Beloved Enemy (63 page)

From Rouen Cathedral came the far-distant sound of the Vespers bell. The horses whinnied softly; the hounds awoke; soon they were snarling as they fought for scraps. The sky grew darker, a pale sliver of new moon appeared.

“I will send a message to Eleanor at Westminster and ask her to pay a visit to the archbishop,” Henry said in a conciliatory tone. “She’s a past mistress at diplomacy and will know how to explain why I can’t spare you.”

“I’m sure Theobald will appreciate it, Sire.” The very idea that the sensuous queen, whom, incredibly, Theobald had actually taken a liking to, would be a suitable replacement for himself was an affront.

There was no reason he could not be spared, Thomas wanted to say, irritated with himself for not doing so. At the moment matters fared very well indeed for the bold Plantagenets.

After the fiasco of Toulouse, Henry had at one stroke restored his prestige by secretly marrying young Henry to Louis’s eldest daughter by his late wife, while the French king, desperate to get a son, was hastily preparing for his third wedding to the count of Blois’s sister. The fact that Louis was making an alliance with the House of Champagne-Blois—which had produced King Stephen—threatened Henry’s sense of security, and he had acted with dispatch. Despite Louis’s subsequent rage and threats at the loss of the Vexin, which was restored to the Plantagenets upon the occasion of young Henry’s wedding, there was little he could do except make a feeble attack on Henry’s lands in Touraine—which Henry thwarted by a successful counterattack.

In fact, the French king’s marriage to a daughter of the House of Blois posed a minor threat, if any, as far as Thomas could see. But Henry’s virtual obsession with anything that concerned Stephen of Blois, his almost overpowering need to obliterate any and all reminders of this unhappy monarch, was a source of puzzling concern to Thomas. Along with his philandering and extreme possessiveness, it hinted at yet another unstable element in the king’s complex character.

“I keep meaning to tear this lodge down, as I told de Beaumont some time ago, but something always stops me.” Henry took another swig from the flask and passed it back again to Thomas.

“A link with the past perhaps?” Against his better judgment, Thomas took another long swallow before returning the flask to Henry. His head was starting to swim and his voice sounded thick.

“That must be part of it,” Henry said.

Thomas saw the huntsmen and groom wrap themselves in blankets some distance from the fire and curl up to sleep.

“You could spare me if you so desired,” Thomas said suddenly, amazed at his own audacity. It must be the wine. “I’m due to leave for England shortly in any case.”

There was a short silence.

“I daresay I could but I don’t choose to spare you, Thomas. Theobald can wait a while longer.” Henry reached out and roughly slapped calloused fingers across the back of Thomas’s hand. “What would I do without my boon companion, eh?”

Henry’s fingers seared him like flame. Before he knew what he was about, Thomas turned his palm up, his fingers opened, crossed, then interlaced with Henry’s. He could feel Henry’s start of surprise and initial withdrawal. Thomas grasped the harder and Henry let his hand rest.

“I thought you were still angry with me,” Thomas said in a throbbing voice he barely recognized as his own.

“Well, I was, Thomas, I was, no doubt of that.” With his free hand Henry took another pull at the silver flask and passed it again to Thomas.

“Yet it was only your honor I sought to preserve outside the walls of Toulouse.” Thomas took the flask, noting that his fingers shook.

“I don’t doubt it. But you know how I hate to be thwarted once I’ve made up my mind. One of my weaknesses, I fear—one of my many weaknesses. I’ll warrant you know them better than I do myself. Mea culpa, but you’ll forgive me my trespasses, I hope?” He gently withdrew his hand and gave Thomas an affectionate punch on the arm. “But that’s all over and done with now. We are like brothers again, eh?”

That was the incredible thing about Henry: he could disarm you so easily with his uncanny ability to confide his own faults. Thomas closed his eyes. He could feel a pounding in his ears. Was it his heart? He took another draught of wine, emptied the flask, then laid it aside.

“Are we brothers then?” he said in a low voice.

“Have I not just said so?”

“Blood brothers?” It was too dark to clearly read the expression on Henry’s face.

“I’m not sure I understand you, Thomas.” The king’s voice was edged with a kind of wary surprise.

