A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver (9 page)

“And then?” I asked.

“And then after the young couple is married, Henry will dismiss the Templars from the Vexin and take over its fortresses. Since Young Henry is but five and Marguerite is but two, you stand no chance of being rushed into great-grandmotherhood. After the marriage the children will be returned to their nursery to finish growing up.”

“Speaking of their growing up, how is Thomas Becket, Eleanor?”

“He is as beautiful as ever, Mother Matilda. He does well whatever task is asked of him. If he had been born a cow, he would have spurted pure cream.”

“I see you care for him as little as ever.”

“I would like him more if Henry liked him less.”

I ARRANGED TO ATTEND
Easter court in France to help Eleanor and Henry celebrate ten years of marriage. Ten very successful years.

Henry called Thomas to France, too.

Henry, being a great believer in having people renew their oaths of allegiance, wanted Thomas to convene court in London. He wanted all the barons and the bishops of England to pledge support to Young Henry to remind them that when he passed from the scene, there was another Henry Plantagenet waiting.

“Buy him a little crown and some royal robes; it will help remind the English that he is a future king. And, Thomas, I want you as my chancellor to be the first to kneel and pay homage.”

Thomas Becket answered, “I consider it an honor to pay homage to so young and fair a prince. And I shall be happy to be the first to do so. But the homage paid by the king’s chancellor weighs as a penny to a pound compared to the importance of the homage paid by the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“But there is no Archbishop of Canterbury at the moment. You know, that, Tom. Thibault died several months ago, and the Pope has not yet chosen someone to take his place.”

“That is true, sire,” Thomas Becket said. “Too bad. But I shall be happy to be the first to kneel to Young Henry.”

Henry smiled. “Tom, what if … what if … the Archbishop of Canterbury and my chancellor were one and the same person?”

“Oh, I am flattered, my king. But a man cannot wear two hats at the same time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Henry said. “If I can wear two crowns, surely you can wear two hats. Think about it, Thomas.”

Thomas said, “My taste in hats is too fancy for a bishop’s miter, my lord.”

“Tastes change.” Henry smiled.

Thomas bowed and left the room. He was no sooner gone than Eleanor and I both pounced on Henry.

Eleanor first. “What makes you think, dear husband, that you will be able to appoint Thomas as bishop. The Pope guards his right to appoint all bishops, and he certainly will not allow you to appoint one as important as the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the Pope’s eye in England. My former husband, Louis, once tried to appoint only some minor bishops, and it brought nothing but trouble. He lost the bishops and considerable prestige.”

Henry answered, “Your former husband, your Louis, did not work
within
the law. I shall. I shall only
suggest
to a few important people that Thomas Becket be named Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Suggest to some and bribe others. Is that it, Henry?” I asked.

“Oh, Mother, don’t call it bribery. Call it an exchange. Why don’t you like the idea?”

“Because it will not work. Becket will make a choice. He is a man of conscience. I see that by how conscientiously he serves you as chancellor. He will choose to serve God instead of you. If you make him archbishop, you give him too much power and too hard a choice.”

“Out. Out. Out. Both of you. You, you women! Your brains are …”

Eleanor and I were quite accustomed to Henry’s rages. We stood our ground. Eleanor said, “I will not get out, Henry. I will stand here and stand opposed to your appointing Becket as Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Henry walked over to Eleanor, picked her up from the waist and deposited her on his chair. She looked up, “You see, Henry, even I like your throne. It gives the best point of view by far. Can you imagine Becket not wanting to set his fancy bottom on such a fancy seat?”

Henry had to laugh. Laughter quieted his anger. “All right, ladies,” he said, “I’ll explain. Mother sit here, in Eleanor’s chair. Eleanor, stay there. Let me explain. Now listen. All the times I have not had to go to war, I have spent my time developing the law of this land. I have made the English law firm and just and uniform throughout the island. Except for one thing. And that is the Church. Anyone who claims that he is the lowliest clerk in the tiniest church is excused from English law and is allowed to be tried by Church law. Let me give you an example. A wool merchant in London accused a boy of stealing a bale of wool. The boy said that he did not steal the wool at all; he said that the merchant had counted wrong. The merchant replied that he had not counted wrong at all and that the boy was lying. Without any further investigation, the merchant had the young man’s tongue cut out.”

Eleanor winced. Henry continued, “He said that the boy would never lie again. The mother of the boy came to my court. She wanted a trial by jury. She could produce witnesses, she said, that would prove that the bales had not been counted correctly. I was ready to call a trial when I was visited by none other than the merchant’s bishop. ‘You cannot try the merchant in your court,’ he said. ‘Since he is a member of the clergy, he must be tried by the officers of the Church, not the officers of the king’s court.’ So the merchant was tried by a Church court and found not guilty. The Church may preach an eye for an eye, but not a tongue for a tongue.”

“Could you not prove that the merchant was not a member of the clergy?” I asked.

Henry laughed. A loud guffaw. “Do you know what it takes to prove that you are clergy, Mother? It takes nothing more than being able to recite six verses from the Bible by heart. They are called
neck verses
because they’ve saved many a neck. But, of course, if you are a young lad who has had his tongue cut out, you can’t recite verses.”

Eleanor and I stayed silent. Henry paced around the room, frowning at everything. Then he stood between our two chairs and rested one hand on each. He leaned over and said, very solemnly, “You see now, ladies, why I must have Becket as Archbishop of Canterbury as well as chancellor. The country cannot have two kinds of laws. One set of laws for the king’s men and another set of laws for the Church’s men. I must combine them. What if men were different colors? Would it be right to have one set of laws for blue men and another set for red? Good grief! ladies, what can I do to convince you that I must have one set of laws in all my kingdom?” Henry was raging again.

