Beloved Enemy (80 page)

“They should wear helms,” Eleanor called to the sergeant, looking up from her book. “Less dangerous.”

As the sergeant led the boys away to a deserted part of the courtyard, Henry murmured, “I wonder why I hold myself aloof from Richard.”

“He’s always put your back up, for no discernible reason.”

“You’re right, Nell. Unfair really, but there it is.”

The jarring sound of hooves abruptly shattered the afternoon’s tranquility. Henry frowned. “God’s eyes, what’s this?”

Baby Eleanor woke up and began to cry. Henry rose to his feet and gently deposited her into the arms of a waiting nurse.

“Who has arrived?” Eleanor closed the book and laid it on the bench.

“Members of my council, it seems.”

He watched his co-justiciars, the marshal of England, and their entourage dismount. Grime streaked their flushed faces; sweat dripped from under their caps. The horses stood with heaving flanks while grooms ran to attend them. Ridden hard, poor beasts. A matter of some urgency then, but what?

One of the justiciars, Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, handed Henry a small packet together with a square of parchment. For a moment he stared at it, as, unaccountably, his heart began to pound. With unwilling fingers he opened the packet. Inside, wrapped in blue cloth, lay the Great Seal of England. Uncomprehending, he looked up at the earl.

“Why has Thomas Becket sent me his chancellor’s seal?”

“Because he has resigned his chancellorship, my lord king.” Leicester’s expression was grim. “He claims he cannot cleave to both God and the royal will.”

“But—but—” Henry shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. The whole point of making Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury was that he would also remain as chancellor to ensure harmony between church and state.”

To ensure royal control of both church and state was more apt, but Leicester and the others already knew that. Henry hesitated, then forced himself to break the green wax seal on the parchment. As the words leapt out his face grew hot and his hands began to twitch.

“Thomas has betrayed me,” he said, his voice trembling with mingled rage and hurt. “Why? Why? Did I not love and trust him as deeply as any brother? Did I not raise him from the dust to the very peak of power and wealth?” The Great Seal of England slipped from his hands. “I have not deserved such disloyalty.”

“Of course not,” said Eleanor, her face pale. She gripped his shoulder protectively.

“Did I not warn you he was consumed by ambition?” the empress Maud said in a tight voice. “Why did Thomas not tell you that he could not be both primate and chancellor when you first offered Canterbury?” The question hung unanswered. “Now, as archbishop, he is your equal in power.”

Henry glanced at his wife and mother, their faces wearing almost identical expressions of grave concern. But was there also a glint of triumph? Both had warned him not to appoint Thomas to the See of Canterbury. Now they were proved right, he wrong. Henry turned angrily away, as though his wife and his mother were to blame.

“Ungrateful rogue,” said John the marshal, following his own line of attack. “He should be horsewhipped naked through the streets of Canterbury for all to see. An example must be made.”

“He will suffer more than that before I’m through,” Henry said between clenched teeth. “By God’s splendor he will rue the day he was born, my lords, I promise you.”

“Can we not request the pope to depose him?” Eleanor asked.

“As I have only recently asked the Holy Father to confirm Thomas’s appointment, which was done; that would make me look a proper fool.” Henry scrunched the missive in one hand, then threw it on the ground next to the seal. “Easier to make an archbishop than unmake one.”

Suddenly he began to sway; the earth rocked under his feet, the courtyard tilted to one side, and control slipped away even as he fought to hold on to it. Dimly, with that corner of his mind that remained the observer, Henry felt his body crash to the ground, could hear a voice—it must be his—mouthing gibberish. Fingers clawed the dry grass, his legs thrashed wildly against the hard earth. Shouts echoed in his ears. He felt someone roll him over and thrust a piece of wood between his teeth.

When he opened his eyes, anxious faces loomed above him, the earth was restored to its normal aspect, and the seizure’s grip began to loose its savage hold. It was always this way upon awakening. Memory returned slowly, then picked up speed as his head began to clear. The realization of Thomas’s treachery was so overwhelming that Henry could scarcely breathe. Solicitous arms raised him up. Still unsteady on his feet, he waved away any more help. Loss of control—which occurred every time a seizure of rage possessed him—was always deeply humiliating.

