Beloved Enemy (39 page)

Two months later, in October, Eleanor’s mother-in-law, the Empress Maud, requested her to come to Normandy. There had been no word from Henry since early September, when he had written that battle was imminent. Since he had been at Wallingford since July, this made no sense to Eleanor. She also had misgivings about going to Rouen until she realized that when Henry did return he would undoubtedly go straight to Normandy. Not to mention that whatever news did manage to float back across the Channel, Henry’s mother would receive it first.

When William was strong enough—he was a weak babe who ailed frequently—she would most certainly go to Rouen.

“What do you mean there was no battle? What has everyone been doing at Wallingford for the last three and one-half months? Making faces at each other across the river?”

Eleanor, surrounded by her women, sat in her mother-in-law’s solar in the ducal palace at Rouen. She looked quizzically at the messenger, a cleric, who had arrived this chill November morning to inform her and Henry’s mother of the most recent events in England. The cleric, who claimed to be an archdeacon of Canterbury, had been closeted alone for over an hour with the Empress Maud, who only two days ago had herself just returned from a rather mysterious journey to Anjou, she claimed. Eleanor tried to stifle the unworthy prick of resentment that rose within her breast. I am Henry’s wife. It is I who should have seen this man first.

Ever since arriving in Normandy last month, Eleanor had bent over backward to accommodate her formidable mother-in-law, knowing it would please Henry. In the main, although wary of each other, they had gotten on surprisingly well, discovering they had as many similarities as differences. But when all was said and done this was the empress’s domain, and never before had Eleanor been forced to yield pride of place to another woman. She knew it was a question of protocol and courtesy, entirely proper that Henry’s mother should have been told the news first, but still it rankled.

Beside her the wet nurse crooned to baby William as she rocked him in her arms. It was another rainy day, so bleak that the charcoal braziers could barely warm the chamber. Ivory tapers flickered wildly in the howling wind that penetrated through the cracks in the stone walls. Outside, torrential rains lashed the towers and ramparts. Eleanor shivered. Sweet St. Radegonde, how she missed the sunlit warmth of Aquitaine.

Overall though, she knew she had little cause for complaint. Ever since giving birth to her son, she had been petted and spoiled, the center of attention in both Anjou and Normandy. Unfortunately, the babe was still not strong, and continued to ail. Eleanor felt protective toward little William and fussed over him—something she had not done with her two daughters. When she heard that Louis and the Frankish nobility were reeling from the shock that the Norman succession was now assured, her satisfaction knew no bounds.

The black-hooded cleric from England, who had not been sent directly by Henry but by the archbishop of Canterbury, returned her quizzical look. His unblinking eyes, dark as mulberries, were set close together in an arresting face dominated by a nose beaked like a hawk. This gave him something of a predatory aspect. Eleanor had the grudging thought that it was a face you would look at twice—and once seen never forget.

“If you will allow me to explain,” the cleric said in a deep voice that was probably meant to be deferential but instead sounded condescending.

“Do so.” Eleanor wondered why the man, personable and well-spoken as he was, should put her back up. Maybe it was because she had suddenly remembered her father once telling her that you could never trust a man whose eyes were set too closely together.

“Duke Henry and King Stephen both wanted to do battle, Madam. It was the barons, supported by the clergy, who refused. Led by my master, his grace of Canterbury, and the bishop of Winchester, a peace was finally negotiated that proved acceptable to both sides.”

“A wise decision yet one that amazes me,” Eleanor said. “Henry so looked forward to defeating Stephen on his own ground. And the English king has sworn time and again that he would never make peace.”

“I believe that his exact words were he would never make peace unless his son Eustace inherited.”

Eleanor curbed her irritation. He was right, of course. “But now that Eustace is dead … yes, I see, that would change matters. So—both King Stephen and my husband were persuaded of the advantages to be gained by a legal settlement rather than by power of the sword. I’m greatly relieved that the war in England is finally at an end.”

“So are we all. Of course, our Heavenly Father also intervened by sending Stephen an evil omen.” The cleric crossed himself.

“Something other than Eustace’s death?” Eleanor leaned forward with interest.