“You’ve convinced us, Henry,” I said. “I do not question the wisdom of your wants, I question the way. Find someone else to be Archbishop of Canterbury, someone else who will listen to you.”

“Mother, Mother! Don’t you know Thomas? He loves splendor as much as my wife does. He is not about to quit wearing brocade. By making Becket Archbishop of Canterbury, I am saving myself the trouble of finding another friend at court.”

“You will not save trouble,” I warned. “You will buy it.”

“Look at Louis, my former husband,” Eleanor said. “He cannot make up his mind whether he wants to be mighty king or a lowly priest. So he does neither well.”

“That
will not be Thomas’s problem,” I said. “Thomas will do whatever job is set before him, and he will do it well. Too well. He will always give his best to the higher sovereign. And, Henry, my son, as much as I love you, you are no match for God. Thomas will choose to serve God rather than you.”

Henry’s calm broke again. “One of you compares me to a sissy king and the other to God on high. Now, just for a moment, as a husband to one of you and as a son to the other, for just a moment, think of me as your king.” He paused, smiled, then said, “Are you doing that, both of you?”

We nodded.

“Are you thinking of me as your king?”

We nodded again.

Henry smiled again. “Then your king orders you
out, out!
OUT! OUT!”

We left.

Henry kicked the door closed behind us.

AND SO IT WAS
. The world well knows the story of the feud that developed between my son, King Henry, and his Archbishop, Thomas Becket.

Shortly after he was named Archbishop of Canterbury, Becket resigned as chancellor. Henry went into a rage and removed Young Henry and Marguerite from Becket’s care. He tried to get Becket to sign an agreement that made it illegal for clergy to stand trial in courts different from the laymen’s. Becket would not sign, and the private quarrel that began between Henry and Thomas Becket became public.

I was right. Becket chose to serve God.

He cast away his fine robes and wore a monk’s robe. The man who had worn hose of silk now walked barefoot, and there were people who said that he wore a hair shirt as a constant itch to his conscience. Just as Becket had been popular with lords and barons when he was chancellor, he was now popular with the common folk. They followed him through Canterbury like the children of Israel following Moses to the Promised Land.

Henry’s hopes for uniting the two kinds of law were dashed. He fumed, he raged, he shouted to the world. Henry claimed that Becket was in contempt of the king’s court; he called Becket before him and issued heavy fines. Still Becket would not sign the agreement. Henry accused; Becket refused.

The war between the two men soon became a war between the country and the Church, and Becket fled. He sought shelter with King Louis of France, and he found it.

Henry dissolved into another rage. “If Louis wants some Becket,” Henry shouted, “he shall have a flood of Beckets,” and Henry banished from England everyone who was even remotely related to his old friend Thomas. France found itself with four hundred relatives of Becket, most of them poor.

In the year after Becket fled from England, my daughter-in-law, Eleanor, gave birth to a daughter; she and Henry named her Joanna. That year, however, is better remembered for another birth.

Louis VII of France at last had a son. He named him Philip Augustus. Louis and his wife Adele were overjoyed.

Henry and his wife Eleanor were not.

WE WERE ALL TOGETHER
for Easter court the following year. Henry seemed weary and preoccupied; he claimed he was exhausted from just having waged battle in Wales. Eleanor looked weary and pregnant. I was weary and old. It was a tired court that year.

In the fall, Henry and I stayed in France, and Eleanor crossed the Channel to England. In December, Eleanor gave birth to John, and shortly thereafter she returned to France. I heard that Eleanor was on her way to Poitiers, and I sent word that I wished her to stop in and see me on the way. I wanted to bid my newest grandson welcome. When a person reaches the age I then was, there are many more goodbyes than hellos. The
hellos
become precious.

Eleanor came. She did not stay long. She said that she was anxious to get her family to the Aquitaine for the winter. She complained of a chill. In the fifteen years that I had known Eleanor, I had never heard her complain of discomfort. The cold that she felt was something inside, I was sure. But she would not talk of it.

I died shortly after that visit, and I still don’t know what drove Eleanor South, home to the Aquitaine.

ELEANOR REACHED
across her mother-in-law’s lap and took her hand. “There are some things, Mother Matilda, that wives have to find out, and mothers never should.”

“At least tell me what happened to Thomas while he remained on Earth.”

“He stayed in France for six years. Then he returned to England and was murdered. People blamed Henry for Becket’s murder. Young Henry blamed him more than anyone else; after all, Thomas had been as much a father to him as Henry had been. I think that Becket’s murder was the single act that has most delayed Henry’s coming Up. Henry did not wish it; while he was overcome with one of his rages, he screamed, ‘Won’t anyone rid me of this troublesome clerk?’ Someone is always willing to oblige a king. Four of Henry’s knights made their way to Canterbury and murdered Becket while he was at prayer in his own cathedral.”

“Did Becket ever come Up?” Matilda-Empress asked.

“Oh, immediately,” Eleanor answered.

“Why then do I never see him?”

“Because, my dear mother-in-law, he became a Saint. He is St. Thomas Becket now. Even though Saints are supposed to be something between men and Angels, they always stay closer to the Angels. He still serves the higher sovereign, just as you said he would.”

Abbot Suger interrupted. “Too bad it was left for a different Henry to make the Church give up the right to try its clergy,” he said. “Henry the Eighth did that. Three hundred fifty years after Becket’s murder. That Henry took everything: the courts, the Church treasures, the land belonging to the monasteries. I had arrived Up long before Henry VIII’s break with the Church. I watched the whole thing happen. I’ve always kept up my interest in Church matters. It was said that when Henry VIII took over the Church of England, all Hell broke loose. I am surprised you didn’t hear the rumble, Matilda-Empress.”