubborn refusal to take her advice. She’d warned him that he was making a great mistake in entrusting Becket with such power, but Jesú forfend that he pay heed to a woman . . . or anyone else, for that matter.
Just then there was a commotion outside, sudden shouts penetrating the normal noise level of the hall. Eleanor turned toward the sound with jaded curiosity, wondering what fresh trouble was about to be dumped at their door.
GEOFFREY RIDEL and Richard of Ilchester had no compunctions about speaking their minds even as excommunicates. Lent eloquence by their anger, they had taken turns accusing the Archbishop of Canterbury of sins running the gamut from bad faith to outright treachery. But Gilbert Foliot and Jocelin of Salisbury were far more scrupulous about adhering to their proscribed status as spiritual exiles.
“My lord king,” the Archbishop of York asserted, “I was suspended from my sacred calling, but I may still defend myself and my brothers in Christ.” He gestured toward the two bishops, standing mute and miserable behind him. His dramatic declaration was needless, for everyone in the hall knew that an excommunicate was not only denied the holy sacraments, prayers, and burial in consecrated ground; he was also deprived of the right to participate in the common blessings of the Christian community.
York drew a deliberate breath, making sure all eyes were upon him. “My liege, Thomas Becket has done us a great wrong. Nor does he mean to confine his vengeance to us. It is his intent to excommunicate all who consented to the coronation of the young king, your son.”
“Does he, indeed?” Henry’s scowl put Eleanor in mind of lowering storm clouds. “If all who were involved in my son’s coronation are to be excommunicated, I am not likely to escape, either.”
“That would be an evil way to repay you for the many kindnesses you’ve done him over the years. He owes all to you. How could a man of his humble pedigree ever aspire to the most exalted office of the English Church? But he seems to know nothing of gratitude. He even dared to claim that you’d agreed at Fréteval that he could cast my brethren out into eternal darkness!”
“He did what?” Henry said, in so ominous a tone that those closest to him began to back away. “He said that he had to discipline them for defying the Pope. Nary a word was said about excommunication!”
“Alas, my liege, Becket’s veracity is only one of our concerns. I have grave doubts, too, about his motives. Many believe that he has it in mind to overturn the young king’s coronation.”
“No.” Henry was shaking his head impatiently. “I gave him the right to re-crown my son. There is no need to annul the coronation.”
“I am sure you are right, my lord. It may be that these suspicions are unwarranted. But you cannot blame men for taking alarm, not after Becket has been riding about your realm with a large armed force—”
“An armed force?” Henry echoed incredulously. “This is the first I’ve heard of that!”
“Indeed, my lord. He took a large escort on his procession to and from London. Moreover, he disobeyed your son’s order to return straightaway to Canterbury and remain there. Instead he went from Southwark to Harrow to meet with the Abbot of St Albans. Once more he shows his contempt for royal authority—”
Again there was an interruption. This time it came from the Bishop of Salisbury, who was stricken by a fit of coughing. Jocelin de Bohun was elderly, not in robust health, and many in the hall began to mutter indignantly. A man darted forward from the crowd and assisted the bishop toward a seat. As he turned around, Eleanor recognized Reginald Fitz Jocelin, the bishop’s son.
Reginald was his father’s archdeacon and had once been in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s service. Salisbury’s friends had long insisted that Becket’s animosity toward him was the result of his son’s defection to the king’s service in 1164. The situation was further complicated by Reginald’s claim that he’d been born before his father’s ordination as a priest, a claim Becket hotly disputed. It occurred to Eleanor now that in the race to make enemies, her husband and his archbishop were heading for the finish line neck and neck.
Salisbury allowed Reginald to seat him on the nearest bench, but when his son attempted to help him drink from a wine cup, he shrank back, vehemently shaking his head lest that be interpreted as sharing a meal, a transgression which could taint Reginald with his own pollution.
Reginald’s face was streaking with tears, but his voice was harsh with rage. “Look, my lords,” he cried, “look how they have ill-used my father! What has he done to deserve such cruel treatment? We all know why he has been persecuted by Thomas Becket—because of me! The archbishop seeks vengeance for my loyalty to the king.”