“Shall we make a vow of blood brotherhood?”

Thomas was shocked, amazed, horrified at his own words. What had made him voice such an outrageous idea, suggestive as it was of sorcery, faith, passion, chivalry, even pagan ritual?

“The blood bond between brothers-in-arms? Didn’t the house-carls of the Saxon kings so bind themselves?” Henry paused. “The Knights Templar formed such a bond after exposure to the infidel during the first crusade.”

“A bond of comradeship, yes, that cannot be destroyed or disavowed.” Thomas didn’t add that it was also a pact of flesh and spirit, such as legendary lovers like Tristan and Isolde were said to have made; what one possessed belonged to the other, and they were sworn to protect one another. Sometimes they did not survive each other.

Henry laughed. Thomas thought he detected a trace of uneasiness.

“You never cease to surprise me, my lord chancellor. I’m sure your saintly Theobald would call such an act heretical. Isn’t there some sort of ceremony involved?” His words sounded a bit slurred.

“I believe so but I’m not familiar with the ritual. Of course, if you’re fearful—”

“I fearful?” Henry instantly withdrew his dagger from its sheath. “We’ll make our own ritual.” He pulled up the sleeve of his tunic and shirt, gashed his forearm with the sharp blade. In the glow from the fire, Thomas could see beads of blood spurt from the wound. “Give me your arm.”

Slowly Thomas pulled up the sleeve of his tunic and shirt and extended his arm. He choked back a cry as he felt the knife bite into his flesh. Henry pressed his wound against Thomas’s so that their blood dripped and mingled together. Thomas felt the violent leap of his heart. His head reeled with the fumes of the wine; the concealing darkness; the intense intimacy of the moment. Overcome, arms outstretched, he leaned yearningly toward the king. His fingers brushed the king’s hair.

“We’re joined by blood now, Thomas,” Henry said, jumping to his feet and pulling down his shirtsleeve. “Though I’m not sure what that means and I wouldn’t go trumpeting it to one and all.” He yawned. “Well, I’m suddenly very tired. It’s too late to return to the castle tonight.”

He strode across the clearing to his horse, opened one of the saddlebags, and took out a heavy blanket of unwashed wool. He returned, spread out the blanket before the fire, lay down and rolled himself up in it. “See you in the morning, blood-brother.”

Within moments he seemed asleep. Henry’s capacity to sleep anywhere or anytime reminded Thomas of a cat’s. The Lion, well named. A trickle of sweat ran from his forehead down his cheek. Had he gone mad? What demon had prompted him to so lose control? With trembling fingers, Thomas pulled down the sleeve of his tunic. In the darkness, lit only by the glimmer of the fire, had Henry seen that telltale motion, that outstretched longing toward him? If he had seen it, would he know what it meant? In truth, what did it mean? Nothing, Thomas told himself. It meant nothing at all.

Yet something inside him writhed in an agony of humiliation. He would never forgive himself for such a lapse. Never. To reveal, even for an instant, such a damning weakness was intolerable. No one, not his confessor, not the monk who scourged him, knew of his dark and hidden desires.

But if Henry guessed, even suspected—the possibility was unthinkable. Thomas had always been on his guard, never by word or look or gesture revealing his true feelings. That he should have so exposed himself …Tears welled up in Thomas’s eyes and he began to weep, hating himself. Because Henry might have witnessed his secret shame, he could feel the seeds of that hatred start to extend to the man he loved.

O
N A MILD APRIL
morning in the year of 1161, Eleanor approached the city gates of the cathedral town of Canterbury. She rode through the bustling streets and came upon the cathedral itself just as the bells tolled for Sext. John of Salisbury, an important member of the archbishop’s household and the most respected Latinist in England, was waiting for her in the courtyard.

“You have arrived too late, Madam. Our saintly Theobald, may God give him rest, died shortly after Terce this morning.”

“I’m so very sorry.” Eleanor signed herself, and with the help of two grooms awkwardly dismounted, aware of the shocked expression on John’s face at the sight of her body, already cumbersome with the child she would bear in September.

“I had no idea Theobald was so seriously ill,” she continued. “I’m truly shocked.”