The cleric nodded. “While Stephen was marshaling his troops, his horse reared and almost threw him. Not once but thrice. He took it as a sign from heaven.”

“The poor beast probably slipped in the mud.” Eleanor’s women tittered. Ignoring the disapproving look that crossed the cleric’s face she lowered her voice. “Tell me, is it really true that Prince Eustace actually choked on tainted fish?”

“So I understand.”

“How fortuitous. Do you expect me to believe that no one helped him to a most timely end?” Eleanor placed a hand over her heart. “I promise to be the soul of discretion. Come, tell me how it was done.”

The cleric looked down his beaked nose. “There is naught to tell. Many may have wished Eustace dead, one cannot deny that. But in this instance there is no evidence of murder.”

“So you say.” Suddenly restless, Eleanor rose and walked to the copper brazier, stretching her hands out over the coals. “The whole matter concerning Stephen’s change of heart is so—so—unlikely. I cannot help but feel there is more to this tale than has been told, though I doubt we shall ever know the truth of it. Well, go on.”

The cleric bowed his head. “Stephen acknowledged Henry’s heredity right in England and named the duke his heir. Duke Henry in turn said that Stephen might hold the kingdom until his death. In fact the two have adopted each other as father and son …”

Eleanor turned around. “Sworn enemies adopted each other as father and son? Now does the lion lie down with the lamb! Extraordinary.”

Ignoring her outburst, the cleric continued. “The barons and bishops then agreed to bind themselves by oath that Henry should succeed to the kingdom peacefully.”

Eleanor laughed and returned to her seat. “An oath sworn by the magnates of England is as binding as water. The empress’s struggle to become queen of England is living proof of that.”

The cleric’s lips tightened and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “It was further agreed that the rights of the crown which nobles everywhere had usurped were to be restored and—”

“I’m sure all the details were quite in order.” Eleanor knew she was being provoking but could not seem to stop herself. “Thank you. Did my husband have a personal message for me?”

The cleric fumbled in the scrip at his belt. “As I left in rather a hurry I did not actually talk with the duke myself, madam. In fact I have yet to meet him. My master, the archbishop of Canterbury, gave me this for you from Duke Henry.” He unwound his black-clothed body from the stool and handed her a square of sealed parchment. “It was His Grace who arranged for me to deliver these glad tidings to you and the empress.”

Courteous as he was, there was a sanctimonious air about the cleric that continued to irritate her. In addition he was so tall that Eleanor had to arch her neck to look up at him.

“Please wait in the hall. I’ll have an answer for you to take back.”

“I’ll be glad to act as scribe for you, Madam.”

“How kind. But I can write a fair hand myself. In several languages, as it happens.”

The cleric flushed. For a moment he seemed nonplussed then swallowed his surprise as she walked with him to the door of the solar.

“Do you have any idea when the duke will be returning to Rouen?”

The cleric gazed down at her with those strange unblinking eyes. “No, Madam. It might be a few months yet. Duke Henry is to return with the king to London so that he may acquaint himself with the workings of Stephen’s realm.”

“I see.” A few months! Eleanor made no effort to conceal her sharp disappointment.

She missed Henry so much, and he had never even seen his firstborn son. Still, the arrangements made political sense and even she could see this was not the moment for him to leave England. After all, what they both longed for had come to pass: Henry would be king and she queen.

The cleric opened the door. Eleanor watched him stride down the passageway, his black robe billowing out behind him like a dark cloud. Suddenly curious, she called out:

“How are you called?”

He turned his head without breaking stride. “Becket, Madam. Thomas Becket.”

“M
Y LORD, DO YOU
wish to comment on the fate of the Flemings?” Theobald of Bec, archbishop of Canterbury, who presided over this meeting in his well-appointed council chamber at the Bishop’s Palace in London, regarded Henry with an inquiring look.

Henry felt his blood stir. Since last November and the signing of the Treaty of Wallingford, he had been confined in one wretched council chamber after another: Wallingford, Winchester, now the Bishop’s Palace in London where he had arrived with King Stephen two weeks ago. Increasingly frustrated with these endless discussions, it was all he could do to keep his temper on a tight rein.