“I am all right,” he said thickly. “Leave me.” He felt rather than saw the others melt away.

Alone in the courtyard, Henry knew that this golden afternoon that had started out so joyously would be forever fixed in his mind. All his plans and hopes for the future of his realm lay in ruins about him, undone by the man whom he had believed to be the very linchpin of his administration. By his treasonous behavior, Thomas Becket had forever changed not only his loving friendship with his king but his own fate, and perhaps all England’s, as well.

T
HE NIGHT AFTER THOMAS
Becket returned the chancellor’s seal, Henry lay shaking in Eleanor’s arms. The physicians assured her that he had been bled of his foul humors and would have a quiet night. Now, at last, they were alone in their private chamber in the ducal palace at Rouen. The room was in shadow, lit only by a single ivory taper in a silver holder. Although he made no sound, Henry was weeping, his tears drenching Eleanor’s neck and shoulder. He wept until his grief spent itself and his body no longer trembled.

“I do not understand,” he whispered. “How could Thomas betray me so? I gave him the sun, the moon, and stars and he throws them into my face as if they were gall and wormwood. I loved him more than anyone, except you and my mother—even more than my own brothers when they were alive—and trusted him to serve me with the same loyalty I showed him.”

Wisely, Eleanor kept silent. Recrimination and reminders would serve no purpose.

“Thank God I have you, Nell.” Henry butted his head between her breasts, not like a lover, but a child seeking reassurance. “You, my mother, and my children. Faithful counselors like Leicester, the marshal, and my cousin William.” His eyes closed. “And others, too, of course.” Within moments he was asleep.

Lying quietly so as not to wake him, Eleanor stared up at the crimson canopy covering the bed. Yes, Henry had loved Thomas Becket, and Thomas loved him. She had never been entirely comfortable with Henry’s dependence on Thomas, and neither had she herself liked or trusted the chancellor. Still, she would never have expected Thomas to go so far. He must have known from the start that he could not serve both God and Mammon. Why had he not spoken out? What could he hope to gain by antagonizing his king?

On the other hand, the scope of the problem that Henry had hoped to solve by appointing Thomas archbishop was enormous and grew worse with each passing year. There were two separate systems of jurisdiction in England: the royal courts and the ecclesiastical courts. The church courts were in charge of all men in holy orders as well as marriage contracts, wills, oaths, and church property. If a minor clerk, even a deacon, committed an offense, he was tried in the church courts. Eleanor had seen the result of church “justice.” In the king’s courts a layman found guilty of murder would be heavily fined, mutilated, or imprisoned. A clerk found guilty of a similar offense could be deprived of his orders—defrocking was the heaviest punishment the ecclesiastical court could impose—and set at liberty or given a penance which might include a pilgrimage to Rome at some later date. Henry had once told her that he reckoned that one man in thirty was a cleric, so the magnitude of the problem was obvious.

The only grain of comfort to be derived from this whole sorry coil was that Henry had returned to her as a confidante once more. Selfishly, Eleanor was glad that Thomas was no longer a rival for her husband’s affections. But as far as the weal of the realm was concerned, a rift between king and archbishop was potentially disastrous.

Eleanor carefully withdrew her arm, which had gone numb, and glanced at Henry. Sound asleep he looked so young and untroubled. But she knew what would happen when he awakened: the grief and heartache would bury itself beneath the armor of pride and the shield of anger. He would find ways and means to pay Thomas back—all legal, of course. The teaching of the Gospel was sometimes lost on Henry, who served a God of justice, not mercy. He did not know how to turn the other cheek, only how to gouge an eye. Eleanor sighed, knowing she would have a sleepless night. As she stared up at the bed canopy the deep crimson color reminded her of blood.

By early November the atmosphere in the ducal palace at Rouen crackled with as much tension as a stroke of lightning. Even the elements contributed to a sense of doom. The weather grew damp and unseasonably cold. Gray skies loomed over Normandy; heavy rain fell intermittently. Imprisoned by the weather, Henry prowled the castle like a caged wolf, a fierce expression on his face. He fired off one missive after another to the archbishop, to his co-justiciar Richard de Lucy, to various bishops, the pope in Rome, and many other magnates and prelates.