This was the truth. The archbishop’s death, a blow to her, would be an even greater blow for England. The former monk from Bec, known for his humility and piety, was loved by all. Although Theobald had been against her at the start of her marriage to Henry—due to gossip from France, Eleanor felt certain—they had taken an unexpected liking to one another. Despite her antipathy toward churchmen in general, Eleanor had greatly respected the archbishop.

“Madam, you shouldn’t have come in your—condition,” said John, averting red-rimmed eyes. “I did not know—that is to say, I appreciate—my master would have appreciated your concern. But should you be riding this far from London?”

“Only a two-day ride, pray do not worry,” said Eleanor, noting the man’s hostile expression soften somewhat. “I’m heartsick at our great loss. The king will be devastated when he hears of it.”

John gave a mirthless laugh. “That would indeed surprise me, Madam. Theobald has sent many times to the king and his chancellor, begging them both to visit him. His deathbed wish was to look upon Thomas Becket’s face one last time—a wish not granted. According to the chancellor, the king could not spare him. We at Canterbury are no less shocked by such base ingratitude.”

Taken aback at this outburst, Eleanor did not know what to say. It was a harsh judgment and far from politic for John to voice it, but she decided to overlook his indiscretion in light of the tragic circumstances. It came as no surprise to her that Becket, having used the archbishop as a stepping-stone to greater heights, should abandon him when his usefulness came to an end. That others might blame Henry was another matter entirely. She would have to find some way of smoothing John’s ruffled feathers.

She took him aside to a less crowded part of the courtyard. “In truth, matters have not gone well in Normandy and Anjou; Brittainy causes trouble, even my own duchy is restive. I know you will be discreet in this matter?” When John nodded, she continued. “The king dares not leave the Continent lest war break out with Louis of France.”

John’s face cleared. “I had no idea—nor did the archbishop—that matters had come to such a pass. On the contrary, we believed that the king’s affairs prospered.”

“Quite the reverse. The king did not want to worry Theobald while he was ill. That is why he sent me—despite my condition—as his representative. I return to Normandy almost at once. The king prays you will understand.”

“Of course, of course. By the Mass, that puts a different face on matters. It was most thoughtful of the king to send you. Please tell him I said so.” John’s voice had warmed considerably. “This explains why Becket was unable to visit the archbishop. I wish he had told us how matters stood.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I cannot answer for the chancellor. Only the king.”

There was not a word of truth in what she had told John but that could not be helped. Nor was Becket’s reputation her concern; only Henry’s.

A day later, after she had paid her respects to the dead and left the late archbishop’s grief-stricken household, Eleanor wondered if Henry had thought about Theobald’s successor. It was not a matter they had ever discussed. In theory, of course, the monks of Canterbury elected their own archbishop, but the king’s candidate was invariably the monks’ choice. She remembered a dispatch she had seen, one that Henry had written to the monks of Winchester, which, at the time, had greatly amused her: “I order you to hold a free election, but nevertheless I forbid you to elect anyone except Richard, my clerk, the archdeacon of Poitiers.”

Next to the king the archbishop of Canterbury was the most powerful personage in England. Who would Henry choose?

In early September, Eleanor gave birth to her sixth child at Domfront Castle near the Normandy-Maine border. It was her second daughter by Henry, and the babe had been christened with her own name in an elaborate ceremony performed by the same Italian cardinal who had married young Henry and the French princess, Marguerite.

“I’ve never seen anyone with such a remarkable ability to recover from childbed,” said Henry, holding the baby in his arms, a month after the birth. He had just ridden in from Angers and was still covered with the dust of the roads.

Eleanor stiffened but managed a laugh. “What do you know of such matters? How many women have you seen recover from childbed?” She watched him covertly to see how he would react.

“You know the answer to that.” Henry kissed the top of the baby’s downy head. “This little beauty looks the very image of her mother.”

“You can’t possibly tell at this age.”

He was being evasive; she could always tell when he had something to hide. She had heard rumors of his bastards but knew nothing about them—or their mothers for that matter. Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that Henry might actually have been present either at one of the births or shortly thereafter. The very possibility sent a stab of jealousy through her. If, in fact, this was the case, she did not want to be told any of the details, Eleanor realized, retreating from such unwelcome thoughts.