“The Flemings, you say? Indeed I do, my lord archbishop. Indeed I do! If I had my way all Flemings would be blinded, castrated, and paraded around England in chains.”

“A bit harsh, my lord,” said one of the English barons seated at the table. “After all, the Flemings were hired by King Stephen in time of need and served the realm well.”

“Rape, looting, murder, torture of innocent civilians unable to defend themselves—God’s eyes, this is your idea of serving the realm well?”

The bulk of the magnates and ecclesiastics attending the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats and would not meet Henry’s eyes. In truth, the chamber was so crowded with former enemies that he felt stifled by the air of hostility that seemed to clog his very nostrils. The burnished copper braziers, thick tapestries depicting scenes from the crucifixion, and heavy silver candleholders only added to the suffocating atmosphere.

“My cousin, the earl of Gloucester, was very nearly quartered like a chicken by one of these whoreson Flemings, weren’t you, William?”

William, seated next to him, looked startled. “You have an excellent memory, Cousin.”

“An inheritance from my grandfather, the first Henry, the last
rightful
king. I pride myself on never forgetting a good turn—or an ill one.” Henry scrutinized each peer. “It passes my understanding that Stephen could even hire such knaves. But then, everything he has done passes my understanding.”

Stephen’s brother, the all-powerful bishop of Winchester, rose to his feet. “It is not very charitable to attack a man behind his back, my lord duke. Today Stephen ails and is not present to defend his actions.”

“How can one defend eighteen years of criminal negligence? It is more than sufficient to make one ill.” Henry met the bishop’s indignant gaze with a grim smile. “Ill unto death I shouldn’t wonder. As God is my judge, I wouldn’t have Stephen’s conscience for all the gold in the Knights Templar coffers. Considering the widespread damage he’s inflicted, I have grave doubts as to whether he is even fit to remain as king.”

The bishop’s voice rose. “My lord, you agreed Stephen should remain king until his death!”

“Did I? God’s eyes, I must have been flown with wine. Or mad. Or both. It’s obvious he is unfit.”

“My lord archbishop,” the bishop said, green eyes blazing. “This is an outrage. King Stephen and Duke Henry have sworn to adopt each other as father and son!”

A moment of shocked stillness followed this exchange. Henry could feel everyone’s horrified gaze upon him, including the two clerks perched on high stools, wax tablets and styli poised in their hands. In the midst of the silence, someone snickered. Henry, baffled by this reaction, could not see from whence it came. Then the nobles all raised their voices at once. Henry winced. The uproar sounded exactly like a pack of angry yelping hounds.

“My lords, my lord bishops, order, order if you please.” The archbishop of Canterbury held up a palsied hand. “By the Mass, are we here to hurl recriminations or forge a workable set of rules that will guide us in restoring peace and plenty to this wounded land?” He sent Henry a reproachful glance. “It behooves us all to remember that every man has the right to face his accuser.”

The magnates quieted. Henry gave a reluctant nod. If it weren’t for the unflagging support of the archbishop of Canterbury, who had championed the Angevin cause for the last five years, he would not be here now. He had no wish to antagonize the worthy Theobald. But at least he’d had his say. Or part of it. Henry let out a deep sigh of irritation. How much longer could he stand this kind of imprisonment? Whether well-appointed, such as this one, or barely furnished, all the chambers he’d been in since November looked alike to him. Walls lined with chests filled with crumbling sheets of parchment. Even the smell—dust, moldering wood, and sealing wax—was the same. Henry’s backside was sore; his patience wearing thin.

“The Flemings, my lord?” the archbishop reiterated with a weary sigh.

“Force them to quit England,” Robert of Leicester said quickly. “Banish them to their native land.”

Henry gave a reluctant nod. Unaccountably there flashed into his mind a picture of a bloody, eyeless head nailed to a gate and Flemish soldiers kicking a youth along London Bridge.

He thought again of that sudden snicker; there had been something obscene and totally uncalled for about the sound. How he wished he could have detected its source.

The monotonous voice of the archbishop droned on and on over points already covered in the proposed treaty.