The Archbishop of York reclaimed center stage now by saying, loudly and combatively, “Nor is that likely to change. This man Becket has naught in his heart but hatred. It spews from his lips like venom, sparing neither the righteous nor the just. His own words convict him. He has called the Bishop of London and myself ‘priests of Baal and sons of false prophets.’ He slandered Reginald Fitz Jocelin as ‘that bastard son of a priest, born of a harlot’ and he invariably refers to Archdeacon Geoffrey as ‘that archdevil.’ When he learned that the Bishop of London had been absolved of his unjust excommunication at Easter, he even reviled the bishop as ‘Satan.’ Again and again, he has resorted to the rhetoric of the gutter, the vulgarisms of infamy!”
That was too much for Eleanor’s uncle. Raoul nearly strangled trying to stifle a laugh, amazed that the bombastic York could make such a charge without even a trace of irony. He nudged Eleanor playfully, but she ignored him, unamused by what was occurring. This was too dangerous a discussion to conduct in a public forum, where collective outrage could easily ignite a veritable firestorm. She signaled to one of her children’s attendants, who swiftly gathered up Joanna and John and led them from the hall. She saw no indication, though, that her husband was going to do the prudent thing and hear the rest of this incendiary report in private. Doubting that he’d have listened to her cautionary words, she remained silent, a witness both intent and oddly detached.
“The Archbishop of York speaks true, my liege,” Geoffrey Ridel exclaimed. “We earnestly beseeched Thomas Becket to absolve the bishops, reminding him that these excommunications were contrary to the peace made at Fréteval. He knows nothing of good faith, nothing of gratitude. I, too, have heard that he has been raising an army, and I cannot help wondering what use he means to make of it.”
Henry could not believe that a fire he’d thought finally quenched was flaring again. Savagely damning Becket to the hottest abode in Hell, he retained just enough control to keep from saying it aloud. Swinging back toward York, he demanded to know what they would advise him to do. Salisbury and Gilbert Foliot were looking more disturbed by the moment, but York seemed quite calm, almost complacent.
“We think you ought to take counsel from your barons and knights, my lord king,” he said sententiously. “It is not our place to say what should be done.”
Richard of Ilchester had brought a stool out for Gilbert Foliot, insisting that he seat himself. Foliot resisted at first, but he was in his sixth decade and soon capitulated. He was so flushed that he looked feverish, so obviously shaken that he aroused considerable sympathy in the hall. Richard gestured angrily toward the older man. “Here is yet another victim of Becket’s vengeful scheming. Bishop Gilbert has devoted his entire life to Holy Church, first as Abbot of Gloucester Abbey, then as Bishop of Hereford and now London. None have ever questioned his faith or besmirched his integrity—none but Becket! He even dared to accuse Bishop Gilbert of the vilest sort of treachery. His very words to Bishop Gilbert were: ‘Your aim has been all along to effect the downfall of the Church and ourself.’ Notice how he equates the Mother Church with his own selfish interests!”
Engelram de Bohun stepped forward to add his voice to the fracas. As the Bishop of Salisbury’s uncle, he felt that he had more right than most to vent his spleen against his nephew’s enemy. Like the others, he made a point of calling the archbishop “Becket,” spitting it out as if it were a curse. Eleanor understood why quite well. It went beyond denying him his rank as a prince of the Church. By making use of the surname Becket himself shunned, his foes were emphasizing the archbishop’s greatest vulnerability: his shame at being the son of a mere merchant.
As a descendant of Charlemagne, the proud daughter of a prideful and ancient House, Eleanor agreed, of course, that bloodlines were of profound significance. But she found herself feeling a growing sense of exasperation with all concerned. She had learned through painful lessons that words must be weighed with care and that actions had consequences. Looking back upon the rash, headstrong girl she’d once been, she winced at the naïveté and foolhardiness of that younger, indiscreet self. How was it that Harry and Becket had learned nothing from their own mistakes?