Unfortunately, Henry had so many affairs to attend to in Normandy and Anjou that he was prevented from leaving immediately for England to confront the object of his rage. Instead, a constant stream of couriers sailed back and forth across the channel bearing with them the evidence of his increasing displeasure.

One afternoon, Eleanor, accompanied by Henry’s mother, walked into his council chamber as the cathedral bells rang for nones. Henry was pacing while dictating a letter to one of four clerks perched on stools around an oak table. He held up his hand before Eleanor could speak.

“… to inform Your Holiness of the latest in the series of intolerable events that have occurred in England as a result of Thomas Becket’s high-handedness. The most recent is the uncalled-for excommunication of Sir William Eynsford of Kent, my tenant in chief, who was never even informed of the matter. Not to mention that—”

“It is a custom of the realm that no tenant in chief of the king may be excommunicated without the king being consulted first,” interjected Maud, appalled. “Thus it is a—”

“Gross miscarriage of justice,” finished Eleanor.

“Perhaps you would like to write to the pope for me, mesdames?” Henry gave them an arch smile then rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got him. As I was about to write the Holy Father.”

Eleanor exchanged a glance with her mother-in-law. “Got him how?”

“I just received word that he is trying to retrieve lands belonging to Canterbury—so he says—from before the Conquest. Have you ever heard the like? And most outrageous of all, Thomas is trying cases in his own courts that clearly belong in the royal courts!”

“Is it to be total war, then?” his wife asked with a frown.

Henry stuck his thumbs in his black belt and rocked back and forth on his heels. “He’s gone too far this time. What would you have me do? Lick his boots? Pardon, sandals now, I hear, like the humblest monk. How dare he try lay cases in his own courts and call it justice!”

“No one expects you to grovel,” retorted the empress, “merely to behave with circumspection and wisdom, not your usual impetuosity.”

“It might behoove you, madam, to remember who started this quarrel.” Henry fixed his mother with piercing gray eyes.

“And you seem determined to fight it to a roaring finish. All I ask, my son, is that you think before acting. Thomas has power now, the power of Canterbury.” She paused. “Which you gave him.”

Henry’s face swelled and grew red. How alike they were, Eleanor noted. Attack and counterattack. Feint and counterfeint. Like distorted reflections in a silver mirror.

“Am I right, Eleanor?” The empress raised her brows, obviously seeking support.

How she hated being dragged into one of their battles. It was impossible to please everyone. “As they say in Rome, revenge is better served cold than hot.”

“I prefer my food hot to cold.” Henry turned his stony glare toward Eleanor. “In any case, did I ask either of you for advice?” He kicked at the rushes that carpeted the floor.

“I intend to give it anyway,” said the empress coolly. “This is a grave situation and must be handled with the very greatest of care—”

“God’s splendor! I was weaned twenty-eight years ago.” His face grew redder and his eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “I expect loyalty from my own family! Support! Not unasked-for advice and warnings. Out, both of you.” He turned on his heel and stomped furiously back to the table.

The empress sighed and followed Eleanor out of the chamber into the passageway.

“Where will it end?” The empress gave her a concerned look. “How will it end?”

Eleanor did not reply. It was a question to which she had no answer.

When Henry approached the shore at Southampton in February of the New Year, he had not expected Thomas to be there to greet him. The sight of the tall figure waiting on the beach filled him with such a tumult of emotions—pain, distress, anger—it took his breath away.

The three small hoys anchored in the shallows. Several burly sailors, smocks tied above their waists, hoisted Henry on one pair of shoulders while the others gripped a whining bloodhound under each arm, then splashed through the icy green water and deposited them on the wet sand. The rest of Henry’s men climbed overboard and sloshed their way to shore. Henry and the dogs shook themselves, brushing off droplets of water. The hounds, delighted to be on solid ground, frolicked up and down the beach.

It was a storm-filled morning, the air wild with wind, the skies covered with banks of menacing black clouds. Across the expanse of sand Henry could see the archbishop observing him. Thomas took a hesitating step, then stopped. Was the former chancellor waiting for him to make the first move? A king submit to an archbishop? Henry smiled grimly to himself. Thomas would wait until hell froze over. He crossed his arms and held his ground. Around him the beach swarmed with sailors and men carrying roped bundles and boxes from the ships.